Special Deception

by Special Deception (retail) (epub)

  You couldn’t explain any of it, though, that was the frustration. He’d attempted explanations several times and got nowhere — trying to make her understand that it had simply happened — like falling down a manhole or walking into a plate-glass door. She’d laughed when he’d said that, as if she’d thought he was trying to be funny. But it was the truth that it had been utterly unpremeditated and — honestly — unwanted. There’d been a certain stretch of hours in limbo, and he could have wiped it from his mind, changed it in retrospect into a dream, into fragments of erotic fantasy as unbidden as any other dream.

  Anne couldn’t accept any of this, she’d refused even to consider it. As far as she was concerned it had happened, he’d done it and it was stuck in her mind permanently, as solid and ugly as a block of concrete, unforgettable and unforgivable. So although he couldn’t deny that it had been entirely his own doing — his own crime, in the context of his relationship with his wife — it came to feel at times that it was she who was destroying what should have been indestructible.

  Of course, the boozing didn’t help. But that was the egg, not the chicken. He’d always enjoyed a drink but before the bust-up with Anne it had never been any problem. Then, it had become one in a biggish way. Worse then than it was now, even: as as one remembered. Which was what had finished him with the Regiment — and now, he supposed, it wasn’t much of an attraction to Anne.

  Give it up? He’d managed without it for three whole bloody days and nights, after all!

  Thinking about this — on his way back to sit down again — he’d stopped in the middle of the room and noticed that his glass was empty. Maybe he’d been distracted to the extent that he’d forgotten to refill it, just walked slowly across and back again…

  But OK, he’d behaved like a total shit, let Anne down as he could never have thought himself capable of even contemplating. That was fact. But surely after a few months — a year now — surely eventually she’d—

  Water. Just a splash.

  — eventually remember, one might have hoped, how marvellous it had been up to that moment?

  Maybe she’d set her sights on some alternative. It might account for her having put the lawyers to work now, after a long period of inaction. He frowned, sipping his drink and realising that this was a highly unattractive concept… But there was another thought he’d had a minute ago: something connected with her determination never to forgive and forget.

  Yes — got it. She’d started with this attitude, and she’d still been clinging to it when he’d last spoken to her. Or rather when he’d last tried to speak to her. But — inshallah — might not time soften her? Mightn’t she tire of this — this revenge? Therefore, keep trying, don’t be put off? Even though she’d now filed for divorce, she could call it off if she changed her mind, surely.

  He stared at the telephone. Thinking, As long as she hasn’t fallen for some other guy…

  There’d been others after her, all right. Looking as she looked, being as she was, there’d always be contenders.

  Call her — now?

  But she’d hang up when she heard his voice. Or she’d say as she had last time, ‘It’s no good, Charlie, there’s no point, please leave me alone’ — and then click off.

  It was more or less a reflex with her now, he guessed, and the telephone made it too easy for her. He reached for his glass, and it was empty. Carrying it over to the bottle he thought, Go round there, see her?

  Then inconsequentially — pouring — Might ring old Harry first. But even there there was a deterrent, the fact bloody Patricia so often took their calls.

  *

  Hoda Al-Jubran went quickly across the hall to the ringing telephone. Steeling herself for the lie or lies she was going to have to tell her brother. This would be him, it was the time he’d said he’d call… ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hoda, it’s me. What’s the news?’

  ‘It happened just as you said it would. She brought it round not long after you’d left.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well — she came round — she’d telephoned first, and I’d said—’

  ‘Look, spare me the detail, I don’t want to know exactly who said what to whom. I just got here, I’m tired, all I need to know is did she believe you?’

  ‘Eventually, yes. It was very difficult at first, though, she didn’t want even to hear what I had to tell her. But I knew how important it is to you that I should convince her—’

  ‘And you did, you’re certain?‘

  ‘I just told you!’

  ‘So tell me what were her final words.’

