But as he thought on, he realized he had crossed some sort of a defining line as a person, as an individual. Acknowledging this made him feel shivery, almost tearful. He had reached a point in his life from which there was no turning back, even if he should wish to. What had just happened had changed him in a profound way, he saw, a crucial way, and everything about him was different now.

  10.

  Chelsea

  He walked up the King’s Road from Sloane Square Tube – coatless, luggage-less, unshaven, grubby, exhausted – but with a rare exhilar­ation. He was home. He had survived – and in a way he had also proved something fundamental to himself. However, when he had thrown his greatcoat overboard, as he remembered afterwards, he had also thrown away his house keys, tucked in the left-hand pocket. Luckily, he kept a spare set behind a loose brick in the basement well.

  He let himself into his flat. Switched on the lights, lit the gas fire, poured himself a Scotch, took a cigarette from the silver box on the coffee table and flopped into his favourite armchair. Where was his lighter? In the North Sea, of course, with his house keys. He searched his jacket’s pockets and found Caldwell’s book of matches. He tore one off and lit his cigarette, looking at the rows of handwritten telephone numbers – some sort of cypher, obviously. He placed the matches on his mantel, where the Blanco drawing had been. He was in no hurry to convey them to Faith Green. He smoked his cigarette, drank his drink, went into his bedroom and stripped off. He had a bath and a shave, changed into freshly laundered clothes and decided to treat himself to the most expensive meal the Café Matisse could muster – three courses and a bottle of wine. Then he’d shop for food on his way home. His life was back on track.

  He went into the kitchen to check what provisions were required and immediately saw the mouse. The mouse, caught in Tyrone’s patent glue trap. He crouched down and looked closely at it. It was very small, three inches, no more, not counting the tail. Its two front paws were stuck fast in the carpenter’s glue. Gabriel picked up the board. The mouse’s black beady eyes seemed to stare pathetic­ally at him and it started to make tiny cheeping noises as its back feet pedalled uselessly. What to do? Batter it to death with a half-brick? Drown it in the sink? Fold it up into the cardboard and stamp it lifeless?

  He went out through the kitchen door and placed the glue trap and the mouse in the middle of the small lawn. He unwound the garden hose and turned on the tap, directing the spray – thumb over the end to increase the pressure – and sluiced the mouse off the board in a few seconds. It sat there for a moment, drenched, shivering, uncomprehending – and then scurried off into the border.

  ‘And don’t fucking come back!’ Gabriel shouted after it.

  He chucked Tyrone’s glue boards into the dustbin.

  Faith Green wasted no time. At seven o’clock that evening Gabriel’s doorbell rang. He had been half-dozing on the sofa, replete after his Café Matisse blowout feast, television on, some kind of quiz show, trying not to think about the last few days, staying firmly in the pres­ent moment with its agreeable gustatory and alcoholic aftertastes and undertow.

  He went to the door and opened it. Faith stood there, resplendent in a sheer, silver, full-length satin dress and a wide fur stole that was also silver. Silver fox? he wondered blearily. Her usually tousled hair was set firmly in some kind of rigid perm. Her lips were a full, perfect, glossy carmine. She looked older, more formidable – less beautiful, somehow.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

  ‘I can only spare ten minutes. I’m going to a formal banquet at the Guildhall, in case you were wondering.’

  She strode in past him, Gabriel following, noticing the high heels on her silver shoes.

  She stood in his living room with her back to the gas fire. He switched off the TV.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ he said.

  ‘I need whatever Caldwell gave you.’

  Gabriel picked the book of matches off the mantel and handed it over.

  She opened it and scrutinized it briefly before putting it in her clutch-bag.

  ‘You look fabulous, if I may say so,’ he said. ‘Different, but fabulous.’

  ‘Thank you, Gabriel. Actually, I will have a little drink. That malt you have.’

  ‘Glenfeshan.’

  ‘Perfect. One ice cube. Please.’

  He served up her drink and replenished his own. They both sat down and looked at each other in silence for a moment.

  ‘How are you, Gabriel?’

  ‘I’m fine. Glad to be home.’

  ‘I was waiting for you at London airport. We were a little concerned when you weren’t on the flight.’

  ‘I was worried I’d be compromised,’ he said. ‘I think the other British journalist in Warsaw, on the same junket, suspected me and may have given some sort of information to the authorities. I didn’t want to risk being questioned or held at the airport. Now that I’m aware of Caldwell’s importance to us, you know—’

  ‘Vast importance,’ she said. ‘Incredible importance.’

  ‘Exactly. So I decided to drive back. Altogether safer. Went very smoothly.’ He smiled through his lie. ‘And here I am.’

  ‘Well. Good procedure. Bravo.’

  A rare compliment, he thought. He was looking at Faith, thinking that, actually, this groomed, imperious version of her had its own allure. She was clearly still affecting him – emotionally, sexually. He told himself to concentrate. She was also still playing games with him, still pulling strings, he reminded himself.

  ‘By the way,’ she said, sipping at her whisky, ‘did you meet up with the Queneau person when you were in Warsaw?’

  Gabriel lit a cigarette to give him time to think. My God – what’s going on here? he thought.

