by Craig Thomas
Until Paul. Father-lover-husband Paul. Paul, in unholy, unforgiveable alliance with her father's murderer. After more than thirty years he had appeared and now had removed himself from her. For that, for the deception of hope followed by betrayal, she could never forgive him.
She let the paper fall to the carpet. She sniffed loudly, sitting erect — she remembered her mother doing the same, in the same stiffly defiant posture and now she realised that she, too, had been fending off painful realities. She would not cry again. She would, instead, finish her toast.
The Handel was solemn, like a pathway into grief, so she left her chair and switched it off. The transistor radio — which Paul never used to listen to music, always preferring his stereo equipment in the study — was on the dark Georgian oak sideboard. Apart from the small dining-table, it was the only piece of furniture in the alcove that constituted their breakfast area. The wood gleamed like satin, like a mirror. Her fingers touched it. It was carved, narrow-legged, three-drawered; a piece her father had acquired before the war. Almost everything — everything with any pride of place — had been collected by her father. She felt herself to be only another of his possessions, one of the prize pieces. Her father still owned her, even now, when she possessed his furniture and his money.
She returned to her chair. The toast broke and crumbled under the pressure of her knife. There was sticky marmalade on her fingers. Her eyes became wet—
The telephone rang.
She looked up from her plate, startled and almost as if rebuked for her poor table manners. She stood up and removed the extension receiver from the wall, flicking her hair away from her cheek before holding the telephone to her ear.
"Yes?" Only as she spoke did she realise it might be someone she did not wish to speak to, a friend appalled and considerate because of the article and whose sympathy was unwanted. Then she heard Paul's voice.
"Margaret — are you all right?" he asked breathlessly, as if she had been the one endangered.
"Paul—!" she blurted in reply. "Are you all right?" The Valium headache tightened in her temples. She had taken the tablets in her misery, but in her fear, too. He had talked of danger—
"Yes, I'm all right. I'm in London, I must see you…"
Her exhalation of relief, the trembling of her body, the lump in her throat all transformed themselves, the instant after she knew he was alive and safe, into an angry echo of her recriminations. Paul was still Aubrey's ally.
"Have you given it up?" she demanded.
"What—? I haven't found out the truth, if that's what you mean. Darling, can I come and see you, talk to you?"
"No, Paul—"
"Margaret, I have to!"
"You're in London, you must have seen—?"
"I have seen. It's nonsense — utter nonsense."
"It isn't!"
"You don't know Aubrey—!" Massinger protested. Stephens, the butler, opened the door, hesitated for an instant, then discreetly withdrew. Margaret could hear her own breathing, as well as the noise of a passing car. Then only the noise of the distance between herself and her husband. He was still speaking, still protesting Aubrey's innocence, but she could hear more clearly the whisper of the static and its measurement of distance. "You don't know Aubrey, darling, or you'd never believe that nonsense." There was a false, urgent attempt at jocularity; it was garish and ugly, like too much rouge on a wrinkled cheek. "You can't take that seriously…" Then, "Darling? Are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here," she replied wearily, staring at the blank wall. "You're safe, you say? You'll be safe now?"
"No," he said softly.
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean. I'm in too deep now. Whether I like it or not, I'm in. I've aroused — interest." He sounded grim. There was a tone she had not heard before in his voice; something that belonged to his past, to that world he had once shared with Aubrey — the great, stupid, heroic, filthy game of spying. He was demanding she take it seriously. To him, it was far more real than the idea that people could kill for love, out of sexual jealousy or desire.
"Oh, God…" It was expressed in a shuddering sigh, as a protest.
The grinning skull. In her world, people could die for the change in their handbags or for the desire they could not satisfy or have reciprocated; in Paul's world, people died because they intrigued, they turned over stones, they desired the truth. The skull; her father's grinning bones.
"Let me see you," he pleaded.
"No!" She could not — yet she wanted him to be safe; above all, safe. "You must talk to Andrew Babbington — you must! Tell him you're in danger — please talk to him!"
