Dyer listened to this in silent admiration. ‘Then why don’t you?’ he heard come out of his mouth.
‘We,’ Updark corrected Dyer. ‘We.’
‘Two good reasons,’ said Lorna, still looking at him. ‘Firstly, negotiating with Satan is against the Koran. Secondly, it’s becoming harder to persuade the Iranians that even Satan has prospects. Each utterance from the White House feeds into their paranoid picture that the US and the UK are still out to get them. Even at the top, their thinking is clouded by conspiracy theories. If they don’t see one, they’ll create it. Seizing a tanker or two is just the start.’
‘I think Lorna’s saying that we continue to be viewed as Satan in Iranian eyes.’
‘Of all the world’s arrogant powers, we are viewed as the most evil. But I am also talking about a political system that is capable of taking on a life of its own, as Roly here can testify.’
‘Hear hear,’ said Hissop.
‘History lesson,’ said Updark, nodding, ‘coming up.’
Lorna kept her eyes on Dyer. ‘Iran is a country with a proud seven-thousand-year-old civilisation that is only now starting to recover from a religious over-reaction to two Western governments – the US and the UK – which overthrew its democratically elected leader in 1953. And why? For the apparently treacherous reason that Mossadeq wanted the oil wealth of his country to be shared by its people. Iran could have built a bomb like North Korea ages ago had it wanted. But why bother? There was no need, not when the US was making such a comprehensive mess of its foreign policy. Leaving aside the unhelpful fact that the US has not been able to defeat goat-herders in flip-flops in Afghanistan, there is the troubling example of the present incumbent in the White House.’
‘Who may have earned the right to be considered, forgive my Farsi, the biggest spurt of piss ever let out of an American prick,’ said Updark, licking his fingers.
‘And why is the US president behaving like this?’ continued Lorna. ‘Baldly put, he cannot accept how far the balance of power has shifted since America’s disastrous 2003 invasion of Iraq and the defeat recently of Isis in Syria, for which, I might add, he needed the tacit consent of Iran.
‘In short, who are the two chief beneficiaries of America’s strategic mismanagement of the Middle East? Number One, Russia. Number Two, and catching up fast, Iran. The losers are America, the Saudis and Israel – who are each busy pinning responsibility for the region’s ills on Tehran. The main reason why they want to ditch the nuclear deal is that it would knock out Iran as a regional player.
‘Don’t get me wrong. No one pretends Iran is the benignest power on earth. What I am saying is that all international assessment so far points to the fact that Iran is complying with its obligations. Iran may have had a nuclear programme before 2015, but there is not one scrap of evidence to say that it has had one since. That is why Ralph Cubbage would so dearly love to find any proof that Iran might be reneging on the deal. Marvar’s discovery may not at this moment be weapons-focused, but it would be, as Lionel likes to say, the dripping sirloin that Cubbage’s president is slavering for.’
‘Thanks, Lorna,’ said Updark. ‘Sharp to the point as ever. And before I forget,’ tapping the tin, ‘remind me to give Audrey your recipe.’
She took it as her cue to stand up, adjust her skirt, and return to her desk.
He turned to Dyer: ‘Questions?’
Dyer’s regret to see Lorna go was mingled with relief that she had not questioned him directly about his conversation with Marvar. He looked at the two men. ‘Where do you reckon Marvar is?’
‘We’ve checked all flights to Iran,’ said Hissop. ‘He doesn’t seem to have left the country.’
‘But why return to that regime?’ said Dyer. ‘They’ve imprisoned his baby daughter. And possibly tortured his wife.’
‘Which might indicate that he has made a significant breakthrough …’
‘To bargain for their release?’ Updark slid in.
‘If he’s missing, isn’t it more likely the Iranians have got to him already?’
‘That is what we’re looking into. If the Mullahs did believe that one of their own scientists had landed this whale of a fish in Oxford which would give them hegemony over all other nations, and yet hadn’t whispered a word of it to his superiors, then the suspicion of extreme conservative hardliners would be boundless. Not much space for dissent in that lot.’
