Free The Care of Time by Eric Ambler Page B
Authors: Eric Ambler
this evening and may not be disappointed. Third, that you are an experienced person and must know that it is no use blustering. You will, of course, accept the situation.’
It was, I noted, the second time that she had called me an experienced person. I thought for a moment of asking what she had meant, but she was by then puffing away at her cigarette and clearly determined to say no more.
One thing I do know from experience is that estimates of the passage of time and of distance travelled made while sitting in darkness are usually inaccurate. So, under that particular set of circumstances, my guess that in the next hour and a quarter we covered almost seventy miles was a good one. It was my sense of direction that went haywire. After about twenty minutes in heavy traffic we began to go faster and then, following a brief stop and the sound of a voice from outside, very fast. I assumed, correctly, that we had gone through a toll-gate on an autostrada and stopped to pay. Confusion began when, after thirty minutes or so at high speed, the same thing happened again. We came to another toll-gate. There was no mistaking it. As our driver approached he slowed and wound the window beside him all the way down. I knew because of the changes in the background sounds and because I could feel the cooler air coming in. A second or two after we had stopped completely another voice spoke up from outside. It was a second toll collector telling us how much
he
wanted for that little stretch of road. What sort of an autostrada was it where you had to pay to get on and then pay all over again to get off? Had we managed to do a U-turn somewhere along the way?
Another
of Chihani’s security precautions? Could it have been done without my noticing it?
From then on I was lost. I had been sure at first that we were heading north, then maybe a trifle west of north. Now I began thinking east. Monza maybe? The Bergamo area? Orwere we about to double back to central Milan and one of those permanent luxury hotel suites that Zander maintained to house himself and his three briefcases on their journeys around the world?
We went through a small town and then turned slowly on to what felt like one of those corduroy roads that army engineers used to build for transport needing firm going across mud. Only this one seemed to have been made of utility poles instead of four-inch logs. Our speed dropped to a crawl. The minibus’s suspension thumped protestingly. Then we were on smooth pavement again and starting to make good time through a series of left and right bends that had me holding on to my seat to keep from lurching against Chihani. She had a grab rail to hold on to. After ten minutes of this we stopped again, at some traffic lights in a village I thought. When they turned green and our driver started up through the gears again Chihani reached into a TWA flight bag that she had pulled from under the seat and produced a hand-size CB radio. She extended the antenna, glanced at her watch and then began calling.
She said ‘ ’allo, ’allo,’ twice before an answer came. It sounded like ‘Qui batula’ and the voice was a woman’s. Chihani replied with a couple of short sentences that meant absolutely nothing to me, repeated them both very distinctly and then switched off. I assumed that she had been making a progress report.
Minutes later we entered yet another small town. There was more stop-and-go work and I waited for another run-up through the gears. Instead, we turned left on to cobbles and began to climb a steepish hill. After only a few yards, it seemed, we bore left, made a sharp right and slowed. The minibus lurched up over something that felt like a kerb and came to a standstill. Chihani stood up and pushed past me.
‘We have arrived,’ she said, ‘but I think you had better let me guide you out, Mr Halliday. A little caution is necessary.’ She took a heavy flashlight from a bracket by the door.
Because of the darkness inside I
It was, I noted, the second time that she had called me an experienced person. I thought for a moment of asking what she had meant, but she was by then puffing away at her cigarette and clearly determined to say no more.
One thing I do know from experience is that estimates of the passage of time and of distance travelled made while sitting in darkness are usually inaccurate. So, under that particular set of circumstances, my guess that in the next hour and a quarter we covered almost seventy miles was a good one. It was my sense of direction that went haywire. After about twenty minutes in heavy traffic we began to go faster and then, following a brief stop and the sound of a voice from outside, very fast. I assumed, correctly, that we had gone through a toll-gate on an autostrada and stopped to pay. Confusion began when, after thirty minutes or so at high speed, the same thing happened again. We came to another toll-gate. There was no mistaking it. As our driver approached he slowed and wound the window beside him all the way down. I knew because of the changes in the background sounds and because I could feel the cooler air coming in. A second or two after we had stopped completely another voice spoke up from outside. It was a second toll collector telling us how much
he
wanted for that little stretch of road. What sort of an autostrada was it where you had to pay to get on and then pay all over again to get off? Had we managed to do a U-turn somewhere along the way?
Another
of Chihani’s security precautions? Could it have been done without my noticing it?
From then on I was lost. I had been sure at first that we were heading north, then maybe a trifle west of north. Now I began thinking east. Monza maybe? The Bergamo area? Orwere we about to double back to central Milan and one of those permanent luxury hotel suites that Zander maintained to house himself and his three briefcases on their journeys around the world?
We went through a small town and then turned slowly on to what felt like one of those corduroy roads that army engineers used to build for transport needing firm going across mud. Only this one seemed to have been made of utility poles instead of four-inch logs. Our speed dropped to a crawl. The minibus’s suspension thumped protestingly. Then we were on smooth pavement again and starting to make good time through a series of left and right bends that had me holding on to my seat to keep from lurching against Chihani. She had a grab rail to hold on to. After ten minutes of this we stopped again, at some traffic lights in a village I thought. When they turned green and our driver started up through the gears again Chihani reached into a TWA flight bag that she had pulled from under the seat and produced a hand-size CB radio. She extended the antenna, glanced at her watch and then began calling.
She said ‘ ’allo, ’allo,’ twice before an answer came. It sounded like ‘Qui batula’ and the voice was a woman’s. Chihani replied with a couple of short sentences that meant absolutely nothing to me, repeated them both very distinctly and then switched off. I assumed that she had been making a progress report.
Minutes later we entered yet another small town. There was more stop-and-go work and I waited for another run-up through the gears. Instead, we turned left on to cobbles and began to climb a steepish hill. After only a few yards, it seemed, we bore left, made a sharp right and slowed. The minibus lurched up over something that felt like a kerb and came to a standstill. Chihani stood up and pushed past me.
‘We have arrived,’ she said, ‘but I think you had better let me guide you out, Mr Halliday. A little caution is necessary.’ She took a heavy flashlight from a bracket by the door.
Because of the darkness inside I