Free White Eagles Over Serbia by Lawrence Durrell Page A

raincoat and beret?”
    Porson put on a long-suffering air and said: “Take them, dear old spy-catcher. They are in the hall.”
    â€œAnd will you drop me off in some odd corner of the town so that I am not followed?”
    â€œOn one condition.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat if she is beautiful you introduce me.”
    â€œAh,” said Methuen. “She is; I wish I could.”
    â€œI’ve always wanted a beautiful spy.”
    The fat and snouty figure of Marriot appeared in the Chancery doorway. “Ah,” he said with ineffable condescension. “Ah, Methuen, everything all right I hope?”
    â€œYes,” said Methuen gravely.
    â€œI’m glad. Of course you must feel a bit out of it with H.E.’s uncompromising attitude to your work, but you know how it is in diplomacy.” He smiled as amiably as he could and rubbed his hands. “We have to be extra careful, extra careful.”
    The change in his attitude was rather marked and Methuen turned to Porson when the door closed and said: “There seems to be a slightly different attitude to-day. The natives are less hostile.”
    â€œThey are getting used to you. Just wait until you muck things up and are brought back on a slab.”
    â€œGod forbid,” said Methuen not without a touch of superstition.
    â€œCome along,” said Porson. “Time to be moving.”
    They climbed into his battered old racing-car which he drove with great skill and raced away across the town. Despite the fact that they did not seem to be followed, Porson took no chances and for twenty minutes they doubled about the town, crossing and re-crossing their tracks until in a wilderness of alleys in the area above the Sava Bridge Methuen asked to be put down. He had by this time put on Porson’s mackintosh and beret.
    He turned down a street and crossed to the Knez Mihaelova, pausing from time to time to gaze into a shop window. The park, by comparison with the mean streets and bare shop windows, looked singularly inviting and he crossed the asphalt paths towards the little picture-gallery with a light and springy step. Here and there, to be sure, he spotted a blue-clad militia man and not infrequently a “leather man” (as Porson called the secret policemen), but he was sure that their attention was not focused on him, and he only hoped that Vida had managed to arrived at the rendezvous without difficulty. He bought a ticket to the exhibition which commemorated the Partisan War and entered the gallery with the crowd. His heart gave a little leap for he saw her directly, standing in the far corner of the gallery examining a painting. He opened his catalogue and worked his way slowly towards her, gravely examining each picture in turn with a judicial eye. It was not long before they found themselves standing together before a particularly flamboyant representation of the fourth offensive and Vida whispered: “Go up to the tower of the fort. I will follow.”
    With the same unhurried air of concentration he did as he was told, working his way out of the gallery and turning to the left, across the expanse of gravel to the steps which led up into the old tower. The path led them across a sort of ravelin and through a gate towards the central bastion, and here he climbed the stairs slowly, pausing from time to time to take in the magnificent view which changed from room to room. A few couples sauntered in the sun on the terrace, and some children played about in one of the courtyards, but for the most part the fort seemed more or less deserted. He tucked himself in a corner of the battlements and stared out at the confluence of the two rivers which swirled away round the foot of the Kalemigdan. The Danube and the Sava met in a single jointless ripple beyond the Sava Bridge and swept down, turbid and brown, towards the eastern flank of the city.
    Here Vida joined him in a little while and putting her arm round his