Shard Calls the Tune

by Philip McCutchan

  It was late in the day when Hughes-Jones reached the largish town of Pontymadaw, not too far, but far enough, from Pentreteg. Here, casting about for a lodging, Hughes-Jones came up against a difficulty, which he had not anticipated soon enough, this difficulty being that he must conserve his cash. He had only what he had been arrested with in Russia all those years ago, and he could not risk using his Barclay card again now that he had reached his destination. By tomorrow, he would very likely be in the papers, for he had vanished without permission and before long someone would see that the Barclaycard was in fact a year out-of-date; his name would be noted by all shops and establishments using the useful Barclaycard. So there was no lodging; just the back of the Marina in a handy car park alongside a chapel where once Hughes-Jones had preached, and opposite this as it happened stood the Pontymadaw branch of the Western District Building Society that employed Evan Evans in Pentreteg. Coming to rest in the car park, Hughes-Jones suffered two flat tyres, since he had parked on some very jagged broken bottles. This was a misfortune; but as things turned out Hughes-Jones had chosen his parking lot very well indeed. It really was quite remarkable and if it was not the sheerest coincidence then there was the hand of God in it: not long after Hughes-Jones had woken in the morning, Sunday, and had taken a refreshing walk round Pontymadaw and was pondering the problem of breakfast, sitting up now in the driving seat of the Marina feeling desperately hungry and the price of everything gone up so much in three years even if a shop had been open, he heard the chug of a motor-bicycle. The motor-bicycle was in fact entering the car park, and upon the seat was not Evan Evans as he had first fancied it could be — but his wife, Megan herself, at any rate until she got off and parked the machine and walked away without noticing him. Many things stirred inside Hughes-Jones: he had had no contact with his wife for so long. But he didn’t move, not at first, he sat there thinking and thinking. There was no rush: she would be back for the motor-bicycle and he could prepare himself in the meantime. He craned his neck and watched Megan cross the road to the Western District Building Society. She unlocked the door and went in.

  After a while Hughes-Jones found he was unable to wait longer. After all these years … and he might, just, be able to persuade Megan that the course of her life had gone wrong. He got out of the hired car and crossed the road to the Western District office.

  12

  Shard had insisted: no feelers. Kolotechin must be left to play it his way and in his own time. When he was ready, he would show. Hedge must not jump the gun at this stage.

  “But supposing he doesn’t defect after all?”

  “Then he doesn’t and there’s nothing we can do, Hedge. We can’t kidnap him, that’s obvious.”

  “Yes, I see that. But how do you suppose he’ll go about it?” Shard said, “In a word, carefully. He may be the boss of the KGB, but even he’s subject to surveillance when outside Russia. If he moves too fast, too precipitately, he’ll be taken care of by his own security squad.”

  “Yes, I dare say you’re right,” Hedge agreed. He sounded gloomy; they were back in the High Commission — Hedge had said that was the best place to be from now on, so that they were in immediate touch when developments should occur; it was likely that Kolotechin would try to reach the High Commission, or anyway contact someone there. Hedge went on disconsolately, “It’s that American that bothers me, Shard. Hockaway. It’s so obvious what he’s here for — indeed the blasted man confirmed it to me.”

  “Stop worrying, Hedge.”

  “That’s all very well. I can’t help it. Americans are such a nuisance, so brash and pushing. If anybody can mess it up, he will. And I’m not having Kolotechin going to America.”

  Shard said, “That’s up to Kolotechin, too.”

  “No, it isn’t. He’s defecting to us and we’re all set up to receive him. America has no rights in this affair at all.” Hedge went across to the window and looked out. There wasn’t much of interest to see: plenty of sandstone, some Mediterranean blue, the everlasting priests and goats. Hedge brooded; the presence of Shard had divided his mind: Shard was at the same time a comfort and a goad. Why had he been sent? Did the Head of Security think that Hedge couldn’t cope on his own? Scarcely likely; Hedge was Shard’s boss. Ergo, he could cope. It must be the tremendous importance of Kolotechin; two heads were better than one in emergencies. Suddenly, the telephone rang. The High Commissioner was not present, and Hedge swung round.

