Circus

8

It was during the last performance on the following night — it was officially billed as the opening night, although, in fact, there had already been two performances, a free matinee for school children and a somewhat shortened version of the full show in the afternoon — that the accident happened. Such was the rapturous enthusiasm among the huge audience that the effect was all the more shocking when it came. The Winter Palace had not one empty seat left, and over ten thousand applications for tickets made in advance over the previous two weeks, had had to be regretfully refused. The atmosphere at the beginning was gay, festive, electric in anticipation. The women, who gave the lie to the western concept of Iron Curtain women being habitually dressed in belted potato sacks, were dressed as exquisitely as if the Bolshoi were visiting town — which indeed it had done, though not to so tumultuous a welcome — and the men were resplendent in either their best suits or in bemedalled uniforms. Sergius, seated next to Wrinfield, looked positively resplendent. Behind the two of them sat Kodes and Angelo, the latter tending slightly to lower the whole tone of the atmosphere. Dr Harper, as ever, sat in the front row, the ever-present black bag unobtrusively under his seat.

The audience, suitably primed by all the wildly enthusiastic reports that had preceded the circus, were prepared for magnificence and that night they got it. As if to make up for the absence of the Blind Eagles — a broadcast announcement before the start of the performance had regretted that two members were indisposed, what Sergius didn’t want to get into the papers didn’t get into the papers — the performers reached new heights that astonished even Wrinfield. The crowd — there were eighteen thousand there — were entranced, enthralled. Act merged into act with the smooth and flawless precision for which the circus was justly famed and each act seemed better than the one that had preceded it. But Bruno that evening surpassed them all. That night he was not only blindfolded but hooded as well and his repertoire on the high trapeze, helped only by two girls on the platforms, who handled the two free trapezes in timing with the strict metronomic music of the orchestra, had an almost unearthly magic about it, a sheer impossibility that had even the most experienced circus artistes riveted in a stage halfway between awe and outright disbelief. He climaxed his act with a double somersault between two trapezes — and his outstretched hands missed the approaching trapeze. The heart-stopping shock throughout the audience was a palpable thing — unlike the crowds at many sports ranging from auto-racing to boxing, circus audiences are always willing the performers to safety — and equally palpable was the sigh of incredulous relief when Bruno caught the trapeze with his arched heels. Just to show that there was no fluke about it, he did it all over again — twice.

The crowd went hysterical. Children and teenagers screamed, men shouted, women cried in relief, a cacophony of noise that even Wrinfield had never heard before. It took the ringmaster three full minutes and repeated broadcast appeals to restore a semblance of order to the crowd.

Sergius delicately mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief. “No matter what you pay our young friend up there, it must always be only a fraction of what he is worth.” “I pay him a fortune and I agree with you. Have you ever seen anything like that?”

“Never. And I know I never will again.”

“Why?”

Sergius cast about for an answer. He said: “We have an old saying in our country: ›Only once in a lifetime is a man permitted to leave himself and walk with the gods.‹ Tonight was such a night.”

“You may be right, you may be right.” Wrinfield was hardly listening to him, he turned to talk to an equally excited neighbour as the lights dimmed. A millimetric parting appeared between the upper and lower parts of Sergius’s mouth — one could not call them lips. Sergius was permitting himself yet another of his rare smiles.

The lights came on again. As usual, in the second part of his act, Bruno used the low wire — if twenty feet could be called low — strung across the cage, open at the top, where Neubauer was, as he liked to put it, conducting his choir — putting his dozen Nubian lions, an unquestionably savage lot who would permit nobody except Neubauer near them, through their paces. For his first trip across and back the cage on his bicycle and with his balancing pole, Bruno — without the normal burden of having to carry his two brothers — obviously found it almost ridiculously easy to perform the acrobatic balancing feats which in fact few other artistes in the circus world could emulate. The crowd seemed to sense this ease, and while appreciating the skill, daring and expertise, waited expectantly for something more. They got it.

On his next sally across the ring he had a different machine, this one with a seat four feet high, pedals clamped below the seat and a vertical driving chain four feet in length. Again he crossed and recrossed the ring, again he performed his acrobatic feats, although this time with considerably more caution. When he crossed for the third time he had the audience distinctly worried, for this time his seat was no less than eight feet in height, with a vertical drive chain of corresponding length. The concern of the audience turned to a lip-biting apprehension when, reaching the sag in the middle, both bicycle — if that strange contraption could any longer be called that — and man began to sway in a most alarming fashion and Bruno had virtually to abandon any but the most elementary acrobatics in order to maintain his balance. He made it safely there and back, but not before he had wrought considerable changes in the adrenalin, breathing and pulse rates of the majority of the audience.

