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I attempted something noncommittal.
“One discovers,” he said, “that one place is rather like another. And that one’s own home, one’s ancestral home, has something special to recommend it. You go to Turkey from here, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“To any particular city?”
“Ankara.”
“Ah, yes. I was there once many years ago, but I remember very little of the city. My own position then was similar to yours now in Sofia. I had the opportunity to visit the city but lacked the chance to tour it, to see something of its sights. It is unfortunate, I would say, that the involved man has no time for sightseeing. While the tourist, on the other hand, can examine areas at his leisure but ca
I agreed. And I thought specifically of my tour of Andorra, traversing the tiny republic beneath a load of hay. The involved man-
By the time we were ready to listen to Radio Free Europe, I still had learned no more of the nature of the Society of the Left Hand. We sat in his library, surrounded by four walls of books, while he fiddled with the dials of an antiquated short-wave radio. I thought of the U.S. television commercials, peasant families huddled together in the darkness, the radio pitched low, the listeners keeping one ear on the voice of freedom and the other ear tuned in anticipation of a knock on the door, a visit from the secret police, a beating, a forced confession, a bullet fired point-blank into the back of the neck. In our comfortable chairs, sipping our large glasses of Tokay, that particular commercial seemed violently unreal.
Throughout the program Father Gregor kept giving vent to peals of unrestrained laughter. He was a tall man, a heavy man, and when he laughed, the walls shook. “Marvelous,” he would roar. “Extraordinary,” he would explode. And the room would rock with his laughter.
Two news items, both delivered fairly late in the hour, were of special interest to me.
The first was a straightforward report on the revolution in Macedonia. “Do not despair, freedom-lovers of Bulgaria,” said the intense voice of a young woman. “The spirit of independence ca
Father Gregor laughed and laughed.
Later in the same program I heard my own name mentioned. I almost dropped my wine glass. This time the speaker was male.
“Yet another act of Russian provocation has threatened the peace of the world,” the a
“Yet there is still hope for mankind. Ta
There was a further denunciation of Russian espionage, but I barely heard it. My head was spi
British air and coastal defenses-but how could they have been stolen in Ireland? And if they had been stolen in England, why on earth would the tall man have run to Ireland with them? And for whom had he been working? And why? And-
Gradually, as the a
Who he might be and who might be his employers were still unanswerable questions. But they did not matter tremendously. What did matter was that I seemed to have a load of dynamite in my little leather satchel. It scarcely concerned me where the plans had come from or where they were supposed to be going. But the whole world now knew that I had those plans and the whole world also knew, somehow, that I was on my way to Balikesir, and this was a matter of considerable concern.
How they had found out was another good question. Any of several persons could have told them-Kitty, the Dolans, even Esteban, although I couldn’t recall mentioning my precise destination to him. For that matter, I had left a map of Turkey in my apartment, with Balikesir circled in bright blue ink. By now it was reasonable to assume that my apartment had been searched a dozen times over, and the bright blue circle on my map would certainly have been noticed by someone. I didn’t think Kitty would have talked and I couldn’t picture the Dolans as informers, but of course if Esteban had known anything I’m sure he would have run off at the mouth to the first person who caught hold of him.
The Radio Moscow program had an added kicker. Nothing about the British plans this time, nothing at all. But there was a brief report that went something like this:
“Continuing their program of harassment, agents of the American Central Intelligence Agency once again launched a desperate attempt to undermine the security of one of the peace-loving socialist republics of Eastern Europe. This time our sister nation of Yugoslavia was the victim. Playing on racial friction and decadent economic drives, CIA operatives under the direction of Ivan Mikhail Ta
I poured myself a fresh glass of wine. It was begi
Why, I was finally begi
“Perhaps I am overly fond of those two programs,” Father Gregor commented. “Each, as you can see, is a source of great amusement to me. You noticed, for example, the two rather divergent views of last night’s trouble in Macedonia? I wonder which came closest to the truth.”