11

It was Zaleshoff who had made the arrangements for the meeting between Vagas and myself. I had received his proposals with some amusement.

Blood and thunder, I had commented.

He had frowned. I dont know about the thunder, but if the Ovra gets on to the fact that youre meeting Vagas, itll be your blood all right.

Wheres the Fiat coming from?

Ill fix that.

But why on Sunday?

Because therell be a procession here on Sunday afternoon.

Whats that got to do with it?

Youve been under surveillance practically ever since you came here and since that beating up they gave you, youve had two of the guys on your tail. Did you know that?

Yes, Ive seen them. They hang about opposite the office all day.

Before you can meet Vagas youll have to get rid of them. This processionll make it easy.

How?

Youll see. You write that letter.

I had written it.

Waiting to be blackmailed is an odd experience. I could not help wondering how Vagas would set about it. What line would he take? He had, hitherto, been all amiability. There was even a sort of oily charm about him. Would he shed his amiability or would the charm intensify, a velvet glove to enclose the mailed fist? I amused myself by speculating.

There was about those days I spent in Milan a curious air of the fantastic. That I had regretted the mood of bitter resentment that had led me into agreeing to carry out Zaleshoffs plan, goes without saying. Yet, such is the minds ability to adapt itself to an idea, the thought that I might back out of the whole business occurred to me only as a sort of protest, an unexecutable threat. And I had decided to resign from Spartacus. That was the important thing. It was, perhaps, that decision more than anything else that determined my attitude. I was shortly to leave Milan. The fact lent a disarming air of impermanence to the situation. In two months or so I should be home and then I really could get down to the business of getting a good job. What happened between now and then seemed of secondary importance. I no longer identified myself with Spartacus. As I had told Claire, I had no conscience about the company. I had, with Vagas assistance, secured a valuable order for them. That was that. All I had to do until the time came for me to leave was to see that their interests were adequately protected. If the opportunity presented itself I would secure still more business for them. That was all. In point of fact, it was no less than I should have done if I had been remaining with them. But my attitude was different, it was qualified. I had a sense of being independent, of being to some extent on holiday. This business of Zaleshoffs was, I felt, almost in the nature of a game. That I did not know the rules of it was, no doubt, just as well for my peace of mind.

Since the night I had spent in his office, I had seen Zaleshoff practically every day. At first his mood had been one of lip-smacking anticipation. Everything, he assured me repeatedly, was prepared. It was only a question of waiting for Vagas to begin to turn the screw. Then, as the month wore on without any sign of life from Vagas, his jubilation gave way to gloomy forebodings. He became irritable. Several times I was tempted to abandon the whole thing and twice threatened to do so. On both occasions he offered exasperated apologies. My admiration for his sisters forbearance increased daily. Yet, to a certain extent, I could understand his anxiety.

Im beginning to think, he declared gloomily on one occasion, that it was a mistake to cook those Spartacus figures.

You know darn well I wouldnt have given him the correct ones.

Very likely. But hes probably gone to the trouble to check the first lot and found that theyre phoneys. He probably thinks you put one over on him to get that Ordnance Department contract and has written you off as a bad investment.

How could he check them?

How should I know? But its the only thing that can have happened. How else can you explain this silence? Hes got all the stuff he wants to blackmail you with. Why doesnt he get on with it?

Perhaps hes waiting until I send in this months figures, sort of lulling me into a sense of false security.

Maybe. I hope youre right. This waiting is getting on my nerves.

That much was obvious. The reason for it puzzled me. I myself was conscious of a sense of anti-climax, almost of disappointment; but I was intrigued by his attitude. Why should the situation get on his nerves to so absurd an extent? For me it was no more than a somewhat sinister game. For him it looked like a matter of life and death importance. A great many of the things which Vagas had told me were, no doubt, lies. But, in one thing, at least, he had, I felt, told me something approaching the truth.

Over our coffee one evening I worked round to the subject. It was fairly easy to do. His despair had been more than usually extravagant. I awaited an opening. Then:

I admit that its all very irritating. But, for the life of me, Zaleshoff, I cannot see why you should take it so much to heart.

No?

No.

You dont think that the peace of Europe is something that a guy can get anxious about? His tone was almost offensively sarcastic.