"I can't — Margaret, I simply can't talk to anyone about this."
"Then leave me alone!" she wailed, thrusting the receiver away from her, clattering it onto its rest on the wall, leaning her head against it as her body slumped. The receiver joggled off and the telephone purred. Paul had evidently rung off. The tears coursed down her cheeks. She stared at her future mirrored on the blank wall of the alcove.
* * *
"I must ask you, Mr Hyde, if you have any suggestions as to how we are to capture your Colonel Petrunin?" Miandad's tone was reproving, even recriminatory.
"What the hell else could I do?" Hyde protested sullenly, I squatting on his haunches, his back pressed against the wall of the earthen-floored, chilly room. The pale blue of the sky was visible through the lattice-work of the broken roof. "You know damn well he had me by the short and curlies." Hyde stared into Miandad's face. It was evident that the Pakistani, too, was recollecting Mohammed Jan's words; his ultimatum. The Pathan chieftain had stood over them, tall in the firelight as their discussions ended, and he had spoken to Miandad in Pushtu. Hyde had recognised the trap in the Pathan's tone, even before Miandad translated.
"He will take you to the border, and across it. He will help you, show you where to find your Colonel Petrunin, and he will show you all the difficulties. In return for his help, you will guarantee to capture the Russian and to hand him over to the justice of Mohammed Jan and his tribe. This will pay for the deaths of his sons. It is the Pathan code of Pushtunwali, where the vendetta is the highest loyalty. Mohammed Jan asks you to choose — to go or to stay. Do you understand, Mr Hyde? Do you know what this means? If you want his help, you must promise him the capture of Petrunin."
All the while, Mohammed Jan had stood over them, immobile as a carved figure, the long Lee Enfield rifle with its gold inlay cradled in his arms. Hyde avoided looking at him, avoided too the circle of faces around the fire; Mohammed Jan's council of elders. Nevertheless, as soon as Miandad had finished his translation and given his warning, Hyde had replied.
"Tell him yes. I promise he will have Petrunin for his justice." There had been no other way. He had not dared to even hesitate.
To be trusted, to gain their help, he had had to commit himself at once. He wanted them to endanger themselves on his behalf. He had had to agree.
"I agree," Miandad said. "There was nothing else you could do. But, you have no idea of how to lay hands upon the Russian?"
Hyde turned to the Pakistani. "Look," he said, "there's you and me and a gang of brave nutters. They're prepared to stay inside Afghanistan until the job's done. For the moment I've managed to stall them with the idea of an ambush." He grinned mirthlessly. "They'll get some new guns and who knows — we might get some hard news of Petrunin."
"You're an optimist, Mr Hyde."
"Am I? I'm bloody trapped, that's what I am, sport."
"Perhaps."
"At least they'll wait. Wait until Petrunin comes out to play."
"I know much about your Russian. He is unlikely to allow himself to be captured. By helicopter, he has at least two heavily-armed gunship escorts, by road he travels in a heavy convoy. He is virtually impregnable. He spends a great deal of his time at Soviet army headquarters when he is in Kabul, and the rest of the time at the embassy — very little time at the embassy, actually. You see, he knows how m
uch he is hated, how deep the desire to punish him is."
"All right, all right…" Hyde sighed. "I know we're in the shit. Thanks for jumping in with me."
"There are obligations."
"To Aubrey you mean?"
"And to men who served with me. It is not only Pathans who have been burned by your Russian's napalm." Miandad's face was grim. Hyde lowered his head, looking at the baggy trousers and sheepskin jacket that were part of his disguise. He rubbed his unshaven skin and sighed.
"I realise now how you knew what would happen." He looked at Miandad again. The Pakistani, similarly disguised as a Pathan warrior, was softly rubbing his chest and shoulders. Hyde remembered that the man had been discreet, almost coy, when they had changed into their Pathan costumes. Burned—? Hyde left the subject of Miandad's experiences in Afghanistan, but he could not ignore Petrunin. "How has it happened?"
