‘Yes. I could sketch it for you.’ She concentrated, seeing it… ‘Just inside the red perimeter there’s a village, Ayn Al-Dariqhah. A road runs through it from the south and carries on up to Masyaf and beyond. East of the road’s a valley, more or less north–south lying, with another mountain spur on its other side. Near the end of that spur there’s a dot and the word Qal’at — “castle” — ruin, I suppose.’ She added, ‘No doubt a Crusader castle.’
‘More likely Assassin, in that particular area, Liz.’
‘Assassin?’
‘Ismaili sect. They cooperated with the Crusaders, oddly enough. “Assassin” is a name derived from their drug-taking habit — hashish, alias marijuana.’
She smiled. ‘We live and learn.’
‘Go on, Liz.’
‘Well, on the eastern ridge a road crosses where it’s lower, in a sort of saddle, then slants across the valley to join the other one en route to Masyaf, and just where it passes over is where Hafiz had put a cross, and Hoda said that’s where they’ve got Stillgoe.’
The ballpoint was scribbling fast. ‘You believed her?’
‘Yes. To start with, I said, she was a bit hysterical, rattling on as if she’d had it ready like a script, with leave my brother alone as the crux of it. Then when I wasn’t impressed she came out with the Vernon Stillgoe story, and when she saw I was thinking she might be making it all up she made the really hard decision — to show me this map. It really scared her, doing it, and she wasn’t acting. Not then, although she might well have been earlier on. When she brought the map her hands were shaking so badly I actually held them for a while, to steady her, for Pete’s sake… And once she nearly jumped right out of her skin, looking round at the door like a little frightened weasel, as if she thought she’d heard Hafiz or someone coming.’ Liz nodded again, emphatically. ‘I’m certain what she was telling me was the truth.’
‘And why — I want to be sure I have it right, just as you saw it — why do you think she’d have been so eager to impart this secret?’
She frowned, concentrating again. Like sorting through a jumble of bits and pieces… ‘I don’t say she was eager. More that — well, her first blather didn’t work — her family’s importance and so forth didn’t throw me — so then out came this stuff about Stillgoe — even a reference to Hafiz being in charge of his “interrogation”, the implication being torture so I was supposed to think “How could I possibly associate with such a fiend!” — at least I imagine that was what—’
‘I suppose—’ Elwell smiled — ‘the language problem—’
‘No, we were talking French, both quite at home in it.’
‘Ah.’
‘I suppose the answer is she told me about it because her opening ploy had failed and she had it up her sleeve as a really strong card that would put me off her brother. To some extent reasonably, maybe, the argument that if it became public knowledge, world news — this thing about Vernon Stillgoe — it could be highly embarrassing for me to have — that Hafiz should have been my lover.’ She didn’t look at Elwell. ‘Headlines in the News of the World, and all that. Awkward for the embassy as well as for me, obviously.’
‘Yes…’ Scribbling again… ‘In effect, therefore, she tried to convince you and failed, then in absolute desperation fetched the map — very much as a last resort, and frightening to her to be doing so.’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘She must be quite desperately anxious to protect her brother from you. Might she have had any reason to believe that you were contemplating a permanent relationship?’
‘Most certainly not!’
He nodded underlining a note he’d made. Then glanced up: ‘Did you tell her you believed her?’
Liz shook her head. ‘Not in so many words.’
‘What did you say, finally?’
‘That I wanted to go away and think about it. I said I was sorry she was so upset, but I’d have to think, work it out for myself. Incidentally she’d rushed to put the map back in his desk even before I’d crossed the hall. I was feeling quite sorry for her by this time, she was so nervous. She muttered things like regretting we had to be on opposing sides, and I can still hear myself telling her, “But we’re not, Hoda…” Ludicrous, really.’