Oh yes. The peace of Europe, to be sure! But if we could get down to Mother Earth for a minute

Mother Earth! His voice rose angrily. Mother Earth! Say, listen, Marlow. It pains me to have to tell you this because, dumb cluck that you are, it would be just as well if you didnt know it: but you, Heaven protect us, happen to be of some importance at the moment. Say, have you ever had a suitcase to unlock and a bunch of odd keys in your hand? Theres just one key that fits. None of the others matters a curse. Theyre keys but theyre not the key. Well, its like that now. And youre the key.

I was a little irritated by his manner. What about leaving out the metaphors and trying plain English?

Sure! In plain English, the Germans are doing their damnedest to drive a wedge in the Anglo-Italian Mediterranean accord. Theyre out to preserve the Axis. Without it they cant make another move in Eastern Europe. And theyve got to make that move. You know what old man Aristotle said. The tyrant who impoverishes the citizens is obliged to make war in order to keep his subjects occupied and impose on them permanent need of a chief. Italys sitting pretty now. She can play off Germany against France and England. But thats only because shes got a stake in both camps. The Axis is just as vital to her as it is to Germany. If once she gets into a position where she has to become a dependency of the City of London, shes done. Theyll finance her heavy industries, choke her with credits until the lira is so sick it cant stand. Then theyll tie a ribbon round Mussolini and give him to the Germans as a Christmas present. Italys strength in the south is the Axis in the north. Its only mutual distrust that is going to counteract the identity of interests between Germany and Italy. For some crack-brained reason you, Marlow, are in a position to turn their suspicions into downright distrust. And you ask me why Im anxious!

And I still do ask you why you are anxious.

He knitted his brow, a man driven to exasperation but restraining himself with an effort. Do I have to go over all that again?

I think, put in the girl, that what Mr. Marlow is getting at is what the heck its got to do with you.

He drew a deep breath. Im an American citizen, he began impressively, and

I know, I put in furiously; youre an American citizen and you think that us men of goodwill ought to get together and co-operate to save the peace of Europe. I know. Ive heard it all before. But it still doesnt answer my question. Vagas warned me against you. You knew that he might, didnt you? And you thought youd take the sting out of that warning by letting me see that youd expected it. But what you dont know is that he told me that you and your sister were Soviet Government agents. What have you got to say to that?

He looked at me. His jaw dropped. Then he looked at the girl. Her expression was utterly non-committal. He looked back at me again. I nearly permitted myself a grin of triumph. Fortunately for my dignity I did not do so for, suddenly, he began to roar with laughter and slap his knee. Soviet agents! he bellowed hysterically; thats too good! Oh my!

I waited stolidly until he had finished. Then:

You still, I said dryly, havent answered my question.

He became suddenly serious. One moment, Marlow. Before you jump to any rash conclusions, think. What would I, a respectable American, want with

Disgustedly, I waved him into silence. All right, all right! let it go.

And

Let it go. But-I wagged a finger at them-dont blame me if I draw my own conclusions, will you?

Why should we blame you, Mr. Marlow? said the girl pleasantly.

For some reason the question embarrassed me. I let the subject drop. Privately, however, I registered a decision to bring it up again: but the opportunity of doing so did not present itself immediately. Three days later, to Zaleshoffs noisily expressed delight, I received Vagas letter.

At half-past two on the Sunday afternoon, I left the Hotel Parigi, followed, as usual, by two drab-looking men, and met Zaleshoff at a caffe near the Castello. Tamara was not with him. He ordered a coffee for me and looked at his watch.

Weve got about ten minutes to go before we need start.

Start what?

To lose those two shadows of yours.

But Im not meeting Vagas until nearly eleven to-night.

Maybe not, but we start the good work this afternoon.

Look here, Zaleshoff, I protested irritably, isnt it about time you told me what this is all about?

I was just going to. Listen. Youve got to get rid of those two guys somehow, and theyre not going to fall for anything elementary like walking into an hotel with two exits. Ive watched them on the job. They know their stuff. Besides, if you try to put one over on them theyll know youre up to something, and thatd be nearly as bad as their knowing what it is youre up to. We dont want that. Youve got to give them the slip by accident-at least so that it looks like an accident. Thats where the procession comes in.

What procession?

