Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [71]
He walked back to the main road. From there, the car could not be seen. It might be a day or even two before the abandoned vehicle aroused suspicion. By then, Faber thought, I may be in Berlin.
He began to walk. Sooner or later he would hit a town where he could steal another vehicle. He was doing well enough: it was less than twenty-four hours since he had left London, and he still had a whole day before the U-boat arrived at the rendezvous at six P.M. tomorrow.
The sun had set long ago, and now darkness fell suddenly. Faber could hardly see. Fortunately there was a painted white line down the middle of the road—a safety innovation made necessary by the blackout—and he was just able to follow it. Because of the night silence he would hear an oncoming car in ample time.
In fact only one car passed him. He heard its deep-throated engine in the distance, and went off the road a few yards to lie out of sight until it had gone. It was a large car, a Vauxhall Ten, Faber guessed, and it was traveling at speed. He let it go by, then got up and resumed walking. Twenty minutes later he saw it again, parked by the roadside. He would have taken a detour across the field if he had noticed the car in time, but its lights were off and its engine silent and he almost bumped into it in the darkness.
Before he could consider what to do, a flashlight shone up toward him from under the car’s hood, and a voice said: “I say, is anybody there?”
Faber moved into the beam and asked, “Having trouble?”
“I’ll say.”
The light was pointed down, and as Faber moved closer he could see by the reflected light the moustached face of a middle-aged man in a double-breasted coat. In his other hand the man held, rather uncertainly, a large wrench, seeming unsure of what to do with it.
Faber looked at the engine. “What’s wrong?”
“Loss of power,” the man said, pronouncing it “Lorse of par.” “One moment she was going like a top, the next she started to hobble. I’m afraid I’m not much of a mechanic.” He shone the light at Faber again. “Are you?” he finished hopefully.
“Not exactly,” Faber said, “but I know a disconnected lead when I see one.” He took the flashlight from the man, reached down into the engine and plugged the stray lead back onto the cylinder head. “Try her now.”
The man got into the car and started the engine. “Perfect!” he shouted over the noise. “You’re a genius! Hop in.”
It crossed Faber’s mind that this might be an elaborate MI5 trap, but he dismissed the thought; in the unlikely event they knew where he was, why should they tread softly? They could as easily send twenty policemen and a couple of armored cars to pick him up.
He got in.
The driver pulled away and moved rapidly up through the gears until the car was traveling at a good speed. Faber made himself comfortable. The driver said, “By the way, I’m Richard Porter.”
Faber thought quickly of the identity card in his wallet. “James Baker.”
“How do you do. I must have passed you on the road back there—didn’t see you.”
Faber realized the man was apologizing for not picking him up—everyone picked up hitchhikers since the petrol shortage. “It’s okay,” Faber said. “I was probably off the road, behind a bush, answering a call of nature. I did hear a car.”
“Have you come far?” Porter offered a cigar.
“It’s good of you, but I don’t smoke,” Faber said. “Yes, I’ve come from London.”
“Hitchhiked all the way?”
“No. My car broke down in Edinburgh. Apparently it requires a spare part which isn’t in stock, so I had to leave it at the garage.”
“Hard luck.