  “I’ll take it,” he said. He put the handset to his ear. “Yes? This is the British High Commission.”

  The voice of the caller was loud: Shard could hear it. A man said, “Zis is Kolotechin. I seek asylum, yes? Ze Breetish, zey grant zis, no?”

  Hedge was speechless with excitement. He put a palm over the mouthpiece and hissed across at Shard. “It’s Kolotechin himself!”

  “With an American accent?” Shard said sourly. Hedge’s reaction was blind fury but his tirade was cut into by a loud and insulting laugh followed by a crash in his ear as the call was cut.

  *

  Later in the day a despatch arrived for Shard from Whitehall, via a routine flight from Heathrow. This revealed something of an emergency in England and more specifically in Wales. Hughes-Jones had vanished and the Barclaycard trail had gone to earth at a filling station between Monmouth and Abergavenny. The Welsh police had found a Marina with two flat tyres near a chapel in Pontymadaw, and a check with the Newbury car-hire firm who owned it had revealed all — all, that was, except Hughes-Jones himself. Naturally, the assumption had been made that Hughes-Jones was attempting to contact his wife, but so far that proved of little help: Megan Hughes-Jones had vanished too and Evan Evans was being cagey and nonco-operative to the point of saying absolutely nothing; he had his directors to worry about, and his reputation — he was a leading Rotarian and a man of importance in Pentreteg. He had admitted knowing a Mrs Megan Hughes-Jones and that was all. He was, said the message, a strong-minded man.

  Shard handed the despatch to Hedge, who read it, lifting his eyebrows and seeming unimpressed. “Does it matter?” he asked. “Hughes-Jones can’t disappear for long, he’s bound to be picked up.”

  “But maybe not in time,” Shard said, half to himself. The revenge theory really began to loom now; Evan Evans could be at real risk. Shard passed the story in full; Hedge’s face grew bleaker, full of blame. Shard said, “I never thought he’d have a hope of cutting and running.”

  “That’s as maybe. You stand in dereliction of your duty, Shard. Really, there’s no excuse at all! You should have made absolutely sure before handing him over … you’ll have to tell the home authorities now.”

  Shard nodded. “I’ll draft a message right away.”

  Hedge clicked his tongue in utter distraction. “What a nuisance all this is! I only hope it won’t impinge in some way on my getting Kolotechin safely into the UK.”

  *

  Megan Hughes-Jones had been immensely startled on being approached by her husband in the Western District office, where she had gone to collect a file for Evan Evans who was in temporary charge of the Pontymadaw office in the absence on the sick list of its own manager and chief assistant. Evan Evans did not like to be seen working on a Sunday, not when the office was bang opposite the chapel. Megan was a little short-sighted and at first didn’t recognise her husband.

  He stopped in the doorway and said, “Megan.”

  There was a silence, a tense and fraught silence. Of course, she had known that her husband might soon be released and returned to Wales and things would grow difficult, but this was a very premature shock indeed. In a flat voice she said, “Oh, it is you, is it? You are back, then?”

  “Yes, I am back, Megan my love —”

  “The hair, it is short, isn’t it?” Hughes-Jones had removed his hat on entering. “That would be the prison, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, the prison.” Hughes-Jones was trembling now, his mouth limp and wobbly. “I am back. And such stories I hear! Megan, they a
re not true, are they, these stories?”

  “It depends, doesn’t it,” she said. “How am I to know which stories you mean, Goronwy?”

  “To do with Evan Evans, of course.”

  “Oh, those stories.” She looked a trifle disconcerted at his forthrightness.