Fascist Youth Movements-the Balilla and Avanguardisti military boy scouts. Theyre marching up from the Centrale station, about ten thousand of them, with bands and a detachment of Blackshirts. Theyre all coming in from Cremona, Brescia, Verona and a few more places by special trains. Then theyre going to march to the Piazza Duomo to listen to one of the Fascist bosses telling them what a fine thing war is and be reviewed. Then theyre going to sing the Giovinezza and march back again. Its when theyre marching back that you do the trick.

What trick? Dont tell me that Ive got to dress up as an Italian Boy Scout and fall in with the procession, because I wont do it.

This is serious.

Sorry.

He leaned forward solemnly. Have you ever wanted to cross a road when a big procession was going by?

Yes.

Did you get across?

No.

Exactly! Well, now then, listen.

For five minutes he talked steadily. When he had finished I looked at him doubtfully.

It might work, I admitted.

It will work. Its just a question of good timing.

Supposing they wont let me through?

With Tamara doing her stuff, they will.

All right, Ill try it.

Good. Finish your coffee and lets go. Are those two guys in the black velour Homburgs the ones?

They are.

Then well all go and have a nice look at the procession.

It was a fine afternoon. The air was cold but the sky was clear and blue and the sun cast strong black shadows on the dusty roadways. The pavements were crowded. It seemed as if every family in Milan were out. The men and women wore black, the small girls white, the boys and youths wore Balilla and Avanguardisti uniforms. Men selling flags and favours with portraits of Mussolini in the centre were doing a roaring trade. Corsetted young air-force men strutted about in threes and fours eyeing groups of giggling factory girls. Empty wall spaces had been decorated with stencil daubs depicting Mussolinis head in semi-silhouette. The caffes near the route of the procession were packed with weary-looking men and women, the parents and relations of the participants in the procession, who had arrived, so Zaleshoff informed me, by special trains in the early hours of the morning. Many of the women carried squalling babies.

With some difficulty we established ourselves on the steps of an apartment house in the Corso Vittorio Emanuele. The pavement in front of us was a solid mass of spectators. Beyond them, lining the route at intervals of three yards, stood armed Blackshirt militiamen, facing alternately inwards and outwards. Jammed against the wall a few yards away were the two plain-clothes detectives, pale, impassive middle-aged men, obviously of the regular police.

At last there was a faint burst of cheering in the distance. The noise of the crowd, except for a baby crying on the opposite side of the road, subsided into an expectant murmuring. Ten minutes later, amidst a roar of hand-clapping, vivas and cheering, and to the accompaniment of a dazzling display of flag-waving, the procession, led by a big military band and a drum-major with huge curling moustaches, came into view.

The Avanguardisti came first, taking themselves very seriously. They carried dummy rifles, as did the Balilla, the younger boys, who followed them. The ranks were flanked by Blackshirt standard bearers. There were also detachments of Sons of the Wolf, the Italian equivalent of Wolf Cubs, and of the two girls organisations, the Piccole Italiane and the Giovani Italiane. There were many bands. It was all very impressive and took over forty minutes to march into the square.

As the tail end of the procession passed, the crowd swarmed past the militiamen and across the road and surged forward towards the square.

Come on, muttered Zaleshoff.

We plunged into the crowd and were carried by it towards the square. Over my shoulder, I saw the detectives elbowing their way after me.

When we reached the street that runs towards the Scala we extricated ourselves from the crowd and walked slowly towards the Via Margheritta. The plain-clothes men allowed the distance between us to increase and followed, looking in shop windows as they went along and making pantomime gestures of relief at escaping from the crowd.

Zaleshoff grinned. They must think youre pretty dumb.

Why?

They think you still dont know youre being followed.

Ive taken care not to let them think otherwise. Besides, its a different couple every day. Ive got used to it.

Well, it makes it all the easier for us. Youre clear now as to what youve got to do?

Perfectly.

We had reached the end of the street. The Via Margherita, which was part of the return route of the procession, was lined with Blackshirts in preparation for the crowds that would presently begin to stream away from the Piazza. Already, the edges of the pavements were lined with people, mostly women and children, prepared to sacrifice the sight of the ceremony in the square to secure the best possible view of the returning procession.