For his fourth and final excursion both seat and chain were raised to a height of twelve feet. This left him with his head some sixteen feet above the low wire, thirty-six above the ground.

Sergius glanced at Wrinfield, who, eyes intent, was rubbing his hand nervously across his mouth. Sergius said: “This Bruno of yours. Is he in league with the chemists who sell sedatives or the doctors who specialize in heart attacks?” “This has never been done before, Colonel. No performer has ever attempted this.”

Bruno started to sway and wobble almost immediately after leaving the top platform but his uncanny sense of balance and incredible reactions corrected the swaying and brought it within tolerable limits. This time there was no attempt to perform anything even remotely resembling acrobatics. His eyes, sinews, muscles, nerves were concentrated on one thing alone — maintaining his balance.

Exactly halfway across Bruno stopped pedalling. Even the least informed among the audience knew that this was an impossible, a suicidal thing to do: when the factor of balance has reached critical dimensions — and here it already appeared to have passed that critical limit — only movement backwards or forwards could help to regain equilibrium. “Never again,” Wrinfield said. His voice was low, strained.

“Look at them! Just look at them!”

Sergius glanced at the audience but not for longer than a fraction of a second. It was not difficult to take Wrinfield’s point. Where audience participation is concerned a certain degree of vicarious danger can be tolerable, even pleasurable: but when the degree of danger becomes intolerable — and prolonged, as in this case — the pleasure turns to fear, a corroding anxiety. The clenched hands, the clenched teeth, in many cases the averted gazes, the waves of empathy washing across the exhibition hall — none of this was calculated to bring the crowds flocking back to the circus.

For ten interminable seconds the unbearable tension lasted, the wheels of the bicycle neither advancing nor going backwards as much as an inch, while its angle of sway perceptibly increased. Then Bruno pushed strongly on the pedals. The chain snapped.

No two people afterwards gave precisely the same account of what followed. The bicycle immediately tipped over to the right, the side on which Bruno had been pressing. Bruno threw himself forward — there were no handlebars to impede his progress. Hands outstretched to cushion his fall, he landed awkwardly, sideways, on the wire, which appeared to catch him on the inner thigh and the throat, for his head bent backwards at an unnatural angle. Then his body slid off the wire, he seemed to be suspended by his right hand and chin alone, then his head slid off the wire, the grip of his right hand loosened and he fell into the ring below, landed feet first on the sawdust and immediately crumpled like a broken doll. Neubauer, who at that moment had ten Nubian lions squatting on a semi-circle of tubs, reacted very quickly. Both Bruno and the bicycle had landed in the centre of the ring, well clear of the lions, but lions are nervous and sensitive creatures and react badly to unexpected disturbances and interruptions — and this was a very unexpected disturbance indeed. The three lions in the centre of the half-circle had already risen to all four feet when Neubauer stooped and threw handfuls of sand in their faces. They didn’t sit, but they were temporarily blinded and remained where they were, two of them rubbing their eyes with massive forepaws. The cage door opened and an assistant trainer and clown entered, not running, lifted Bruno, carried him outside the cage and closed the door.

Dr Harper was with him immediately. He stooped and examined him briefly, straightened, made a signal with his hand, but it was unnecessary. Kan Dahn was already there with a stretcher.

Three minutes later the announcement was made from the centre ring that the famous Blind Eagle was only concussed and with any luck would be performing again the next day. The crowd, unpredictable as all crowds, rose to its collective feet and applauded for a whole minute: better a concussed Blind Eagle than a dead one. The show went on.

The atmosphere inside the first aid room was distinctly less cheerful: it was funereal. Present were Harper, Wrinfield, two of his associate directors, Sergius and a splendidly white-maned, white-moustached gentleman of about seventy. He and Harper were at one end of the room where Bruno, still on the stretcher, lay on a trestle table.

Harper said: “Dr Hachid, if you would care to carry out your own personal examination —” Dr Hachid smiled sadly. “I hardly think that will be necessary. “ He looked at one of the associate directors, a man by the name of Armstrong. “You have seen death before?” Armstrong nodded. “Touch his forehead.” Armstrong hesitated, advanced, laid his hand on Bruno’s forehead. He almost snatched it away. “It’s cold.” He shivered. “Already it’s gone all cold.” Dr Hachid pulled the white sheet over Bruno’s head, stepped back and pulled a curtain which obscured the stretcher. Hachid said: “As you say in America, a doctor is a doctor is a doctor, and I would not insult a colleague. But the law of our land —” “The law of every land,” Harper said. “A foreign doctor cannot sign a death certificate.”