  ‘That she wanted time to think about it. About herself and you, she meant. But she was in a hurry to leave—’

  ‘Ah. She was, was she?’ He paused. Then: ‘Tell me just briefly what you told her, Hoda. What information she took away with her.’

  ‘What you wanted, that’s all. That this person is now in our country and that you’re in charge of him and of his interrogation.’

  ‘Did she ask where in Syria?’

  ‘I don’t — think so… She may have, but — well, anyway, I told her not in Homs — where she knew you’d gone — but in that district.’

  She couldn’t see that it would have done any damage, showing her Hafiz’s map. The essential thing had been to convince her that the story was true, that had been the point on which Hafiz had been so insistent. She knew — because she knew him so well — that he’d have hit the roof if he knew about the map, but he would have been more furious with her if she’d been telling him now ‘No, she did not believe me.’

  ‘Did you give her any reason for having told her about it?’

  ‘Exactly what you told me, that’s all. I said she should leave you alone, she’d ruin your career, all that, and she took very little notice, so then I told her about this other business and pointed out that when it becomes public, and also that you’re her lover, how terrible it would be for her. I don’t think she’d have any doubts that this was my reasoning.’

  ‘All right. Hold on, would you, just a moment.’ He covered the mouthpiece. Thinking hard, wondering in particular what was making her so nervous: as if she was scared of him… He searched his mind for any other question he should have been asking: in order to be certain… ‘Are you there, Hoda? Tell me this, now. Did she say anything — any little thing, please cast your mind back and think carefully — anything that might suggest she could have suspicions we’d set her up for this?’

  ‘No — I don’t see how she could have.’

  ‘You’re positive?’

  ‘Yes, Hafiz, I’m positive!’

  It might have been an ordeal for her, he guessed. To be involved in it at all, but also having to take on a woman ten years older than herself and far more sophisticated… Needing the kid’s help — because it had seemed far the best way to do the job — he’d taken her for granted, hadn’t considered what a lot he’d been expecting of her. He said in a gentler tone, ‘Don’t be upset, Hoda. It’s simply that I need to be sure. It’s an important job you’ve done, a lot hangs on it. And obviously you’ve done it well, I’m grateful.’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’

  When he’d rung off, he told the operator to get through to the Soviet Embassy in Damascus and ask for Major Feodor Vorontsev. ‘He’ll be there, he’s expecting this call.’

  Waiting, Hafiz lit a cigarette. It would be the briefest of calls to the Soviet attaché, no more than ‘Feodor… Hafiz here. Just to let you know — the information will by now be on its way to London.’

  He knew Liz Thornton well enough, he guessed, to be sure that it would be on its way. And then within minutes Vorontsev’s head office in Moscow would be getting the same good news: although President Al-Assad, who’d be inspecting a at of honour on Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport at about this time, would not.

  *

  Charlie pressed Anne’s doorbell. He could hear music from inside the flat, but she might have left a radio on to fool thieves. The same
applied to lights: he’d invariably used these simple dodges, as well as others, during the months of their marriage the same habits would have rubbed off on her. He prayed, none the less, Please be here, my darling: and then added, Alone… Asking a lot, he knew it. Then he heard movement on the other side of the door: it jerked open, came up hard against the chain and Anne’s face was behind it in the gap, her expression changing from wary interest to a kind of frozen nothing as she saw him.

  Wrinkling her nose, and moving back a bit. Smelling the whisky, of course.

  ‘What d’you want, Charlie?’ Then her eyes widened: ‘My God, you’ve grown a moustache…’

  Blinking down at as much as he could see of her: he was so much taller than she was that he felt like a giraffe, peering down at that visible section of her fine-boned face, grey eyes, soft brown hair. He answered her question: ‘See you, talk to you. Sorry to bust in without warning, but—’

  ‘You haven’t bust in, have you.’

  It occurred to him that it might not be so much an anti-burglar chain as an anti-Charlie chain. And she wasn’t thinking of taking the thing off, he guessed was what she’d meant by that last comment. He told her — accepting the fact she had him stymied — ’I’m leaving tomorrow. Leaving the country, that is. I only thought — well, you know, say goodbye, see how you are, that sort of—’

  ‘I’m quite well, thank you. Are you going on holiday?’

