I got up. ‘Perhaps we could meet—’ I began. But something in his eyes stopped me.
‘I am sorry. I am a very busy man.’ He came round the big, ornate desk and shook my hand. ‘It has been good to see you again.’ As I turned to go his hand was on my arm and he took me to the door. ‘Tell me. Do you hear anything of Maxwell these days?’
‘Maxwell?’ I started, wondering why the devil he had to talk to me about Maxwell. ‘No,’ I said. ‘No. I haven’t seen him since I left Italy.’
He nodded.’ He is here in Pilsen. If you should see him tell him—’ He seemed to hesitate for the message and then, so softly that I could hardly catch it, he whispered, ‘Saturday night.’ Then aloud he said, ‘Tell him — I shall always remember the times we had at Biggin Hill.’ He opened the door for me, called to his secretary and told her to take me to pan Marie. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘I will telephone him that you are coming.’ And he closed the heavy door.
My interview with Marie lasted nearly an hour. I was conscious of a view of one of the blast furnaces through tall, smoke-grimed windows and of alert eyes peering shortsightedly through thick-lensed, rimless glasses at my specifications. Of the details of the conversation I remember nothing. It was mostly technical. We were alone and we talked in English. I remember I answered many of his questions quite automatically, my mind going over and over again my interview with Jan Tucek. Why had he wanted to come and see me late one night? Why had he given me that message to Maxwell? I felt as though I had touched the fringe of something that could only exist on this side of the Iron Curtain.
My interview with Marie finished shortly after four. He informed me that he would examine certain of the specifications with his technical experts and telephone me tomorrow. Then he rang for his assistant and ordered him to call one of the factory cars. As I got to my feet and pushed my papers back into my brief case, he said, ‘Have you known/ran Tucek long, Mr. Farrell?’
I explained.
He nodded, and then with a quick glance at the door which was shut, he said in a low voice, ‘It is terrible for him. He is a fine man and he did great service to this country in 1939 when he fly to England with the blueprints of all new armament work in progress here including the Bren gun modifications. His wife is murdered. His father, old Ludvik Tudek, die in a concentration camp. Then, after the war, he come back and reorganise the Tuckovy ocelarny — that is to say the works here. He work like a man with a devil inside of himself, all day, every day, to make it what it is before the Germans come. And now—’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘He looks very tired,’ I said.
Marie peered at me through his glasses. ‘We are all very tired,’ he said quietly. ‘Twice in a lifetime — it is hard to have to fight twice. You understand? It is the spirit who become tired, Mr. Farrell. Perhaps one day—’ He stopped then as his assistant came in to say the car was waiting. He shook my hand. ‘I will telephone you tomorrow,’ he said.