who had identified himself as a second secretary at the British Embassy, was interrogating him in the nicest possible way. He held up a cut-glass decanter and said ‘Scotch?’ as if there could be any other drink.
Hoffman shook his head; Cross made him feel immature, and yet Cross couldn’t have been all that much older. Twenty-five perhaps, but contained and assured – some might have said condescending – in the way of some Englishmen; those, Hoffman divined, who were not quite of the noble birth to which they aspired, but formidable just the same. And well-heeled because few diplomatic services, least of all the British, would provide a twenty-five old employee with a flat as luxurious as this.
‘Well, I’m going to have one. Are you sure you won’t have a wee dram?’
‘No, thank you,’ sitting back to study Cross as he poured himself a drink.
Hoffman had met quite a few Englishmen since he came to Lisbon but somehow this one didn’t quite fit. He was elegant enough, suit not too keenly pressed, striped tie deliberately askew; his manner was languid, his smooth hair was a warm shade of brown and his features were handsome in a military sort of way. Odd, then, that he wasn’t in the Army. Hoffman could sense contradictions about him and they bothered him.
The sun-tan, for instance; diplomats were never bronzed. And his hands were too big, strangler’s hands, making an absurdity of the white silk handkerchief tucked in the sleeve of his jacket. Hoffman couldn’t imagine Cross playing the English game of cricket; blood sports would be more his line. His voice was modulated but controlled; when Cross appeared to be wasting words he was wasting them for a purpose. No, Hoffman thought, your appearance is camouflage; beneath those casual graces lurks a hunter.
Glass in hand, Cross walked to a coffee table standing in front of a coldly-empty marble fireplace and picked up a pistol. ‘Taft, the man who drove us here, took it out of the pocket of your assassin’s raincoat pocket. Would-be assassin,’ he corrected himself. He held the automatic by the barrel. ‘Crude but effective, as they say.’ He pointed at the letters CCCP on the walnut barrel. ‘No doubt where it came from.’ He sat on the sofa opposite Hoffman, still holding the gun.
‘Was he Russian?’ Hoffman asked.
Cross laid the gun on the striped cushion beside him and drank some whisky. ‘I think perhaps I should ask the questions,’ he said. ‘A rescuer’s privilege.’ He gave a cocktail party smile. ‘How long have you been in Lisbon, Mr. Hoffman?’
‘About a year.’
‘Czech passport, I believe. And you work for the Red Cross.’
Statements not questions.
Cross said: ‘When did you leave Czechoslovakia, Mr. Hoffman?’
‘In 1938, when the Germans marched into the Sudetenland.’
‘You were from the Sudetenland?’
Hoffman shook his head. ‘From Prague.’
‘Weren’t you a little premature in leaving?’
‘On the contrary, that was the time to get out, before the whole of Czechoslovakia was occupied.’
‘What language do you speak?’
‘English,’ Hoffman said.
Cross didn’t smile. ‘Your native language?’
‘Both Czech and Slovak and a little Hungarian.’
‘I wish I had your talent for languages,’ Cross said. ‘It’s not our strong point – we think everyone should speak English.’
Is he dead?
We think so.
So casual. The reply had barely registered. A man who tried to shoot me is lying dead in a Lisbon street or in a morgue and here we are discussing languages.
‘Did you leave anyone behind?’
‘Sorry, I don’t quite … I will have that drink,’ Hoffman said, ‘if you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ in a tone that did mind just a little.
Cross poured him a whisky. ‘Soda?’
‘Please.’
He sipped his drink. ‘Did I leave …’
‘When you left Czechoslovakia, did you leave any relatives behind?’
‘Only my mother. My father died five years ago.’
‘Wasn’t that a little callous?’
‘She had married again. To a man who had all the makings of being a good Nazi when the Germans finally took Prague.’
‘And where did you go to?’
Hoffman, who felt that Cross knew the answer to this and most of the other questions, replied: ‘To Switzerland.’
‘How? Across Germany?’
‘Austria.’
‘Same thing by then.’
We think so. Hoffman took a gulp of whisky. ‘It wasn’t too difficult. I had forged papers and foreign languages didn’t surprise people in that part of Europe in those days. The Balkan tongues had spilled over …’
‘Why the Red Cross?’ Cross asked abruptly.
‘Should I be ashamed of it?’
‘It’s a dedication not a job. You were very young to choose a dedication.’
‘I knew what was happening in Europe. To the Jews in Germany. I knew what was coming. I wanted to help.’
‘But not to fight?’
‘Apparently you didn’t wish to fight either, Mr. Cross.’
Cross didn’t look as angry as he should have done. But the interrogation lapsed for a few moments. A ship’s siren sounded its melancholy note, bringing a touch of loneliness to the evening.
Cross poured himself another whisky. Then he said: ‘For a pacifist that was a very belligerent remark, Mr. Hoffman.’
‘Pacifist? I suppose I am. I happen to think I can do more good working for the Red Cross than becoming another freedom fighter.’
‘An unusual appointment, isn’t it? A Czech working for the Red Cross in Lisbon?’
‘On the contrary. As you know, the city’s full of refugees from central and eastern Europe. I can help them, we understand each other.’
‘Quite a cushy number,’ Cross remarked. Hoffman hadn’t come across the word ‘cushy’ but guessed its implication and guessed that Cross was trying to needle him. ‘Like mine,’ Cross added. ‘Did you go to Berne?’
‘Geneva. I spent a year there.
