Flight From Honour

28

Time in the dungeon was very exact, no “abouts” or “nearlys”; there was nothing else to do but note exactly when anything happened. Fifty-three minutes after Ranklin had been locked up, a guard came in with a metal jug of water and a worn but clean towel. Pero thoughtfully gestured for Ranklin to have first go, then muddied the towel without making too much difference to his face and hands.

One hour and seven minutes later, the door opened and Captain Novak came in. “I must apologise for the overcrowding, but this is the high season,” he smirked in German. Then he reached behind him and effortlessly hauled the Conte di Chioggia past. “Auf wiedersehn.”

As the heavy wooden door slammed shut, the Count got his breath back, and spent nearly two minutes being outraged in alternate Italian and German. He promised to report everybody concerned to the Comandante (when he returned), the Chief of Police, and the Governor of Trieste. He was starting to list his connections in Vienna when a guard came back and shoved an armful of bedding at him. The Count dropped it, kicked it, but then seemed exhausted; he glared around.

“James Spencer,” Ranklin said. “We met – briefly – in the Cafe San Marco.”

“Ah? Then you know who I am. My humblest apologies for not recognising you immediately, but I had not expected . . . And our friend here?”

“His name’s Pero. He seems to speak only Slovenian.”

“My God! This is the final insult!” He swung round to tell the door, in German: “Police Captain Novak will be walking a beat in the sewers next week!”

Pero had been gazing at the Count with a loose smile. Now he got off the bed and stuck out a welcoming hand, along with a quick burst of Slovenian. The Count stared at the hand as he would at a plague rat, spat some insult that rocked Pero back on his heels, and sat firmly on a chair.

Then all the firmness vanished, and he was suddenly old and frail. Ranklin sat up, expecting him to slide to the floor, but the Count raised a thin, trembling hand. “Please, I am just a little tired. Do you have a cigarette? Ah, thank you, thank you . . .” Ranklin lit it for him. Now he had only five left. He mentally shrugged and took one for himself.

Abruptly, the way things seemed to happen from the air, the city was there. An unmistakable terracotta-coloured shape, split by the bold S of the Grand Canal, had magicked itself out of the haze. And this was one city that didn’t sprawl: where it ended, the sea began in swirled blue and green streaks of channels and mudbanks.

“I got Venice!” O’Gilroy shouted triumphantly. “Ye say there’s an aerodrome here? No – don’t try to look! Jest tell me!”

Andrew stopped struggling upright and, presumably, was trying to imagine the city below (actually, off their left wing). “On the Lido . . . big, long island . . . just east, out to sea, runs north-south . . . can you see that?”

The Oriole rocked as O’Gilroy craned to look. The blasted place was a spillage of islands . . . Then he realised the Lido was bigger than he’d thought, already stretching out on both sides of them.

“Got it. Bang over it.”

“Right at the northern end . . . Should be there.”

O’Gilroy began a cautious circle over the sea, peering down past Andrew. It must be there . . . yes . . . was it? That thing? Just a few sheds, a low line of what seemed to be fortification, and in the middle a patch of sun-baked mud.

“I’ve got the aerodrome,” he said more soberly.

“Does it look okay?”

No, it didn’t. But it was all he was going to get. “I’m going down for a look.”

“Try to touch down at forty.”

“Forty. Right.” Only he wouldn’t know, because when he was down on the edge of the stall he’d have no time to lean over and consult the indicator. And he still couldn’t reach the engine levers . . . “Can ye reduce the power a bit? By the sound of the engine?”

Andrew’s blind but experienced hand fell immediately on the levers and the engine buzz slowed fractionally. The Oriole sagged and O’Gilroy lifted her back. And a little more – the engine stuttered and so did O’Gilroy’s heart, but it caught again.

“Best I can do,” Andrew panted. “Should be around a thousand revs.”

As the Oriole slowed, her grip on the air became less firm. “It’ll do,” O’Gilroy called, and let the nose drift down. Chimney smoke showed the wind as coming from almost due south, so he came in a gentle swoop from the north, over the sea, blipping the engine to keep in a shallow dive. But each time the engine restarted, the nose came up unless he synchronised it with a downward push. And the wings rocked more in the uneven low-level currents, and she pulled right as she slowed . . .

“Left rudder!” he yelled, then, as the Oriole swerved wildly, had a better idea. “Get yer right foot off!” And managed to kick his left foot onto the rudder bar. Now he had more control, but was using his wrong foot – would he remember that in a moment of decision?

