Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [86]
While his bath was filling he smoked a cigarette—he had taken to them lately, a pipe was too much fuss—and looked at his most valuable possession, a grimly fantastic medieval scene that was probably by Hieronymous Bosch. It was a family heirloom and Godliman had never sold it, even when he needed the money.
In the bath he thought about Barbara Dickens and her son Peter. He had not told anyone about her, not even Bloggs, although he had been about to mention her during their conversation about remarrying, but Colonel Terry had interrupted. She was a widow; her husband had been killed in action at the very beginning of the war. Godliman did not know how old she was, but she looked about forty, which was young for the mother of a twenty-two-year-old boy. She worked on decoding intercepted enemy signals, and she was bright, amusing and very attractive. She was also rich. Godliman had taken her to dinner three times before the present crisis blew up. He thought she was in love with him.
She had contrived a meeting between Godliman and her son Peter, who was a captain. Godliman liked the boy. But he knew something that neither Barbara nor her son was aware of: Peter was going to France on D-Day.
And whether or not the Germans were there waiting for him depended on whether they caught Die Nadel.
He got out of the bath and took a long, careful shave and asked himself, Am I in love with her? He was not sure what love ought to feel like in middle age. Not, surely, the burning passion of youth. Affection, admiration, tenderness, and a trace of uncertain lust? If they amounted to love, he loved her.
And he needed to share his life, now. For years he had wanted only solitude and his research. Now the camaraderie of Military Intelligence was sucking him in: the parties, the all-night sessions when something big broke, the spirit of dedicated amateurism, the frantic pleasure-seeking of people to whom death is always close and never predictable—all these had infected him. It would vanish after the war, he knew; but other things would remain: the need to talk to someone close about his disappointment and his triumphs, the need to touch someone else at night, the need to say, “There! Look at that! Isn’t it fine?”
War was grueling and oppressive and frustrating and uncomfortable, but one had friends. If peace brought back loneliness, Godliman thought he would not be able to live with it.
Right now the feel of clean underwear and a crisply ironed shirt was the ultimate luxury. He put more fresh clothes in a case, then sat down to enjoy a glass of whisky before returning to the office. The military chauffeur in the commandeered Daimler outside could wait a little longer.
He was filling a pipe when the phone rang. He put down the pipe and lit a cigarette instead.
His phone was connected to the War Office switchboard. The operator told him that a Chief Superintendent Dalkeith was calling from Stirling.
He waited for the click of the connection. “Godliman speaking.”
“We’ve found your Morris Cowley,” Dalkeith said without preamble.
“Where?”
“On the A80 just south of Stirling.”
“Empty?”
“Aye, broken down. It’s been there at least twenty-four hours. It was driven a few yards off the main road and hidden in a bush. A half-witted farm boy found it.”
“Is there a bus stop or railway station within walking distance of the spot?”
“No.”
“So it’s likely our man had to walk or hitchhike after leaving the car.”
“Aye.”
“In that case, will you ask around—”
“We’re already trying to find out whether anyone local saw him or gave him a lift.”
“Good. Let me know…Meanwhile, I’ll pass the news to the Yard. Thank you, Dalkeith.”
“We’ll keep in touch. Good-bye, sir.”
Godliman put the phone on the hook and went into his study. He sat down with an atlas open to the road map of northern Britain. London, Liverpool, Carlisle, Stirling