Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [87]
Godliman wondered whether he should reconsider the theory that Faber was trying to get out. The best way out was west, via neutral Eire. Scotland’s east coast, however, was the site of all sorts of military activity. Was it possible that Faber had the nerve to continue his reconnaissance, knowing that MI5 was on his tail? It was possible, Godliman decided—he knew Faber had a lot of guts—but nevertheless unlikely. Nothing the man might discover in Scotland could be as important as the information he already had.
Therefore Faber was getting out via the east coast. Godliman ran over the methods of escape which were open to the spy: a light plane, landing on a lonely moor; a one-man voyage across the North Sea in a stolen vessel; a rendezvous with a U-boat, as Bloggs had speculated, off the coast; a passage in a merchant ship via a neutral country to the Baltic, disembarking in Sweden and crossing the border to occupied Norway…there were too many ways.
In any case the Yard must be told of the latest development. They would ask all Scots police forces to try to find someone who had picked up a hitchhiker outside Stirling. Godliman returned to the living room to phone, but the instrument rang before he got there. He picked it up.
“Godliman speaking.”
“A Mr. Richard Porter is calling from Aberdeen.”
“Oh!” Godliman had been expecting Bloggs to check in from Carlisle. “Put him on, please. Hello? Godliman speaking.”
“Ah, Richard Porter here. I’m on the local Watch Committee up here.”
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
“Well, actually, old boy, it’s terribly embarrassing.”
Godliman controlled his impatience. “Go on.”
“This chappie you’re looking for—knife murders and so on. Well, I’m pretty sure I gave the bally fellow a lift in my own car.”
Godliman gripped the receiver more tightly. “When?”
“Night before last. My car broke down on the A80 just outside Stirling. Middle of the bally night. Along comes this chappie, on foot, and mends it, just like that. So naturally—”
“Where did you drop him?”
“Right here in Aberdeen. Said he was going on to Banff. Thing is, I slept most of yesterday, so it wasn’t until this afternoon—”
“Don’t reproach yourself, Mr. Porter. Thank you for calling.”
“Well, good-bye.”
Godliman jiggled the receiver and the War Office operator came back on the line.
Godliman said: “Get Mr. Bloggs for me, would you? He’s in Carlisle.”
“He’s holding on for you right now, sir.”
“Good!”
“Hello, Percy. What news?”
“We’re on his trail again, Fred. He was identified in a garage in Carlisle, and he abandoned the Morris just outside Stirling and hitched a lift to Aberdeen.”
“Aberdeen!”
“He must be trying to get out through the east door.”
“When did he reach Aberdeen?”
“Probably early yesterday morning.”
“In that case he won’t have had time to get out, unless he was very quick indeed. They’re having the worst storm in living memory up here. It started last night and it’s still going on. No ships are going out and it’s certainly too rough to land a plane.”
“Good. Get up there as fast as you can. I’ll start the local police moving in the meantime. Call me when you reach Aberdeen.”
“I’m on my way.”
21
WHEN FABER WOKE UP IT WAS ALMOST DARK. THROUGH the bedroom window he could see the last streaks of grey being inked out of the sky by the encroaching night. The storm had not eased; rain drummed on the roof and overflowed from a gutter, and the wind howled and gusted tirelessly.
He switched on the little lamp beside the bed. The effort tired him, and he slumped back onto the pillow. It frightened him to be this weak. Those who believe that might is right must always be mighty, and Faber was sufficiently self-aware to know the implications of his own ethics. Fear was never far from the surface of his emotions; perhaps that was why he had survived so long. He was chronically incapable of feeling safe. He understood, in that vague way in which one sometimes understands the most fundamental things about oneself, that his very insecurity was the reason he chose the