Pen in hand, Hachid bent over a printed form. “Fracture of spine. Second and third vertebrae, you said? Severance of spinal cord.” He straightened. “If you wish me to make arrangements”

“I have already arranged for an ambulance. The hospital morgue —” Sergius said: “That will not be necessary. There is a funeral parlour not a hundred metres from here.”

“There is? That would save much trouble. But at this time of night —” “Dr Harper.”

“My apologies, Colonel. Mr Wrinfield, can I borrow one of your men, a trusted man who will not talk?” “Johnny, the night watchman.”

“Have him go down to the train. There’s a black case under my bunk. Please have him bring it here.”

The back parlour of the undertaker’s emporium was harshly lit with neon strip lighting which pointed up the coldly antiseptic hygiene of the surroundings, tiled walls, marble floor, stainless steel sinks. Upended coffins lined one wall. In the centre of the room were three more coffins on steel-legged marble tables. Two of those were empty. Dr Harper was pulling a sheet over the third. Beside him, the plump undertaker, a man with gleaming shoes and gleaming bald pate, virtually hopped from foot to foot, his professional feeling visibly outraged.

He said: “But you cannot do this. Straight into the coffin, I mean. There are things to be done —” “I will do those things. I have sent for my own equipment.” “But he has to be laid out.”

“He was my friend. I shall do it.”

“But the shroud —”

“You will be excused for not knowing that a circus performer is always buried in his circus clothes.”

“It is all wrong. We have ethics. In our profession —” “Colonel Sergius.” Harper’s voice was weary. Sergius nodded, took the undertaker by the arm, led him some way apart and spoke quietly. He was back in twenty seconds with an undertaker three shades paler and with a key, which he handed to Harper.

“The parlour is all yours, Dr Harper.” He turned to the undertaker.

“You may leave.” He left.

“I think we should leave, too,” Wrinfield said. “I have some excellent vodka in my office.”

Maria was in the office, forehead resting on crossed arms on the desk, when the men came in. She lifted her head slowly, peering through half-closed eyes as if not seeing too well. A concerned and troubled Dr Harper was standing before her, an equally concerned Wrinfield and an impassive Sergius beside him: Sergius’s facial muscles for conveying sympathy had atrophied over the years. Maria’s eyes were red and puffy and glazed and her cheeks glistened. Wrinfield looked at the grief stricken face and touched her arm awkwardly.

“Do forgive me, Maria. I had forgotten — I didn’t know — we shall go at once.”

“Please. It’s all right.” She dabbed at her face with some tissues. “Please come in.”

As the other three men rather reluctantly entered and Wrinfield brought out his bottle of vodka, Harper said to her: “How did you know? I’m so terribly sorry, Maria.” He looked at her engagement ring and looked away again. “But how did you know?”

“I don’t know. I just knew.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “Yes, I do know. I heard the announcement about his fall. I didn’t come to see — well, because I was scared to come. I was sure that if he wasn’t badly hurt he’d ask for me or you would have sent for me. But nobody came.”

In an understandably strained silence and with considerable haste the men disposed of their vodkas and filed out. Harper, the last to leave, said to Maria: “I have to see to some equipment. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

He closed the door behind him. Maria waited for some moments, rose, glanced through the window, opened the door and peered cautiously out. There was no one in the immediate vicinity. She closed the door, locked it, returned to her desk, took a tube from a drawer, removed the cap, squeezed and rubbed some more glycerine into her eyes and face. She then unlocked the door.

Dr Harper returned shortly with a suitcase. He poured himself another vodka, looked everywhere except at the girl as if uncertain how to begin. Then he cleared his throat and said apologetically: “I know you’re never going to forgive me for this but I had to do it. You see, I didn’t know how good an actress you might be. Not so good, I’m afraid. Your feelings do tend to show through.”

“My feelings tend — you know that Bruno and I —” She broke off, then said slowly: “What on earth do you mean?”

He smiled at her, broadly although albeit somewhat apprehensively.

“Dry your tears and come and see.”

The first beginnings of understanding touched her face. “Do you mean —” “I mean come and see.”

Bruno pushed back the two covering sheets and sat up in his coffin. He looked at Harper without much enthusiasm and said reproachfully: “Weren’t in too much of a hurry, were you? How would you like to lie in a coffin wondering when some enthusiastic apprentice is going to come along and start battening down the lid?”

