The Tamarind Seed (19 page)

It would be useless to approach Panyushkin direct. He must have given permission for the interrogation of Kalinin; he had already doomed Sverdlov by agreeing, because he knew that the findings could not possibly be negative. As he had said to Judith in the first moment of shock, the purge was beginning. No doubt Panyushkin remembered the most feared and infamous of all the K.G.B. directors, Beria, who failed to detect the change in policy in time, and fell before the firing squad of Krushchev and the moderates. Panyushkin would order him home, assure him he had nothing to fear, and then sit behind a screened window in the Lubiyanka while he was being assisted to confess.

‘Feodor, what are you going to do? Couldn't you just disappear? I know I suggested this before but it wasn't really serious then—you could just walk out of here and vanish. I could give you some money …'

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘But it is not possible. Believe me, it could never be done. I have two choices, and not so much time to decide which one I should take. I can go home and try to defend myself, which will be useless and I will be shot, or I can do what others have done, and ask for political asylum.'

Judith didn't speak when he said that. It was the obvious conclusion but he had to arrive there without any suggestion from her.

‘If I had a chance,' Sverdlov said slowly, ‘I would go home. But I might as well go back to my Embassy and put a bullet in my head. Perhaps that would be the easiest.'

‘Please,' she said calmly. ‘Please don't say things like that. It makes me feel quite ill.'

‘There is always a moment when you think of death as a way easier than life,' Sverdlov said. He leaned over and took her hand and kissed it. He found it icy cold. ‘But I don't believe in it. It's the solution of our century, have you noticed? To all the problems of the world, we have only one good answer—death. Too many children being born—abortion. Too many people living too long, being a burden on the state and a nuisance to their families. Euthanasia. You have political opponents—you kill them. It used to be war, but now it is spreading, this civilised solution. And always it is said to be better for the people who have to die. Better for the bastards, the children who will grow up poor and deprived, better for the old sick, who won't have to suffer. Better for the misguided who don't see your point of view, because they can't go around spreading wrong ideas among the rest. It would be better for me to do what I said: go and shoot myself quietly, and make it easy for them. Like an officer and a gentleman. But I am not one of those, so you needn't look at me like that. I am not going to kill myself or let anyone kill me for a reason I don't agree with. I am going to need your help. Will you do what I ask?'

She looked away from him. ‘You know I will. I'll do anything I can.' The restaurant was almost empty; the big party of Italians, who were in fact celebrating a birthday, were paying their bill, laughing and singing in snatches, making jokes with the manager who seemed to know them well. Sverdlov kissed her hand again.

‘They will think we are lovers,' he said. ‘They won't mind if we stay longer. They are such sentimentalists, the Italians. Can you make another telephone call for me?'

‘Yes. But it's late, it's midnight. Who do you want me to ring?'

‘Your friend from the Embassy,' Sverdlov said. ‘Mr. Loder. Say that I would like to see him.'

‘But it's so late, Judith said. ‘There won't be anyone there.'

‘He will be contacted,' Sverdlov interrupted. ‘Please, make the call.'

This was his one safe chance to make contact with British Intelligence; nobody could trace Judith's telephone calls, and even if he had been followed to the trattoria on Golitsyn's orders, he was only meeting a prospective recruitee who was more likely going to the powder room than the telephone booth which was round the back of the room, near the kitchens.

He clicked his finger and the manager himself came up. He was red faced and extra genial. His guests had invited him to share their celebration and he was in an expansive mood.

‘Signore—where is the beautiful lady?'

‘Putting some powder on her nose,' Sverdlov said. ‘Would it be possible to have some more coffee, and something to drink? It is not too late …'

‘No, no. You can have what you like. We are not dosing yet.' He leaned towards the Russian and beamed, his black eyes glittering with too much wine. ‘I will bring a Strega for the lady. It has certain properties, you know?' He went off, calling in Italian. His accent was thick, and he spoke without Americanisms; he had only arrived in the country five years ago, and already his trattoria was well known and making a huge profit.

