Eye of the Needle (14 page)

“What did you notice about this fellow?” Bloggs interrupted him.

“Nothing. That was it, see—I couldn’t make him out at all. Almost like he was trying to be inconspicuous, know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean.” Bloggs paused. “Now, I want you to think very carefully. Where was he going—can you remember?”

“Yes,” said the fat clerk. “Inverness.”

“THAT DOESN’T MEAN
he’s going there,” said Godliman. “He’s a professional—he knows we can ask questions at railway stations. I expect he automatically buys a ticket for the wrong destination.” He looked at his watch. “He must have caught the 11:45. That train is now pulling into Stafford. I checked with the railway, they checked with the signalmen. They’re going to stop the train this side of Crewe. I’ve got a plane standing by to fly you two to Stroke-on-Trent.

“Parkin, you’ll board the train where it’s stopped, outside Crewe. You’ll be dressed as a ticket inspector, and you’ll look at every ticket—and every face—on that train. When you’ve spotted Faber, just stay close to him.

“Bloggs, you’ll be waiting at the ticket barrier at Crewe, just in case Faber decides to hop off there. But he won’t. You’ll get on the train, and be first off at Liverpool, and waiting at the ticket barrier for Parkin and Faber to come off. Half the local constabulary will be there to back you up.”

“That’s all very well if he doesn’t recognize me,” Parkin said. “What if he remembers my face from High-gate?”

Godliman opened a desk drawer, took out a pistol, and gave it to Parkin. “If he recognizes you, shoot him.”

Parkin pocketed the weapon without comment.

Godliman said: “You heard Colonel Terry, but I want to emphasize the importance of all this. If we don’t catch this man, the invasion of Europe will have to be postponed—possibly for a year. In that year the balance of war could turn against us. The time may never be this right again.”

Bloggs said: “Do we get told how long it is to D-Day?”

Godliman decided they were at least as entitled as he…they were going into the field, after all. “All I know is that it’s probably a matter of weeks.”

Parkin was thinking. “It’ll be June, then.”

The phone rang and Godliman picked it up. After a moment he looked up. “Your car’s here.”

Bloggs and Parkin stood up.

Godliman said, “Wait a minute.”

They stood by the door, looking at the professor. He was saying, “Yes, sir. Certainly. I will. Good-bye, sir.”

Bloggs could not think of anyone Godliman called Sir. He said: “Who was that?”

Godliman said, “Churchill.”

“What did he have to say?” Parkin asked, awestruck.

Godliman said, “He wishes you both good luck and Godspeed.”

15

T
HE CARRIAGE WAS PITCH DARK. FABER THOUGHT OF
the jokes people made, “Take your hand off my knee. No, not you, you.” The British would make jokes out of anything. Their railways were now worse than ever, but nobody complained any more because it was in a good cause. Faber preferred the dark; it was anonymous.

There had been singing, earlier on. Three soldiers in the corridor had started it, and the whole carriage had joined in. They had been through “Be Like the Kettle and Sing,” “There’ll Always Be an England” (followed by “Glasgow Belongs to Me” and “Land of My Fathers” for ethnic balance), and, appropriately, “Don’t Get Around Much Any More.”

There had been an air raid warning, and the train slowed to thirty miles an hour. They were all supposed to lie on the floor, but of course there was no room. An anonymous female voice had said, “Oh, God, I’m frightened,” and a male voice, equally anonymous except that it was cockney, had said: “You’re in the safest place, girl—they can’t ’it a movin’ target.” Then everyone laughed and nobody was scared any more. Someone opened a suitcase and passed around a packet of dried-egg sandwiches.

One of the sailors wanted to play cards.

“How can we play cards in the dark?”

“Feel the edges. All Harry’s cards are marked.”

The train stopped unaccountably at about 4
A.M
. A cultured voice—the dried-egg-sandwich supplier, Faber thought—said, “My guess is we’re outside Crewe.”

“Knowing the railways, we could be anywhere from Bolton to Bournemouth,” said the cockney.

The train jerked and moved off, and everyone cheered. Where, Faber wondered, was the caricature Englishman with his icy reserve and his stiff upper lip? Not here.

A few minutes later a voice in the corridor said: “Tickets, please.” Faber noted the Yorkshire accent; they were in the north now. He fumbled in his pockets for his ticket.

He had the corner seat, near the door, so he could see into the corridor. The inspector was shining a flashlight onto the tickets. Faber saw the man’s silhouette in the reflected light. It looked vaguely familiar.

He settled back in his seat to wait. He remembered the nightmare: “This is an Abwehr ticket”—and smiled in the dark.

Then he frowned. The train stopped unaccountably; shortly afterward a ticket inspector began; the inspector’s face was vaguely familiar…. It might be nothing, but Faber stayed alive by worrying about things that
might
be nothing. He looked into the corridor again, but the man had entered a compartment.

The train stopped briefly—the station was Crewe, according to informed opinion in Faber’s compartment—and moved off again.