  “Yes, those stories.” Hughes-Jones felt angry; she was playing with his emotions and his deep love and it was not right. He knew very well now that she was with Evan Evans, though he had hoped to hear her deny it even if the denial was not true. Funny, that; but it would have shown she cared enough about him even now to try to save his feelings. But no; she did not. She would not be bothered even to make the routine denial. She was brazen, was Megan! He went on, “You will come with me now. You will not go back to that man.”

  She shook her head. “No. It is finished now, you and me.”

  “I say you will come with me. I have a car, a comfortable one. You are my wife in the sight of God. Your duty is clear. I am back from Russia and I need you, Megan.” Hughes-Jones’ face was pale and he still trembled. “Life has been very hard, you know.”

  “Yes. I am sorry about that. But come with you I will not.” The spectacles flashed in a shaft of sunlight that had broken through the clouds and into the office. Hughes-Jones took three paces forward, seized his wife’s wrist and held it fast. In a voice that sounded strange in his own ears he said, “Oh yes, you will come. If you do not, then I shall ruin Evan Evans and have him driven out of the Rotary and away from Pentreteg.” He paused, licking at his lips. “Or perhaps I shall go to him and kill him. You would not like that, Megan.”

  She stared back at him, eyes suddenly scared, and a hand pressing against her mouth. There was always the police, but they made a great fuss and everything would come out to be washed in public. Evan Evans would be angry, all the subterfuges over the years quite wasted. She said, “You would not do that.”

  “Oh yes, I would do it, I guarantee.” There was no doubt in his voice; he was not joking or anything like that. “I am a determined man, Megan.”

  She knew that to be true: one after the other, he had grasped such plums as he had been determined to get. Nuclear physicist, the choral society, lay preacher. Yes, he was determined; better to go with him and then escape; she knew not what he wanted of her except perhaps the one thing; she knew not how she would achieve escape nor what she would escape to with Evan Evan’s world under threat from Goronwy. But in such a situation you took one thing at a time and prayed for eventual deliverance.

  “I will come, then,” she said.

  “I am glad.” He gestured towards the door. Megan put the file away neatly then moved stiffly ahead of Hughes-Jones, hoping no one would be around to see and ask questions. Evan Evans was not to be put at any risk. Out into the street they went, into the bright day, and made for the Marina. Oh, damn, he had forgotten … two flat tyres! That was a bother and to get a garage man … the Marina just might be dangerous now. The number! The hire firm could have been approached for all he knew. The police were not fools, no. He would be caught. There were other cars, but they would be locked most likely, and to steal would also be dangerous. This was a bit of a difficulty but there was a solution handy. Hughes-Jones said, “We will go on the motor-bicycle. That will be safer.”

  “Why?”

  He explained.

  She said, “The number of that too is known, isn’t it, to Evan Evans, and will be reported?”

  “No,” he said. “No, it will not be reported missing, for by now I am sure Evan Evans will have been contacted by the police and he will be putting two and two together and will not want the answer to come out. Building Societies are respectable institutions. He will not be saying anything that might lead to me.”

  Her face was blank with fear and the lips trembled; she knew how right Hughes-Jones was in his assessment. They mounted the motor-bicycle with Hughes-Jones on the pillion where he could watch her, and they chugged out of Pontymadaw, heading north.

  *

  Hedge was frantic now; time was passing and nothing had happened. Hedge was sick and tired of being confined to the High Commission building. Certain ears, kept well to the ground of Malta, had reported back that the Russian party had already had three full sessions with the Maltese Government and that things appeared to be going nicely for both sides. Malta stood fair to become a Soviet base, possibly the main base for the Russian Mediterranean Fleet, and much wealth and defensive material would be poured into Malta from the Soviet Union. Hedge muttered angrily about Nelson and Admiral of the Fleet Lord Cunningham, and the huge British presence in pre-war and wartime Malta. The times were out of joint. So was his personal mission: there was no word about, or from, Kolotechin. Hedge kept on saying so to the High Commissioner.

  “Perhaps he’s changed his mind,” Sir Humphrey said crossly.

  “Why should he, at this stage?”