‘He might have been abducted by the Al-Quds Force is what we’re thinking,’ said Hissop.
‘They’re like Augustus’s Praetorian Guard,’ explained Updark. ‘I’m sure you remember your Classics – the best, most loyal legionnaires chosen to protect the Emperor, only in this case the Ayatollah. One of their jobs is to liquidate his opponents abroad. Before the treaty, they were responsible for a spate of assassinations.’
‘So what are you saying? Rustum could be dead?’
‘Could be,’ said Updark. ‘Abduction is more likely, though – so that he can reveal to the Mullahs every last iota of his secret.’
Hissop was studying his clipboard. ‘Since early this morning we’ve been hunting a white delivery van registered in Cowley. A CCTV camera in Norham Gardens caught three bearded Asian-looking men bundling into the back a sofa-sized object which seemed to be missing its cushions.’
‘In other words, it might not have been a sofa,’ said Updark.
‘But what if it was a sofa?’ objected Dyer. ‘And what if it’s not the Iranians who’ve snatched him? What if someone else got there first?’
‘Anyone in mind?’ asked Updark.
‘You said yourself there might be a lot of people after him.’
‘What they’re all after,’ said Updark, pronouncing each word meticulously as if he were unpacking his sponge bag and arranging hairbrushes on a dresser, ‘is his knowledge of how he might have done whatever it is he might have done. As, I should add, John, are we. I can’t tell you what his contraption looks like, whether it resembles an omnibus or a blunderbuss, but already I’ve got the cuckoos in London saying: “We’ve got to have one of these. British flag on top.” This is the position likely to be adopted as well in Tel Aviv and Riyadh and Beijing. And indeed also by Mr Putin.’
Hissop said: ‘Moscow has its own secret programme of scientists working on fusion, but if something interesting is happening in Russia we won’t know until it’s very late.’
Dyer thought of the nervous way that Marvar had eyed the cars parked in Great Clarendon Road. ‘He was terrified that he was being watched …’
Updark’s smile was harsh. ‘And not merely by the mad Mullahs. His fear of Israel, too, would be justified. Even before the treaty was signed, there were a number of reasons why you wouldn’t want to be a scientist in Iran, among the most persuasive being that the Israelis bump you off.’
Hissop consulted his clipboard again. ‘When the Israeli general in charge was asked how far he would go to stop the Iranian nuclear programme, he replied: “Two thousand kilometres.” Even so, if Mossad is buzzing around Marvar’s lab, then, as Lionel said, it’s likely so too are the Russians, Saudis and Chinese.’
‘And I tell you this,’ said Updark testily, ‘they’re not all descending on our dreaming spires because they sniff the sweet scent of cheap energy. The popular idea peddled by Professor Whitton et alii that fusion can have no military implication is balderdash. This, in case you’re still curious, is why we have brought you here today. This is why we have invested so much energy in questioning you and requesting your help. The ramifications, John, are extremely serious. And I do mean extremely. If Marvar has found a simple way to make a fusion explosion, it would make a lot of important people around the world very depressed. You then have the possibility of giving all other “bad guys” – I’m sounding like the American president – the chance to control the most lethal weapon ever invented, and to do it clandestinely, at little cost. I’m sure you recall that incident on the tube train in Parsons Green. One delinquent teenager with a grudg
e and a shopping bag of nails was enough to paralyse the nation for two days. Imagine what a dedicated group of disaffected teenagers each with a carrier bag containing a fusion device could do. If you’re prepared to blow yourself up to kill one person, why stop there? Why not kill half a million? Coming to a theatre of death near you … No. We’ve been to that movie, don’t like how it ended.’
Dyer said nothing. He drank his coffee. The mug was institutional white, like his landlord’s mugs in Jericho. He thought of Marvar holding his by the window, not drinking. Could he have taken Samir to the Lake District, in the footsteps of Wordsworth and Coleridge, to mull over in peace what to do? Is that why he had asked Dyer not to speak of his plans?
