Flight From Honour (30 page)

“I’ve got the aerodrome,” he said more soberly.

“Does it look okay?”

No, it didn’t. But it was all he was going to get. “I’m going down for a look.”

“Try to touch down at forty.”

“Forty. Right.” Only he wouldn’t know, because when he was down on the edge of the stall he’d have no time to lean over and consult the indicator. And he still couldn’t reach the engine levers . . . “Can ye reduce the power a bit? By the sound of the engine?”

Andrew’s blind but experienced hand fell immediately on the levers and the engine buzz slowed fractionally. The Oriole sagged and O’Gilroy lifted her back. And a little more – the engine stuttered and so did O’Gilroy’s heart, but it caught again.

“Best I can do,” Andrew panted. “Should be around a thousand revs.”

As the Oriole slowed, her grip on the air became less firm. “It’ll do,” O’Gilroy called, and let the nose drift down. Chimney smoke showed the wind as coming from almost due south, so he came in a gentle swoop from the north, over the sea, blipping the engine to keep in a shallow dive. But each time the engine restarted, the nose came up unless he synchronised it with a downward push. And the wings rocked more in the uneven low-level currents, and she pulled right as she slowed . . .

“Left rudder!” he yelled, then, as the Oriole swerved wildly, had a better idea. “Get yer right foot off!” And managed to kick his left foot onto the rudder bar. Now he had more control, but was using his wrong foot – would he remember
that
in a moment of decision?

Suddenly his anger flared again. They’d expect him to get this right, think because he’d flown the thing for half an hour without crashing, he should at least be able to land safely . . . And then he shook his head, splattering sweat and oil. Self-pity was no help now. Who were
they?
Fuck
they. He
was a pilot, and he had a problem – just like any pilot. And whatever happened, pilots would understand. And that was what mattered.

But he was going to land off this attempt. Andrew would never get the engine revved up in time to drag them around for a second chance.

“Keep yer foot pushing steady,” he ordered. So, in effect, Andrew’s foot spring-loaded the rudder into a left turn which O’Gilroy could override with his own foot.

“If we’re over the sea,” Andrew warned, “you’ll get an up-draught coming over the land.”

“Right.” He should have thought of that himself, but at least he was ready with a forward push and a final blip to cut the engine when the Oriole tried to rear. They rushed over a brief beach, a very solid line of wall and then floated, floated, a foot or two above the landing-field. Then fell with a thump and a swerve, rocking as O’Gilroy rammed his foot on the bar. And couldn’t relax in time when the swerve reversed. He heard the bang as a tyre blew, but then they were still. And upright.

“Beautiful,” Andrew croaked. “Just beautiful.” He sounded very loud in the silence, and O’Gilroy realised the engine had stopped. He reached across to pull back the levers and turn off the petrol and ignition. It took all the strength he had left. And he still had to try and explain to the running men . . .

*        *        *

The cell darkened gently in the silence, the tiny semicircle of sky beyond the window turned yellow, then quickly russet and slowly grey. At 5.05 a bugle sounded, then at 5.35 a guard came in with a lit paraffin lamp and hung it on a bracket on the wall, warning that if they fiddled with it and burned themselves to death, no pension would be paid to their relatives.

“So now we know a little history,” the Count observed. “Once such a thing happened and now it is in the regulations that such a warning must be given. Is there another cigarette?”

Ranklin noted that “is there”; the Count was truly democratic with other people’s property. “There’s two left. We’ll save them for after dinner.”

“Dinner?” The Count thought about it. “Yes. I imagine we will need a cigarette.” He looked sideways at Pero – they were all three lying on their cots – who seemed to be asleep. “I am sure he will find it a banquet. Do you know why he is here?”

“He play-acted writing slogans on walls. But you could ask him yourself.”

The Count chose to ignore his own grasp of Slovenian. “I am not sure of the etiquette of prison life. It is a long time since I was locked up and then for young matters like drunkenness and duelling, but is one permitted to ask what you are accused of?”

“I think Police Captain Novak believes I’m a spy.”

“Truly? How very exciting.”

“Perhaps. But I doubt that being in jail can be the most exciting part.”

“Probably not. One thinks more of dark, mysterious women, secret treaties, rushing about Europe in the finest trains . . . No, I understand that sitting in damp dungeons would not be mentioned by the recruiting officer.”

