br />
‘Are you in love with her?’ Cathy asked instead of answering his question.
She heard Steve draw breath, then he laughed, sounding embarrassed. ‘I guess,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe.’
Cathy gave a wry little smile. He had been in love with her for a long time, she had hurt him, made him bitter and cynical – now he was in love with this strange girl who kept insisting she was her sister. Was that why Steve had fallen for Sophie, been attracted to her? Had it seemed like fate to him? Cathy was disturbed by that, by the very idea of fate. She had lost control of her life today; once she had thought she had her life smoothly, perfectly working as she wished – all her dreams come true, this beautiful house, a man who was everything she had ever longed for. Now fate seemed to be controlling her; she felt helpless to do anything about what was happening, she didn’t even know what she wanted to do, what she thought. She doubted everything she had once believed certain, including Paul. The ground was no longer solid under her feet. She had a terrible feeling that she was going to lose everything. Including Paul.
Wearily, she said, ‘Come to breakfast tomorrow, Steve. I’ll tell my gatekeeper to let you in – just you, not this Czech guy. He can see Sophie later.’
Vladimir and Steve sat up in a quiet corner of the bar until closing time, first eating ham sandwiches with home-baked ham and strong English mustard, served with a small salad on the side, and then drinking their way through the various beers the pub stocked. Vladimir was enjoying himself; he talked excitedly about his life, and then, encouraged by Steve, about Sophie’s family, her home village, her mother, stepfather and two half-brothers.
‘But it was her father I knew best – Pavel was not someone you forget. I was really shocked, huh? When I was told he’d been killed, I couldn’t believe it. The Russians . . . those bastards.’ He drained his glass. ‘I need another one! You, too?’
‘No, thanks. This will last me for a while.’ Steve didn’t want to drink too much. He was beginning to get a healthy respect for Vladimir’s capacity – the man could put it away faster than anyone he knew, and without showing any signs of being drunk! How many pints had he drunk so far? Old journalists were often lushes, but they usually disintegrated as the stuff got to them, but that wasn’t happening with Vladimir. He still seemed as sharp as a tin-tack. He could probably write great copy after drinking everyone else under the table! Some reporters were like that. The more they drank the better they wrote. Stone-cold sober, they turned in boring garbage. Vladimir was talking a blue streak, and still making perfect sense!
Coming back with a pint of beer, Vladimir held it up to the light to inspect it. ‘More real ale. You know what they call this? Thunderbox. Why? I asked the woman and she just kept laughing and wouldn’t say. Well, looks good. Nice colour.’ He lifted the glass to his nostrils and inhaled noisily. ‘Mmm . . . smells good, too. Lots of hops, a sweetish malt. I like this smell. But let’s see what it tastes like, huh?’
Smiling, Steve watched him sip, his eyes closed.
‘Mmm,’ he breathed, ecstatically. ‘Yes, that hits the spot.’
Steve laughed. ‘Where did you say you learnt your English?’
‘From Americans,’ Vladimir said. ‘At Prague University they had an American tutor when I was young; a Communist who had come to Prague to admire our system. Ha!’
‘Poor sap!’ Steve said, and Vladimir grinned.
‘As someone once said in an American film I saw . . . you said a cotton-picking mouthful, boy!’ He drank some more, wiped the back of his hand across his foam-speckled moustache. ‘The man was an idiot, but he was a good teacher; he was one of the first to leave in 1968 – as the Russians came in, he left. Not quite so keen on Communism as he’d thought, nuh?’
‘Fine to talk about, something else if you have to live under it?’ suggested Steve cynically. ‘1968 was a watershed for a lot of people, one way or the other.’
Vladimir’s massive head nodded vigorously. ‘There are years like that, you know? 1848, now, that was a year of revolutions in Europe – all over Europe, in Hungary, in France, there were uprisings everywhere, all at the same time. Not planned, no. It was . . . what is the word?’
‘Spontaneous?’
‘Spontaneous? I don’t know that word. No, I meant . . . like nature, like seeds blown on the wind, carried by birds, like a forest fire, spreading too fast to stop . . . first a flame here, then a spark jumps over to there. Some years these things just happen. 1968 was one of those years, too; we had our Spring with Dubcek when it looked as if we were going to be free at last, then the Russians invaded, and the students went out on the streets to demonstrate and protest their freedom, in France, too, the students were out on the streets, and in London also, you know, demonstrating, fighting the police. But it all died out. In Czechoslovakia they clamped the lid back on and we had to wait another twenty years for freedom. Most of my life we’ve had to wait and now we’re free I sometimes wonder what freedom actually means, whether it exists at all. Are the Americans free or are they slaves of a different sort, the slaves of the almighty dollar, nuh?’
He was getting melancholy; brooding, Slav-style, over his almost empty glass.
‘Time for bed,’ Steve said, realizing that this was what happened when Vladimir drank beyond a certain point, and that he might turn nasty next. You never knew with drunks. ‘I have to be up early tomorrow for breakfast with Cathy and Sophie.’
‘But I am not invited,’ Vladimir gloomily said. ‘So I shall stay down here, and have another drink.’
‘Well, goodnight, then,’ Steve said, and left him to it, hoping he wouldn’t pick fights with anyone or break anything. It would be a nuisance if they were thrown out of here tonight.
In London Don Gowrie was drinking, and about to go to bed, too. He sat with a double brandy in his hand listening to Jack Beverley, who had laid a set of architectural plans on the table before they began talking.
‘This is the layout of Arbory House. We surveyed the house as a security measure, remember, when your visit down there was first mooted, to check on any weak spots in the defences. Useful to us now. We have a clear idea where there are chinks. Here’s the drive . . .’ His hand followed the line of the drive on the blueprint. ‘Front door. Main reception rooms. Drive curves round to the garages and stables. From back here, among these trees just beyond the park wall, there’s a clear view of anyone standing in the stableyard.’
Don leaned forward to stare at the place where the stabbing finger landed. ‘I remember you warned about that.’
‘Exactly. Anyone who climbed one of the trees close to the wall with a rifle with a telescopic lens could pick off a target with one shot, as easy as shooting toy ducks at a fair.’
Gowrie looked nervous. ‘You aren’t suggesting . . . not while I’m there, for God’s sake. The British police would be called, would start asking awkward questions, and I don’t know how far I can trust Cathy and her husband, not any more, not after yesterday.’
Jack Beverley’s face was hard with cynicism. ‘No, of course not, sir. That wasn’t in my mind at all. Far too risky. I’ve thought all round the situation – so far, I believe the Narodni girl has only told the Broughams.’
‘Unless she’s told Colbourne.’