The Tamarind Seed (31 page)

‘It's raining,' Judith said. ‘It looks as if there's a real storm blowing up. Look, there's a little boat out there—I'm glad I'm not on that!'

‘Are you a bad sailor?'

He followed where she pointed out to sea; the little yacht was bouncing among the rising waves like a toy. ‘I don't like it when it's rough. My husband adored sailing; he never minded the weather.'

‘You know,' Sverdlov said, ‘you never talked about your husband. About the English lover, yes, but not your husband. Why not?'

‘Because I feel guilty, I suppose,' Judith said. ‘Look, the wind is blowing this way—we'd better close the doors. I'll do it; I feel uneasy about you showing yourself too much.' He let her do as she wanted; he didn't want to argue, or to increase the strain from which she was obviously suffering on his account. He sat back on the sofa bed, which they had readjusted, and watched her push the sliding door closed. It ran smoothly but the last three inches of track were slightly bent. It required extra effort to snap it in place. Judith pulled, and believed she had connected the ratchet with the slot.

‘Why guilty?' Sverdlov said. ‘Tell me—what did you do?'

She came and sat beside him; they smoked, and she let him put his arm around her.

‘It's more what I didn't do,' she said, ‘I told you he was killed. We'd been married three years. But for the last two, I wasn't in love with him. I haven't much of a record, have I—him and then Richard …'

‘I'm not complaining,' Sverdlov said. ‘You suit me. If you loved him for one year, then he had something; he must have been happy.'

‘He was very happy.' Judith watched the rain battering against the beach, kicking up the sand like bullets. ‘He enjoyed everything he did; he was a completely uncomplicated man. At least that's what I kept telling myself afterwards, so he couldn't have realised how little contact we had. Life was a big laugh, one party went on to the next, non stop. When I think back on it, it was hell on earth after the first eight months, a year. If he hadn't been killed, poor lamb, I'd have left him.'

‘You won't be allowed to leave me,' Sverdlov said. ‘Look at the rain; do you remember it rained the first morning we talked, out there? I told you not to sit under the poisonous tree.'

‘The Manchineel,' she said. ‘I remember. I wanted to read my book and lick my wounds and you wouldn't go away. You're the most persistent man I've ever met. Tell me something—are you sorry it's turned out like this? Having to live in exile, hiding and running.'

‘I am not hiding,' Sverdlov smiled. ‘I am only waiting for the rain to stop and then I'm going for a swim. As for being sorry …' He shrugged, and then he squeezed her. ‘I am Russian and we believe in Fate. In fact we invented it, like fairy stories. That way if anything goes wrong, it is never your fault. It is Fate. I am not glad to go and live with Mr. Loder, but I
am
glad not to be in the Lubiyanka at this moment. A lot of people I have worked with won't be so lucky. When will you come to England? A month?—you can give Nielson time to find another secretary.'

‘Feodor, I'm not coming. You know that. Stop joking about it. I wish we'd hear something from Loder. He promised Saturday night; why hasn't there been a message?'

‘It will come,' Sverdlov said. ‘And I am ready. I have what I promised in my case over there.'

‘That file you talked about,' she said. ‘“Blue”. I remember you asking me about that the night we talked to Peter Memenov. True Blue. I think you're right; it could be an Englishman; with a very perverted sense of humour. Where are you going?'

‘The rain has stopped,' Sverdlov said. ‘I am going upstairs to shave, and then we are going down to the pool, and I will make love to you in the water. Don't say I'm not to go, or that Loder said I must stay inside. When I am in England he can treat me like a prisoner. But not before.'

He went up the stairs, before Judith could begin to argue. Then the telephone rang.

‘Mrs. Farrow?'

‘Yes. Who is that?' Upstairs the shower began to work; she could hear the water hammering in the bath and the unmusical sound of Sverdlov singing.

‘There is a seat on the plane leaving at seven-thirty tonight. Tell your friend to be ready by six o'clock. We'll come and pick him up.'

‘Oh thank God,' Judith said fervently. ‘Thank God. I was beginning to think something had gone wrong. Look, he won't stay in the bungalow—there's nothing I can do, he just won't. He's going out in a few minutes to swim in the pool …'

There was a pause at the other end. The man's voice which had given the message grew muffled; he had his hand over the mouthpiece while he spoke to someone else.