Sverdlov got up as Judith came back to the table.

‘He's not there,' she said. ‘I got through to somebody, and he's away. They don't know when he'll be back.' She looked up at him. ‘I did my best—I said it was terribly important. They couldn't tell me anything except his wife was ill and he went home. I asked for the other one, his assistant, but he's not there either. Oh God, Feodor, what are we going to do?'

‘Think again,' he said. ‘They don't know when he will be back? Or where the other man is, the assistant?'

‘No,' she said. ‘He was very cagey over the phone, it must have been someone on the night staff. He said MacLeod had left Washington, that's all he could tell me.'

‘Drink your Strega,' Sverdlov said. ‘It is an aphrodisiac. You will let me make love to you tonight and then we will think of something.'

‘Don't joke,' she said. ‘This is terrible—I don't know anyone to go to now. Feodor—what about the Americans? Don't you know anybody?'

‘I know several—by sight and by name,' the twisted mouth grinned at her. ‘But I am not going over to the CIA. I will go to the British, but not to the Americans. Your people are more neutral; the Americans are the worst enemies of my country, and I won't give them information to use against us. It is Mr. Loder or nobody.'

‘We can't sit here indefinitely,' Judith said. ‘Everyone's gone—we'll have to go too. Oh why couldn't Nancy have gone off with one of her damned boy friends tonight, instead of staying at home!'

‘What did she do when you were with Richard Paterson,' he asked. ‘Go to a hotel?'

‘I used to tell her in advance,' Judith said. ‘Anyway he often came at tea time—she's usually working till around seven.'

‘Judith?' He was watching her intently, but the look was guarded.

‘What is it? Why are you looking like that …? Oh, no, not him! Not Richard!'

He shrugged lightly. ‘All right. I understand it would be difficult.'

‘I can't get in touch with him,' she said miserably. ‘Please, isn't there anyone else?'

‘I expect so,' Sverdlov answered. ‘We will think of something.' He called for the bill, and they sat in silence while it was brought and he paid. Outside on the pavement, he took her arm. ‘I'll take you home,' he said. ‘Then I'll go back to our Embassy. Don't worry.' He squeezed her arm. ‘By tomorrow morning I will have thought of another way. Maybe we can try to find Loder's assistant.'

‘Oh don't be such an idiot,' Judith burst into tears. ‘I'll get through to Richard first thing tomorrow morning.'

Rachel Paterson had indigestion. It was not the ordinary discomfort she associated with eating heavy food; it was the result of her enlarged womb with its fluttering little foetus pushing her stomach out of place. As a result acid regurgitated into her throat and pain accompanied every meal. The nights were the worst; she found herself unable to sleep through, and Richard had simply moved into the guest room, being unable, as he said when she protested, to do a full day's work on four or five hours' broken sleep. She had tried getting out of bed as quietly as possible, but she was naturally noisy. The bedsprings creaked, inadvertently she pulled the sheet which he had wrapped round him, and he was struggling up, awake and furious. Now she slept as best she could, poured herself medicine in the night, and comforted herself feeling the tiny movements of the baby under her hand. Towards dawn on the Saturday morning she fell into a deep sleep. She enjoyed the weekends; Richard played golf most mornings, which allowed her to be lazy, and they went to a movie or had friends in to dinner and to play bridge, which was a hobby she had taken up to please him. For someone who considered herself a fool, she showed a surprising aptitude for the game. She played so well he hadn't known whether to be pleased or irritated. He was attentive to her, apart from refusing to sleep in her bed; he was kind and affectionate within well defined limits which did not include giving up what he liked doing or refusing an amusing party if she felt too tired to go with him.

Rachel had never been happier; the Embassy doctor said she was in excellent health, and her mother was planning to come over for the baby's birth. Everyone had been friendly and kind among the staff, and Mrs. Fergus Stephenson, of whom Rachel was a fervent admirer, had been particularly amiable. At eight o'clock she woke suddenly, a bell was ringing through a muddled dream, becoming the dominant part of it until she realised in the dark bedroom that the bell was a reality. Her telephone was ringing.