Finally, Dyer said, partly to deflect Updark: ‘What if no one has kidnapped him? What if he’s gone to ground for some other reason?’
‘Such as?’
Dyer shrugged. ‘Say to put his ducks in order before making a public announcement? There’d be a Nobel in this, wouldn’t there?’
‘And how!’ said Hissop. ‘Although, if it was developed at the Clarendon, Whitton would want to take his portion of credit.’
Updark scratched his cheek. ‘I don’t know, Roly,’ he said. ‘But then again, you’ve talked to these people. Do you honestly think it likely?’
‘It has to be a possibility. To most scientists, ten million dollars is less important than the Nobel. But if I look at this from over an Iranian desk, there’s one other factor we oughtn’t to rule out. We haven’t mentioned martyrdom.’
‘Ah, yes, martyrdom,’ said Updark, without obvious energy. ‘Explain to Mr Dyer.’
Hissop turned to him. ‘Some of us are prepared to die for things we want to go on being alive for. Marvar might be such a one. Nuclear fusion could be a sacred idea in which he believes, but also for which he is willing to negate his whole existence if the core idea becomes polluted. Maybe he consciously welcomes death, and, rather than entrust his discovery to the wrong hands, he has decided to take his secret with him into the next world, like the famous Shia martyr Imam Hussein in the seventh century.’
‘Did he strike you as devout, John?’
Dyer thought of Marvar in his old-fashioned suit, pausing to draw on a last cigarette, before he pressed on to St Barnabas to pray to his dead mother’s God for guidance.
‘Possibly.’
‘Then what about his son?’ said Updark. ‘Where does he fit into this posthumous scenario?’ He looked at Dyer. ‘John, I’m asking you. Do you think he could do that to Samir?’
Dyer thought of Marvar speaking on the telephone to Samir after learning of his injured shin. He thought of what Marvar had said to Dyer. ‘We will still be able to go walking … as long as I live – and Samir lives – then she is not gone …’
‘No, to be honest, I don’t.’
‘So let’s rule out martyrdom, Roly, shall we, for the moment? Right now, the facts – what few we have – are pointing in one direction.’ Updark picked up the napkin. ‘Aside from finding Marvar, our immediate priority, it strikes me, is to find out where he might have put the rest of his magic formula.’
The meeting was over. A car was arranged to drive Dyer back to Oxford. Updark escorted Dyer downstairs and waited for him to retrieve his shoulder bag.
‘And John?’
‘Yes?’
‘No need to tell anyone about this. That, I think, would be a great mistake. Name of the game is discretion and secrecy. Oh, and nanny rules.’
‘Nanny rules?’
‘Tennis. Keep the score, and supply your serving partner with balls. If Marvar does get in touch, please fucking tell us.’
Chapter Twenty
DYER ASKS THE DRIVER TO take him back to Jericho. He knows that he needs to go home before collecting Leandro from the Phoenix. Why, he can’t recall. He is recovering from being interrogated by Updark.
The driver’s eyes in the mirror watch Dyer check his shoulder bag. It would be sensible to assume that they’ve downloaded his laptop. Fortunately, he didn’t write up Marvar’s conversation on it. But his shorthand notes – where are they?
The car drops him off outside his door. Dyer waits until it has driven away before entering.
At a quick glance, the house appears as he left it three hours earlier: the beds unmade, the washing-up not done. Magda hasn’t been in to clean; anyway, she knows what not to touch.
But when Dyer looks closer, his anxiety mounts.
Nissa was on the wall at a different angle in Leandro’s bedroom. That was not all. From the top of the downstairs bookcase, Astrud gazed at Dyer a fraction too squarely. Reflected in her mute expression, he saw masked figures searching the rooms. He could feel their fingers running through his clothes, his pockets.
His notes on Marvar were not on the kitchen table, nor on the shelf where he usually stacked away his papers. He ran upstairs again. The only note he could find, on his bedside table, was that line of nonsense he had dreamed.
Updark had been summoned away at one point during their interview. Were his men reporting back what they’d found?