‘Did you explain this was part of the instructions?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I said everything, just as I was told. But he wouldn't listen last night either. He'll be down in a few minutes. Dammit, now the sun's coming out …'

‘All right, Mrs. Farrow. Not to worry. We'll keep an eye on him.' It was an educated voice; young sounding, with a brisk authority in the tone.

She turned away from the telephone and looked down on the beach. It was dark with rain, pockmarked and pitted with the force of the downpour, but the sun was coming through the clouds, set like a burning jewel in a patch of brilliant blue sky. Three men were strolling down by the water's edge; they had a beach ball, which they were tossing at each other, making practice passes. Judith turned back. The shower had stopped, and so had the singing. Relief surged in her; the plane was fixed, Loder's men were close by, there was only another six hours to wait, and then he would be safe. She went up the stairs and banged on the bathroom door.

‘That was the telephone,' she said. ‘Everything's ready. You'll be collected at six and taken to the airport.' Suddenly she leaned against the door; she felt physically weak. ‘I've been in such a state,' she said. ‘I've been so terrified for you. Thank God, it's nearly over.'

‘We will have a good lunch,' Sverdlov called through. There was relief in his voice. He was as relieved as Judith. ‘We will have champagne. Get ready quickly and come down.
Dushinka
—you've been very brave for me.'

Suddenly the door opened and a hand came through; water dripped from it.

Judith caught hold and for a moment they gripped. Neither of them spoke. Of all the things she was to remember afterwards, that moment of silent communication was the most painful.

She went into her room, shut the door, and sat on the bed. She heard Sverdlov come out of the bathroom, and go down the stairs. With an effort, Judith began to change into a swimming costume. In a few hours he would be on the plane for England. Loder's men were close and keeping watch. Sverdlov had been right; her fears were exaggerated and unnecessary. There was absolutely no reason why, at that particular moment when they seemed safer than ever before, they should return with such a blinding impact that she almost ran to the door and screamed for him to stop—stop …

Outside the bungalow a wind was shaking the trees, whipping the surface of the sea into a froth; the sun blazed down, a few bathers ventured in for a swim close to the shore. The little yacht anchored out at sea was riding the slight swell. As Sverdlov came down the stairs the sliding door inched back along the aluminium rails, moved by the vibration, and the wind came through the gap like a hand. It moved an inch or two, guided by the wind, gaining momentum from its own weight as it slid backwards.

On the beach below the bungalow, the three men went on playing beach ball; the figure of Sverdlov was clearly visible as it crossed the room from the staircase. It was only a glimpse, because the downstairs living room went back under the overhang of the bedroom above, and from outside it was impossible to see anyone distinctly once they had moved under its shadow.

The door had stopped moving. It was open about a foot. The beach ball thudded into the arms of one man; he let it drop on the sand; he formed part of the base of a triangle, a single man stood as the apex, his legs braced apart, head tilted backwards. He was well built, with a tough muscled torso, but his hair was grey and cut close to the skull. Suddenly his right arm swung, his body moved with the throw; something small and heavy hurtled the twenty feet from the beach to the bungalow and disappeared in the narrow gap between the glass door and wall.

Judith was at the bedroom door; she heard a bang, like a firecracker. The whole of the room beneath seemed to dissolve in a blinding yellow flame. Above the instantaneous crackle of an unearthly kind of fire, enveloped in a heat so intense that it was as if a volcano had erupted in the room below, she fell back, her screams shredding the mid-morning quietness, before the triumphant roar of all-enveloping fire drowned everything.

It was Fergus Stephenson's custom to read all the American and English newspapers before he left for his office. He had breakfast in his study, and it was a frugal meal of crispbread, bitter marmalade and tea. While he ate he began with the English papers, which were easy to manage with one hand, and then proceeded through the bulky Americans. He read quickly but without missing any item, however insignificant, which pertained to political, economic or social events in the world. The paragraph in the foreign news section was well placed, with a black type headline.

