It was not often that Sir Pellinore started anything unintentionally; but he knew he had started something now, and he was far from happy about it. His only son had been killed in the First World War and it was Gregory who, as a very young subaltern, had carried him back out of the hell of Thiepval Wood after he had been mortally wounded. Since then Gregory had gradually taken the place of that son in the old man’s affections.
Although it would have been against his principles to persuade anyone of whom he was fond against risking their life for their country in time of war, he had been extremely glad when the threat of the call-up had enabled him to plant Gregory in a safe job; and he had hoped that he would come to feel that honour had been satisfied by his previous exploits. As this was no question of an urgent mission, and the whole idea was drawing a bow at a venture, Sir Pellinore decided that he was justified in trying to retrieve the situation; so he said with apparent casualness:
‘Not much good you goin’ to Budapest. You don’t speak Hungarian.’
‘What has that to do with it?’ Gregory brushed the objection aside. ‘I have worked in Norway, Finland, Russia, Holland without a word of the language of those countries. Anyhow, everyone in Budapest speaks German, and that’s my second tongue.’
‘The Hungarians wouldn’t budge without a pretty strong inducement. It would mean getting the War Cabinet, and Roosevelt too, to agree that they should keep Transylvania and Ruthenia after the war, and probably be given a port on the Adriatic into the bargain. Our top chaps might not be willing to promise that.’
‘I can’t believe it! Statesmen don’t usually boggle at giving away territory which isn’t theirs to give. And if there is a chance that, given this promise, the Hungarians will do all that a Second Front would do for us, Britain and America would be mad not to make it.’
‘True enough. But there’s no call for you to get out your automatics and buy a Tyrolean hat. This is a job for the F.O. I’ll put the idea up to someone there tomorrow morning.’
Gregory shook his head. ‘Judging by the Foreign Office form in this war so far, that wouldn’t get us anywhere. They would take a year to think it over; then go cap in hand to the wrong chap in Budapest. What’s needed is someone to go there and find out what is cooking and who is the cook.’
‘I hardly like to ask for you to be released from your job to go off in what may prove a wild goose chase.’
‘Nonsense! The whole idea of putting me into the War Room was that my leaving it at short notice would not affect its efficient running for even a day. It would be another matter if I were a Planner, or doing an “I” job in some headquarters. General Ismay told me himself that he had suggested it as the most convenient way of keeping me on ice for you, and the time has come when I want you to take me off it.’
‘All right, then,’ Sir Pellinore conceded reluctantly. ‘Have it your own way,’
‘Fine!’ Gregory grinned. In the last few minutes he seemed to have become a different man. His fretful despondency had completely disappeared and he voiced his racing thoughts. ‘Those damn maps have been getting me down. A chance to use my wits again without taking on a suicide gamble was the very thing I needed. Budapest is a lovely city, the Hungarians are charming people, and there will be none of those blond beasts in black uniforms who might claim me at the end of a pistol as an old acquaintance. This, as the R.A.F. say, is a piece of cake. When can I start?’
‘Bad policy to rush your fences. You’ll do better if I first collect all the information I can for you to work on. That will take a little time. Then there are the arrangements for your journey. Say in about ten days.’
‘Couldn’t suit me better. I’m due for some leave and I can fix up to take it at forty-eight hours’ notice. That will give me a clear week with Erika. Naturally I shan’t tell the chaps in the War Room that I may not be coming back for a month or two. I’ll leave you to arrange that with Colonel Jacob.’
Sir Pellinore nodded. ‘I’ll suggest that, when he puts in a replacement, he should say that you’ve been injured in a car-smash, or something. Anyhow, that’s his affair. Will you go down to Gwaine Meads or have Erika up to London?’
‘I’ll speak to her on the telephone now, if I may, and see which she’d prefer.’
It was the sort of call that Erika had been dreading for some time past, as she knew her Gregory far too well to have any hope of his remaining in a safe job for the rest of the war.
After he had told her in guarded terms that he was going abroad again, she decided that she could better support the strain of his coming departure in the country than in the restaurants and night-clubs of war-worn London, which now offered so little and had become so tatty; so he told her to expect him on the coming Wednesday.
Gregory had started a spell of duty at six o’clock that evening and, in order that he might dine with Sir Pellinore, a colleague who owed him a turn had taken over from him at half-past seven; but he had promised to be back by eleven. As it was now close on that hour, he took leave of his host and, with a much more jaunty step than he had come, made his way through the black-out along the edge of the park till he found the gap in the barbed wire leading to the tall bronze doors in the basement beyond which lay his office.
