I signalled again, more emphatically, jabbing a finger towards one of the flank exits. He turned his head but could see nothing of interest, and looked back at me, not making any sign. I shrugged, he didn't understand, he was a fool.
They declined to look at me when I turned and walked slowly past them. They looked pointedly away from me, in detestation.
The. slope was gentle under my feet and I walked as far as the end, where the drifts had begun covering the tarred pebbles. The snow whirled from the open sky mesmerically, some of the flakes touching my face as I lifted it.
I would hear them if they moved and they hadn't moved.
Then I walked on through the deeper drifts, slowly at first and then making my way more quickly over the rough terrain when I knew that the screen had thickened behind me and I was obliterated. It was malowniczy, the snow in Warsaw, very picturesque, did I not find it so?
18: CRACOW
It smelt of mothballs.
From where I stood I could see the door and I didn't look away from it.
'When?'
'In an hour.'
'All right.'
'Do it by phone. I don't want you to go out.'
She said it might be dangerous to use the phone.
'Less dangerous than going into the streets.'
I felt surprised that it worried me so much but I suppose it was because the whole thing was entering its final stages and it'd be a shame if they caught her as late as this. Once they'd thrown her into a train she'd be lost for years among the camps but if she stayed in the city until after Sroda she'd have a chance: a general amnesty was certain because of the talks, as witness to the bountiful mercy of the Mother State.
It was black astrakhan, a hat to match and a cheap wristwatch, seventy zlotys plus the brown leather one plus the hat, the last of Piotr Rashidov hanging flat on a hook in the corner with the macs and duffle-jackets near the door where cooking smells came. Because when they found him they'd know who it was who'd walked out into the snow.
'Don't leave where you are. Give me your word.'
'Very well.'
'You can tell when a line's bugged?'
'Yes.'
'Then there's no risk.'
Before I hung up she asked if she were going to see me again and I said yes and this time it wasn't a lie.
The rendezvous was for 16:30 a hundred yards north of the Slasko-Dabrowski Bridge along the west bank, three Czyn people, if possible trained in unarmed combat. This time I'd get them because this time I wasn't asking Merrick.
But they didn't turn up.
I waited thirty minutes and by that time my scalp was creeping because it had been bloody Merrick who'd exposed every one of my moves and I hadn't known it and now I knew it and he couldn't do it any more. Neither he nor Foster could possibly know the moves I was making now: every patrol of every branch of the civil and secret police was in the hunt and if they found me they'd slam me straight into a cell. There was no chance that Foster was giving me rope again, letting me run.
And the line hadn't been bugged: when you make an rdv in a city where there's a dragnet out you take damned good care of that.
At 17:15 I went into the bar at the corner of Mostowa and got through again.
'They weren't there.'
'Are you sure?'
I was listening to her voice, the tone of her voice, because I was right in the middle of a red sector and pushing my luck and it was just about as safe as taking the pin out and hoping it wouldn't go off.
'Quite sure.'
'I don't know what happened'
Her tone was quiet with worry.
'They got picked up.'
She said: 'It must be that.'
A black Moskwicz was pulling up outside, with big M.O. letters on it. I watched it through the window.
'Get me three more.'
The receiver was beginning to feel slippery. 'Yes.'
'Tell them to take care.'
The hours were running towards midnight and anyone could be picked up, they were busting whole units.
'I'll tell them.'
No one was getting out. There were four of them and they sat with their heads turned, watching the bar.
'In half an hour. The same place.'
I trusted her because it was logical. They would have caught me there, otherwise, at 16:30 on the west bank.
'All right.'
The Moskwicz was moving off and I remembered there were traffic lights at the corner. They'd stopped for the lights. I'd forgotten they were there. I mustn't forget things.
'Will it be long enough? Half an hour?'
The coffee machine roared and I lost what she said.
'What was that?'
'I will do all I can. Remember that, please.'
The thought came after I'd paid for the call. You grow sensitive at this stage of a mission. She'd said it with slow emphasis and it could have carried the undertone of a classic alert-phrase: all I can, am under duress. Stomach-think. Discount. This time they should be there.
They didn't come.
An hour ago the wind from the north had changed and it had stopped snowing. Beyond the balustrade the Vistula was a desert of white, untouched by the soot that would later darken it. Along the Wybrzeze Gdanskie the traffic was still running, its sound deadened by the new fall. Ashen light flowed from the lamps above my head, triplicating my shadow.
I had asked Merrick for them and he'd blocked me. Now I had asked Alinka. All I can.
Patrol car, and I went down the steps again into shadow. The steps were a hundred yards from the bridge and that was why I'd made the rendezvous here. There was no time now to phone and make another one. This was where time ran out.
There was no usable alternative project: this was already the alternative to the one that had been blown up when they'd doubled the guards on the Praga Commissariat. I could switch and go in alone and do damage but it wouldn't be enough and the risk was prohibitive: not only to me but to the Bureau. The risk to myself was acceptable because of professional vanity: we know that one day there'll be a mission we shan't complete and that the chances are that we shall go in ignominy, a slack shape spreadeagled below the window of an empty room, something afloat in a river, and that it will have been for nothing; and sometimes we think of how it could be otherwise, of how we might play the odds and go out winning and be remembered for it, be granted at least an epitaph: Hunter? He was Bucharest, '65. Went down with the ship but Christ, what an operation. We all remembered Hunter.
Discount considerations of stinking pride: there'd be a risk to the Bureau, to the Sacred Bull.
The chains crumped rhythmically through the snow and from the city centre came the moan of trams.
If it had been a deliberate alert-phrase meaning she was under duress I would have to go along there and do something about it, at least do that.
I expected him to go past but he stopped and stood with his back to me, to the steps, looking both ways, taking a pace and coming back, watching the traffic.
Decoy.
You get too sensitive. I was behind him before he heard me when I spoke he swung round with his hands whipping into the guard posture.
'Where are the other two?'
He relaxed.
'With the car.'
'Where?'
'Along there. We didn't want to — '
'Come on, we're late.'
The Hotel Cracow was busier than yesterday because there'd been a couple of flights in and the foyer was crowded: most of the atmosphere-coverage journalists were hemming in the dip. corps people, free vodkas, and I recognised Maitland of the Sunday Post, one of the brightest of the I-Was-There boys.
I showed my credentials at the desk and they said they hoped there was to be no trouble and I said none at all, I just wanted to visit one of their guests, and they gave me the number of the suite.