Hungarian hands the studied calmness, the mask of emotional indifference vanished and his eyes were alight with excitement and a hope that he had thought had vanished for ever. He took two quick steps towards the girl, grabbing at his blanket as it slipped and almost fell to the floor. 'Did you say, "Jansci"?' he demanded.
'What's wrong? What do you want?' The girl had retreated as Reynolds had advanced, then stopped as she bumped into the reassuring bulk of Sandor and clutched his arm. The apprehension in her face faded, and she looked at Reynolds thoughtfully and nodded. 'Yes, I said that. Jansci.'
'Jansci.' Reynolds repeated the word slowly, incredulously, like a man savouring each syllable to the full, wanting desperately to believe in the truth of something but unable to bring himself to that belief. He walked across the room, the hope and the conflicting doubt still mirrored in his eyes, and stopped before the man with the scarred hands.
'Your name is Jansci?' Reynolds spoke slowly, the unbelief, the inability to believe, still registering in his eyes.
'I am called Jansci.' The older man nodded, his eyes speculative and quiet.
'One four one four one eight two.' Reynolds looked un-blinkingly at the other, searching for the faintest trace of response, of admission. 'Is that it?'
'Is that what, Mr. Buhl?'
'If you are Jansci, the number is one four one four one eight two,' Reynolds repeated. Gently, meeting no resistance, he reached out for the scarred left hand, pushed the cuff back from the wrist and stared down at the violet tattoo. 1414182 -- the number was as clear, as unblemished as if it had been made only that day.
Reynolds sat down on the edge of the desk, caught sight of a packet of cigarettes and shook one loose. Szendro struck and held a match for him, and Reynolds nodded gratefully: he doubted whether he could have done it for himself, his hands were trembling uncontrollably. The fizzling of the igniting match seemed strangely loud in the sudden silence of the room. Jansci it was who finally broke the silence.
'You seem to know something about me?' he prompted gently.
'I know a lot more.' The tremor was dying out of Reynolds' hands and he was coming back on balance again, outwardly, at least. He looked round the room, at Szendro, Sandor, the girl and the youth with the quick nervous eyes, all with expressions of bewilderment or anticipation on their faces. 'These are your friends? You can trust them absolutely -- they all know who you are? Who you really are, I mean?'
'They do. You may speak freely.'
'Jansci is a pseudonym for Illyurin.' Reynolds might have been repeating something by rote, something he knew off by heart, as indeed he did. 'Major-General Alexis Illyurin. Born Kalinovka, Ukraine, October 18th, 1904. Married June 18th, 1931. Wife's name Catherine, daughter's name Julia'. Reynolds glanced at the girl. 'This must be Julia, she seems about the right age. Colonel Mackintosh says he'd like to have his boots back: I don't know what he means.'
'Just an old joke.' Jansci walked round the desk to his seat and leant back, smiling. 'Well, well, my old friend Peter Mackintosh still lives. Indestructible, he always was indestructible. You must work for him, of course, Mr.- -- ah -- '
'Reynolds. Michael Reynolds. I work for him.'
'Describe him.' The subtle change could hardly be called a hardening, but it was unmistakable. 'Face, physique, clothes, history, family -- everything.'
Reynolds did so. He talked for five minutes without stopping, then Jansci held up his hand.
'Enough. You must know him, must work for him and be the person you claim to be. But he took a risk, a great risk. It is not like my old friend.'
'I might be caught and made to talk, and you, too, would be lost?'
'You are very quick, young man.'
'Colonel Mackintosh took no chance,8 Reynolds said quietly. 'Your name and number -- that was all I knew. Where you lived, what you looked like -- I had no idea. He didn't even tell
'What's wrong? What do you want?' The girl had retreated as Reynolds had advanced, then stopped as she bumped into the reassuring bulk of Sandor and clutched his arm. The apprehension in her face faded, and she looked at Reynolds thoughtfully and nodded. 'Yes, I said that. Jansci.'
'Jansci.' Reynolds repeated the word slowly, incredulously, like a man savouring each syllable to the full, wanting desperately to believe in the truth of something but unable to bring himself to that belief. He walked across the room, the hope and the conflicting doubt still mirrored in his eyes, and stopped before the man with the scarred hands.
'Your name is Jansci?' Reynolds spoke slowly, the unbelief, the inability to believe, still registering in his eyes.
'I am called Jansci.' The older man nodded, his eyes speculative and quiet.
'One four one four one eight two.' Reynolds looked un-blinkingly at the other, searching for the faintest trace of response, of admission. 'Is that it?'
'Is that what, Mr. Buhl?'
'If you are Jansci, the number is one four one four one eight two,' Reynolds repeated. Gently, meeting no resistance, he reached out for the scarred left hand, pushed the cuff back from the wrist and stared down at the violet tattoo. 1414182 -- the number was as clear, as unblemished as if it had been made only that day.
Reynolds sat down on the edge of the desk, caught sight of a packet of cigarettes and shook one loose. Szendro struck and held a match for him, and Reynolds nodded gratefully: he doubted whether he could have done it for himself, his hands were trembling uncontrollably. The fizzling of the igniting match seemed strangely loud in the sudden silence of the room. Jansci it was who finally broke the silence.
'You seem to know something about me?' he prompted gently.
'I know a lot more.' The tremor was dying out of Reynolds' hands and he was coming back on balance again, outwardly, at least. He looked round the room, at Szendro, Sandor, the girl and the youth with the quick nervous eyes, all with expressions of bewilderment or anticipation on their faces. 'These are your friends? You can trust them absolutely -- they all know who you are? Who you really are, I mean?'
'They do. You may speak freely.'
'Jansci is a pseudonym for Illyurin.' Reynolds might have been repeating something by rote, something he knew off by heart, as indeed he did. 'Major-General Alexis Illyurin. Born Kalinovka, Ukraine, October 18th, 1904. Married June 18th, 1931. Wife's name Catherine, daughter's name Julia'. Reynolds glanced at the girl. 'This must be Julia, she seems about the right age. Colonel Mackintosh says he'd like to have his boots back: I don't know what he means.'
'Just an old joke.' Jansci walked round the desk to his seat and leant back, smiling. 'Well, well, my old friend Peter Mackintosh still lives. Indestructible, he always was indestructible. You must work for him, of course, Mr.- -- ah -- '
'Reynolds. Michael Reynolds. I work for him.'
'Describe him.' The subtle change could hardly be called a hardening, but it was unmistakable. 'Face, physique, clothes, history, family -- everything.'
Reynolds did so. He talked for five minutes without stopping, then Jansci held up his hand.
'Enough. You must know him, must work for him and be the person you claim to be. But he took a risk, a great risk. It is not like my old friend.'
'I might be caught and made to talk, and you, too, would be lost?'
'You are very quick, young man.'
'Colonel Mackintosh took no chance,8 Reynolds said quietly. 'Your name and number -- that was all I knew. Where you lived, what you looked like -- I had no idea. He didn't even tell
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