I stared at him angrily. But he met my stare with vacant eyes, his head rolling mindlessly with the jolting of the cart. Then I remembered the other package. I demanded it from Sansevino. And when he’d handed it to me I knew why Tucek had done it without asking me. The little oilskin roll contained a dozen small metal cylinders, light as feathers. I knew what they were at once. They were rolls of films — microfilms of blueprints. There in my hand were the details of new equipment, arms and machinery, in production at the Tucek works. He’d done exactly as he’d done in 1939. I understood then. I closed the package and passed it across to Hilda.
She stared at the tiny cylinders for a moment and I saw that she was crying. Then slowly she poured the pile of precious stones back into the leather bag, tied it up and handed me the bag and the oilskin package. ‘Keep them, please, Dick. Later you can give them to my father.’ It was a gesture of trust and I suddenly felt like crying too.
Sansevino was talking to Hacket now and the cart lurched off the track, dragging slowly through the vineyards towards a big corrugated iron barn half-buried in an orange grove. When we reached it Sansevino jumped down and he and Hacket and Reece slid back the doors. Inside was an old Dakota, its camouflage paint worn to bright metal in places by the constant impact of air. My heart sank at the sight of it. It had been dragged in tail-first by the tractor that was parked under the starboard wing.
I sat there staring at it, quite unable to move. I was conscious of them carrying Maxwell’s stretcher off the cart, of Zina clapping her hands with joy at the sight of the plane, of the child sucking its thumb and staring in awe. Even when Tucek and Lemlin had been got off the cart I still sat there. My limbs seemed incapable of movement.
‘Dick.’ Hilda was tugging at my arm. ‘Dick. Please.’
My gaze shifted from the plane to the mountain behind. It seemed to lean right over the improvised hangar, the great, black column of gas surging up from its crater, billowing, swirling, rising till it spread like a hellish canopy across the sky. And between us and the mountain was a thick, sulphurous haze. ‘Dick!’ Hilda’s voice was suddenly urgent and my body shook as though I were possessed of some horrible devil. Memory stood at my side, the memory of the last plane I’d flown, a crumpled heap of burnt-out wreckage. ‘I can’t,’ I whispered. Panic had seized me again and my voice came like a sigh from deep down inside me.
Her hands gripped my shoulders. ‘You see that haze? You know what it means?’ I nodded. She twisted my shoulders round so that I was facing her. ‘Look at me.’ Then she took my hands and put them about her throat. ‘I can’t face that lava, Dick. Either you fly that plane or you kill me — now.’
I remember I stared at her in horror. Her throat was soft beneath my fingers. And then the softness of her flesh gave me strength. Or perhaps it was her grey eyes, staring straight into mine. I got to my feet. ‘All right,’ I said. I jumped to the ground. I stood there, trembling. But she followed, caught hold of my hand and led me towards the machine. ‘When you feel the controls — you will be all right then.’ She looked up at me and smiled. ‘Are you very tired, Dick?’
I bit on my lip and didn’t say anything. We walked to the plane then. I remember my feet seemed a long way away, almost beyond my control. They had the door of the fuselage open and were getting Maxwell’s stretcher in. It was Reece who pulled me up into the plane. He patted my shoulder and grinned. I stood there, staring at the familiar details in the half dark. It was just as it had been when it had carried parachutists to half the countries of Europe — the canvas seats, the oxygen notices, the Mae Wests and collapsible dinghies.
A hand gripped mine. I stared at it and then at Reece. He was stammering, awkward. ‘I want to apologise, Dick. I didn’t realise — what guts you’d got.’