The following morning he arranged about his leave and at ten o’clock went off duty. As he was leaving the building he found himself alongside the old friend who had once been a Cadet with him in H.M.S. Worcester. Together they turned left and, as they passed the bottom of Clive Steps, Gregory asked:
‘What brings you out at this hour of the morning?’
‘My daily jaunt to the War Office,’ replied the other. ‘It’s part of my job to attend the meetings of the I.S.S.B.’
‘And what may that be? Or shouldn’t one ask?’
‘Oh, there’s no secret about what the initials stand for. It’s the Inter-Services Security Board. They are the boys who check up on any leakages of information, and devise all the regulations for preventing news of what we’re up to from reaching the enemy.’
A hundred yards further on they parted. The other airman crossed the Horse Guards Parade, went through the arch, over to the War Office and up to a room on the third floor, in which half-a-dozen officers were already seated round a table.
It was one of the Board’s principal functions to scrutinise all troop movements and see to it that the public knew as little as possible about them; so, soon after any new operation had been definitely decided upon, the Board was automatically informed. That morning, Operation Torch was one of the items on the agenda, and was to remain so for many weeks to come; for the problems entailed in covering the movement of ships, men and aircraft, in preparation for the great expedition, were innumerable.
As yet they had only the outline plan, since ‘Eps’—as the Executive Planning Staffs in the three Service Ministries were called—were still working on the nuts and bolts which would turn the plan from a broad stategic conception into a practical operation of war with the forces and supplies needed to carry it out nominated down to the last detail.
A middle-aged Major of the Royal Scots who had among his ribbons an M.C. with bar, and who was Secretary to the Board, read out particulars in clear incisive tones; the ‘Cardinal’ Colonel, who was Chairman, made some comments, then the Admiralty representative looked’ across at the airman from the War Cabinet Offices and said in a high-pitched, rather nasal, voice:
‘Now we shall see if amateurs like you and your new Colonel can really produce the goods.’
The airman was junior to the sailor so he replied with chill politeness, ‘Given a continuance of the help always so generously afforded us by I.S.S.B., sir, I think we may manage.’
The sailor was far from popular; so a large man in civilian clothes, who was Chief of counter-espionage in Britain and affectionately known to the rest of the party as ‘Himmler’, tittered.
The Major with the double M.C. gave the airman a friendly smile. ‘Unlike our naval member, this old horse feels no pain and grief that such headaches are no longer ours. But this little affair is going to be quite something; and naturally the Board will be right behind you.’
A youngish, good-looking Captain who was on the secretariat looked up from the notes he had been making with his left hand, and added, ‘It’s going to be murder if things go wrong. The Jerries can hardly fail to spot a convoy of this size and what might happen if the U-boat packs got into it does not bear thinking about.’
‘That’s not our worst worry,’ replied the airman. ‘There would be losses, of course, but not serious enough to cripple the operation if the naval escorts do their stuff. Besides, there is at least some hope that we’ll be able to get them down to Gib. undetected. The real trouble will start as soon as they turn in to go through the Straits. Then any cover we have managed to give their initial sailing must be blown. Once in the Med. the whole of the Axis air force will be alerted; and, if the object of the operation leaks out, the Vichy French may prove hostile into the bargain. If the landings are seriously opposed it could be a massacre. I only hope to God we’ll be able to think up some way of foxing the enemy about our ultimate objectives.’
The Major nodded. ‘I’d say that your new master will produce a better rabbit than we would have got from old one-leg Dumbo; but the two of you have certainly been given one hell of an assignment. This could be worse than Tobruk. The Order of Battle will include the best of everything the Army’s got, and they’ll be two thousand miles from home. There will be no getting the remnants off in small boats as we did at Dunkirk. Well, let us know how we can help, and keep your chin up.’
Had Gregory been at this meeting he would have been equally worried about the outcome of the expedition to North Africa, but at least he would have been disabused of his idea that the British and Americans intended to do nothing in 1942 which might force the enemy to withdraw a certain number of divisions from Russia. Such knowledge, had he had it the evening before, would certainly have caused his conversation with Sir Pellinore to take an entirely different turn; so it is most unlikely that the project of his going to Budapest would ever have arisen.