In a state of absolute alertness, Dyer opened the cupboard under the stairs and checked his tackle bag. His superstitions began in fishing. He knew that he had arranged the lures in his fly book in a certain order.
It jarred him to see the fly book the other way up.
He felt suddenly weak. He couldn’t control his thoughts. They blundered around in his head, glimmering up ghostly images of Updark’s men poring over his interview with Marvar …
Next to his tackle bag, Marvar’s overcoat remained on its wooden hanger. Collar turned down. They would have searched it as a priority, checking that nothing was sewn into the green lining.
That was the reason, it came back to him: Dyer had been going to take the coat to the Phoenix to give to Samir.
But Marvar? What about him? Along with his dust-coloured coat, he had left behind a heap of questions. Where was he? Alive, dead, captive?
And his revolutionary, world-altering formula – where was that?
Marvar – at this selfsame table – had left Dyer in no doubt that it was possible to consign his breakthrough to a single sheet of paper, and he had. But put it where?
Unable to concentrate, in no mood to return to the Taylorian, and needing to halt this torrent of questions, Dyer knelt by his bookcase and hunted through the spines for a volume to distract him.
He had sandwiched his favourite texts – poems and novels he wished that he could read for the first time – between bookends decorated with the cut-outs of a phoenix that Mr Barson, his carpentry teacher, had taught him to saw from a sheet of plywood. After selecting and rejecting Borges’s Labyrinths, Dyer took out Basil Bunting’s Collected Poems and sat by the French window and started to read. He had to remind himself: You haven’t betrayed Marvar. If Updark hauls you in again and wants you to explain your notes, simply refuse to answer. Point out that they were acquired illegally, and journalists never reveal their sources – a cardinal rule which applies to ex-journalists too.
A fly was on his arm. He flicked it off and it settled on his right ear. He brushed it away again. After a while, his breathing returned to normal.
At 3.30 p.m. Dyer got into his car and drove to the Phoenix.
He felt a jolt of relief to see his son beneath the school clock.
Leandro crouched over his bicycle, helmet on, fiddling with the lock.
‘Hi, Dad. What are you doing here?’ in a puzzled voice, standing up.
‘I have decided,’ said Dyer, ‘to give you a lift home.’
‘What about my bike?’
‘You can ride it back tomorrow.’
‘All right,’ said Leandro, and he removed his satchel from the basket, and started unbuckling his helmet. ‘Just let me lock it up.’
Dyer made pasta for dinner.
Five minutes into the meal, Leandro raised his head. ‘Dad, what are we doing for exeat?’
A quarter of his class had joi
ned the Phoenix skiing trip to Davos at half-term. While Leandro had stayed in Jericho and played Fifa 18, one boy flew to Perth – and two girls to Hong Kong. Leandro was still trying to unscramble the mixed messages of being at a school with friends whose parents could afford to send them at regular intervals to distant locations, and having a father who was so constrained financially that not once since their arrival in Oxford had Dyer taken Leandro back to Rio.
Dyer mumbled something foolish, to the effect that he hadn’t yet made a plan.
The truth was, Dyer was going fast through Vivien’s legacy. The school fees went up every term. The latest bill had forced Dyer to ask himself if the upheaval from Joaquim Nabuco to St Barnabas Street had been worth it. Much of what Leandro was being taught seemed to be beside the point. What was he gaining at the Phoenix that he couldn’t have acquired in Rio? A confidence, a background history, a knowledge of half a dozen poems and hymns, a group of friends who might help each other later on (or not)?
Or had Dyer uprooted his son to Oxford to repair a rip in his own fabric?
Leandro forked more spaghetti into his mouth, and went on slowly eating. He had worn the same expression in his first term, when other boys teased him for not having seen any of the children’s programmes on television.
‘Even Samir is going away somewhere,’ he said moodily.
A little while later, Dyer not having responded, he lifted his eyes and asked, as if braced for a negative answer, but with feeling: ‘Dad, when are we going to get a dog?’
The Sandpit Page 14