  ‘Well — not really… Couldn’t I come in, Anne? Just for a minute?’

  ‘I can’t see what good it could do either of us, Charlie.’

  ‘Would it do any harm?’

  She stared back at him. He could read her thought: You’ve done all the harm… He said, ‘I might be gone a long time. I do wish you would…’

  It tailed off, unexpressed, withered by her stony lack of response. The music was familiar — Chopin, maybe, one of her favourites… ‘OK. I thought I’d — you know, try… You know I’m sorry for everything, don’t you. I suppose that’s about all I’d have to say if you’d let me in. And you’ve heard it before, so I dare say you’re wise.’ He began to turn away. ‘Look after yourself. I’ll be thinking of you. Actually I do that most of the time. Bye…’

  ‘Charlie—’

  He pivoted: keeping his balance… She was saying, ‘If you promise you won’t stay longer than ten minutes…’ The door had almost shut as she took the chain off, and now it swung open. Anne was wearing green slacks and a darker green alpaca sweater. Bare feet — accounting for her ultra-smallness — indented the new, deep-pile carpet. Various things passed into his mind as he followed her across an entrance hall into a sitting room with soft lighting and some furniture and pictures that he remembered: the formality, being ushered in like this, and the strangeness of seeing his wife in a new setting, unfamiliar to him but already ‘home’ to her; also the pleasure in having found her here, and now at least to this limited extent a slight de-freezing.

  Curiosity, he guessed. She’d want to know where he was going.

  In case her bloody lawyer wanted to know?

  ‘I’ve no whisky, I‘m afraid.’

  ‘Even if you had, I wouldn’t—’

  ‘I won’t be a minute. Sit down if you want to.’ She switched off the tape on her way out of the room. Going to put shoes on, be guessed. He wondered how it might have turned out if Bill Liscomb had not returned early — on Concorde, naturally — or if he’d telephoned to let his wife know he was on the way. That little omission might well have been deliberate, Charlie guessed. But if he’d done anything except what he had done — which had been to let himself into the flat very quietly, turn as white as the sheets in which she and Charlie had been entangled, then march straight to the telephone to call Anne…

  Charlie had wondered once or twice since that frightful day why he hadn’t killed the bastard.

  He’d been right about footwear. Her feet were now in slippers with half-heels that gave her most another inch… ‘Sweet of you to let me in, Anne.’

  ‘You’ve guessed why, of course.’

  ‘You want to know where I’m going.’

  ‘Bull’s-eye.’

  ‘You’re in for a disappointment, then. Plain fact is I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re leaving tomorrow and you don’t know where you’re going?’ She frowned. ‘That moustache doesn’t do much for you, Charlie.’

  ‘Don’t you think so?’ He was looking around the room. ‘This is nice, though. Are you back in your old line of work? You said a job, but—’

  ‘Flashman. That’s what it makes you look like.’ She suppressed a giggle. ‘No, I’m PA to the head of an advertising agency.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose it is pretty much the same… Where are you going, Charlie?’

  ‘I think — but this is only a guess — Syria.’

  ‘A guess.’ Gazing at him, her grey eyes slightly narrowed. She might have been wondering whether she still knew him at all… ‘Mystery tour, no doubt. And that adornment for disguise. But I believe I read somewhere that they don’t let tourists into Syria now.’

  ‘That’s true. Not Brits, anyway.’

  He’d thought of giving her the yarn about a business trip to Germany, but it had stuck in his throat. Partly because he wanted her to know what was happening to him; but it was also a fact, oddly enough, that he’d never told this woman a lie. So how would it have been, he wondered, if bloody Liscomb hadn’t sneaked in when he had? Could one have gone on down to Wiltshire, given her the pearls, revelling in reunion with her and ever after pretended to oneself it hadn’t happened?