"The Russian?" Miandad shrugged. "It is not a nice war here. Not cricket — not even ice hockey." Miandad smiled. "Your Russian was sent here in disgrace, was he not?" Hyde nodded. "He is a very bitter man. This is a war of bitterness. It was easy for him, I suspect. It is always easy to degenerate." Miandad shivered and stretched out his hands to the small fire around which they crouched.
They were alone in the ruin of the Afghan fort. They had crossed the border before daybreak, a party of thirty picked men, all well-armed and provisioned. After miles of high, snowbound passes they had come down, before midday, to this abandoned fort, trudging through a pine forest to reach its shelter. A bitter wind had searched their clothing throughout the journey. Hyde had reached the fort exhausted and chilled to the bone. He had eaten ravenously, then slowly thawed in front of a small fire. The wind moaned and shrieked around the partially-ruined walls and barracks and stables. Mohammed Jan had seemed to find some source of satisfaction in the Australian's weariness. Then the Pathans had left, to scout the road between Kabul and Jalalabad.
"I'm getting stiff," Hyde announced. "Let's walk."
They left, passing through other rooms that might once have been offices — a broken chair, sagging wooden shelves — until they stood in the main courtyard of the fort. The snow-laden pines stretched away up the mountain slope until they petered out at the treeline. The scene was almost colourless; hostile and lonely.
They paced the courtyard of hardened earth, ridged by old cartwheels or the ancient wheels of gun carriages. Hyde flapped his arms against his sides for warmth.
"It is a deadly game, my friend," Miandad said after a long silence filled only by the wind and their stamping footsteps.
"I know that."
"He will hold you responsible if you do not—"
"I know that!" Hyde snapped. He halted, turning to Miandad. "My life isn't worth a spit anywhere in the world unless I get hold of Petrunin and get the truth from him. In those circumstances, mate, it's easy to make extravagant promises and put your balls in the scales!"
"Very well. But, how will you prevent Mohammed Jan from putting your Russian to death immediately he is captured — always supposing he is captured alive in the first place."
"Shoot the bugger, if I have to — Christ, I don't know! Just hope, I suppose. Or threaten to kill Petrunin myself unless they let me talk to him."
"And how will you get Petrunin to talk?"
"Christ knows! Offer him a way out? Let's face it, some bugger's going to be disappointed with the outcome — let's just hope it isn't us!"
"Very well."
"You'll be safe?"
Miandad nodded. "Oh, yes. Mohammed Jan will not harm me. You see, I represent the possibility of guns and ammunition, and shelter."
"God, I wish I knew what the hell to do!"
"Perhaps you should ask Allah for inspiration? Or your own god?"
"Who? Janus of the two faces? Some hope."
"My friend, do not despair. If we find a patrol, and we can capture some of the Russian soldiers, they will talk easily enough. They will know Petrunin — he is a legend among them, one of the few they have. They will know, perhaps, his movements and his timetable. Then an idea may come to you."
Hyde looked up at the climbing pines and the white mountains against the pale sky. He could not shake off his abiding sense of the alienness of this country. His mission was doomed to failure. Had he not been desperate himself, he would never have considered it. He would never have crossed the border.
A voice called out in Pushtu. They turned swiftly, Hyde bringing the Russian Kalashnikov to bear. A turbanned Pathan waved urgently to them from the main gate.
Miandad said, "They've found a patrol. We are ordered to make haste." He looked at the sky. "No more than two hours of daylight left. The patrol ought to be returning to Jalalabad or Kabul very soon. Come, my friend. Let's hope there are plenty of new guns, even a rocket launcher. Mohammed Jan will be mollified if the haul is a good one."
* * *
"Then there is nothing else you can do — you must get out of it." Shelley's face was grim as Massinger looked up. He had been staring at Hyde's telephone ever since he had replaced the receiver. He could still hear, more stridently and more affectingly than any of Shelley's prognostications and fears, Margaret's almost hysterical refusal to see him, to believe him, to care what happened to him. He was numbed by the fact that she could abandon him.
"How can I?" he asked bleakly.