She groped for the light and found the receiver instead.

‘Hello. Is that Washington 275680?'

‘Yes,' Rachel croaked back, her throat full of sleep.

‘Could I speak to Group Captain Paterson please?' It was a woman's voice, and Rachel hadn't answered when there was a click, and she heard her husband's voice on the extension. ‘Hello?'

‘Richard? It's me—Judy.' She held the received against her ear; the voices sounded very loud. Judy. At eight o'clock in the morning.

She was going to put it down; she told herself that later. She was just going to hang up and go back to sleep when the woman said ‘Richard' again, right against her ear. ‘Richard, I have to see you.'

Her husband had tried to refuse; she couldn't deny that. He had been curt and angry. At one point he told the unknown woman that it was all over and he had no intention of seeing her again. Rachel had listened to the desperate pleading on the other end, and finally the last, unbelievable threat that unless he saw her, the speaker would come down to Washington. That was when she dropped the phone back on its cradle, not caring whether her husband heard the extension click or not. Five minutes later he came into the room which was still dark, and he heard her sobbing.

He was doubly shaken, first by hearing Judith on the line and then by the realisation that his wife had been listening in. What Judith had said seemed so incredible that he couldn't believe it was not some trick to embroil him. He remembered Stephenson's warning to cut loose, that she was classified as unreliable. In the end, when he refused either to believe her, or to come up to Washington that day, Judith had told him to be at her apartment by four o'clock, or she would go down to Washington and call at his house. He had never expected her to make such a threat. It was so completely out of character that he was forced to believe her when she said it was a life or death business, and nothing to do with their past relationship.

But before he made up his mind, he had to go in and face his wife. His first impulse was to lose his temper and tell her not to be such a hysterical bloody fool. But he suppressed it; he had decided to make the marriage work, the course was set, a child was on the way, and besides the Minister's wife had taken Rachel as a protégé. If he upset that bloody woman, she'd make sure his career would suffer. He knew the type and it was far too determined and tough for his liking. Stephenson must have felt he was lying under a steam-roller at times.

‘Darling, you've got it all wrong. Listen for God's sake—I'll tell you exactly what that call was about, if you'll stop crying!'

‘I heard her,' Rachel cried on, ‘I heard her begging to see you, saying she'd come down here if you didn't go. That was a girl friend, and I know it! I'm going home—you never wanted me to come out anyway! You'd taken up with someone else, that's why! I'm going to go straight home on the first plane tomorrow …'

He had a moment of insanity when he nearly reminded her that there was a perfectly good flight to London she could catch that afternoon. A year ago he would have done so, but not now. Things had changed between them. If he wanted his career unspoilt, he was in thrall to this silly woman, at least until they left Washington.

‘I used to take her out,' he said. ‘I was damned lonely over here and she was English. For Christ's sake, Rachel, I never slept with her—I can't help it if she fell for me, you know how it is with these girls who come over here—all they want is to get their hooks on some man! As soon as I saw she was getting serious I dropped her—flat.

‘This is a diplomatic thing, that's why she called me. Darling, please listen to me. Why the hell didn't you listen to the end, then you'd know I'm telling the truth.'

‘She wants you to go to Washington. She threatened you,' Rachel said. ‘I heard that much!'

‘She's got herself mixed up in something,' Richard said, trying to be patient, choosing his words. He even felt a momentary regret at the sight of his wife's wet, distorted face. This sort of thing couldn't be good for a pregnant woman.

‘There's a Russian from the Embassy here; she says he wants to defect. He wants to see somebody from our Embassy. Now, darling, do you understand why she phoned me? If only you hadn't hung up …'

Rachel lay back and closed her eyes. The outburst had exhausted her completely. Nothing he said was making sense, not compared with the sense those remarks on the telephone had made. Then he had put his arms round her, and she gave in temporarily, because the alternative presented so much pain and the wreck of her new happiness. She opened her eyes and looked at him.