Elwell put his ballpoint down on the clipboard, and sat back. Open-neck sports shirt clinging damply to his rounded shoulders. He said, ‘You did the right thing, coming straight along with this. In the circumstances I appreciate it might not have been the easiest of decisions. But let me add, if I may, that I feel sure nobody will concern themselves now with — well, with the personal side of it.’ He was avoiding eyes… ‘I’m being clumsy, I’m afraid. Forgive me. But I’m not interfering, I only want to suggest that — that if you concluded that in the aftermath of this imbroglio the complications might be — oh, uncomfortable for you, I’m sure you could assume that if you decided to apply for a transfer, the ambassador—’
‘Yes. Thank you. I’ll have to think about it, obviously.’
‘And now—’ he tapped his notes — ‘I’ll work the gist of this into a telegram which I think should go to the Office right away.’ (By ‘the Office‘ Liz knew he meant the Foreign Office in London.) ‘I’ll have a word with the ambassador first, actually. And that won’t be possible until later on this evening. But if we’re to take this seriously — as we must — I suppose it should be transmitted as a DEDIP signal.’ He frowned, moved his teacup back from the table’s edge; she heard him murmur, ‘If Stillgoe is in Syria, it could make for a most awkward situation…’ Liz thinking DEDIP, for God’s sake: and I set this ball rolling! That prefix on a signal meant that it was to decoded only by a diplomat, not by cypher staff. It lifted the communication out of routine, made it potentially a crisis call… Elwell had stopped muttering to himself; struggling up out of his chair, he told her, ‘It’ll go out tonight, anyway. If I can’t get to the ambassador I’ll go ahead and bung it out myself… Liz, thank you very much.’ He raised his voice: ‘Hilary, are you there? Miss Thornton’s on her way…’
*
Charlie had tried to jog and swim himself to a standstill, and hadn’t managed it. He felt as if he could have gone on for hours. Which was the right way to be, he thought with a touch of smugness, when he got back to his flat at about six thirty. The pubs had been open for half an hour and on the way back he’d passed several, jogging on past their open doors and shutting his mind to thoughts of cooling pints of bitter. In the flat, he drank about a pint of cold water instead, then put the kettle on to make tea. Thinking, If they could see me now…
And as a reward for long abstinence, he reckoned he might allow himself a tot of the Black Label before supper. Maybe. If by that time he felt any real need of it. In the back of his mind he was aware that he’d just made himself a promise, the ‘maybe’ wasn’t effective camouflage.
Bath. Then sort out some gear for Syria. If it was Syria.
Crazy, to be virtually leaving, and still not know the destination. And to be travelling on a regular, civilian flight, for God’s sake!
Might ring Harry, he thought, while he was waiting for the kettle to boil and the tub to fill. Harry was his older brother, a solicitor with a practice in Suffolk and a wife who strongly disapproved of Charlie. Charlie had described her and some of her ways of indicating is disapproval, one evening in camp, and his impersonation of her had made Smiley and Pete laugh. Those two had accepted him now, he thought; he found them easier to get along with than he found Bob Knox, for some reason.
Odd sort of guy, old Bob. Although it wasn’t easy to put a finger on exactly what was odd about him. And since one was going to have to share the trials and tribulations of this trip with him it might better not to look too hard for oddities. He’d probably be first class once they were on the job. SBS were, after all, créme de la créme, and they’d put this guy in as team leader, for God’s sake. His action performance would surely be dazzling.
That conversation with th
e lads about Harry’s pain-in-the-arse wife had been an offshoot of talk about SBS specialist skills — canoeing, underwater swimming, etc. Pete had asked him whether he’d done any boardsailing — which he had, mainly on that East Anglian coast during weekends spent with Harry and the dreaded Patricia… He would call the old sod, he decided — if only to annoy her. But also to impart the news of his business trip to Germany, so Harry would know he wasn’t going to be around for a while.
Not that he came up often. Probably wasn’t allowed to. But he always let Charlie know when he was in London.
‘Charlie’s not a bad influence on you, Harry, he’s an absolute disaster!’
He’d heard this once, a penetrating hiss from his sister-in-law’s kitchen. She’d meant that the two of them had been known to take a drink together, on occasion… Leaving his own kitchen, he murmured aloud, ‘Silly bitch…’ He took his mug of tea and a handful of biscuits into the bathroom, lay in the steam sipping and munching, recalling that Anne had never liked that woman either.