"How can you? Drop it — drop the whole thing, man!" It was evident that Shelley was pleading with him for their mutual safety. The tortoiseshell cat roused itself, as if the electricity of their fears disturbed and shocked its fur. Then it settled back into its hollow in the sofa next to Massinger. "You'll have to bluff your way out."
"You've already thought this through, haven't you?" Massinger asked. He made it sound like an accusation, and Shelley lowered his eyes as he replied.
"Yes, I have." He looked up again, defiantly. Massinger thought perhaps his eyes had caught the front page of The Sunday Times and he had been reminded that he was abandoning Aubrey. His old chiefs fate seemed settled, inexorable. Perhaps there was nothing that could be done.
He squashed the thought like an irritating insect, half-afraid of it as of some exotic, corrupt sexual temptation. He could not simply abandon Aubrey. He shook his head. "I can't."
"You have to! Look, I've given this a lot of thought. Whoever is running this show has closed all the doors against you. Good God, don't you realise that what happened in Helsinki means that someone knew what I'd been doing almost before I did it. I made a couple of telephone calls, I met you in Calais — and it's as if we carried placards announcing our intentions." Shelley's voice was urgent and afraid. "It's time to face the truth. There's nothing we can do. We can't keep anything hidden from them. Sooner or later, they're going to get tired of us, like buzzing flies, then — splat! You, me — families…" Shelley's voice tailed off.
Massinger patted the young man's knee roughly, and said in a low voice: "Even if I did, how could I make them believe me?" He felt almost as if Aubrey could hear every word he spoke. Yet Margaret remained the light at the end of the tunnel. She would see him, come back to him, let him come back.
"It's easy!" Shelley said quickly. Massinger recognised that the conspiracy was agreed between them. "You have to convince them that you're interested in the truth of this—" His finger tapped the newspaper. Aubrey's face stared at them. Shelley's damp fingertip became smudged with print from the picture and the headline — The meaning of treason? Shelley rubbed his finger on his denims. "Don't remain in hiding — don't just skulk here. Go to Babbington, even, and ask him all about this. Ask to talk to this man living in Guernsey who's quoted here — what's his name, Murdoch? Convince them that all you're interested in, all you've ever wanted to discover, is whether or not Aubrey murdered Castleford. If you can do that, you can walk away from this mess." Shelley's voice ended on a low, seductive note.
Massinger knew it would work. Babbington would accept it, and so would Margaret. The Sunday Times had op
ened a route to the border of the wild country in which he had found himself. He could be across that border by nightfall; safe.
"And the traitor?" Massinger murmured.
"Forget him."
"But we know he exists!" Massinger began.
"And we can do nothing!" Shelley snapped at him. "We have to stay alive. I want to stay alive, anyway. So do you, I suspect."
"But—"
"You don't know where to begin. You have nothing to offer, no influence, no power, no knowledge, and no leverage. You can't even protect yourself. Give it up!"
He could be dining with his wife that evening. He could be holding her in his arms within a matter of hours.
Safe. The route to the border was open. Safe—
"And you?" he asked.
"I'll ring this man in Guernsey — on your behalf. A halfhearted final gesture, for form's sake. Then I can go back to the office with a clean sheet." Two spots of shame had appeared on Shelley's cheeks, but it was evident that he was determined. He had abandoned Aubrey and was already learning to live with the amputation of a small part of his conscience. "As for you," he added, "why not go and see one or two of these people I've dug up who were in Berlin in '46? It will make for conviction, mm?" Shelley picked up some sheets of paper from the coffee-table. "Yes, why not? See one or two of them, and then you call Babbington. Ask to see him — seem to want to be convinced. Sound as if you want to believe everything you read in the papers." Shelley's forced jocularity was evidently acted. He was assuming his new role, and Massinger desperately wanted to do the same. "When you've spoken to Babbington, all you have to do is convince him that you're satisfied. Aubrey killed Castleford. They have to be made to believe that you beheve it. Who knows — perhaps the old man did, in a fit of passion—?"