Suddenly his anger flared again. They’d expect him to get this right, think because he’d flown the thing for half an hour without crashing, he should at least be able to land safely . . . And then he shook his head, splattering sweat and oil. Self-pity was no help now. Who were they? Fuck they. He was a pilot, and he had a problem – just like any pilot. And whatever happened, pilots would understand. And that was what mattered.

But he was going to land off this attempt. Andrew would never get the engine revved up in time to drag them around for a second chance.

“Keep yer foot pushing steady,” he ordered. So, in effect, Andrew’s foot spring-loaded the rudder into a left turn which O’Gilroy could override with his own foot.

“If we’re over the sea,” Andrew warned, “you’ll get an up-draught coming over the land.”

“Right.” He should have thought of that himself, but at least he was ready with a forward push and a final blip to cut the engine when the Oriole tried to rear. They rushed over a brief beach, a very solid line of wall and then floated, floated, a foot or two above the landing-field. Then fell with a thump and a swerve, rocking as O’Gilroy rammed his foot on the bar. And couldn’t relax in time when the swerve reversed. He heard the bang as a tyre blew, but then they were still. And upright.

“Beautiful,” Andrew croaked. “Just beautiful.” He sounded very loud in the silence, and O’Gilroy realised the engine had stopped. He reached across to pull back the levers and turn off the petrol and ignition. It took all the strength he had left. And he still had to try and explain to the running men . . .

The cell darkened gently in the silence, the tiny semicircle of sky beyond the window turned yellow, then quickly russet and slowly grey. At 5.05 a bugle sounded, then at 5.35 a guard came in with a lit paraffin lamp and hung it on a bracket on the wall, warning that if they fiddled with it and burned themselves to death, no pension would be paid to their relatives.

“So now we know a little history,” the Count observed. “Once such a thing happened and now it is in the regulations that such a warning must be given. Is there another cigarette?”

Ranklin noted that “is there”; the Count was truly democratic with other people’s property. “There’s two left. We’ll save them for after dinner.”

“Dinner?” The Count thought about it. “Yes. I imagine we will need a cigarette.” He looked sideways at Pero – they were all three lying on their cots – who seemed to be asleep. “I am sure he will find it a banquet. Do you know why he is here?”

“He play-acted writing slogans on walls. But you could ask him yourself.”

The Count chose to ignore his own grasp of Slovenian. “I am not sure of the etiquette of prison life. It is a long time since I was locked up and then for young matters like drunkenness and duelling, but is one permitted to ask what you are accused of?”

“I think Police Captain Novak believes I’m a spy.”

“Truly? How very exciting.”

“Perhaps. But I doubt that being in jail can be the most exciting part.”

“Probably not. One thinks more of dark, mysterious women, secret treaties, rushing about Europe in the finest trains . . . No, I understand that sitting in damp dungeons would not be mentioned by the recruiting officer.”

Ranklin was watching the shadows in the barrel vaulting above. Their edges moved, infinitesimally, with the tiny wavering of the lamp flame. “And yourself?” On the curve of the vaulting above the lamp, a smear of soot was forming on the whitewash.

The Count sighed. “I do believe these imbeciles place me in the same class as this fellow here – although, I trust, on a rather higher level. Accused of painting words on minds, not walls. But mostly, I think, it is the time of the year.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you know of Oberdan?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“He believed that Trieste was truly Italian and was executed thirty-one years ago for plotting against the Emperors life. To be honest, I do not think he was a danger to anyone but himself. He only wished to be a martyr. And this is the time of year when he is remembered so, as the most notable Italian of the city, Captain Novak wishes me to be in prison until the time is passed. The man is a presumptuous moron even for a Slovenian policeman, and can do this only because the Comandante of the garrison is away. But when he returns . . . And possibly it is the same for you: you are just locked up until for the time of Oberdan.”

Ranklin reckoned he was locked up for more specific reasons, but since Novak hadn’t even interrogated him, couldn’t be sure. “How long’s that?”

“He was executed on the eighteenth of December.”

Ranklin calculated. “Damn it, that’s a good six weeks.”

“True. But it will all be changed long before that. And once my distinguished friends and my lawyers know where I am, I will be free anyway, and then . . .” He paused, glanced at Pero, and turned stiffly on his side to face Ranklin. “I can ask my lawyer to work for you also,” he whispered hoarsely, “but perhaps you do not wish to make our connection so public?”