  In a sense it wouldn’t have. It wasn’t all bullshit, the way he’d tried to persuade her that the slate could be wiped clean. He wouldn’t have allowed it brain-space, she’d never have seen it behind his eyes or read it in his thoughts, and he would never have gone anywhere near Sarah again.

  He didn’t believe he would have — even without the dénouement, Liscomb’s incredibly foul reactions. Although it was true that he’d never have admitted any possibility that he’d have acted as he had on that one occasion: so there did in the strictest honesty have to be doubt, and it surfaced in his mind now because he was looking at Anne, from whom he’d never had any secrets large or small.

  Well — that last deployment, the solo job, she’d known nothing about that. But he probably would have talked about it — about some aspects of it — in time, if they’d stayed together. Not name or places, but the experience itself.

  ‘Tell me, Charlie?’

  ‘If I do, will you keep it to yourself?’

  ‘Heavens, no. The minute you’re out of here I’ll ring up the night editor of the Daily Mirror, give him the works!’

  ‘All right.’ He raised a hand defensively. ‘Just does happen to be rather secret stuff.’

  ‘Better not tell me, then.’

  ‘As the man is wont to say, “I’ve started, so I’ll finish.”.’ He shrugged. ‘In any case I can’t divulge any secrets, for the simple reason I don’t have any. There’s a guy to be rescued from somewhere in the Middle East — that’s all I know, it’s only my guess that it could be Syria.’

  ‘But — are you going alone?’

  ‘By no means… Oh, it could be Libya. Or even, I thought, the Yemen. So you’re not getting any State secrets, you see… No, I’m joining a team of the Special Boat Squadron — because they don’t have enough blokes who talk Arabic. Know what I mean by SBS — Royal Marines?’

  ‘But surely—’ She’d started, but did not finish, having seen — she thought — the answer… ‘You’re in one of the Territorial regiments, I suppose. I hadn’t realised…’ Then frowning again, the doubt returning: he saw it, and she was right, they hadn’t wanted him in the reserves, 21 or 23 SAS; she’d have known it, he guessed… ‘So what have you got to do with the SBS, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘The lingo — Arabic — is all they want. Plus being SF-trained, I suppose, but it’s the Arabic they’re in need of. What’s so good about it from
my angle is that they checked with the Regiment before they came to me, they must have been told something like “old Charlie Swale came a cropper, trouble with the sauce, but he’s basically OK”… And it means a lot to me, d’you see?’

  ‘I suppose… But it’s still hard to — well, frankly, to believe they’d—’

  ‘Fact is they have. And—’ his eyes held hers — ‘I was thinking, Anne — if they can give me a second chance, maybe you could?’

  Staring back at him: uncomprehending… Then: ‘I can’t see the parallel… Charlie, SBS are underwater specialists, aren’t they? So how—’

  ‘Short of guys fluent in Arabic, that’s all. It makes perfect sense — that and the SAS experience, and that’s me. OK — scraping the barrel, you’re right, but there it is. This guy — team leader, Marine captain — came knocking on my door, knew all about me, asked would I help them out. And there you are. I’ve been in camp with them all this week, sweating my guts out, up and down Welsh mountains — and not a dram of whisky, let me tell you.’

  ‘But you’ve been catching up this evening, Charlie.’

  ‘I’ve — had a couple.’ He blinked at her. As if her comment had surprised him. ‘Won’t be any where we’re going. Old Bob told me — as a condition, and I accepted it. We take off tomorrow, and that’s it.’

  ‘You aren’t making this up, are you?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Or someone’s practical joke?’

  He gestured, brushing the suggestion off. Then: ‘I never did lie to you.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true.’ Her grey eyes held his. ‘But you would have. You’d have had to, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Odd you should say that. I was thinking about it too. I honestly don’t know — I mean whether I could have lived with it.’

  ‘Half the world does, Charlie. Maybe three-quarters.’

  ‘Never had much to do with us, did it.’