Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [43]
A lock appeared ahead of him, and he trimmed his sails to slow his pace. He glided gently into the lock and bumped softly against the gates. The lock-keeper’s house was on the bank. Faber cupped hands around his mouth and halloed. Then he settled down to wait. He had learned that lock-keepers were a breed that could not be hurried. Moreover, it was tea time, and at tea time they could hardly be moved at all.
A woman came to the door of the house and beckoned. Faber waved back, then jumped onto the bank, tied up the boat and went into the house. The lock-keeper was in his shirtsleeves at the kitchen table. He said, “Not in a hurry, are you?”
Faber smiled. “Not at all.”
“Pour him a cup of tea, Mavis.”
“No, really,” Faber said politely.
“It’s all right, we’ve just made a pot.”
“Thank you.” Faber sat down. The little kitchen was airy and clean, and his tea came in a pretty china cup.
“Fishing holiday?” the lock-keeper asked.
“Fishing and bird-watching,” Faber answered. “I’m thinking of tying up quite soon and spending a couple of days on land.”
“Oh, aye. Well, best keep to the far side of the canal, then. Restricted area this side.”
“Really? I didn’t know there was Army land hereabouts.”
“Aye, it starts about half a mile from here. As to whether it’s Army, I wouldn’t know. They don’t tell me.”
“Well, I suppose we don’t need to know,” Faber said.
“Aye. Drink up, then, and I’ll see you through the lock. Thanks for letting me finish my tea.”
They left the house, and Faber got into the boat and untied it. The gates behind him closed slowly, and then the keeper opened the sluices. The boat gradually sank with the level of the water in the lock, then the keeper opened the front gates.
Faber made sail and moved out. The lock-keeper waved.
He stopped again about four miles away and moored the boat to a stout tree on the bank. While he waited for night to fall he made a meal of tinned sausage meat, dry biscuits, and bottled water. He dressed in his black clothes, put into a shoulder bag his binoculars, camera, and copy of Rare Birds of East Anglia, pocketed his compass and picked up his flashlight. He was ready.
He doused the hurricane lamp, locked the cabin door and jumped onto the bank. Consulting his compass by flashlight, he entered the belt of woodland along the canal.
He walked due south from his boat for about half a mile until he came to the fence. It was six feet high, chicken wire, with coiled barbed wire on top. He backtracked into the wood and climbed a tall tree.
There was scattered cloud above. The moon showed through fitfully. Beyond the fence was open land, a gentle rise. Faber had done this sort of thing before, at Biggin Hill, Aldershot, and a host of military areas all over southern England. There were two levels of security: a mobile patrol around the perimeter fence, and stationary sentries at the installations.
Both, he felt, could be evaded by patience and caution.
Faber came down the tree and returned to the fence. He concealed himself behind a bush and settled down to wait.
He had to know when the mobile patrol passed this point. If they did not come until dawn he would simply return the following night. If he was lucky they would pass shortly. From the apparent size of the area under guard he guessed they would only make one complete tour of the fence each night.
He was lucky. Soon after ten o’clock he heard the tramp of feet, and three men marched by on the inside of the fence.
Five minutes later Faber crossed the fence.
He walked due south; when all directions are equal, a straight line is best. He did not use his flashlight. He kept close to hedges and trees when he could, and avoided high ground where he might be silhouetted against a sudden flash of moonlight. The sparse countryside was an abstract in black, grey and silver. The ground