  “Only a fool would want to desert an empire to join a nation in decline.”

  Hedge bristled. “I call that disloyal.”

  “It’s not meant to be. But Nelson died a long time ago, you know.”

  Hedge turned his back; some people were impossible and there was no point in giving them opportunities for rudeness. He would henceforward hold his peace. He failed to hold it for long, however, for the telephone rang. It rang a lot in the High Commission so at first Hedge didn’t engender any particular excitement — it could be that ridiculous American again with his idea of a joke. But it wasn’t. Sir Humphrey’s deputy took the call, then muffled the mouthpiece and spoke to the High Commissioner.

  “The Prime Minister,” he said.

  Hedge almost bowed; but it was only the Maltese Prime Minister. A short conversation ensued, dining which Sir Humphrey kept uttering affirmatives. When the call was cut, he said, “Hold on to your hat, Hedge.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Russians have requested British assistance —”

  “What?” Hedge’s mouth hung open.

  “Comrade Kolotechin, no less, has asked if we would be willing to discuss our management of security when our fleet was here in Malta. The PM knows I was in the Navy myself as a younger man and served out here in the Med … Kolotechin suggests I might be willing to accompany him and his mission on a tour of what used to be our dockyard installations.” Sir Humphrey paused. “I’ve said I would, most willingly. Since the request has come from the Russians themselves, my yard-arm’s clear. And we still, as a High Commission and indeed as a nation, have Malta’s interest much at heart … have we not?”

  “Yes, certainly,” Hedge said. Looking pompous, he caught Shard’s eye. This seemed to be it: Kolotechin was about to commit himself finally. “When is all this to take place, Sir Humphrey?”

  “In two hours’ time.” Sir Humphrey glanced at his wrist-watch. “Time enough, I think, to make our dispositions. You won’t be able to come with me — I can’t pass you off as a member of staff, since the Maltese are fully acquainted with everyone in the High Commission, but you and Shard can be in the vicinity … disguised, I suggest, as Maltese labourers. I’m to meet the Prime Minister and the Russians at Fort St Angelo. Since dockyard security’s non-existent at present — the naval yard runs slap into the public streets in Senglea, for instance — you should have no difficulty in infiltrating and keeping tabs on us. Not that Kolotechin’s likely to defect from the party itself —”

  “What, then?”

  “He’ll just make his contact, initially, I imagine. After that … well, we’ll have to see which way the wind blows.”

  Hedge sniffed; the similarity between Sir Humphrey’s phrase and crumbling cookies had reminded him that Hockaway was still at large.

  *

  “There, now,” Hughes-Jones said, climbing stiffly off the pillion. They had gone a long way north and west and earlier on Megan had been made to pay for the petrol and also some ham and eggs and coffee, several cups of it, at a roadside café north of Brecon. Now, they had pulled off to Hughes-J
ones’s instructions into a shady wood where both they and the motor-bicycle could lie hidden for as long as they wished. There was a footpath running through, and Hughes-Jones avoided this, going deep into human-free parts of the forest and making Megan push the motor-bicycle over the undergrowth and the broken branches and such. Her glasses steamed up with the effort and she made a complaint.

  “Here will do, then,” Hughes-Jones said.

  The motor-bicycle was propped against a tree and Hughes-Jones and his wife sat down with their backs against other nearby trees. It was a peaceful scene and the weather was fine. Birds chirped and insects rustled; one fell upon Hughes-Jones’s ear and he removed it without killing it; even insects had a right to live, but he found himself wondering if adulterers did. One thought led to another; Hughes-Jones cleared his throat and said, “Well, then.”

  “Well, then, what?”

  “I am your husband, you see. And you know very well what I mean.”

  “It is disgusting, is that.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “In the open, it is disgusting.”

  “With Evan Evans, it is much more disgusting. He is a sink of iniquity in his own right, is Evan Evans. It would serve him right to be exposed, Megan.”

  She said, “There has never been anything between us except friendship, that is all.”