He wondered now what had happened to her, and if she was still living in the Hungarian capital. It was probable that by this time she had married; but she had never sought to conceal the fact that she was by nature an adventuress, and believed in taking all the good things of life that offered with both hands; so he thought it unlikely that she would as yet have settled down to respectable domesticity. She could still be only about twenty-eight and with beauty such as hers she would be able for years yet, should she wish, to change one rich husband for another.
Sabine, he decided, compared favourably with any of the numerous women whom for a season he had loved and who had returned his love. Erika was, of course, the great exception, and he was not being consciously unfaithful to her when he thought of those laughing carefree sunny days and hectic nights that he had spent with Sabine beside the Danube, and wished that he had some magic formula for setting time back so that he might enjoy them all over again.
Later in the day, he told Rudd that on Wednesday morning he would be going north on a week's leave and that shortly after his return he expected to be away from London for quite a time.
Rudd pushed the greasy cap he always wore, both indoors and out, on to the back of his head, scratched in his yellowish hair above the right ear and said in a wheedling tone:
'See 'ere Mr. Gregory, sir; that's Dutch for you goin' abroad again, an' you don't 'ave to tell me no different. Can't yer take me wiv yer, sime as you done now an' again in the old days? I'd pull me weight. You know that. An' the 'ome' Guard's become a farce now, wiv not a 'ope o' any of us old sweats wot's in it gettin' a crack at the Jerries.'
'Sorry, old friend,' Gregory replied with real sympathy. 'I wish I could; but this time it's right out of the question. I won't forget you, though, when another chance does occur to use the sort of help you have always given me so willingly.'
'Thanks, sir,' Rudd grinned, showing teeth that badly needed the attention of a dentist. 'Well, good luck then; an' should you be seein' little ole 'itler, give 'im an extra one from me right on the kisser.'
Up in Wales, Gregory was favoured with July sunshine, but even in the private wing of the big house there was little real privacy, and it was difficult for Erika to free herself from the work of administration as long as she remained under the same roof as the hospital. Earlier in the year while he had been a permanent resident, he had not minded that, but now it irked him; so they decided to spend the weekend at Llandudno.
The trip was not a success. Owing to petrol rationing they had to go by train and were then tied to the town. At the hotel in which they stayed the wartime food was abominable and even indifferent drink obtainable only at extortionate prices. To add insult to injury a bottle of champagne that Gregory bought from a wine merchant on the Saturday morning, for them to drink up in their bedroom that night, proved when opened as happens occasionally for no known reason with the best of brands to be badly corked.
They were both glad to get back to Gwaine Meads; but there their only out-of-doors escape from patients and nurses was to take picnics in the woods, and the weather suddenly went bad on them. As Gregory was now looking forward with cheerful anticipation to his mission, all this increased his impatience to be on his way to Budapest. About that he endeavoured to conceal his feelings from Erika; but she knew him so well that she sensed and resented it, with the result that they had few really happy hours during their last days together.
On Tuesday, August 4th, he took the last train back to London. First thing the following morning he rang up Sir Pellinore, who told him to pack a bag and come to Carlton House Terrace. On his arrival in the library there shortly after eleven o'clock, the elderly Baronet told him to open a quart' of champagne that was standing ready in an ice bucket. As soon as they had taken their first swig out of the silver tankards, Sir Pellinore said:
'Your terms of reference are simply to spy out the land find out if the anti German feeling in Hungary is strong enough for us to make practical use of it. There would be no point in your trying to act as a go-between with any anti Nazi elements you may come across until the F.O. and the State Department have fully considered the whole question. But if the report you bring back is favourable, you may be sent out again to open secret negotiations.' Having taken another good swig at his champagne, Sir Pellinore went on: 'You'll be leavin' on Friday by the weekly diplomatic plane that serves our Embassy in Berne; so I thought you might as well spend your last two nights here. From Switzerland you'll proceed under your own steam by whatever route you think best. I've got devilish little information for you to go on, though. The fellers I've talked to all say their Hungarian files are hopelessly out of date.'
'Our spies can't be up to much then,' Gregory remarked, lighting a Sullivan.
'That's not the trouble. We haven't got any there.'
'Why on earth not?'
'One of the results of the MacDonald, Baldwin and Chamberlain Governments, all cheeseparing so idiotically on the Secret Service funds in the years before the war. What little money there was all had to go on the highest priorities Germany and Russia. Funds were so short that, as we had an alliance with the French, we left it to them to keep tabs on Nazi activities in North Africa; so when the French ratted on us we hadn't even got a skeleton setup there.'
'Chamberlain's shortcomings are ancient history now, though; and the M.I. shows have been on a war footing for close on three years.'
'Oh, they haven't lacked money since September '39. I was only explaining why we had no organ grinders in Budapest. And we haven't been at war with Hungary that long, you know. We didn't declare war on Hungary, Finland and Romania until last December.'
'Even so, I should have thought seven months was time enough to get something going.'
Sir Pellinore shrugged his great shoulders. 'I doubt if we' should ever have declared war against these Nazi satellites at all unless Joe Stalin had pressed us to and trained spies can't be got just by putting an advertisement in The Times. We've still probably only about one to every dozen employed by Himmler. With so much ground to cover, it would be a waste to send good men to places where the odds are all against our ever undertaking military operations. Anyway, I've drawn a blank about what's going on there apart from a digest of the stuff that has appeared in the newspapers.'
'How about an identity and a passport?'
'That's all fixed up. I didn't do it through the old firm, though. I'm told that they perform miracles to keep us in the know about the enemy's Order of Battle, but in other ways it's far from being the show it was when the little Admiral ran it. There's a new firm that specializes in sabotage, but its people bring home a lot of stuff, and its Chief is much more of a live wire. Been parachuted into Hitler's Europe himself at least half a dozen times. You're to report to him at ten thirty tomorrow morning.'
'Good. I must say I would have liked to have someone reliable whom I could contact, just to get the lie of the land; but if Hungary is now like darkest Africa to the professionals, I must go native and hope for the best.'
'Oh, I can give you a few names to start the ball rollin'. Old friends of mine. Now that our countries are at war they may not be willing to give you their active help. But they'll still observe the decencies. If you say you're a friend of mine they wouldn't dream of turning you over to the police. There's Istvan Lujza. He was a Cabinet Minister in the last years of the old Emperor. And Prince Gyorgy Hunyadi. He owns the finest partridge shoot in Hungary; probably in the world. Then there's Mihaly Zapolya. Never forget one night when we got tight together and shot out half the lights on the Franz Joseph Embankment. What a lark! That's years ago, of course; but wars don't make any difference to friendship between people with whom you've done that sort of thing.'