Zaleshoff made as if to turn in the direction of the Via Alessandro Manzoni, away from the square. I stopped and indicated the waiting people. For a moment or two we put up a show of arguing, then Zaleshoff glanced at his watch, shook hands with me and walked away towards the Scala. I appeared to hesitate, then make up my mind. There was a space on the kerb behind a Blackshirt. I took up my position there and settled down to wait. Out of the corner of my eye I was able to see that the plain-clothes men had established themselves against a newspaper kiosk some yards away. So far, things were going according to plan. The impression we had created was perfectly natural. Zaleshoff obviously had an appointment to keep. I was intent on seeing the procession again. The detectives, I was glad to see, were looking abjectly bored.

The Piazza Duomo was not more than a hundred yards from where I stood. Fifty yards away a cordon of police with fur-edged, three-cornered hats and swords had been drawn across the entrance. Beyond them was the crowd that would presently be split into two parts, one of which would be forced along the pavement behind me. From the square came the sound of sentences being bellowed from loudspeakers, sentences punctuated with cheering, cheering that, from where I stood, was like the harsh roar of the sea receding over shingle.

The Balilla and the Avanguardisti of to-day will be the natural heirs of Fascismo. Cheers. Italy deserves to be the biggest and strongest nation in the world. Louder cheers. Italy will become the biggest and strongest nation in the world-Il Duce has willed it. A roar. Youthful conscripts of the Fascist revolution receive the rifle as the youth of ancient Rome received the toga of virility-it is one of the most beautiful celebrations of the party and most significant-war is, for a true son of Fascismo, the consummation of his love for his country. Was it my fancy or was the applause that greeted this a shade less vociferous? Youth be strong!

The loudspeakers bellowed on. At last it was over. The massed bands struck up the Giovinezza. The huge crowd sang it.

Youth, youth, thou lovely thing,

Time of springtimes blossoming,

Fascismo bears the promise

Of Liberty to the People.

The cordon of police was beginning to push forward into the crowd to clear the road for the procession. It was nearly time! I looked across the road. According to plan, Tamara should have been in her place by now. It was possible that she had been hemmed in by the crowd somewhere. I was beginning to get anxious when I saw her.

The crowd on the opposite pavement had already begun to thicken. Tamara was jammed between a large fat man clutching a very small flag and a middle-aged woman in mourning. I saw that she had seen me, for she was very carefully looking in the direction of the square. My heart beating a little more quickly than usual, I waited.

The police had succeeded in splitting the crowd and I could now see into the square to where the leading band was getting into position for the march to the station. I looked over my shoulder. The crowd behind me was now ten deep. My two shadowers were well hemmed in against the kiosk. One of them cast a casual glance in my direction. I managed to avoid his eye just in time and turned my attention to the militiaman behind whom I was standing. As far as I could make out, he was about twenty-one years of age, but I could not see enough of his face to enable me to form any opinion as to his kindness of heart. I would have to chance that.

Eventually the band struck up and began to move forward slowly. Now was the time. I began to rehearse feverishly the one simple sentence I had to say. The crowd began to cheer. The first detachment of Avanguardisti wheeled out and formed up behind the band. The drum-major threw out his chest, his legs stiffened into the Roman goose-step, he tossed his baton into the air, caught it neatly and twirled it. The band stepped out.

They were now not more than fifty yards away. Thirty yards. I waited frantically for Tamaras signal. But it did not come. Then I remembered my part and began to wave excitedly to her. Twenty-five yards. The applause of the crowd was swelling up, sweeping along the street like a tide over sand-flats. I was nearly sick with apprehension. Another second and it would be too late; Zaleshoffs fine plan would have failed. He would have to think of something else. The noise of the band and the cheering became deafening. Then I saw her waving to me. It was the signal.

I started forward into the roadway and gripped the militiamans arm. He was getting ready to come to attention and half-turned in an effort to shake me off. I hung on.

My wife, Signore! I shouted in his ear. We were separated in the crowd and she is opposite-can I get across?

As I said it, I released his arm and started forward. I heard him shout something after me but what it was I do not know. On top of his anxiety to come to attention at the right moment, my question had disconcerted him enough to prevent his making an effort to stop me. Now it was too late. I was half-way across the road.

It could not have taken me more than eight seconds or so to cross. It seemed like eight minutes. I felt, and probably was for that short space of time, the most conspicuous object in Milan.

In the middle I stumbled and for one ghastly instant I saw the procession advancing head-on towards me. Then the faces and the fluttering flags on the opposite kerb came nearer and I saw Tamara again flapping her handkerchief at me. The militiaman in front of her frowned at me, but he was now standing stiffly at attention and made no movement. The fat man waved his flag in my face. The woman in mourning mouthed angrily at me but the noise drowned what she said. Then the girl caught my arm and started to draw me after her through the crowd. The fat man, divining that the movement would give him more room, made way. A moment or two later we were behind the crowd. I drew a deep breath.

