The Diplomat [antikvár]

Chapter 1Lord Essex sat in the Douglas aeroplane and smoked his pipe and waited for another conveyance to come and take him away. The plane had force-landed in the darkness after running into a snowstorm which had frozen its controls. It rested now on its belly in a bleak white Russian field, washed quietly by the snow and the wind. Looking out of the small window at the snowing darkness, Lord Essex was sorry that he was not a younger man so that he could have gone with Mac-Gregor and the Russian crew to look for a farmhouse and some transport.At fifty-eight Essex was too old to be anything but the man left behind, even though he looked ten years younger. Essex was deliberately healthy and strongly opposed to growing old. His face was pink and calm and adult; he had confident eyes and a solid noble broken nose. As he leaned on his elbows in the cushioned seat he was relaxed and even sleepy and he showed no reaction to the dangerous landing they had just made. He was more concerned about the snoring of the Russian passenger behind him, and by the fact that his arrival in Moscow would be one day delayed. One day's delay could be unfortunate on a mission that had to be done-with as quickly as possible. Apart from that he was glad of this interruption. He was one of those gifted men to whom adventure always happens. He could expect something like a forced landing to come along at the right time and give him romance. The more that happened to Essex at fifty-eight the more he liked it, so long as it did not destroy him. The pity of it was that he could not go with MacGregor across that dark wash of snow.MacGregor had gone of! with the Russians without asking Essex's permission. Though he had never seen MacGregor before meeting him on the London airfield, Essex felt that the young man might have asked his permission before going. MacGregor was his chosen assistant on this mission and MacGregor owed him the courtesy of some deference. MacGregor had not been impolite, but he was unusually independent and brainy-looking for an India Office expert. Essex had undertaken this mission at a few hours' notice and he had chosen MacGregor on paper as the best man he could get on Iranian affairs. Since leaving London Essex had not succeeded in thawing him out. Even the forced3landing had not broken MacGregor's restraint and he had behaved in the worst moment of the crash as unnervously as Essex himself. Nevertheless, in their short and broken conversations Essex had already detected a slight and unexplainable reluctance in MacGregor, a careful withdrawal or a discontent. Essex did not like it. On a mission like this he had to have the quick co-operation of his assistant: success or failure could depend upon it. It was time that he took MacGregor in hand, because MacGregor would have to be straightened out by the time they reached Moscow.The Russian behind Essex snored again and Essex leaned back and touched the man to stop it. Then he bundled up in his fur-lined coat and tried to sleep with his mind upon the first meeting with Molotov. He would make sly jokes with Molotov about their forced landing in a Russian plane. They would be English jokes which Molotov might not fully appreciate. No doubt Molotov would smile with his flat face and think up a reply which would come rattling off his sharp tongue. It would be something clever, humorous enough, but political because the Russians behaved that way even in their humour. They were always half serious and half proud, and always politically single-minded.When Essex awakened, MacGregor was sitting beside him. They were alone in the plane. "Well, MacGregor," Essex said. "Any luck at all? Did you find a village?""We found a farmhouse," MacGregor said. "Apparently there is a village across the far north end of this field. The pilot is bringing a sled, and we can ride in.""How about transport to Moscow?""We'll have to do what we can at the village. One of the crew has gone to a Red Army camp somewhere about, and with a little luck we may get a car." MacGregor spoke with this care which Essex did not like."How far are we from Moscow?" Essex asked him."About forty miles.""What about that sled to take us to the village?" Essex would have to ask the questions because MacGregor would not volunteer much information."It will be here any minute.""Well that's something," Essex grunted.MacGregor added nothing and they sat quietly in the cold plane. Essex lit his pipe again, and MacGregor sat still as if he did not want to disturb Essex or remind Essex of his presence, but Lord Essex stretched again with calm laziness."I suppose we will miss Molotov to-morrow," he said to MacGregor."Yes."