As it was, while the I.S.S.B. was discussing the first tentative arrangements for the security of Operation Torch, he was lying in his bath thinking of that lovely city, so justly termed ‘The Queen of the Danube’. Or, to be more accurate, he was thinking of a wonderful three weeks that he had spent there three years before the war in the company of a very lovely young woman.
In the summer of 1936, on behalf of Sir Pellinore, he had been engaged in investigating international smuggling operations which had assumed large and dangerous proportions; for, in addition to big consignments of contraband goods, a number of Communist agitators were being flown in by night to secret landing grounds in lonely parts of Kent. His painstaking enquiries on the French coast had got him nowhere until one midnight in the Casino at Deauville his curiosity had been aroused by the sight of a beautiful dark-haired girl and, quite incidentally, the fact that she was in the company of an elderly man whom he knew to be a crooked financier.
She had proved to be a Hungarian named Sabine Szenty, and it was through having got to know her later that night in unusually dramatic cricumstances that he secured his first clue to the problem which had so far defeated him. Unwillingly to begin with, then in rebellion against her crooked chief, she had eventually helped him to unmask the smugglers’ organisation. It had very nearly cost both of them their lives and, even when the job was done, her own participation in their criminal activities left her liable to prosecution and a prison sentence. To save her from that he had performed a highly illegal act himself; but he had had no cause to regret it, for after their arrival in Budapest she had rewarded him in an entirely suitable manner.
He wondered now what had happened to her, and if she was still living in the Hungarian capital. It was probable that by this time she had married; but she had never sought to conceal the fact that she was by nature an adventuress, and believed in taking all the good things of life that offered with both hands; so he thought it unlikely that she would as yet have settled down to respectable domesticity. She could still be only about twenty-eight, and with beauty such as hers she would be able for years yet, should she wish, to change one rich husband for another.
Sabine, he decided, compared favourably with any of the numerous women whom for a season he had loved and who had returned his love. Erika was, of course, the great exception, and he was not being consciously unfaithful to her when he thought of those laughing carefree sunny days and hectic nights that he had spent with Sabine beside the Danube, and wished that he had some magic formula for setting time back so that he might enjoy them all over again.
Later in the day, he told Rudd that on Wednesday morning he would be going north on a week’s leave and that shortly after his return he expected to be away from London for quite a time.
Rudd pushed the greasy cap he always wore, both indoors and out, on to the back of his head, scratched in his yellowish hair above the right ear and said in a wheedling tone:
‘See ‘ere Mr. Gregory, sir; that’s Dutch for you goin’ abroad again, an’ you don’t ‘ave to tell me no different. Can’t yer take me wiv yer, sime as you done now an’ again in the old days? I’d pull me weight. You know that. An’ the ’ome Guard’s become a farce now, wiv not a ’ope o’ any of us old sweats wot’s in it gettin’ a crack at the Jerries.’
‘Sorry, old friend,’ Gregory replied with real sympathy. ‘I wish I could; but this time it’s right out of the question. I won’t forget you, though, when another chance does occur to use the sort of help you have always given me so willingly.’
‘Thanks, sir,’ Rudd grinned, showing teeth that badly needed the attention of a dentist. ‘Well, good luck then; an’ should you be seein’ little ol ’itler, give ’im an extra one from me right on the kisser.’
Up in Wales, Gregory was favoured with July sunshine, but even in the private wing of the big house there was little real privacy, and it was difficult for Erika to free herself from the work of administration as long as she remained under the same roof as the hospital. Earlier in the year, while he had been a permanent resident, he had not minded that, but now it irked him; so they decided to spend the weekend at Llandudno.
The trip was not a success. Owing to petrol rationing they had to go by train and were then tied to the town. At the hotel in which they stayed the war-time food was abominable, and even indifferent drink obtainable only at extortionate prices. To add insult to injury a bottle of champagne that Gregory bought from a wine merchant on the Saturday morning, for them to drink up in their bedroom that night, proved when opened—as happens occasionally for no known reason with the best of brands—to be badly corked.
They were both glad to get back to Gwaine Meads; but there their only out-of-doors escape from patients and nurses was to take picnics in the woods, and the weather suddenly went bad on them. As Gregory was now looking forward with cheerful anticipation to his mission, all this increased his impatience to be on his way to Budapest. About that he endeavoured to conceal his feelings from Erika; but she knew him so well that she sensed and resented it, with the result that they had few really happy hours during their last days together.
