“On you, my dear.”
The Countess shivered. Her paleness returned. “This, I presume, is the favour of which you spoke?”
Mikhail appeared with Voronov’s brandy and cigar. Voronov clipped the end off the cigar, lit it and drew on it in a leisurely fashion. He picked up the brandy glass and put his large, red nose in it, savouring the smell at length before tasting. Finally, he looked back at the Countess. “A favour, Countess. Yes, a favour. You can do me a favour.” He suddenly reached out a hairy hand and placed it over the Countess’s. She tried to withdraw, but Voronov’s grip was too firm. “Perhaps you can even do me more than one favour.” His wet lips pulled back from his teeth in an approximation of a grin and he winked. “And for one or perhaps more favours, I can help Karol.”
“How?”
“Well, my dear. I am sure you know how well connected I am with the authorities back there. I can call even the Big Man a friend, although Comrade Stalin’s view of friendship is perhaps a little unorthodox. I need information, Countess. You may be in a position to provide this information to me. If you can do what I want, then I can pull strings. Depending on the quality of your information and, let us say, how accommodating you are in your work, I may be able to improve his condition and get him out or even get him to England.”
“And if I can provide this information, whatever it is, how on earth will I know whether you are pulling the strings for Karol?”
“You will have to take my word for it, Countess.”
“And if I do not trust your word?”
“If you do not, your brother has no hope. And how will you feel if you had the chance to help him and refused? You must trust me, my dear. I am Karol’s only hope. Give me what I want and you could be dining with him in this restaurant by Christmas.”
The Countess looked away before reaching out for Voronov’s brandy glass. She drained it, slammed the empty glass back on the table and stared at Voronov. “You had better tell me what it is you want to know.”
*
Some of the mechanics were playing football on the grass behind the huts. Jan watched them through the window of his room.
“Like a game?” Miro Kubicki flourished his pack of cards in Jan’s face. Printed on special Polish paper at the beginning of the century, the cards had been designed by some relative of his who fancied himself as a Polish version of Toulouse-Lautrec. Kubicki insisted that all games be played with his cards. Since he had a very good record of winning, Jan was seriously beginning to suspect that the cards were marked.
“No thanks, Miro. There’s no one else to play anyway.”
Kubicki sat down heavily on the rickety chair in Jan’s quarters. “Where’s Jerzy then?”
Jan had just finished cleaning his shoes and his hands were covered in flecks of black polish. He reached under his bed and found a handkerchief with which to clean himself. “Gone up to town, I think. Got special dispensation at short notice from Kellett.”
“Lucky we haven’t had any action today.”
Jan nodded, then shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what he had to do in town. He was a bit cagey about it. Rather like Ziggy was the night he disappeared.”
“Oh, well. A man of many secrets, eh? What about a game of bezique? That’s a two-handed card game.”
Jan sighed. “Don’t we need another pack for that?”
“Eh, voilà!” Kubicki provided a second pack from his trouser pocket. “Not as nice as my cousin’s pack, but it will do.”
*
The A.C. stood stiffly at his window, hands behind his back, looking down at the river. Merlin noticed a new photograph of the A.C.’s wife and sons on his desk. While Mrs Gatehouse’s charms were now fading, Merlin knew that she had been quite a looker in her day. Unfortunately, it seemed as if the boys were taking after their father.
“Operation Cromwell, Frank, that’s what they call it.”
“Sir?”