Anne. Oh, Anne. Darling, incredibly lovely Anne, how the fuck could I have been such a total bloody disaster for you? And for oneself, for that matter. But to have hurt Anne, of all people: and not just hurt — savaged…
And for what?
He’d got back to London a few days earlier than had been expected. He’d been out of the country, out of sight and under cover. Not Charlie Swale at all, not anyone, just a mud-stained, rain-soaked creature no name, no face, no origins, no base other than holes in the ground which tended to fill up with water. Seven weeks away and out of contact, nearly three of them like this, isolated to such an extent it could have been more like three months than three weeks. What he’d done in that time he’d put out of his mind as soon as he’d been debriefed. You had to: certain things had never happened, there were places you’d never been to but still saw in dreams, faces you’d never studied even through high-powered binoculars. They’d pulled him out early because there’d been some disaster elsewhere that would have had repercussions so that if they hadn’t extracted him immediately he’d have stayed there for keeps. This was explained to him after his extraction, and he’d thought cheerfully, Anne wouldn’t have liked that a bit… They’d been married only a few months before he’d been sent on that assignment and she’d kept him company, a warmth in his heart, in the mud-holes.
So, in London several days early, he’d decided to surprise her. They had a cottage in the Welsh borders, but during his absence she’d sensibly lent it to some friends and gone to stay with her parents in Wiltshire. His plan was to turn up on the ancestral doorstep a couple of days earlier than she could have expected; he’d be clean-shaven, immaculate, with a very special present for her — a rope of pearls — in his pocket.
He booked himself in a the Special Forces Club, and called Trumpers for an appointment to get his hair cut in the morning. But before going shopping for pearls he needed to check with his bank, to find out how much he had on deposit, so as to know how high he could set his sights.
He was riffling through the phone book to ‘Ll’ for Lloyds, and getting near it when his eye was stopped by the name Liscomb. It was the married name of a girl who, until she’d tied herself up to an individual by name of Bill Liscomb, had been Sarah Dubisson. When she’d married this guy, who was in the City and a stuffed shin but very well heeled, she’d told Charlie that her reason for doing so was that he — Charlie — had become engaged to Anne.
In fact they’d been engaged for about a year, while he’d been on his second tour in the Middle East; he’d been home for leave and they’d got engaged before he’d gone back. But before he’d met Anne, he and Sarah had been lovers for a long time, on and off. This was the crucial thing about Sarah — the fact that whenever he’d been off, someone else had been on. It was simply her way: she was very attractive, great fun to be with, and she had the morals of a stoat. If one wanted to enjoy her company one had to accept this as a fact of life — of her life; no one in his senses would have dreamt of buying into it. For Charlie, certainly, there’d never been any remote possibility of marriage to her, and from the time he’d met Anne he’d done no more than brush her cheek lightly with his lips. He’d done this much at her wedding to Bill Liscomb, whom he’d known slightly through Anne.
He was on top of the world that afternoon, with the prospect of reunion with Anne next day. He could see the delight in her eyes, feel her body against his, hear her whisper in is ear. None of which, in fact, he was ever to see, feel or hear again. He was intensely happy, excited, in tune with the whole universe and with most of its inhabitants. In fact he’d been under extreme pressure, entirely on his own, for a considerable period of time, and the sudden release of that pressure, sudden return to the luxuries of civilisation, would obviously have contributed to his state of mind and sub- sequent actions or reactions: such as seeing that name Liscomb now, realising it was a long time since he’d given a passing thought to the former miss Dubisson, chuckling as he ran his finger down the column — and the next — looking for Liscomb, William, knowing there was a third initial too which he’d recognise when he saw it.
Why not, for old times’ sake?
It occurred to him that having been married to that pompous twit for a stretch of quite a few months now, and since Bill would surely be at his City desk at this time of day, a telephone call might well interrupt something. Knowing Sarah Dubisson, and that leopards don’t change their spots…
She’d answered on the second ring. ‘Yes?’
