Beyond the Call by Lee Trimble Read Free Book Online

make out the dim shape of a woman. Before he could apologize for disturbing her, she spoke: ‘Are you Captain Trimble?’
    He was stunned. ‘… Why yes, yes I am.’
    â€˜Do come in,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
    Mystified, Robert stepped inside. The door closed, and the hall light was switched on. Smiling pleasantly at him was a tall, middle-aged lady.
    â€˜Come in and sit down,’ she said, leading him into the front room. She guided him to a chair by the unlit gas fire. The house was even more modest inside than outside, with bare walls and hardly any furniture. The lady’s cut-glass accent seemed bizarrely out of place in this shabby setting. She fed a shilling into the gas meter and lit the fire. ‘There. Now I need to make a telephone call. Cup of tea?’ Robert nodded mutely.
    The mysterious woman was gone for a few minutes and came back with a tray on which were cups and a teapot, and a plate of ham sandwiches. ‘You must be hungry after your journey,’ she said. ‘Do take a sandwich.’
    â€˜Yes ma’am. Thank you.’
    She turned away to pour tea. ‘I suppose you must be wondering what this is all about,’ she said sympathetically.
    â€˜Well, ma’am, I was told I was going to Russia to fly airplanes.’He looked curiously at her, wondering if she was about to offer him an explanation. She wasn’t.
    â€˜Honestly, I don’t know what plans they have for you. I’m just an intermediary. It’s better that you don’t ask me any questions. The embassy is sending a car for you. In the meantime, do help yourself to sandwiches.’
    The embassy? Don’t ask any questions? What was going on here?
    Despite his confusion, he managed to concentrate some of his attention on the sandwiches. They were another feature that marked this out as no ordinary house; with meat rationed, there wouldn’t be anyone else in this street eating ham sandwiches right now. Robert had eaten two and was reaching for a third (it had been a long day) when they heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. There was a knock on the door, and a suited civilian was admitted. He looked Robert up and down and spoke without ceremony: ‘Come on, it’s late.’ He had an American accent and an irritable tone; he looked like someone who didn’t get too much sleep. Robert followed him out to the car.
    It seemed like an awfully big charade for a ferry pilot. As they drove through the city, Robert decided to chance an inquiry. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s all this special treatment about?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ the man said. ‘And I wouldn’t tell you if I could. To you I’m just your driver.’
    Robert let it be, and lapsed back into silence.
    Even in the dark, he could see that the streets were getting wider and the houses larger as the car headed west. Finally they turned a corner and pulled up in front of a large, looming building. It didn’t look like much in the dark, with its pillared façade in shadow and its dozens of elegant windows blacked out, but this was 1 Grosvenor Square, Mayfair – the United States Embassy and heart of Little America.
    Inside, Robert was left waiting in the large, cold foyer. It was 9.30pm when at last an attaché came to collect him. Once again there was no introduction, no explanation. He was merely asked to confirm his identity, told that he would be called for in the morning,then handed over to an attendant, who escorted him to one of the embassy’s guest rooms.
    Too dog-tired to think, Robert undressed and sank into bed – a bed that he would later recall as the best and most comfortable he had ever slept in in his life.
    Next morning, an attendant woke him at 7.00 and warned him to be down for breakfast in 30 minutes. After a shower in lukewarm water, he ventured downstairs. Following his well-trained