Phew! Thank Heavens thats over!

She was choking with laughter.

What is it? I demanded irritably.

Their faces! You didnt see their faces!

Whose faces?

Your two shadowers. They tried to push through the crowd after you. The crowd thought they were trying to get to the front to see the procession better and got mad. Someone knocked one of their hats off. It was lovely.

I thought you were never going to signal.

I know you did. But I had to leave it to the last moment. She indicated a side turning. We go down here.

Two streets away, in the Via Oriani, we came upon a large Fiat limousine standing with its engine running. Inside it was Zaleshoff. As we came up, he got out.

All right? he asked the girl.

All right. Couldnt be better. They wont be able to get this side for another three-quarters of an hour at least.

Good. He nodded to me. Nice work. Hop in.

I got in the back and he followed me. The girl got into the driving-seat.

Reaction had set in. For some reason I had begun to shake from head to foot.

Zaleshoff offered me a cigarette. I took it.

Well, I said acidly, what do we do from now until half-past ten to-night? Hide?

He lit his own cigarette and stretched himself luxuriously on the cushions. Now, he said comfortably, were going to enjoy ourselves. Step on it, Tamara.

We drove out along the autostrada to Como, went for a trip on a lake steamer and had dinner at a restaurant overlooking the lake. I enjoyed myself enormously. The sun had only just gone down by the time we had finished our dinner and for a time we sat out on the terrace drinking our coffee and smoking.

The stars were almost dazzlingly bright. At one end of the terrace there was a clump of cypresses looking like thick black fingers against the blue-black sky. There was a smell of pine resin in the air. I had forgotten about my companions and was thinking of Claire, wishing that she had been there, when Zaleshoff spoke.

What are you going to do when you get back to England?

I came out of my trance and looked towards him. I could see his shadow and that of the girl and two cigarette tips glowing.

How did you know I was going back to England?

I sensed rather than saw his shrug. I guessed from your manner. Theres been an atmosphere of suspended animation about it. He paused. This business has kind of taken the heart out of the Spartacus job, hasnt it?

This business and other things. I felt suddenly that I wanted to talk to someone about it; but all I did was to ask a question. Do you know a man named Commendatore Bernabo?

The guy you bribed to get that machinery order?

I jumped. That was something about which I had not gone into details with Zaleshoff.

Yes, thats the man. But I didnt tell you that either.

These things get around. Briberys an old Italian custom.

There are a lot of old Italian customs I dont like.

He chuckled. For a business man, youre a bit fussy, arent you?

Im not a business man. Im an engineer.

Ah yes. I was forgetting. My apologies.

Besides, I still have a bruise or two on my body. I hesitated. I suppose I shall have to get another job.

Making shells instead of selling the machinery for making them?

There are other things for an engineer to make.

Sure! He paused again. I thought you told me that you only took the job because you couldnt get anything better.

I read in a trade paper yesterday that theres a shortage of skilled engineers at the moment.

I heard him blow smoke out of his mouth. Yes, I read that article too.

You read it?

I read a lot of things. That article was, if I remember, based on the statement made by the managing director of an armament firm, wasnt it?

To my annoyance, I felt myself blushing. I was glad that it was dark.

What of it? I said indifferently. Someones got to do the job.

He laughed, but without good humour. The stock reply according to the gospel of King Profit. Industry has no other end or purpose than the satisfaction of the business man engaged in it. Demand is sacred. It may be a demand for high explosives to slaughter civilians with or one for chemical fertilisers, it may be for shells or it may be for saucepans, it may be for jute machinery for an Indian sweat-shop or it may be for prams, its all one. Theres no difference. Your business man has no other responsibility but to make profits for himself and his shareholders.

All thats nothing to do with me.

Of course it isnt, he rejoined sarcastically, youre only the guy that makes it possible. But you also may be the guy that gets squashed to a paste when those shells and high explosives start going off-you and your wife and kids.

I havent got a wife and kids, I said sullenly.

So what?

Damn it, Zaleshoff, Ive got to eat. If theres a shortage of skilled engineers and Im a skilled engineer, what do you expect me to do? Get up on a soap box?