Maria saved Harper the necessity of a reply. When Bruno had finally disentangled himself, he climbed stiffly down to the floor, reached inside the coffin, held up a limp, dripping linen bag and said: “And I’m soaking wet, too.” Maria said: “What is that?”

“A slight subterfuge, my dear.” Harper gave a deprecatory smile. “An ice-bag. It was necessary to give Bruno the cold clammy forehead of the deceased. Ice, unfortunately, melts.” Harper placed the case on the coffin and opened the lid. “And, alas, we now have to cause Bruno some more suffering: we have to transform him into a thing of beauty and a joy for ever.”

The transformation took all of twenty minutes. Harper had not necessarily mistaken his profession but clearly he would have been perfectly at home in the make-up department of any film studio. He worked swiftly and skilfully and obviously derived some satisfaction from his creative handiwork. When he was finished, Bruno looked at himself in a full-length mirror and winced. The light brown wig was just that too much long and straggly, the light brown moustache a soupcon too luxuriant: the vivid semi-circular scar that ran from his forehead round the corner of his right eye almost to his nose was the result, clearly, of an encounter with a broken bottle: for clothes he wore a blue and white striped shirt, red tie, light brown suit with red vertical stripes, mustard socks and shoes of the same appalling colour. The rings on his fingers would appear to have had their source of origin either in a fairground stall or Christmas crackers.

Bruno said: “A thing of beauty, the man says. I could always hire myself out as a scarecrow.” He bent a discouraging look on Maria, whose hand, discreetly covering her mouth, could not disguise the crinkling in her eyes. He looked back to Harper. “This makes me inconspicuous?”

“The point precisely. It makes you so conspicuous that no one will bother to take a second look at you — except for those who will do a double-take to convince themselves that their eyes weren’t deceiving them in the first place. It’s the anonymous, furtive, grey man slinking down alleyways that attracts suspicion. You are Jon Neuhaus, a machine-tool salesman from East Germany. The passport and papers are in your inside pocket.”

Bruno dug out his passport, a venerable-looking document that attested to the fact that his salesman’s duties had taken him to virtually every Iron Curtain country, some of them many times. He looked at his picture and then again at himself in the mirror. The resemblance was quite remarkable. He said: “This must have taken quite a time to prepare. Where was it made?”

“In the States.”

“You’ve had it all that time?” Harper nodded. “You might have shown it to me earlier on. Given me time to get accustomed to the awfulness of it all.”

“You would probably have refused to come.” Harper checked his watch. “The last train in tonight arrives in fifteen minutes. A car is waiting for you about a hundred yards down the street from here which will take you discreetly to the station, where you will make sure you are seen — you have just come off the train. This suitcase contains all the clothes and toilet gear you will require. The same car will then drive you up to a hotel where you made a reservation two weeks ago.” “You fixed all this?”

“Yes. Rather, one of our agents did. Our man, as you might say, in Crau. Invaluable. He can fix anything in this city — he ought to, he’s a big wheel in the city council. One of his men will be driving your car tonight.”

Bruno looked at him consideringly. “You certainly believe in playing a tight game, Dr Harper.”

“And I survive.” Harper permitted himself a patient sigh. “When you’ve spent most of your adult life in a racket like this you will discover that, at any given time, the fewer people who know anything about anything, the greater the safety factor. Maria will hire a car in the morning. Two blocks west of here is an inn called the Hunter’s Horn. Be there at dusk. Maria will be there shortly afterwards. She’ll look in the doorway then walk away. You will follow her. You have a singular gift for sensing when you will be shadowed so I have no worries on that score. Any change of plan or further instructions will be given you by Maria.”

“You said your man in Crau could fix anything?”

“I did say that.”

“Have him fix a few sticks of dynamite. Any explosive will do as long as it has an approximately ten-second fuse. He can fix that?”

Harper hesitated. “I suppose. Why do you want it?” “I’ll tell you in a couple of days and that’s not because I’m doing a Dr Harper and being all mysterious. I’m not quite sure myself but I’m developing an idea that it might help me to leave the Lubylan.”

“Bruno.” The dark anxiety was back in the girl’s face again, but Bruno didn’t look at her.

“I think there’s a chance I might get in undetected. I don’t think there’s a chance in hell that I’ll be able to get out undetected. I may have to leave in a very great hurry indeed and once the alarm is raised I’m sure the exits will be automatically sealed. So my best line of exit may well be to blast my way out.”