‘Soviet citizen burned to death in holiday hotel.' Stephenson put his cup of tea back on the tray. It was not a long report; few details were available at the time. It was a straight statement of the known facts as far as they could be established. A Russian tourist registered as F. G. Sverdlov had been the victim of a fire in the bungalow St. James hotel on the fashionable west coast of Barbados. An Englishwoman domiciled in New York had been rescued and was in hospital on the island. Mrs. J. Farro …

The cause of the fire was unknown, but it was thought to be due to an electrical fault. The bungalow had been completely gutted and the adjoining buildings severely damaged. That was all. Stephenson looked at the date. Three days previously. A Russian tourist. F. G. Sverdlov. His warning had got through in time. He marked the paragraph. His secretary went through the papers in his office and cut out the marked sections for reference. He poured more tea into the cup, but it tasted tepid and stale. He was sorry about Judith Farrow; he hoped her injuries were not too serious. By mid-morning, he had time to put a call through to Loder's office and invite him to lunch.

They met in a pleasant uptown restaurant. It was not a place frequented by diplomats; many of the city's top political journalists were gathered there. Fergus spoke to several of them, calling them by name. He had always made a special effort to be communicative and pleasant to the Press. He was extremely popular among them.

They sat at a corner table with a view of the beautiful wide avenue from the window; the atmosphere was air conditioned and comfortable. He thought Loder looked sallow and depressed. There were patches of sweat under his arms.

‘I saw the report about that Russian being burned to death in Barbados,' Fergus said. ‘It was the same couple we were talking about a few weeks ago, wasn't it—Dick Paterson's girl friend?'

‘Yes,' Loder said. The menu was put in front of them; he ordered melon and chicken in the basket. He detested the vast American steaks, sprawling across the plate; he maintained that they tasted of cotton waste and sawdust. He heard Fergus ask for an omelette and lobster salad.

‘It sounded an odd business,' Stephenson returned to the subject.

‘That's putting it mildly.' Loder sawed away at his melon with a spoon. ‘I'm afraid it was a real balls up. On my part.'

‘Oh? I'm sure it wasn't,' Fergus said gently. ‘Can you tell me what happened?'

‘No reason why not.' Loder shook his head. He seemed glad of the chance to talk; glad too of the sympathy shown by the Minister.

‘I'd got it all wrong; Sverdlov wasn't trying to recruit Mrs. Farrow. He wanted to defect to us. Everything was fixed up; they went to Barbados together as a blind. He was going to be flown to England from there.'

‘Good Lord,' Fergus said. The second course was in front of them, but Loder went on talking.

‘He was the Russians' top man over here, it would have been a fantastic coup to get him. But someone must have tipped them off. They were all set up for him on the island.'

‘And that was the fire,' Fergus said. ‘It wasn't an accident.'

‘Accident?' Loder gave a laugh which was humourless and sour. ‘There's nothing accidental about napalm. That's what they used.'

Fergus shuddered. He wished Loder hadn't told him that. ‘I can imagine. What about the girl?'

‘Burned,' said Loder. ‘But bloody lucky to be alive. She was in the upstairs room. Our chaps smashed the window in and got her out.'

‘Where was Sverdlov?'

‘Downstairs. He hadn't a snowball's chance in hell. Napalm's bad enough in the open. Just think what would happen in a confined space …'

‘I'd rather not.' Fergus drank some wine. He looked pale. ‘What a frightful thing.'

‘You once said it was a dirty business,' Loder remarked. He cut into the food but without appetite. ‘That's not a bad description. I'll have to go and see Mrs. Farrow; I think I owe it to her. I'm not looking forward to it much.'

‘You did your best,' Fergus said. ‘I'm sure it wasn't your fault.'

‘You could try telling that to my chief,' Loder said. ‘This chicken is good.'

‘I like the food here.' Fergus helped him close the subject. They stayed almost two hours, talking about books and an art exhibition which had opened to a controversial reception in New York. Loder muttered with some shyness that he might well go up and see it. When they left the resaurant it was agreed that Fergus should take a day and go with him. He went back to his office in a calm mood, eager to get on with some work, and genuinely looking forward to the excursion with Loder. Unlikely candidate as he was, the gap in class and background made less and less difference to Fergus's choice of him as a friend. It was years since he had met anyone with whom he could relax and enjoy the same interests. He rang for his secretary and began a long dictation. He felt so different from the past two weeks; fear had affected him more than he realised. Now his mind was clear and his energy had returned.