A word now in passing as to how I can supply all this information about Dimitri’s triumph in vanishing into thin air with his booty (and his consort), whilst a frantic throng of British and Gallic constabulary in hot pursuit could only draw a blank.
During that following fortnight, I had a chain of long mails from my old horticultural companion turn up surprisingly on my laptop, with a blow by blow account of how both had found that wily way to abscond. I also got a follow up call from him announcing his arrival with his darling at a final distant sanctuary and saying a last poignant “so long, it was good to know you” and “oudatcha!”
But may I just start taking you back to that outwardly rundown isolation hospital building and Dimitri’s cryptic password to gain admission. Our two runaways ran hastily through that dirty old door, passing a duo of tough looking guards (both having a pair of pistols handy) into a brilliantly lit building, which had a look of a futuristic film studio. It was all glass partitions, automatic sliding doors and shiny floors, digital indicator boards along long corridors to various wards, young blond staff in stylish outfits, warm air-conditioning, and background music by Borodin playing softly, occasionally giving way to vocal information in both Russian and our own idiom.
Whilst Barbara sat anxiously in a waiting hall, Dimitri clutching tightly his box of gold was shown into a dark soundproof room, to sit for an hour with two tall grim looking apparatchiks in a stormy discussion of final conditions for dividing his hoard. Finally with smiling and vigorous backslapping all round, Dimitri was to hand his compatriots two fifths of his booty. So now, that work on his physical transformation could truly start.
Within two jolts of a lamb’s tail, you could find Dimitri and Barbara with scant clothing lying flat out on top of individual surgical platforms in a floodlit room. A man in doctor’s garb was busy working painstakingly, changing totally both runaways’ looks. This individual was probably Britain’s paramount prodigy in facial and bodily disguising, and had had a brilliant history of working for film and TV studios on major stars (particularly in horror films). Through his skilful handiwork in applying various masking products, Dimitri’s skin was slowly turning into a mass of burns, bruising, frightful scabs and flaky crusty lumps—a ghastly sight. In fact it was such a convincing transformation that any consultant, who was an authority on critical skin complaints, might put forward a diagnosis of pityriasis chronica or von Zumbusch psoriasis. What was most important was that looking at him as hard as you could, you would not in a month of Sundays say this was Dimitri.
Changing Barbara’s look was not such a difficult task. It was simply about making this lady look a young man with short hair and a stubbly chin. Barbara also had to put on military clothing to pass off as an army motorist.
With such dissimulations intact, both now took custody of a long khaki hospital wagon (with a blood colour cross on its doors and roof). Barbara sat up front driving whilst Dimitri lay horizontal in its back (with his box snugly out of sight). And so, that final link in this chain of withdrawal from our world was about to start.
It was at first a calm and smoothly running trip—although Barbara had many a worry with squad cars racing by, though not stopping. Both got quickly into a calm driving rhythm—not too fast and not too slow.
First port of call was Dymchurch. A fast launch was waiting in a solitary spot, driving on board took just an instant with no control from its customs’ post which was vacant all that night (vital information from our Russian contacts—so showing passports was not an obligation). A calm crossing to Wissant took just two hours. Finally, landing in Normandy was in no way arduous and that runaway wagon was soon cruising happily along fairly vacant motorways.
In fact it was mostly a humdrum trip, passing placidly from Calais through Arras, Laon, Châlons, Toul and Colmar, halting, following four hours’ driving, for a short pit stop in a shady spot by a food hall for a sandwich, a soft drink and a short but obligatory half hour nap. All going to plan.
Until, that is, about half an hour from that Swiss boundary. Traffic was gradually grinding to a halt on account of a CRS road block. An assiduous patrol was making occasional cars and trucks pull in to go through inquiry and scrutiny. It had put this manhunt in hand following a brutal burglary in Rouffach, at which a civic dignitary was shot and a haul of cash lost.
During this slow crawl, Barbara was practising talking in a low pitch, as a man would, and trying to think of any basic Gallic vocabulary which had hung around from schooldays. How should you start translating that Dimitri had draconian burns all across his body and was on his way to a Swiss clinic to submit to critical nursing to bring his skin back to normal? Barbara was cross for not having thought of bringing a bi-lingual dictionary for this sort of occasion.
On arriving at that road block, a tough looking official hastily put out an arm and was indicating to Barbara to pull in and alight for quizzing. A curious discussion was soon to occur in a mix of idioms—both participants having a worthy try at bi-lingual communication.
“To what town do you go?”
“Nous allons à un hôpital à Zurich”
“Nationality?”
“Anglais—oh, I should say British”
“But your car has diplomatic markings. Show us your passport.”
Barbara’s muscular organ for pumping blood was now racing. This could truly put a cat among a crowd of small stout birds that coo constantly, thousands of which you can find in London’s tourist spots. Total anonymity was crucial for both to vanish for good.
“Un instant! I am going to look for it dans l’auto”
“D’accord. But as you do it, I must ask to look in back of wagon”.
Barbara, by now most anxious was shouting at him.
“Non, s’il vous plaît, il y a un ami mourant. Critically ill”
But a companion of his in uniform was by now lifting up that wagon’s back door. Taking a quick look in, a loud gasp rang out from that poor soul, who was backing away in shock at that gory sight of Dimitri’s skin. As our Russian, conscious of all that was said during this inquisition, was now starting to groan loudly as if in stabbing pain, this functionary softly shut that door back down again, shouting a flood of anxious words to his boss. Straightaway this official put on a distraught air, standing back to start waving Barbara onwards with frantic hand signals.
In fact on driving off from that tricky control point, Barbara found that a CRS car was now right in front with its roof lights flashing, so as to unblock any slowly moving traffic in our way. It was to accompany our pair rapidly as far as that critical Swiss crossing point, just a short run from a final sanctuary.
“Cool!” was Barbara’s summary to Dimitri of that amazing affair, as that pair at last saw a road sign indicating that Zürich was but thirty km to go.
“Hot stuff”, said our invalid, chuckling now. “Wait till I start writing my book about all this”.