“I seem to recall you saying that you had no wish to kill anyone. A dynamite blast could kill quite a few.” “I’ll be as careful as I can. It may have to come to the inevitable choice — them or me. One hopes not. Do I get the bangers or not?”

“You’ll have to give me time to think about that one.” “Look, Dr Harper. I know you’re in charge, but here and now you’re not the person who matters. I am. I’m the person who’s got to put his life on the line to get inside Lubylan — and out again. Not you. You’re safe and sound in base camp and will disclaim all knowledge of anything if I get chopped. I’m not asking, not now, I’m demanding. I want that explosive.” He glanced down in distaste at his clothes. “If I don’t get it you can try on this suit for size.”

“I repeat, I need time.”

“I can wait.” Bruno hitched his elbows on the coffin. “I can wait all of five seconds. I’ll count them. Then I’m taking this damned suit off and going back to the circus. I wish you luck in your break-in to Lubylan. I also wish you luck when you come to explaining to the police just how you made the trifling error of certifying me as being dead. One. Two. Three.” “This is blackmail.”

“What else? Four.”

“All right, all right, you can have your damned fireworks.” Harper pondered, then went on complainingly: “I must say this is a side of your nature I’ve never seen before.” “I’d never examined that damned Lubylan before. I’ve seen it now. I know my chances. Please have Maria take the explosives in her car tomorrow night. Does Wrinfield know that this was a charade tonight?”

“Of course.”

“You took a chance bringing Sergius with you here.” “Apart from the fact that he insisted, I’d have taken a damned bigger chance if I hadn’t. That would have been the one thing calculated to rouse his suspicions.”

“And he’s not? Suspicious, I mean?”

“The last thing that would occur to Colonel Sergius is that anyone would ever be misguided enough as to pick his parish as a place to commit suicide.”

“Money?”

“In your other inside pocket.”

“It’s freezing outside.”

“There’s a nice warm coat in the car.” Harper smiled.

“You’re going to love it.”

Bruno nodded to the open coffin. “That?”

“Will be weighted and the lid screwed down during the night.

We will bury you on Monday morning.”

“Can I send me a wreath?”

“That would not be advisable.” Harper smiled thinly. “You can always, of course, mingle discreetly with your mourners.” Forty minutes later Bruno was in his hotel room, unpacking, his eyes straying occasionally towards the nice warm coat that Harper had so thoughtfully provided. It was made of thick brushed nylon, in black and white wavy vertical stripes, and looked for all the world like a four thousand guinea chinchilla. Indisputably, it was the only one of its kind in Crau and, likely enough, for some hundreds of miles around, and the stir he had caused strolling through the lobby to the reception desk had been more than considerable: when the effect of his coat was added to the fact that he had had it carelessly flung open to reveal the sartorial rainbow of his suiting beneath it was understandable that hardly anyone had bothered to give his face a first glance, far less a second one.

Bruno put out the light, eased the curtain, opened the window and leaned out. His room was at the back of the hotel, overlooking a narrow warehouse-lined lane. It wasn’t quite in total darkness but it wasn’t far from it either. Less than four feet away were the steps of a fire-escape, the easy and, in combination with the darkened lane, the perfect way to leave the hotel. Too easy, too perfect.

In line with Harper’s advocated policy of non-concealment, Bruno went down to the hotel dining-room for dinner, carrying under his arm an East Berlin newspaper, dated that day, which he had found in his case. Harper was a man to whom the most insignificant detail could be of importance. Where he had obtained it Bruno had no means of knowing. His entrance did not cause any notable sensation — the citizens of Crau or visiting firemen were too well-mannered for that. But the raised eyebrows, the smiles, the whispers were evidence that his presence had not gone unnoted. Bruno looked casually around. There was nobody in sight who looked remotely like a secret police agent, although there was little comfort in that: the best agents never did. Bruno ordered his meal, then buried himself in his newspaper.