On Tuesday August 4th, he took the last train back to London. First thing the following morning he rang up Sir Pellinore, who told him to pack a bag and come to Carlton House Terrace. On his arrival in the library there shortly after eleven o’clock, the elderly Baronet told him to open a quart of champagne that was standing ready in an ice bucket. As soon as they had taken their first swig out of the silver tankards, Sir Pellinore said:
‘Your terms of reference are simply to spy out the land—find out if the anti-German feeling in Hungary is strong enough for us to make practical use of it. There would be no point in your trying to act as a go-between with any anti-Nazi elements you may come across until the F.O. and the State Department have fully considered the whole question. But if the report you bring back is favourable, you may be sent out again to open secret negotiations.’ Having taken another good swig at his champagne, Sir Pellinore went on: ‘You’ll be leavin’ on Friday by the weekly diplomatic plane that serves our Embassy in Berne; so I thought you might as well spend your last two nights here. From Switzerland you’ll proceed under your own steam by whatever route you think best. I’ve got devilish little information for you to go on, though. The fellers I’ve talked to all say their Hungarian files are hopelessly out of date.’
‘Our spies can’t be up to much then,’ Gregory remarked, lighting a Sullivan.
‘That’s not the trouble. We haven’t got any there.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘One of the results of the MacDonald, Baldwin and Chamberlain Governments, all cheese-paring so idiotically on the Secret Service funds in the years before the war. What little money there was all had to go on the highest priorities—Germany and Russia. Funds were so short that, as we had an alliance with the French, we left it to them to keep tabs on Nazi activities in North Africa; so when the French ratted on us we hadn’t even got a skeleton set-up there.’
‘Chamberlain’s shortcomings are ancient history now, though; and the M.I. shows have been on a war footing for close on three years.’
‘Oh, they haven’t lacked money since September ‘39. I was only explaining why we had no organ-grinders in Budapest. And we haven’t been at war with Hungary that long, you know. We didn’t declare war on Hungary, Finland and Rumania until last December.’
‘Even so, I should have thought seven months was time enough to get something going.’
Sir Pellinore shrugged his great shoulders. ‘I doubt if we should ever have declared war against these Nazi satellites at all unless Joe Stalin had pressed us to—and trained spies can’t be got just by putting an advertisement in The Times. We’ve still probably only about one to every dozen employed by Himmler. With so much ground to cover, it would be a waste to send good men to places where the odds are all against our ever undertaking military operations. Anyway, I’ve drawn a blank about what’s going on there apart from a digest of the stuff that has appeared in the newspapers’
‘How about an identity and a passport?’
‘That’s all fixed up. I didn’t do it through the old firm, though. I’m told that they perform miracles to keep us in the know about the enemy’s Order of Battle, but in other ways it’s far from being the show it was when the little Admiral ran it. There’s a new firm that specialises in sabotage, but its people bring home a lot of stuff, and its Chief is much more of a live wire. Been parachuted into Hitler’s Europe himself at least half-a-dozen times. You’re to report to him at ten-thirty tomorrow morning.’
‘Good. I must say I would have liked to have someone reliable whom I could contact, just to get the lie of the land; but if Hungary is now like darkest Africa to the professionals, I must go native and hope for the best.’
‘Oh, I can give you a few names to start the ball rollin’. Old friends of mine. Now that our countries are at war they may not be willing to give you their active help. But they’ll still observe the decencies. If you say you’re a friend of mine they wouldn’t dream of turning you over to the police. There’s István Lujza. He was a Cabinet Minister in the last years of the old Emperor. And Prince György Hunyadi. He owns the finest partridge shoot in Hungary; probably in the world. Then there’s Mihály Zapolya. Never forget one night when we got tight together and shot out half the lights on the Franz-Joseph Embankment. What a lark! That’s years ago, of course; but wars don’t make any difference to friendship between people with whom you’ve done that sort of thing.’
Next morning Gregory took a taxi to a big block of offices a quarter of a mile north of Oxford Street. It was a hive of activity and, judging from its entrance, passageways and lift, it appeared to be staffed almost entirely with pretty girls. Most of them were in the uniform of the F.A.N.Y. but quite a number wore smart civilian clothes. When they addressed each other they spoke with the accent of Mayfair but, as they passed Gregory in short stages from the door up to the General’s office, they were none the less brisk and efficient for that.