Ranklin was watching the shadows in the barrel vaulting above. Their edges moved, infinitesimally, with the tiny wavering of the lamp flame. “And yourself?” On the curve of the vaulting above the lamp, a smear of soot was forming on the whitewash.

The Count sighed. “I do believe these imbeciles place me in the same class as this fellow here – although, I trust, on a rather higher level. Accused of painting words on minds, not walls. But mostly, I think, it is the time of the year.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you know of Oberdan?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“He believed that Trieste was truly Italian and was executed thirty-one years ago for plotting against the Emperors life. To be honest, I do not think he was a danger to anyone but himself. He only wished to be a martyr. And this is the time of year when he is remembered so, as the most notable Italian of the city, Captain Novak wishes me to be in prison until the time is passed. The man is a presumptuous moron even for a Slovenian policeman, and can do this only because the Comandante of the garrison is away. But when he returns . . . And possibly it is the same for you: you are just locked up until for the time of Oberdan.”

Ranklin reckoned he was locked up for more specific reasons, but since Novak hadn’t even interrogated him, couldn’t be sure. “How long’s that?”

“He was executed on the eighteenth of December.”

Ranklin calculated. “Damn it, that’s a good six weeks.”

“True. But it will all be changed long before that. And once my distinguished friends and my lawyers know where I am, I will be free anyway, and then . . .” He paused, glanced at Pero, and turned stiffly on his side to face Ranklin. “I can ask my lawyer to work for you also,” he whispered hoarsely, “but perhaps you do not wish to make our connection so public?”

This was the first time the Count had acknowledged any “connection”, and it cheered Ranklin up. The Count knew things that he didn’t, and had no-one else to talk to. But this couldn’t be hurried, so he said: “That’s very thoughtful of you. But I certainly don’t want to incriminate you, so may we wait and see?”

The Count was silent for a while, then said in the same whisper: “I hear some employers now pay a man his wages when he is sick. Most extraordinary. Do they – I mean, I wonder if they pay spies when they are in jail?”

*        *        *

The train reached Mestre after dark. Corinna took her time, letting the joyously tearful reunions that were so much part of the Italian railway system erupt before she stepped down. Anyway, this was Signora Falcone’s territory; she was in charge. So she was startled when she came face to face on the platform with a figure as scruffy as any railway ganger and reeking of castor oil: O’Gilroy, alone.

“What are you doing here? Is Andrew . . . ?” It flashed through her mind that O’Gilroy couldn’t have got there without Andrew, yet . . .

“He’s in hospital but all right. We ran into a bird and he got bits of glass in his face, near his eye, but seems he’ll be all right.”

“My God! Did you crash? Which hospital? – where ?”

“In Venice.” He consulted a bit of paper. “Called the . . . the . . . here.” He gave her the paper rather than try to pronounce Giudecca. “No, we didn’t crash.”

Corinna swung round to find Signora Falcone coming up behind her. “Did you hear?”

“Yes. Terrible – only Mr O’Gilroy seems to have saved the day.” She was reappraising him with a wary smile.

“Where’s the hospital? How do I get there?”

Signora Falcone hesitated, then realised it was pointless to do anything but smooth Corinna’s path. “I’ll see to it.”

Corinna may have gone as far as stamping her foot with impatience, but knew it was pointless to interfere. Then, frowning in thought, she tried to imagine the accident, and . . . “Did he manage to land here, then?”

“Had to do it meself. Went and burst a tyre. But they say—”

“Hold on: that airplane’s only got one set of controls. On his side. My God! – you must’ve . . . You saved his life!”

“Me own was there with him.”

Her face suddenly bloomed into a radiant grin. “You’re quite a guy, Mr O’Gilroy. Thank God you were there.”

“Ah, ’twas nothing special . . .” He lapsed into a mumble and was clearly going to stay there.

“All right, I won’t gush. And the airplane’s all right?”

“Like I said, I burst a tyre, only they reckon they’ll have one to fit or mebbe find two whole new wheels – if somebody’ll pay for them.”

“Heavens, don’t worry about that.”

Then Signora Falcone came back with a man who was probably one of her staff. “It’s best to catch the mail steamer from Fusina. Matteo will drive you and see that you get back. Do you want to go, too, Mr O’Gilroy?”