At eight o’clock the following morning Bruno was once more in the dining-room, again reading a paper but this time a local news-sheet. The first thing that caught his attention was a large black-bordered box — the borders were half an inch thick — in the centre of the front page. From this he learnt that he had died during the night. The grief was profound for circus lovers the world over but nowhere, of course, as keenly felt as in Crau. There was much sentimentalizing and philosophical sorrowing over the machinations of a strange fate that had brought Bruno Wildermann home to die. He was to be buried at 11 a.m. on Monday. It was hoped that large numbers of the citizens of Crau would turn out to pay their last respects to their city’s most illustrious son, the greatest aerialist of all time. Bruno took the paper back up to his room after breakfast, found scissors and cut out the black-bordered article, which he carefully folded and placed in an inside pocket. Late that afternoon Bruno went shopping. It was a cold and sunny day and he had left his fur coat in his room. This he had done neither because of the weather nor because of any innate bashfulness. It was just too bulky to be carried inconspicuously, however well it might have been wrapped up. This was the town that Bruno knew better than any in the world and he could have shaken off any shadower without even half thinking about it: it took him less than five minutes to know that he was not being followed. He turned down a side street, then into an even meaner street, little more than a lane, and entered the shop of a haberdasher for whom Savile Row must have lain on the far side of Paradise: even the best clothes it had for sale could not have qualified for the description of second-hand. The proprietor, an elderly stooped man, whose watery eyes swam behind thickly pebbled glasses — although it seemed an extremely remote possibility that the oldster would ever be called upon to identify him Bruno doubted whether he could have identified members of his own family, if any — had a unique but eminently practical way of displaying the wares he had for sale. The articles of clothing were piled in untidy heaps on the floor, jackets in one pile, trousers in another, coats in another, shirts in another, and so on. Ties were conspicuous by their absence.

When Bruno emerged it was with a bulky and exceedingly grimy brown paper parcel roughly tied with some frayed twine. He made his way to the nearest public conveniences and when he emerged his transformation was complete. He was clad in ill-fitting, patched and ancient clothes, wholly disreputable, not the sort of person the average citizen would approach within yards of, far less associate with: the grimy crumpled beret was two sizes too large and fell over his ears: the dark raincoat was irreparably stained, the trousers baggy beyond belief, the creased, once-navy shirt tieless and the heels of the scuffed shoes so worn down at the back that they lent him a peculiarly rolling gait. To complete matters he was surrounded by a powerful aura that afflicted people at a distance of several yards: to keep lice, fleas and other forms of wild life at bay the haberdasher was a great believer in drenching every article of apparel with a disinfectant that was as vile-smelling as it was powerful.

Clutching his brown parcel under his arm, Bruno made his leisurely way across town. Dusk was beginning to fall. He took a short cut through a large park, a section of which was given over for use as one of the city’s cemeteries. Passing by an opened iron gate in the high wall that surrounded the cemetery, he was intrigued to see two men busily digging by the light of a pair of storm lanterns. Intrigued, he approached the spot and as he did two men, standing in an as yet shallow grave, straightened up and rubbed clearly aching backs.

“You work late, comrades,” Bruno said sympathetically. “The dead wait for no man,” the elder grave-digger said in a sepulchral voice, then peering more closely, added: “Some of us have to work for a living. Do you mind standing to the other side of the grave?”

The light wind, Bruno realized, was wafting his presence across the grave. He moved round and said: “And whose last resting place is this?”

“A famous American, though he was born and brought up in this town. I knew his grandfather well. A Wildermann, he is. He was with a circus — the circus — in the Winter Palace. Killed in an accident. It’ll be a big day here on Monday, with Johann and myself in our best suits.”

“An accident?” Bruno shook his head. “One of those damnable buses, I’ll be bound. Many’s the time —” The younger man said: “No, you old fool. He fell off a wire in the circus and broke his neck.” He jammed his shovel into the sandy soil. “Do you mind? We have work to do.” Bruno mumbled his apologies and shambled away. Five minutes later he was in the Hunter’s Horn, where he had to show his money to a nose-wrinkling waiter before being served coffee. After about fifteen minutes Maria appeared in the doorway, looked around, clearly failed to recognize anybody, hesitated and moved off again. Bruno rose leisurely and rolled his way towards the door. Once in the street he lengthened his stride without increasing his pace and within a minute he was only a few feet behind her.

He said: “Where’s the car?”

She wheeled round. “Where on earth — you weren’t — yes, you were!”

“You’ll feel better shortly. Where’s the car?”

“Round the next corner.”

“Any car follow you?”

“No.”

The car was a nondescript battered old Volkswagen, one of hundreds similar in the town: it was parked under a street lamp. Bruno got in behind the wheel, Maria in the passenger seat.

She sniffed in disgust.

“What on earth is that dreadful smell?”

“Me.”

“I appreciate that. But —”

“Just disinfectant. A very powerful one, but still a disinfectant.

You’ll get used to it. Quite bracing, really.”