This was the first time the Count had acknowledged any “connection”, and it cheered Ranklin up. The Count knew things that he didn’t, and had no-one else to talk to. But this couldn’t be hurried, so he said: “That’s very thoughtful of you. But I certainly don’t want to incriminate you, so may we wait and see?”

The Count was silent for a while, then said in the same whisper: “I hear some employers now pay a man his wages when he is sick. Most extraordinary. Do they – I mean, I wonder if they pay spies when they are in jail?”

The train reached Mestre after dark. Corinna took her time, letting the joyously tearful reunions that were so much part of the Italian railway system erupt before she stepped down. Anyway, this was Signora Falcone’s territory; she was in charge. So she was startled when she came face to face on the platform with a figure as scruffy as any railway ganger and reeking of castor oil: O’Gilroy, alone.

“What are you doing here? Is Andrew . . . ?” It flashed through her mind that O’Gilroy couldn’t have got there without Andrew, yet . . .

“He’s in hospital but all right. We ran into a bird and he got bits of glass in his face, near his eye, but seems he’ll be all right.”

“My God! Did you crash? Which hospital? – where ?”

“In Venice.” He consulted a bit of paper. “Called the . . . the . . . here.” He gave her the paper rather than try to pronounce Giudecca. “No, we didn’t crash.”

Corinna swung round to find Signora Falcone coming up behind her. “Did you hear?”

“Yes. Terrible – only Mr O’Gilroy seems to have saved the day.” She was reappraising him with a wary smile.

“Where’s the hospital? How do I get there?”

Signora Falcone hesitated, then realised it was pointless to do anything but smooth Corinna’s path. “I’ll see to it.”

Corinna may have gone as far as stamping her foot with impatience, but knew it was pointless to interfere. Then, frowning in thought, she tried to imagine the accident, and . . . “Did he manage to land here, then?”

“Had to do it meself. Went and burst a tyre. But they say-”

“Hold on: that airplane’s only got one set of controls. On his side. My God! – you must’ve . . . You saved his life!”

“Me own was there with him.”

Her face suddenly bloomed into a radiant grin. “You’re quite a guy, Mr O’Gilroy. Thank God you were there.”

“Ah, ’twas nothing special . . .” He lapsed into a mumble and was clearly going to stay there.

“All right, I won’t gush. And the airplane’s all right?”

“Like I said, I burst a tyre, only they reckon they’ll have one to fit or mebbe find two whole new wheels – if somebody’ll pay for them.”

“Heavens, don’t worry about that.”

Then Signora Falcone came back with a man who was probably one of her staff. “It’s best to catch the mail steamer from Fusina. Matteo will drive you and see that you get back. Do you want to go, too, Mr O’Gilroy?”

O’Gilroy hesitated and Corinna chipped in: “There’s no need. You must be done in, Conall. Get some sleep – and thanks again.”

The Falcone family seemed well endowed with motor-cars; whatever the Signora and O’Gilroy climbed into wasn’t a taxi-cab, and nor was the racier affair Corinna and Matteo had zoomed away in. This one went off at a pace consistent with the tasselled pelmets at the windows, but was soon beyond the lights of the town and rolling on through flat, dark countryside. Sinking back into deep leather, O’Gilroy found himself yawning; as always, it wasn’t life’s incidents that were wearing, but the long aftermath of explanation, clearing up – and waiting.

After a time, Signora Falcone said: “I hadn’t realised you were a proper pilot yourself, Mr O’Gilroy.”

“I’m new to it.”

“But you must have been very competent. Have you flown that particular machine much?”

“Not much at all.”

That kept her quiet for a while. Then: “When do you think Mr Sherring will be fit to fly again?”

“I’d guess a while yet. They’d bandaged over his eyes and was talking about keeping him quiet and dark.”

Another silence. “If you could practise tomorrow, would you feel up to a demonstration flight on the next day?”

The Oriole wasn’t built for Pegoud-style stunts: all it did was take off, fly and land. And after an hour or two’s practice . . . “Surely. Mind, I couldn’t be telling all the figures of its range and fuel consumption-”

“That won’t matter.”

“-and they’ll need to be fixing that wheel.”

“That will be done.” It was the positive statement of someone used to having her orders obeyed. “You’re quite happy about it, then?”

O’Gilroy was happy, all right, both at getting to fly the Oriole again and being in the middle of events. But he was also wary because he wasn’t sure what event was planned. Still, if they were relying on him as a pilot, they were handing him control.

“Surely,” he said confidently. “That’ll be jest fine.”