  ‘Ah. The so-called “Raymond Queneau”. No, I didn’t. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He was in Warsaw. Contacted us – wanted to meet you.’

  ‘Nope. Never saw him. He was in Warsaw? Why would he want to meet me?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Some CIA thing. Anyway, he seems to have vanished off the map, all of a sudden.’ She smiled her carmine-lipped smile. ‘I was just curious to know if he’d ever made contact with you again.’

  ‘Sorry. Can’t help you there.’

  An unwelcome thought crept into Gabriel’s head. Had Faith Green, ‘Imogen Sykes’, sent Queneau/Hillcrest to kill him? No – he urged the thought away, hurriedly – that wasn’t possible. Not Faith, not him.

  But now that she had mentioned Queneau he remembered Queneau’s remark on the ferry. Of course, Faith Green/Imogen Sykes would have told her old Congo CIA colleague, Hillcrest, that the Lumumba tapes were secure. Just as it was Imogen Sykes who had told Hillcrest that Patrice Lumumba had escaped house arrest and was on his way to Stanleyville and safety. Hillcrest, in turn, would have alerted Mobutu who had his soldiers find, surround and detain Lumumba on the road to Stanleyville. Problem neatly solved, now it was just a question of tidying everything up. Hillcrest then orders Dupetit to arrange the firing squad and dispose of Lumumba’s body. The Belgians do their job diligently. ‘Operation Viking’ successfully brought to the desired conclusion. Hillcrest, Sykes and Dupetit. The three names. Lumumba had foreseen it all.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Faith asked. ‘You look a bit troubled.’

  ‘Apologies, something’s just become very clear to me.’ He smiled. ‘Suddenly. A problem in my book that was bothering me.’

  She put her glass down, smiled also, stood up.

  ‘Clarity is always to be welcomed. I should run. Thank you for the drink. Lovely to see you, Gabriel.’

  He blocked her exit in the hall.

  ‘Can I kiss you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is Vivian waiting outside in the car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Need a date? I have a dinner jacket.’

  ‘Ha ha. We’ll be in touch.’

  He saw her out and closed the door behind her. The inscrutable Faith Green. And the pretty damn inscrutable Gabriel Dax, he thought. For the first time he felt he was somehow a step ahead of Faith Green, not subject to her covert manoeuvrings. He knew things that she didn’t; he had done things she would never have expected of him. More importantly, he now knew that there was no connection between the Lumumba tapes and the many complex­ities of the Caldwell defection. No connection apart from the person of Faith Green who was involved in both dark and duplicitous operations. Faith Green – the link.

  He felt strangely relieved to have been able to work this out – it had been tormenting him for months. He wandered back into the sitting room and poured himself another large Glenfeshan. He was right – some sea change had occurred in him, and he was intrigued by the idea, not troubled. What did this new confidence portend? he wondered. How long would it last?

  11.

  Cuba

  ‘RUSSIA’S NUKES 90 MILES FROM USA’ was the headline. President Kennedy’s television address to the nation – and the world – on 22 October had alerted everyone to the extreme gravity of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Something similar was the headline of every paper in the newsagent’s, Gabriel had noted. Caldwell had been right – the shit was hitting the fan. The Yanks were hopping mad.

  Gabriel was walking home with a copy of the Evening Standard, reading as he walked, to see what the latest state of play was. Lorraine had telephoned him, terrified.

  ‘What’s happening, Gabriel? Is it going to be a war? Third World War? It looks like it might happen—’

  ‘Let’s wait and see,’ he had said. ‘I think it’ll be resolved. Don’t panic.’

  ‘No. We’re thinking of moving out of London.’

  It was extraordinary – and understandable – to see how one topic of conversation, one fear-driven obsession, could dominate all public discourse. In the supermarket, the office, the post office, the pub – everyone was talking about Cuba. Gabriel took notes:

  ‘You die instantly, apparently. Turn to dust.’

  ‘No. Radiation sickness lasts weeks. Like cancer.’

  ‘London is a target. Birmingham, Manchester, Edinburgh.’

  ‘But they’re blockading Cuba. Nothing in or out.’

  ‘It’s another provocation. They should negotiate.’

  ‘They will be negotiating, secretly, don’t worry.’

  ‘The US has missiles in Italy and Turkey.’

  ‘But Cuba’s different. It’s so close.’

  ‘JFK versus Khrushchev? Only one winner.’

  ‘One air strike and those missiles are gone. Finito.’

  ‘So what’s the problem? Why are they waiting?’

  ‘It’s called Mutually Assured Destruction.’

  ‘Millions will die. Billions.’

  ‘Cities will be flattened – empty wastelands.’

  ‘I’d kill myself first. Yes, I would.’

  ‘It’s like Scotland had missiles aimed at England.’

  ‘Kennedy isn’t messing about, you know.’

  ‘American bombers with nukes are flying twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘What does Russia gain? Nothing. The end of Russia.’

  ‘You don’t understand their minds. They’re different.’

  ‘They’re people. Most people don’t want to die.’

  ‘Die in a nuclear holocaust. End of the world.’