“It’s awful! Why on earth —”

“Disguise,” Bruno said patiently. “You don’t actually think this is my preferred mode of dress? I think that Dr Harper underestimates Colonel Sergius. I may be Jon Neuhaus, a citizen in good standing for a friendly satellite country, but I’m still an East German. I’m an outsider — and you can bet Sergius has every outsider tabbed from the moment he’s within twenty miles of Crau. He will know — if he wishes — within ten minutes of any stranger checking in to any hotel in Crau. He’ll have a complete description of me. I have the documentation so he won’t give me a second thought. But he’ll give a second thought if a respectable sales representative for a major firm is found in a sleazy dump like the Hunter’s Horn or parked indefinitely in the shadow of the Lubylan. Don’t you think?” “Agreed. In that case there is only one thing to do.” She opened her handbag, extracted a small eau-de-cologne aerosol, sprayed herself liberally, then squirted the contents over Bruno. When she had finished Bruno sniffed.

“The disinfectant wins,” he announced and, indeed, instead of the cologne having a neutralizing effect it had a compounding effect. Bruno lowered the windows and hastily moved off, his eye as much on the rear-view mirror as on the road. He twisted and turned through the darkened streets and alleyways until any tail car there might have been must have been irretrievably lost. As they drove, they briefly rehearsed the plans for the Lubylan break in on the Tuesday night. Then Bruno said: “Got the stuff I asked for?”

“In the boot. Not what you asked for — Dr Harper’s contact couldn’t get that. He says you’re to be very careful with this stuff — it seems you’ve only to look at it and it will explode.” “Good God! Don’t tell me he’s got me nitre-glycerine?”

“No. It’s called amatol.”

“That’s all right, then. It’s the detonator he’ll be worried about. Fulminate of mercury, isn’t it?”

“Yes, he said that.”

“Seventy-seven grains. Very temperamental stuff. It will have a length of RDX fuse and a chemical igniter.” “Yes. He did say that.” She looked at him curiously. “How come you’re an expert on explosives?”

“I’m not. I read about it some years ago and just sort of filed the information away.”

“Must be quite a filing cabinet you’ve got in there. This instant and total recall bit — how’s it done?” “If I knew that I’d be making a fortune out of it instead of fooling my life away on a trapeze. Now, there’s something else I want. First a large, eight by eight — preferably — sheet of rubber matting or bide leather.”

She took his hand and said: “What do you want that for?”

Her eyes told him that she knew.

“What do you think? To throw over that damned electrified fence, of course. A tumbler’s mat would do fine. Also I require a rope with a padded hook. I want to see them both as soon as possible. Ask Dr Harper to arrange for those things and have them put in the boot of the car. Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?”

“What?”

“I want to see that stuff.”

“Oh. I’d love to.” She inhaled deeply. “No, I wouldn’t. Not if you’re wearing those clothes. Anyway, no half-decent restaurant would let you through the front door.” “I’ll change.”

“But if we’re seen together — in daylight, I mean —” “There’s a charming little inn in a charming little village about ten miles from here. Nobody will know us there and nobody will be looking anyway: I’m dead. Which reminds me. It’s less than an hour since I was talking to a couple of gravediggers.”

“We are being humorous again, are we?”

“Fact. Very interesting.”

“In the Hunter’s Horn?”

“In the cemetery. I asked them who it was for and they said it was for me. Well, the American who fell off the wire. It’s not everyone who’s privileged enough to watch his own grave being dug. They were making a very neat job of it, I must say.” “Please.” She shivered. “Must you?”

“Sorry. That wasn’t funny. I just thought it was. Now, you’ll go to this village — it’s called Kolszuki — by car and I’ll go by train. We’ll meet at the station there. We might as well go now and check the train time-tables at the Crau station. You’ll have to get clearance from Dr Harper, of course.” On a very spartan metal table in a very spartan and largely metal office, the spools of a tape-recorder revolved. On either side of the table sat Colonel Sergius and Captain Kodes. Both had headphones to their ears. In addition to the phones Sergius had a cigar, vodka and as close to a beatific smile as he was ever likely to achieve. Captain Kodes, too, was permitting himself the luxury of smiling broadly. Angelo, discreetly seated in a far corner, although he had neither phones nor vodka, was also smiling. If the colonel was happy, that made him happy, too.

Bruno returned from consulting the time-tables inside the Crau station. He said: “There’s a very convenient train for lunch. Meet me at the Kolszuki station at noon. You won’t have any trouble in finding it — there aren’t more than fifty houses in the village. Know where this place is?” “There’s a map in the glove-box. I’ve checked. I’ll be there then.”