O’Gilroy hesitated and Corinna chipped in: “There’s no need. You must be done in, Conall. Get some sleep – and thanks again.”

The Falcone family seemed well endowed with motor-cars; whatever the Signora and O’Gilroy climbed into wasn’t a taxi-cab, and nor was the racier affair Corinna and Matteo had zoomed away in. This one went off at a pace consistent with the tasselled pelmets at the windows, but was soon beyond the lights of the town and rolling on through flat, dark countryside. Sinking back into deep leather, O’Gilroy found himself yawning; as always, it wasn’t life’s incidents that were wearing, but the long aftermath of explanation, clearing up – and waiting.

After a time, Signora Falcone said: “I hadn’t realised you were a proper pilot yourself, Mr O’Gilroy.”

“I’m new to it.”

“But you must have been very competent. Have you flown that particular machine much?”

“Not much at all.”

That kept her quiet for a while. Then: “When do you think Mr Sherring will be fit to fly again?”

“I’d guess a while yet. They’d bandaged over his eyes and was talking about keeping him quiet and dark.”

Another silence. “If you could practise tomorrow, would you feel up to a demonstration flight on the next day?”

The Oriole wasn’t built for Pégoud-style stunts: all it did was take off, fly and land. And after an hour or two’s practice . . . “Surely. Mind, I couldn’t be telling all the figures of its range and fuel consumption—”

“That won’t matter.”

“—and they’ll need to be fixing that wheel.”

“That will be done.” It was the positive statement of someone used to having her orders obeyed. “You’re quite happy about it, then?”

O’Gilroy was happy, all right, both at getting to fly the Oriole again and being in the middle of events. But he was also wary because he wasn’t sure what event was planned. Still, if they were relying on him as a pilot, they were handing him control.

“Surely,” he said confidently. “That’ll be jest fine.”

29

The distant bugle call that began the day came as a relief. Night in jail was not fun. When there was light, you could think of the reasons why you would soon be out, but the darkness crushed all reason and hope.
They
had won, had forgotten you, and were sleeping peacefully. And you were alone with dozing thoughts, not even the exotic terrors of nightmares, just coldly logical and gloomy. Ranklin loved that bugle call.

He sat up and realised he must at least have lain still a long time, since he was horribly stiff. The Count, a good twenty years older, must feel like a corpse.

Perhaps he
was
a corpse, Ranklin thought in a sudden panic. Died before I’ve found out what’s really going on. But when he leaned over to peer through the gloom, the old man was blinking and mumbling under the thin blankets. Only then did it occur to Ranklin that it had been a rather selfish thought. So he got all the way up, shook his shoes to make sure nothing had crawled into them, then went to piss in the enamel bucket and splatter his face with dusty water.

Pero sat up quickly, his smile as bright as ever, and made pantomime gestures of how the Count must feel. It was intended as sympathy, but the Count caught a glimpse and husked: “Please do me a favour and kill that damned Slovene.”

*        *        *

O’Gilroy was woken by a manservant with a tray of coffee. He lay for a minute or two wondering where he was before remembering he didn’t know. The ride in the dark last night had shown him very little, and the conversation had been either in Italian or about more important things.

At least he had no problems about what to wear: it was still the tweed suit he had left Brooklands in, the cleaner of two shirts and (he hoped) a fresh collar. He’d meant to buy more in Paris or Turin, but there hadn’t been time. He got shaved and dressed and found his way downstairs.

The house was grand but, he discovered, a simple square block. Bedrooms and bathrooms led off a wooden gallery that formed a hollow square, while below was a large living space surrounded by dining-rooms, drawing-rooms and God-knows-what rooms. Kitchens and staff quarters must be below that, half buried in a semi-basement.

Corinna didn’t wake for another hour, but had a better idea of where she was: in Senator Falcone’s villa. If it wasn’t by Palladio himself – and he couldn’t have designed every one of the hundreds of such villas in the Veneto region – it was in his style: symmetrical and classical. Her window, once she’d pushed open the shutters, looked out past a colonnaded portico to the formal garden, maybe a quarter of a mile of it before the River Brenta. A steam-launch was just chugging off from a landing-stage and heading downstream, probably to the lagoon and Venice, which she reckoned was a dozen miles away.