In a years time, my dear Marlow, the same trade paper will be telling you that there are too many skilled engineers. Too many or too few-too much or too little-empty stomachs or overfed ones-the old, old story. When are you English going to do something about it?

Are you speaking as an American or a Russian?

What difference does it make? Isnt it common-sense to replace an old, bad system with a better one?

You mean Socialism?

I must have said it derisively for he laughed and did not answer.

The moons rising, said Tamara suddenly. I looked. A curved sliver of yellow light was visible above the trees.

Picture postcard, commented Zaleshoff; but good picture postcard. He got up. Its time we went.

We paid the bill and in silence began to walk back to where we had left the Fiat. The way lay down a lighted road. We were about half-way down it when, without thinking, I looked over my shoulder.

No, murmured Zaleshoff, theyre not there. We left them behind in Milan.

I wasnt I began. Then I stopped. He was right. I had got used to the idea of being followed. Things, I reflected bitterly, had come to a pretty pass. I had a sudden nostalgia for home, for London. I would go home next week, get away out of this miserable atmosphere of double-dealing, of intrigue, of violence. It would be fine to see Claire. The night I got back we would go to the Chinese place to eat. You didnt get a moon or stars like this in London, but there you werent followed by Italian detectives in Homburg hats. The Boy Scouts didnt march as well as the Balilla, but there were no loudspeakers to bawl stuff at them about the beauties of war.

And then, for no particular reason, I found myself thinking of something Hallett had once said. It had been after lunch and we had been looking at some newspaper photographs of a Nazi mass demonstration. I had made some comment about the efficiency of German propaganda methods. He had laughed. Its efficient because its got to be. The British governing class never has that particular worry. In England, people read their newspapers and kid themselves. But then, as I was always reminding myself when I thought of things Hallett had said, the man was a Socialist. And Zaleshoff I believed to be a Communist, a Bolshevik agent. It was time that I pulled myself together and behaved like a reasonable being. It was sheer lunacy to go through with this plan of Zaleshoffs.

I had had one very forcible warning. Next time I should no doubt be dealt with in the same way as Ferning had been dealt with. I made up my mind.

By the way, I said, as I got into the car, Ive decided to call this business off this evening. As I said it I felt ashamed. But there was, I told myself, no other way.

Zaleshoff had been about to follow me into the car. He stopped. The girl turned her head and giggled.

A bad joke, Mr. Marlow; but then I always said the English sense of humour was distinctly

Just a minute, Tamara. Zaleshoffs voice was quiet enough, but the words were like drips of ice-cold water. You are joking, arent you, Marlow?

No. It was all I could manage.

A bad joke, indeed! he said slowly. He got in the car and sat down heavily beside me. May one inquire the reason for this sudden decision?

I found my tongue. Put yourself in my position, Zaleshoff. Ive got everything to lose by doing this and nothing to gain. I

Just a minute, Marlow. Listen to me. I give you my solemn word that in doing this you are not only helping your own country considerably but also millions of other Europeans. The other day you asked me what the devil this had to do with me. That I cannot explain to you for reasons that you, I fancy, may have a shrewd notion about. You must take my word for it that I am on the side of the angels. And by angels I dont mean British and French statesmen and bankers and industrialists. I mean the people of those countries and of my own, the people who can resist the forces that have beaten the people of Italy and Germany to their knees. Thats all.

I hesitated. I hesitated miserably. At last: Its no use, Zaleshoff, I muttered, it just isnt worth my while to do it.

It isnt worth your while? he echoed. Then he laughed. I thought you said you werent a big business man, Mister Marlow!

Towards eleven oclock I drove slowly along the autostrada away from Milan. I had left Zaleshoff and the girl at a caffe a mile back; but Zaleshoffs final instructions were still churning round inside my head. Fight him tooth and nail. Be as angry as you like. But for goodness sake dont forget to give in.

The April sky was now clouded over. It was warm enough inside the car, but I found myself shivering a little. I found that my foot kept easing gradually off the accelerator. Then I saw ahead two red lights close together.

Although I had been expecting to see them, they made me start. I slowed down and switched on the headlights. It was a large car, well into the side under some bushes overhanging the road from the embankment above. I switched off the headlights, drew up a few yards behind it and waited. Then I saw General Vagas get out and walk back towards me.