‘Guess who, you gorgeous creature?’
‘Charlie Swale!’
*
He put the empty mug on the side of the bath. Recalling that scream of joy and wishing to God, wishing for about the thousandth time…
As a retreat from reality he’d evolved this other version of subsequent events, his own ‘short-lasting panacea of a daydream in which Sarah insisted that he should rush out and grab a taxi, hurry round to Eaton Square…
‘It’s too good to be true, Charlie, I can hardly believe it, it’s been such a bloody age! Charlie darling, aren’t you the answer to a maiden’s prayers?’
She had gone on in that vein. Mentioning Bill was in New York and couldn’t be back much before the weekend, poor darling… But at this point the daydream took over, switching the points so that memory ran on to a fictional branch-line where he heard himself telling her he’d have liked nothing better than to see her, but… and waiting for the wails of protest and persuasion to die away before plugging on: ‘Honestly, I can’t, I don’t have a bloody minute. I just thought I’d check on how you and Bill were making out. Still piling up fortunes for you, is he?’
Actually he thought he probably had started off with an attempt at stone-walling. The point at which the two versions separated completely was that in the daydream he stuck to his guns, chatted for a few minutes and then said firmly, ‘I must go now. Goodbye, Sarah pet. Regards to old Bill …’
5
What he’d actually said to her — eventually, however much he’d procrastinated in the first minutes of that telephone call — was ‘All right, then, I will. Just one quick drink, see how you’re looking now you’re an old married woman, huh?’
‘Getting older every minute too, so hurry, Charlie!’
Grinning, he’d turned away from the phone, thinking Well, why not, for heaven’s sake… Then remembered what he’d come to the telephone for in the first place, turned back to it and called his bank to get the figures on his account. In fact it was good news, better than he’d expected, he could visualise the pearls’ glow against his wife’s velvet-smooth, tanned skin.
Meanwhile a quick drink with Sarah would be fun. A laugh or two, and to get the dirt on the self-important clown she’d married. Poor devil… But one should not give up one’s old friends, and there was no question of disloyalty to Anne — rather the opposite, it proved the strength of their relationship that one did not have to cut adrift…
A taxi mater
ialised as he reached the corner, and miraculously it was free. Miracles continued, in the form of traffic lights that were all green, and within about three minutes he was paying the cab off in Eaton Square, gazing up at the windows of the Liscombs’ flat and unintentionally over-tipping. Profuse thanks surprised him, but it was too late to do anything about it: anyway, what the hell — just forty-eight hours ago he’d been flat on is belly on a rain-swept hillside, soaked to the skin and filthy…
He ignore the lift, took the stairs four at a time…
‘Charlie, darling!’
In that second, it was as if someone had turned a switch to ‘off’. None of this counted or was real; it was a hole in time and space. Clocks stopped, mind stopped, memory and identity all lost. He’d kicked the door shut behind him and the flimsy housecoat which was all she’d had on slithered into a pool of yellow on the mat.
*
In a news bulletin on Radio 4 a few minutes ago it had been mentioned that President Assad of Syria had left Damascus for Moscow. Charlie had poured himself a small Scotch just as that broadcast had been starting, and now his glass was empty. Which only showed how pointless it was to be so niggardly, when it only left you needing a second one before you’d even sat down.
Bread and cheese would do for supper. Unless he made an omelette. Cheese omelette, maybe, and there’d be bread and cheese available for Bob Knox if he needed it when he arrived. Sarah, Charlie remembered, had had smoked salmon in her fridge, and champagne, to which they’d got round eventually. He took the new drink back to his chair.
The odd thing was that he had absolutely no wish to see Sarah again. Despite the fact that she and that sod Liscomb had split up. Now, for instance, on this lonely evening with a sense of excitement in the back of his mind: it was conceivable that she’d be alone too — not likely, but conceivable — and he had no interest at all. He wondered whether if he could have explained this to Anne and she could have allowed herself to believe him it would have made any difference, even induced her to pause for thought?
Special Deception Page 8