The General proved to be a small, dark, wiry man. Instead of the slacks usually worn by officers in London, or the ugly battle-dress which had been brought in only with the object of making officers less conspicuous in the field, he was turned out with the impeccable correctness of a staff-officer in the First World War. The sight of his beautifully cut riding breeches and highly polished field boots—in combination with the parachute badge on his arm—made Gregory’s heart warm towards him, and within a few minutes they were talking together like old friends.
When they got down to business, the General said, ‘Sir Pellinore tells me that you speak both German and French well enough to pass as a native of either country. As you must know, owing to centuries of Austrian domination the Magyars have an hereditary hatred for everything German; so I think you would stand a much better chance of winning their confidence if you clocked in as a Frenchman. Diplomatic relations between France and Hungary have never been severed. With a Vichy passport you should be able to go in and out freely whenever you wish.’
‘Excellent,’ Gregory nodded. ‘I like that idea. There must be plenty of Frenchmen carrying Vichy passports who are de Gaullists at heart; so nobody will think it particularly odd if, when sounding them out, I express views uncomplimentary to the Nazis.’
‘That is just what I thought; and we have an identity for you which should fill the bill. It is that of a Free French Officer who was an Interpreter with the Commandos and was killed in the St. Nazaire raid. Your story will be that you were fed up with serving under General de Gaulle, so during the confusion of the fighting you took the opportunity to desert; and that, as you had no time for Pétain either, instead of remaining in France you went to Switzerland. Why, after a few months, you should have decided to go to Hungary, I leave to you.’
‘It depends rather on this chap’s circumstances, doesn’t it?’
‘To some extent; but I don’t think they will help you very much. His name was Etienne Tavenier. He retired from the Army with the rank of Major a few years before the war. Presumably he did so because at about that time he inherited from his father a pleasant property in Périgord. That suggests that he was fairly well off, so could have afforded to travel, and might some time have been to Budapest on a holiday. But they will give you such particulars as we have of him downstairs. Your passport is ready for you there too, and various other papers. Among them is a draft on a Swiss bank in Berne for £500. They will give you the lot in cash or open a credit for you as Commandant Tavenier in Budapest, just as you wish.’
Gregory smiled. ‘That seems quite a generous allowance, as I am going there only to try to find out the form; and that should not take me more than a couple of weeks.’
‘The amount is in accordance with Sir Pellinore’s request,’ the General smiled back. ‘This being a private enterprise, he is footing the bill. If your report proves hopeful, no doubt you will be going out again to stir up some trouble. If not, and you have left some of the money in a Budapest bank, we can arrange for our Swiss friends to reclaim it. And now, I’m due at a conference; so I’ll wish you luck and pass you on to the section that has been arranging about your papers.’
The General’s beautiful secretary took Gregory to a room on a lower floor, and said to a girl seated behind a desk there, ‘Oh, Diana, here is your customer for Budapest.’ Then with a ravishing smile she left them.
Diana was another lovely—small, thin-faced, with the sort of golden hair that cannot be got out of a bottle, and a slightly arched nose. She looked only about twenty-two, so Gregory expected her to show him through to someone more senior; but she casually waved him to a chair, offered him a Lucky Strike, then took one herself and, after surveying him for a moment from beneath her long lashes, said with a smile:
‘It’s a good thing you are only taking Tavenier’s name and not attempting to pass as him. He was quite a lot older and going bald.’
‘Did you know him, then?’ Gregory enquired.
‘No. But I got a description of him from C.C.O., H.Q., so that if you do run into trouble you could anyhow say that they are confusing you with a cousin of the same name, and be able to describe him correctly,’
‘That was thoughtful of you.’
‘Oh, it’s just part of the Austin Reed Service.’ Producing a folder from a drawer she tipped its contents out on to the desk and passed them to him one by one, methodically checking them off on a list as she did so.
In addition to the Vichy passport—which contained an up-to-date photograph of himself that he had had taken at Sir Pellinore’s suggestion before going up to Wales—and the draft on the Swiss bank, there were a partly used Vichy ration card, two faked bills and several letters to support his false identity. When she had done, she said:
‘As Tavenier lived over here from the time of his evacuation with other French troops from Dunkirk until the St. Nazaire raid last March, it would be quite in order for him to be wearing British underclothes; but you should remove any initials you may have on yours and, I suggest, buy yourself a French style suit and shoes when you get to Berne.’
