Read Online Masaryk Station (John Russell) by David Downing - Free Book Online
Authors: David Downing
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clothes to the documents in the bottom. He wasn’t that sorry about the jeep—he had always loved sitting in trains—but the journey would probably now take most of the day, and he ought to be on his way.
The walk to the station took fifteen minutes, the wait for a train considerably longer. A Venice service eventually carried him up the coast to the Italian border, where the guard demanded payment for an onward ticket to Udine. A change was required at Monfalcone, where a three-hour wait allowed him time to find a reasonable lunch. It was almost three by the time his connection—two ancient coaches behind a rusty tank locomotive—started off up the Isonzo valley, skirting the first of what soon seemed an endless series of First War cemeteries. After a lengthy stop in Gorizia, the train slowly puffed its way northwestward across the southern edge of the Alpine foothills, crossing stream after swollen stream rushing south toward the sea. Once Russell allowed himself to accept the lack of haste, he found himself enjoying the journey—after Trieste and its ludicrous politics, here was the earth reborn again, with all the bright greens of spring.
He had never been to Udine, which was larger than he’d imagined, and seemed, from the back of a cab at least, to be blessed with a wealth of interesting architecture. Another time perhaps.
The Hotel Delle Alpi was impressive, and more luxurious than he’d come to expect when American Intelligence was footing the bill. It and its proprietor, who introduced himself as Boris, and who looked more German than Italian, had survived the war apparently unscathed, a circumstance that Russell always—and, he admitted, often unfairly—considered grounds for suspicion.
Only one room had been booked for himself and Mister Balanchuk, which was much more in line with the usual stingy CIC practice. And it was barely big enough for two, let alone the three which Boris suggested. The rooms on either side were taken, butafter only a brief show of annoyance, the proprietor found him two adjoining rooms farther down the corridor. Babysitting a human monster was bad enough, and Russell was damned if he was going to share a bed with him.
The hotel restaurant looked less than inspiring, but it was already growing dark outside, and he supposed he should be there when Palychko arrived. As it happened, the food was exquisite, the wine as good as any he’d drunk since pre-war days. Russell lingered over coffee and brandy, reading with one ear cocked for a vehicle outside, but when the lobby clock chimed eleven he decided to call it a day.
It felt like he’d only just closed his eyes when someone knocked on his door. ‘Your friends have arrived,’ Boris half-shouted.
Two apparent soldiers were drinking in the bar, one a CIC Major whom Russell recognised from a meeting in Salzburg a year or so earlier, the other Maksym Palychko, who was dressed as a GI corporal. He was shorter than Russell had imagined from the picture, with an unexpectedly appealing smile. The long white scar on the neck seemed the only predictable thing about him.
They all shook hands like civilised people, and the Major—whose name, Russell remembered, was Hanningham—poured Russell a generous measure of Scotch.
‘Any problems?’ Russell asked, for want of anything better.
‘None,’ the Major said cheerfully. ‘I think everyone manning that border is on our payroll.’
Palychko was looking around the empty bar.
Russell introduced himself in Russian. ‘Or would you rather use German?’ he added in that language.
‘ Deutsch,’ the Ukrainian said shortly. He drained his glass. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he added.
Either Hanningham had no qualms about sharing the bed ‘big enough for three’ with Palychko, or he was too tired to care, andsoon Russell was lying in his own. They met again at breakfast in the wood-panelled dining room with its distant view of the mountains, and after half an hour of
The walk to the station took fifteen minutes, the wait for a train considerably longer. A Venice service eventually carried him up the coast to the Italian border, where the guard demanded payment for an onward ticket to Udine. A change was required at Monfalcone, where a three-hour wait allowed him time to find a reasonable lunch. It was almost three by the time his connection—two ancient coaches behind a rusty tank locomotive—started off up the Isonzo valley, skirting the first of what soon seemed an endless series of First War cemeteries. After a lengthy stop in Gorizia, the train slowly puffed its way northwestward across the southern edge of the Alpine foothills, crossing stream after swollen stream rushing south toward the sea. Once Russell allowed himself to accept the lack of haste, he found himself enjoying the journey—after Trieste and its ludicrous politics, here was the earth reborn again, with all the bright greens of spring.
He had never been to Udine, which was larger than he’d imagined, and seemed, from the back of a cab at least, to be blessed with a wealth of interesting architecture. Another time perhaps.
The Hotel Delle Alpi was impressive, and more luxurious than he’d come to expect when American Intelligence was footing the bill. It and its proprietor, who introduced himself as Boris, and who looked more German than Italian, had survived the war apparently unscathed, a circumstance that Russell always—and, he admitted, often unfairly—considered grounds for suspicion.
Only one room had been booked for himself and Mister Balanchuk, which was much more in line with the usual stingy CIC practice. And it was barely big enough for two, let alone the three which Boris suggested. The rooms on either side were taken, butafter only a brief show of annoyance, the proprietor found him two adjoining rooms farther down the corridor. Babysitting a human monster was bad enough, and Russell was damned if he was going to share a bed with him.
The hotel restaurant looked less than inspiring, but it was already growing dark outside, and he supposed he should be there when Palychko arrived. As it happened, the food was exquisite, the wine as good as any he’d drunk since pre-war days. Russell lingered over coffee and brandy, reading with one ear cocked for a vehicle outside, but when the lobby clock chimed eleven he decided to call it a day.
It felt like he’d only just closed his eyes when someone knocked on his door. ‘Your friends have arrived,’ Boris half-shouted.
Two apparent soldiers were drinking in the bar, one a CIC Major whom Russell recognised from a meeting in Salzburg a year or so earlier, the other Maksym Palychko, who was dressed as a GI corporal. He was shorter than Russell had imagined from the picture, with an unexpectedly appealing smile. The long white scar on the neck seemed the only predictable thing about him.
They all shook hands like civilised people, and the Major—whose name, Russell remembered, was Hanningham—poured Russell a generous measure of Scotch.
‘Any problems?’ Russell asked, for want of anything better.
‘None,’ the Major said cheerfully. ‘I think everyone manning that border is on our payroll.’
Palychko was looking around the empty bar.
Russell introduced himself in Russian. ‘Or would you rather use German?’ he added in that language.
‘ Deutsch,’ the Ukrainian said shortly. He drained his glass. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he added.
Either Hanningham had no qualms about sharing the bed ‘big enough for three’ with Palychko, or he was too tired to care, andsoon Russell was lying in his own. They met again at breakfast in the wood-panelled dining room with its distant view of the mountains, and after half an hour of
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