Faber got another look at the inspector’s face, and now he remembered. The boarding house in High-gate! The boy from Yorkshire who wanted to get into the Army!

Faber watched him carefully. His flashlight moved across the face of every passenger. He was not just looking at the tickets.

No, Faber told himself, don’t jump to conclusions. How could they possibly have got on to him? They could not have found out which train he was on, got hold of one of the few people in the world who knew what he looked like, and got the man on the train dressed as a ticket inspector in so short a time….

Parkin, that was his name. Billy Parkin. Somehow he looked much older now. He was coming closer.

It must be a look-alike—perhaps an elder brother. This
had
to be a coincidence.

Parkin entered the compartment next to Faber’s. There was no time left.

Faber assumed the worst, and prepared to deal with it.

He got up, left the compartment, and went along the corridor, picking his way over suitcases and kitbags and bodies, to the lavatory. It was vacant. He went in and locked the door.

He was only buying time—even ticket inspectors did not fail to check the toilets. He sat on the seat and wondered how to get out of this. The train had speeded up and was traveling too fast for him to jump off. Besides, someone would see him go, and if they were really searching for him they would stop the train.

“All tickets, please.”

Parkin was getting close again.

Faber had an idea. The coupling between the carriages was a tiny space like an air-lock, enclosed by a bellowslike cover between the cars of the train, shut off at both ends by doors because of the noise and drafts. He left the lavatory, fought his way to the end of the carriage, opened the door, and stepped into the connecting passage. He closed the door behind him.

It was freezing cold, and the noise was terrific. Faber sat on the floor and curled up, pretending to sleep. Only a dead man could sleep here, but people did strange things on trains these days. He tried not to shiver.

The door opened behind him. “Tickets, please.”

He ignored it. He heard the door close.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.” The voice was unmistakable.

Faber pretended to stir, then got to his feet, keeping his back to Parkin. When he turned the stiletto was in his hand. He pushed Parkin up against the door, held the point of his knife at his throat, and said, “Be still or I’ll kill you.”

With his left hand he took Parkin’s flashlight, and shone it into the young man’s face. Parkin did not look as frightened as he ought to be.

Faber said, “Well, well, Billy Parkin, who wanted to join the Army, and ended up on the railways. Still, it’s a uniform.”

Parkin said, “You.”

“You know damn well it’s me, little Billy Parkin. You were looking for me. Why?” He was doing his best to sound vicious.

“I don’t know why I should be looking for you—I’m not a policeman.”

Faber jerked the knife melodramatically. “Stop lying to me.”

“Honest, Mr. Faber. Let me go—I promise I won’t tell anyone I’ve seen you.”

Faber began to have doubts. Either Parkin was telling the truth, or he was overacting as much as Faber himself.

Parkin’s body shifted, his right arm moving in the darkness. Faber grabbed the wrist in an iron grip. Parkin struggled for an instant, but Faber let the needle point of the stiletto sink a fraction of an inch into Parkin’s throat, and the man was still. Faber found the pocket Parkin had been reaching for, and pulled out a gun.

“Ticket inspectors do not go armed,” he said. “Who are you with, Parkin?”

“We all carry guns now—there’s a lot of crime on trains because of the dark.”

Parkin was at least lying courageously and creatively. Faber decided that threats were not going to be enough to loosen his tongue.

His movement was sudden, swift and accurate. The blade of the stiletto leaped in his fist. Its point entered a measured half inch into Parkin’s left eye and came out again.

Faber’s hand covered Parkin’s mouth. The muffled scream of agony was drowned by the noise of the train. Parkin’s hands went to his ruined eye.

“Save yourself the other eye, Parkin. Who are you with?”

“Military Intelligence, oh God, please don’t do it again.”

“Who? Menzies? Masterman?”

“Oh, God…Godliman, Godliman—”

“Godliman!” Faber knew the name, but this was no time to search his memory for details. “What have they got?”

“A picture—I picked you out from the files.”

“What picture?
What picture?
”

“A racing team—running—with a cup—the Army—”

Faber remembered. Christ, where had they got hold of that? It was his nightmare:
they had a picture
. People would know his face. His
face
.

He moved the knife closer to Parkin’s right eye. “How did you know where I was?”

“Don’t do it, please…the embassy…took your letter…the cab…Euston—please, not the other eye….” He covered both his eyes with his hands.

Goddam. That idiot Francisco…. Now he—“What’s the plan? Where is the trap?”

“Glasgow. They’re waiting for you at Glasgow. The train will be emptied there.”

Faber lowered the knife to the level of Parkin’s belly. To distract him, he said, “How many men?” Then he pushed hard, inward and upward to the heart.

Parkin’s one eye stared in horror, and he did not die. It was the drawback to Faber’s favored method of killing. Normally the shock of the knife was enough to stop the heart. But if the heart was strong it did not always work—after all, surgeons sometimes stuck a hypodermic needle directly into the heart to inject adrenalin. If the heart continued to pump, the motion would work a hole around the blade, from which the blood would leak. It was just as fatal, but longer.

