His landlady woke him up at four o’clock. He telephoned British Airways and confirmed there was space on their flight tonight to Johannesburg. He did not make a reservation.
At quarter to five he left his digs. He hurried through the drizzle, glad to be getting this show on the road, determined to finish the job. He was still haunted by those huge open graves filled with bloody corpses, the long lines of naked people queuing up for their turn at the killing-pit while the Einsatzkommando swings his legs as he cradles his machine-gun and smokes a cigarette. Haunted by the slim girl who said to Herr Graebe, ‘Twenty-three years old’. The heartbreak. God, God, what makes men obey their leaders and commit such brutality, follow them into such chasms of cruelty, transport them into such towering madness? Was it only the madness of those times that released the beast? Or was it in the blood, as Hitler said it was, like it’s in the blood of a bull to fight. Was the fighting bloodline of a bull-mastiff in the theatre of the absurd, or is a fighting dog born a fighting dog? Were the Germans warriors only because their leaders like Adolf Hitler made them so? What about General von Trotha’s proclamation to the Hereros in South West Africa? Oh God, McQuade did not know, but he did know that his whole attitude towards this submarine had changed: By God, as soon as he’d got that loot he was going to tell Simon Wiesenthal everything he knew. And that idea gripped him as much as the prospect of the treasure itself.
He walked into the first pub and ordered a double whisky, drank it down in one throw, and ordered another. He had several hours before he had to be at the airport. He had done some very good work in Europe! Money well spent. He was feeling positive, positive. Even going down into that dreadful submarine was not so terrifying anymore, the graveyard he was going to find down there would be nothing compared to the horrors he had been reading about. And he would be a rich man at the end of it, and then he was going to do his Duty to Mankind …
At seven o’clock he left the pub. Feeling just fine. He hailed a cab to take him to Heathrow airport. To hell with the expense.
It was forty minutes before the flight’s departure when he dashed into the airport, side-stepping people. There were only a few passengers at his check-in counter. He appeared to be the last. ‘You’ve got space on this flight to Johannesburg, I believe?’ He produced his ticket.
‘Smoking or non-smoking, sir?’
‘Smoking. Drinking. Singing. Women …’
He hurried through Immigration, into the Duty Free Shop. No way was he going to wait for the stewardess to come down the aisle with her booze trolley. He snatched a bottle of whisky off a shelf, and a bottle of wine. He paid and hurried out into the long corridors, following the signs.
He approached his departure gate. Airline personnel were checking the last of the boarding cards as people filed out to the aircraft. It was a waste of time, but he had nothing to lose. He walked past his gate, then stopped, as if waiting for a fellow passenger to catch up with him. People hurried on past him towards other gates. The passengers inside his departure room were diminishing rapidly. When the last person was filing out he walked in.
He checked through. At the exit he glanced back. He was definitely the last passenger. He filed aboard, feeling on top of the world. He worked his way down the crowded aisles.
The seat next to his was occupied, but in the centre block there were several rows of unoccupied seats. That wouldn’t last long. He passed his allocated seat, put his bag on the aisle seat of the nearest empty row, then went on down to the galley. ‘May I have a glass of water? For my medicine?’
He went back to his empty row with the water, poured a stout measure of whisky into the plastic glass. He took a big sip. And it was nectar.
He settled back happily. They could take as long as they liked with their take-off procedures. James McQuade had his own bottle of Scotch.
The Boeing 747 burst through the dark clouds above England. People were claiming the empty rows. He claimed the empty seat adjacent to him, with his bag, then he put his coat on the seat beyond, hoping thereby to have three seats to lie down in later.
But the hope was short-lived. A woman took the seat at the end, and put her coat on top of his. McQuade sighed, leaned across and took his coat away. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
Well, if he was going to share his chaste couch, it might as well be with a pretty woman. He indicated his glass and said, ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Thank you, but I’ll wait for the trolley.’
‘That can be quite some time.’
‘But I can wait.’ She sounded American; and it sounded as if she thought he should wait too. She stood up, opened the locker above her head, folded her coat and stuffed it in. McQuade took a look at her. She was pretty, all right. Thick dark hair, shoulder length, wide full mouth. Excellent body. She sat down again, opened a book, and started to read. McQuade sat back. Oh well, he had tried.
Ten minutes later the stewardesses appeared at the top of the aisle with their booze trollies. But it would take an age before they reached him. McQuade had had enough whisky; he pulled the wine from the plastic bag. He opened the corkscrew on his penknife. The cork came out with a loud pop. The girl looked up. McQuade gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘Terrified of flying.’
She gave him an amused smile and returned to her book. McQuade said, encouraged, ‘You going to South Africa on holiday?’
She looked at him from under her eyebrows. ‘Uh-huh. A busman’s holiday anyway.’ She added: ‘I’m a journalist and I’ve got to write about it.’
‘For how long?’
‘A couple of months.’
‘Nice life. Which newspaper?’
‘If you can take the pace. The Christian Science Monitor.’
McQuade had heard of it. ‘Can you? Take the pace?’
‘I’m just whacked.’ She sighed. ‘Look, can we continue this conversation later? I need a little sleep.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry.’
‘Please ask the stewardess not to wake me for dinner.’
She raised the armrest on the adjoining seat, and packed the pillows on her aisle armrest. She pulled off her shoes, and lay down on her side, knees bent.
McQuade sat back. He had got the brush-off, loud and clear. Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He lifted his glass of wine. He glanced at her, and thought, the Christian Science Monitor, huh? Sounds like a barrel of fun!