Such advice to Gregory was very much ‘teaching one’s grandmother to suck eggs’; but he thanked her gravely, and she went on:
‘Now this is off the record. I have one contact for you. But you must memorise his name and address; not write it down. It is Leon Levianski, wholesale furrier, 158 Kertész Utcza, Pest.’
‘Thanks.’ He repeated what she had said three times, then asked, ‘How does this chap come into our picture?’
‘He doesn’t.’ She lit another cigarette and looked down at her desk, her long lashes veiling her eyes. ‘I happen to have an American boyfriend who is in O.S.S. Naturally we are terribly cagey with one another, but I told him the other night that we badly wanted a contact in Budapest and asked if he could help. He got me the name of this Jewish merchant. You see, it is still possible for the Hungarians to write to the U.S. via Scandinavia or Turkey, and ever since America came into the war this man has been writing a monthly letter to a cousin of his in New York. Instead of his letters just being waffles, they are factual reports of what goes on inside Hitler’s Europe—at least the old Austria-Hungarian part of it—as far as this man can assess it on all he hears by way of the Jewish grape-vine. After a while the cousin in New York thought they might interest the State Department; so now he sends them on regularly to Washington. Their writer might be able to help a bit. Anyhow, I think you would be quite safe in approaching him.’
Gregory repeated the name and address again, and nodded. ‘I’m very grateful to you.’ Then he read through the particulars of Etienne Tavenier. They were distinctly scanty. The Frenchman had entered the 14th Regiment of Tirailleurs in 1912, and served as a subaltern in the First World War. Afterwards he had spent several years in North Africa, then in 1926 married Mademoiselle Phoebe Constant (father’s occupation unknown), and transferred to the 110th Infantry. It was believed that there were no children of the marriage, and that the wife’s death (about the time of Munich) had been due to ptomaine poisoning. A year or so earlier Tavenier had come into his inheritance, a small château at Razac, not far from Périgueux. In 1939 he had been recalled to the colours, and in May, 1940, his battalion had been a part of General Blanchard’s army, which had made a gallant stand beside the British. After being taken off from Dunkirk he had opted to remain in Britain as a member of the Free French Forces.
Having digested this, Gregory looked up and remarked, ‘Not exactly a world-shaking career; but that is all to the good for my purpose. It is going to take quite a lot of thinking, though, to provide a plausible reason for a chap like that taking a holiday in Budapest in the middle of a war. If he was a sufferer from arthritis he might seek relief in a course of the famous mud baths; but it wouldn’t be easy to bluff the doctors that I was afflicted in that way. Of course, the Hungarians are a romantic lot, so I might put it across discreetly that I had formed an attachment there before the war and had come back in the hope of being able to find the girl again.’
The goddess behind the desk shook her head. ‘I don’t like it. Middle-class Frenchmen are the most unromantic people in the world. But I have been thinking quite a lot about a story for you to tell. How about using foie gras?’
‘Foie gras?’ Gregory echoed in a puzzled voice.
‘Yes; it’s a national industry in Hungary. My mother and stepfather were there in 1938 and they brought back tins and tins of it.’
He nodded. ‘You’re quite right. One can’t look out of the train anywhere in Hungary without seeing a flock of geese. But what is your idea?’
‘Well, this foie gras was awfully good. The biggest tins had whole livers in them and they were that lovely shade of rich pink. There was only one thing lacking; there were no truffles to bring out the flavour.’
Gregory sat forward and thumped the desk. ‘By jove! And I am supposed to own a place in Périgord, where the truffles come from. Of course, my object in going to Budapest is to get in touch with the foie gras makers and see if I can’t fix up to supply them with truffles after the war.’
With the unselfconsciousness which is so often a by-product of beauty, the girl scratched her head with the blunt end of her pencil as she said, ‘That’s it. And my parents tell me that Budapest is an enchanting city. I do hope you’ll have a pleasant stay there and a safe return.’
Ten minutes later Gregory left her office. He had never subscribed to the theory that blondes were necessarily dumb, and he knew from experience that beauty or the lack of it had no relation whatever to women’s brains; but he did marvel somewhat that beings so young and glamorous as those in that secret headquarters should now be conducting affairs as efficiently as well-travelled men. He decided that he would bring Diana back the biggest foie gras he could find in Hungary as a reward for her excellent idea.
He could not know that before the month ended he would be counting himself lucky if he could get out of Budapest without bag or baggage, but alive to tell the tale.