sight fast. He did nothing with the curtain and, stepping backwards, retreated from the window into the darkness of the room. He stood still briefly, trying to work out the meaning of what heâd seen. At least Toulmin â if it was Toulmin â could obviously walk all right, in that special, recognizable, undamaged style.
He had on a fur-covered, Russian-style winter hat, which obscured some of his face. But Mount came to feel half sure it was Toulmin â and felt fully sure he must get out of thirty-seven in case those three arrived. He reckoned he had about four minutes: two for them to reach the apartment block, and two on the stairs and along the corridor. He hadnât noticed any of them look up at the window. Assume, then, it must be Toulmin. The two men had both stayed half a yard behind him. How to read this? Were they escorts, jailers, or flunkeys? That could be important. Well, of course it could be important, bloody important. If he was a prisoner, a captive with captors, being brought back here for some reason, could Mount leave him to it? That abominable prospect of scampering retreat â of âsave-yourself-do-dear-Marcusâ â troubled him again. Poltroonery? Panic? Appalling selfishness? Professionalism?
But the training would undoubtedly say âbail out and bail out NOWâ for this kind of situation. It was one of those âgreater goodâ moments. Here, that would clearly mean safeguarding the Berlin operationâs secrecy and effectiveness. This put considerations for the welfare, even the life, of an agent like Toulmin, more or less nowhere. In any secret project there might come a crisis where someone, or more than one, was dispensable. Meticulously, unemotionally, anti-emotionally, the training had spent three days carefully itemizing emergencies where flinging a former mate and informant into the acid bath would be not only OK, but a bit of a triumph. Compensation for the family should be properly seen to, of course.
Still standing in the centre of the room, Mount went on trying to get his thoughts in order. Why would they bring Toulmin back here, if thatâs what they were at? Perhaps they wanted something from one of the rooms, something he could point them to. The papers? As Mount had suspected, maybe there had been no search of thirty-seven. Had they caught Toulmin trying to escape? Hence the suitcases and the poor state of the apartment, left in a rush. Had he sensed, or even been tipped off, that they meant to move against him? Toulmin might not be the only whisperer in government employ, nor the only active anti-Hitlerite. For instance, SB had a Most Secret dossier on two brothers called Kordt, well up in the state hierarchy, yet possibly plotting against the regime and Adolf. One of those or someone like them might have got a word out to Toulmin, the word being: âVanish!â Wherever the warning originated, did Toulmin make a run at once? And had they anticipated he would and snared him at the airport or railway station?
The papers, again. He hadnât looked at them properly. Might there be something that would incriminate Toulmin? Could they lead to Mount? Should he sweep them all up, jam them into his pockets like the chair receipt, and disappear while he had time? But was this another symptom of his college-boy obsession with ink and papers? Possibly it came from even further back â those regular espionage tales in the ladsâ magazines, Hotspur and Skipper , about the theft of what were always called âvital secret documentsâ, threatening the safety of the realm. And then there was Richard Hannayâs search for the crucial notebook in Buchanâs The Thirty-Nine Steps . Fiction. And fiction putting a strain on credibility. Would an agent in continuous danger like Toulmin write sensitive stuff down and leave it around on a sideboard? Was he a suicidal idiot? Forget the papers. Try another tack.
Suppose Mount
He had on a fur-covered, Russian-style winter hat, which obscured some of his face. But Mount came to feel half sure it was Toulmin â and felt fully sure he must get out of thirty-seven in case those three arrived. He reckoned he had about four minutes: two for them to reach the apartment block, and two on the stairs and along the corridor. He hadnât noticed any of them look up at the window. Assume, then, it must be Toulmin. The two men had both stayed half a yard behind him. How to read this? Were they escorts, jailers, or flunkeys? That could be important. Well, of course it could be important, bloody important. If he was a prisoner, a captive with captors, being brought back here for some reason, could Mount leave him to it? That abominable prospect of scampering retreat â of âsave-yourself-do-dear-Marcusâ â troubled him again. Poltroonery? Panic? Appalling selfishness? Professionalism?
But the training would undoubtedly say âbail out and bail out NOWâ for this kind of situation. It was one of those âgreater goodâ moments. Here, that would clearly mean safeguarding the Berlin operationâs secrecy and effectiveness. This put considerations for the welfare, even the life, of an agent like Toulmin, more or less nowhere. In any secret project there might come a crisis where someone, or more than one, was dispensable. Meticulously, unemotionally, anti-emotionally, the training had spent three days carefully itemizing emergencies where flinging a former mate and informant into the acid bath would be not only OK, but a bit of a triumph. Compensation for the family should be properly seen to, of course.
Still standing in the centre of the room, Mount went on trying to get his thoughts in order. Why would they bring Toulmin back here, if thatâs what they were at? Perhaps they wanted something from one of the rooms, something he could point them to. The papers? As Mount had suspected, maybe there had been no search of thirty-seven. Had they caught Toulmin trying to escape? Hence the suitcases and the poor state of the apartment, left in a rush. Had he sensed, or even been tipped off, that they meant to move against him? Toulmin might not be the only whisperer in government employ, nor the only active anti-Hitlerite. For instance, SB had a Most Secret dossier on two brothers called Kordt, well up in the state hierarchy, yet possibly plotting against the regime and Adolf. One of those or someone like them might have got a word out to Toulmin, the word being: âVanish!â Wherever the warning originated, did Toulmin make a run at once? And had they anticipated he would and snared him at the airport or railway station?
The papers, again. He hadnât looked at them properly. Might there be something that would incriminate Toulmin? Could they lead to Mount? Should he sweep them all up, jam them into his pockets like the chair receipt, and disappear while he had time? But was this another symptom of his college-boy obsession with ink and papers? Possibly it came from even further back â those regular espionage tales in the ladsâ magazines, Hotspur and Skipper , about the theft of what were always called âvital secret documentsâ, threatening the safety of the realm. And then there was Richard Hannayâs search for the crucial notebook in Buchanâs The Thirty-Nine Steps . Fiction. And fiction putting a strain on credibility. Would an agent in continuous danger like Toulmin write sensitive stuff down and leave it around on a sideboard? Was he a suicidal idiot? Forget the papers. Try another tack.
Suppose Mount
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