At last Parkin’s body went limp. Faber held him against the wall for a moment, thinking. There had been something—a flicker of courage, the ghost of a smile—before the man died. It meant something. Such things always did.

He let the body fall to the floor, then arranged it in a sleeping position, with the wounds hidden from view. He kicked the railway cap into a corner. He cleaned his stiletto on Parkin’s trousers, and wiped the ocular liquid from his hands. It had been a messy business.

He put the knife away in his sleeve and opened the door to the car. He made his way back to his compartment in the dark.

As he sat down the cockney said, “You took your time—is there a queue?”

Faber said, “It must have been something I ate.”

“Probably a dried-egg sandwich.” The cockney laughed.

Faber was thinking about Godliman. He knew the name—he could even put a vague face to it: a middle-aged, bespectacled face, with a pipe and an absent, professional air…that was it—he was a professor.

It was coming back. In his first couple of years in London Faber had had little to do. The war had not yet started, and most people believed it would not come. (Faber was not among the optimists.) He had been able to do a little useful work—mostly checking and revising the Abwehr’s out-of-date maps, plus general reports based on his own observations and his reading of the newspapers—but not much. To fill in time, to improve his English, and to flesh out his cover, he had gone sightseeing.

His purpose in visiting Canterbury Cathedral had been innocent, although he did buy an aerial view of the town and the cathedral that he sent back for the Luftwaffe—not that it did much good; they spent most of 1942 missing it. Faber had taken a whole day to see the building: reading the ancient initials carved in walls, distinguishing the different architectural styles, reading the guidebook line by line as he walked slowly around.

He had been in the south ambulatory of the choir, looking at the blind arcading, when he became conscious of another absorbed figure by his side—an older man. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” the man said, and Faber asked him what he meant.

“The one pointed arch in an arcade of round ones. No reason for it—that section obviously hasn’t been rebuilt. For some reason, somebody just altered that one. I wonder why.”

Faber saw what he meant. The choir was Romanesque, the nave Gothic; yet here in the choir was a solitary Gothic arch. “Perhaps,” he said, “the monks demanded to see what the pointed arches would look like, and the architect did this to show them.”

The older man stared at him. “What a splendid conjecture! Of course that’s the reason. Are you an historian?”

Faber laughed. “No, just a clerk and an occasional reader of history books.”

“People get doctorates for inspired guesses like that!”

“Are you? An historian, I mean?”

“Yes, for my sins.” He stuck out his hand. “Percy Godliman.”

Was it possible, Faber thought as the train rattled on through Lancashire, that that unimpressive figure in a tweed suit could be the man who had discovered his identity? Spies generally claimed they were civil servants or something equally vague; not historians—that lie could be too easily found out. Yet it was rumored that Military Intelligence had been bolstered by a number of academics. Faber had imagined them to be young, fit, aggressive and bellicose as well as clever. Godliman was clever, but none of the rest. Unless he had changed.

Faber had seen him once again, although he had not spoken to him on the second occasion. After the brief encounter in the cathedral Faber had seen a notice advertising a public lecture on Henry II to be given by Professor Godliman at his college. He had gone along, out of curiosity. The talk had been erudite, lively and convincing. Godliman was still a faintly comic figure, prancing about behind the lectern, getting enthusiastic about his subject; but it was clear his mind was as sharp as a knife.

So that was the man who had discovered what Die Nadel looked like.

An
amateur
.

Well, he would make amateur mistakes. Sending Billy Parkin had been one: Faber had recognized the boy. Godliman should have sent someone Faber did not know. Parkin had a better chance of recognizing Faber, but no chance at all of surviving the encounter. A professional would have known that.

The train shuddered to a halt, and a muffled voice outside announced that this was Liverpool. Faber cursed under his breath; he should have been spending the time working out his next move, not remembering Percival Godliman.

They were waiting at Glasgow, Parkin had said before he died. Why Glasgow? Their inquiries at Euston would have told them he was going to Inverness. And if they suspected Inverness to be a red herring, they would have speculated that he was coming here, to Liverpool—this was the nearest link point for an Irish ferry.

Faber hated snap decisions.

Whichever, he had to get off the train.

He stood up, opened the door, stepped out, and headed for the ticket barrier.

He thought of something else. What was it that had flashed in Billy Parkin’s eyes before he died? Not hatred, not fear, not pain—although all those had been present. It was more like…triumph?

Faber looked up, past the ticket collector, and understood.

Waiting on the other side, dressed in a hat and raincoat, was the blond young tail from Leicester Square.

Parkin, dying in agony and humiliation, had deceived Faber at the last. The trap was here.

The man in the raincoat had not yet noticed Faber in the crowd. Faber turned and stepped back on to the train. Once inside, he pulled aside the blind and looked out. The tail was searching the faces in the crowd. He had not noticed the man who got back on the train.