Bruno drove up the main street and parked the Volkswagen just opposite the lane abutting on the southern side of Lubylan. The lane was not deserted — there were two trucks and a car on the south of the side lane, obviously parked for the night. It was a measure of the confidence in their security arrangements of those within Lubylan that they raised no objections to vehicles parking in such close proximity. Bruno made a mental note of this: there is no objection to the night-time parking of trucks in the south lane.

Bruno said: “Now don’t forget to tell Dr Harper everything we discussed tonight. And don’t forget that, for the benefit of any innocent passers-by, we’re just a couple of lovers lost in each other’s eyes. Darling, darling Maria. That’s for practice.” “Yes, Bruno,” she said primly. “We’ll be married soon, Bruno.”

“Very soon, my love.” They relapsed into silence, their eyes fixed on the lane, Maria’s all the time, Bruno’s most of the time.

In the headquarters of the Secret Police Colonel Sergius was making harsh croaking noises in his throat. He was not choking on his vodka. Colonel Sergius was laughing. He gestured that Angelo should pour him another vodka, then indicated that Angelo should help himself also. Angelo refrained from crushing the bottle in his surprise, smiled his wolfish smile and swiftly complied before Sergius could change his mind. This was without precedent, an epoch-making night. Bruno turned suddenly, put his arms around Maria and kissed her passionately. For a moment she stared at him, dark eyes open in astonishment and surmise, let herself relax against him, then stiffened as an authoritative rat-tat-tat came on her window. She broke from Bruno’s arms and swiftly wound down the window. Two large policemen, complete with the customary guns and batons, were bent down peering into the car. Uniforms and weapons apart, however, they bore no resemblance to the popular conception of the Iron Curtain policemen. Their expressions were genial, positively paternal. The larger of the two sniffed suspiciously.

“Very strange smell in this car, I must say.” Maria said: “I’m afraid I’ve just broken a phial of perfume. A drop is nice — but a whole bottle — well, it is a bit strong, I must say.”

Bruno, stammering slightly and with his voice sounding acutely embarrassed, said: “What is it, officer? This is my fiancée.” He held up Maria’s beringed left hand so that there should be no doubt about it. “Surely there’s no law —” “Indeed not.” The policeman leaned a confidential elbow on the window-sill. “But there’s a law against parking in a main street.”

“Oh! Sorry. I didn’t realize —”

“It’s the fumes,” the policeman said kindly. “Your mind must be all befuddled.”

“Yes, officer.” Bruno smiled weakly. “Is it all right if we park behind those trucks?” Hopefully, he indicated the vehicles in the south lane.

“Certainly. Don’t catch cold now. And, comrade?”

“Officer?”

“If you love her so much, why don’t you buy your fiancée a bottle of decent perfume? Needn’t be expensive, you know.” The policeman beamed and walked away with his colleague. Maria, remembering her momentary yielding to Bruno, said in a cross voice: “Well, thank you. For a moment there I thought you had found me irresistible.”

“Always use your rear-view mirror. It’s just as important when you’re stationary as when you’re driving.” She made a face at him as he pulled the car into the south lane.

The two policemen watched them park. They moved out of eyeshot of the car. The larger man pulled a walkie talkie microphone from his breast pocket, pressed a button and said:

“They’re parked in the south lane by the Lubylan, Colonel.” “Excellent.” Even with the metallic distortion and the fact that his speech was interrupted by a series of whooping gasps — laughter was an unaccustomed exercise for him — Sergius’s voice was unmistakable. “Just leave the love-birds be.” It took Bruno and Maria minutes only to establish that there were indeed ground-level guards. There were three of them and they kept up a continuous peripheral patrol, each making a full circuit of the Lubylan in turn. At no time was any guard in sight of the other two. As sentries, they were a degree less than enthusiastic. Not for them the continually roving, probing eye, the piercing scrutiny of all that lay in their path of vision: with downcast gaze and trudging steps, they gave the impression of thoroughly miserable men, huddled against the cold and living only for the moment of their relief. There had been night-time sentries patrolling the Lubylan for ten, perhaps twenty years, and probably no untoward incident had ever occurred: there was no conceivable reason why it ever should. From the two watchtowers they could see, the south-west and south-east ones, searchlights flashed occasionally and erratically along the tops of the perimeter walls. There was no discernible predetermined sequence to the switching on and off of the searchlights: it appeared to be a quite random process, its arbitrary nature dependent on the whim of the guard. After twenty minutes Bruno drove off to the public convenience he had patronized earlier that evening. He left the car, kissed Maria goodbye as she moved into the driver’s seat and disappeared into the depths. When he emerged, the grimy parcel with the old clothes and the amatol tucked under his arm, he was clad in his original sartorial glory.