  ‘Do you know? I’ve started praying every night.’

  ‘Praying to God? What God?’

  ‘Yes. Let it be over peacefully, dear God.’

  And then, almost two weeks after it began, it was over. Crisis averted. It was announced that Russia would dismantle the missile bases, crate and transport the missiles back to Russia. The world calmed down. The sigh of relief was global. It looked to everyone that Kennedy’s tough brinkmanship had won the day and that Khrushchev and Russia had been humiliated. No doubt more had gone on behind the scenes than would ever be revealed, Gabriel thought, remembering Caldwell’s prediction that the Tovs would sheepishly back down, pack up and head back to Russia. David versus Goliath, but a David with a malfunctioning sling – no real contest. So David stepped away.

  He wondered what role Caldwell’s secret information had played in the Russian decision: the fact that American bombs and missiles worked and that Russian ones maybe didn’t. When your finger was hovering above the nuclear button that consideration had to have some force. Live to fight another day became the only sensible option. And what about you, Gabriel Dax? he said to himself – the reluctant microdot courier? Would you be a secret footnote in history, also? He didn’t give it much thought. His courier days were over, he told himself, it was back to his usual job – writing. He drafted a carefully edited account of his trans-Poland, trans-East Germany journey for Interzonal but decided it would be wiser to wait a while before it was published.

  Then, in early November, he received a letter from Manley Dryden.

  Dear Mr Dax,

  I was going through my files again the other day – regarding my investigation of the fire at Yeomanswood Farm – and discovered something that may be of interest to you. Do please telephone me if you would like to learn more. I completely understand if you prefer to consider the matter closed.

  Sincerely yours,

  Manley Dryden

  Gabriel telephoned and said he would like to come and see him in Claverleigh; he would rather not discuss matters over the phone. They made a date to meet.

  Gabriel sat in Manley Dryden’s shed as Dryden rummaged through a drawer in one of his filing cabinets. Gabriel felt dry-mouthed, unduly tense. What was this new information? he wondered for the hundredth time. Would it help or would it hinder? Was he culpable or blameless? Try as he might his memories of that evening of the fire refused to cohere and, thanks to Katerina Haas, he now knew that this failure was at the root of his personal mental troubles, the cause of his restless, sleep-scattered nights.

  Dryden returned with a scrap of paper in his hand, flourishing it triumphantly.

  ‘It had slipped down between two dossiers,’ he explained. ­‘Obviously – notice how one edge is torn – I had torn this page from a notebook and jotted down some observations.’ He sat at his desk and moved his cold, unfilled pipe to the side of his blotter.

  ‘It’s dated – my first visit – two days after the fire. I was obviously noting down first impressions before my more forensic examination took place. Shall I read it out, Mr Dax?’

  ‘Please.’

  Dryden cleared his throat.

  ‘Exterior, kitchen door. Kitchen door locked from inside. No key in lock. Leaded window beside door open wide. Hanging from exterior window ledge a telephone, and handset, still attached, resting in garden border.’ He looked up. ‘Does that mean anything to you, Mr Dax?’

  ‘Let me think.’

  ‘The kitchen area of the house was the least damaged by fire. It was a strange, almost surreal sight, I must say, seeing that telephone dangling. I made a little sketch.’

  He held up the sheet of paper. Gabriel looked at it. Memories were stirring, like fish circling in a deep pool.

  ‘Shall I tell you my conclusions?’ Dryden said.

  ‘Yes, please. Most helpful.’

  ‘This is how you must have escaped from the burning house. You exited through this side window in the kitchen area. I don’t know what the telephone had to do with it, however.’

  Clarity suddenly arrived – like draught of icy cold air. He was actively remembering, memories congregating.

  ‘I tried the kitchen door – yes – but it was locked and I couldn’t recall where the key was kept. So I then tried to open the window. But . . .’ Gabriel paused. He could almost see himself in his py­­jamas, trying vainly to move the handle. ‘The window latch was jammed, yes . . .’ he said slowly. ‘The latch was very stiff, too stiff for me to move it. So I pulled the table that the telephone was on over to the window, knelt on the table and used the telephone receiver, like a hammer, to bludgeon the handle down, and the window opened. I just threw the phone out and followed it.’ He swallowed. It was all coming back in a destabilizing rush. ‘Then I ran as fast as I could behind the fish pond.’

  He felt a small bolus of vomit rise in his throat and covered his mouth with his palm. Coughed, calmed down. He blinked, aware of his face flushing.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Dax? Glass of water?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Gabriel knew what had just happened. Lost memories were returning. His hidden past was revealing itself.

  He drank some gulps of water from the glass Dryden provided. His head was suddenly full of swarming recollections, images, sensations, feelings. Something had been unblocked – a dam breached. He was back in his bed in Yeomanswood Farm, smelling the smoke . . . His moon-globe night light was still burning. Then he opened the door and saw the smoke and flames down below. He must have run downstairs because now he remembered seeing his mother lying face down in front of the drinks cabinet. He remembered touching her, yes, touching her arm but she didn’t move so he turned her over and he knew she was dead. Her eyes were half-open. She had gone and the fire was almost on top of him . . .

 

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