High Road to China. Jon Cleary
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and the English are so good at it.’
‘And the French, too,’ said O’Malley, taking a risk. ‘Let’s give credit where credit is due.’
The Frenchman acknowledged the compliment. He was a thin man with sad, bagged eyes in a bony, mournful face. He was still weary from the war, too old to be hopeful about the peace. ‘Just where are you going, m’sieu?’
‘China.’
The Frenchman smiled. ‘A good lie, m’sieu. Keep it up. Bon voyage.’
They took off again, heading almost due east. They ran into rain squalls south of Strasbourg and O’Malley gestured to the others to widen the gap between them; they flew blind for ten minutes, then came out into bright, almost horizontal sunlight. They flew on yellow rails, through brilliantly white clouds, and at last slid down towards the sun-shot blue of Lake Constance, the Bodensee. They landed at Friederichshafen, going in past the huge Zeppelin sheds. They parked their planes at the end of the field and at once saw the big Mercedes staff car speeding down towards them. It skidded to a halt on the grass and two men jumped out.
‘Sprechen sie deutsch?’ He was a plump, blond man, hair cut en brosse, a personification of the cartoon German.
‘Unfortunately, no,’ said O’Malley. ‘Sprechen sie englisch?’
‘Yes,’ said the plump man and twisted his little finger in his ear as if getting ready for the foreign language. ‘I was a prisoner of war for two years.’
The other German, a younger man with dark hair and eyes that would never admit surrender or defeat, only half-hid his sneer. ‘Herr Bultmann is proud of his English and where he learned it.’
‘At least I survived,’ said Bultmann, as if that had been the purpose of war. He explained to the ex-enemy, ‘I flew in Zeppelins. Unfortunately we were brought down. Herr Pommer was ground crew. He learned his English from a book.’ He looked at O’Malley and Weyman, as if he knew they would understand that ground crew could never be shot down. Then for the first time he saw the guns on two of the planes. ‘You are armed? Why?’
‘We are on our way to Turkey,’ said O’Malley. ‘As you know, things are going badly for your ex-allies there. These machines have been bought by the Nationalists.’
‘British aeroplanes?’
O’Malley shrugged. ‘You know what governments are like, even our own. They will sell anything to anyone, if there is a profit in it. Herr Weyman and I are just paid civil servants.’
‘But the Treaty of – where was it? Sèvres? – I thought the Turks were not allowed to have any military equipment. Like us.’
‘Ah, what are treaties? They’ll be turning a blind eye to you, too, in a year or two.’
‘If they do, the wrong people will get the equipment. Who is the lady?’
‘Daughter of the ex-Foreign Minister of Turkey. She speaks neither English nor German, unfortunately. The Chinese is her father’s butler.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bultmann, still smiling and friendly, his prisoner-of-war English impeccable. ‘I do not believe a word of it. You will have to come with us, please.’
Then another car came speeding down the field. This was another Mercedes, but this one had never been a wartime staff car; it was a private one, badly needing a coat of paint but still looking huge and powerful and opulent. The man who got out of it, though not huge and powerful, also had a suggestion of opulence about him. He wore a homburg, a winged collar with a grey silk cravat, black jacket, grey waistcoat, striped trousers and grey spats. He could have been a diplomat, a successful lawyer or a gigolo. Only when he got closer did Eve, who had an eye for such things, see that everything he wore was like the car, pre-war and frayed at the edges.
‘What is the trouble, Herr Bultmann?’ He spoke in German in a soft voice that didn’t quite disguise the harsh Prussian accent.
‘No trouble, sir. The English party just have to explain why they are flying armed aeroplanes over German territory.’
The newcomer turned to face O’Malley and the others. He was a very tall, lean man with a bony, handsome face that gave no close hint of his age: he could have been an old twenty or a young forty. He had cool, insolent eyes, a sensual mouth and an air of contempt for the world and everyone in it. Eve thought him one of the handsomest men she had seen in a long time.
He took off his hat, exposing sleek blond hair, clicked his heels and bowed to Eve. ‘I am Baron Conrad von Kern,’ he said in English. ‘I live just along the lake. I saw your aeroplanes come in and I was curious. The last time I saw a Bristol Fighter was two years ago. I shot it down in flames.’
‘Bully for you,’ said O’Malley.
‘It was pointless,’ said Kern, not looking at O’Malley but at Eve. ‘We had lost the war by then. Where are you taking these machines now?’
‘To China,’ said Eve, and introduced herself, O’Malley and Weyman. She did not include Sun Nan in the introductions, but Kern had already dismissed the Chinese as baggage that could be ignored. ‘It is imperative, Baron, that we are not delayed.’
‘There is something fishy here, sir,’ said Bultmann, showing off his colloquial English. ‘A moment ago the lady was supposed to be Turkish and unable to speak English.’
‘You said you didn’t believe us,’ said O’Malley, as if that disposed of his lie.
‘How soon do you wish to leave?’ Kern was still giving all his attention to Eve.
‘Tomorrow morning.’ Eve recognized the Baron for what he was, a lady-killer, and she accepted the opportunity to take advantage of it. After all, there was little risk of his attempting to emulate the unfortunate Mexican. ‘All we want is an hotel where we can spend the night, to refuel our machines in the morning and to be off first thing.’
‘One has to be careful, sir,’ said Bultmann. ‘You have read what the Bolshevists have done in Saxony, they have taken over some of the towns, declared Soviets.’
‘Do we look like Bolshevists?’ said Eve indignantly.
‘If I take them as my guests and leave their aeroplanes in your charge overnight, will that satisfy you, Herr Bultmann?’ Kern put it as a request, but he made it sound like an order.
O’Malley looked at Bultmann and Pommer. He hated Prussian militarism, had fought against it, had rejoiced that it had been defeated. But it had not been, not entirely; and now he was glad of it. Bultmann stiffened to attention, clicked his heels.
‘Yes, Herr Baron. First thing in the morning I shall telephone my superiors for instructions.’
‘Do that, Herr Bultmann. In the meantime, Fräulein Tozer – ’ He gestured towards his massive car.
‘Thank you,’ said Eve. ‘What about Mr O’Malley, Mr Weyman and Mr Sun Nan?’
Kern looked at the three men as if surprised he should be asked to play host to them. Then he looked at Bultmann. ‘Can’t you accommodate them, Herr Bultmann?’
Bultmann was prepared to go just so far in interpreting a request as an order. He allowed himself a touch of Bolshevism: ‘It will be enough for me to look after the aeroplanes, Herr Baron. They are your responsibility, sir.’
Kern lifted his chin and his mouth tightened. But he didn’t threaten to have Bultmann court-martialled: he knew better than any of those present that the old days were over. He stalked to his car. ‘You will ride in front with me, Fräulein Tozer.’
George Weyman spoke for the first time. ‘I’m not leaving these machines here with these Huns.’
‘It is some time, Herr Weyman, since Attila and his Huns were through here,’ said Kern. ‘Herr Bultmann and Herr Pommer are good Germans, nothing more, nothing less.’
Weyman