The Tamarind Seed (27 page)

‘Don't you think you're exaggerating? After all, you say this woman in New York was only an acquaintance—she had a perfectly good reason for getting in touch with him. My dear, she'd hardly make up a story about a Russian defector, if she wanted to see him? That's a little too far-fetched.'

The remark was even more significant for herself than to Richard Paterson's wife. She had listened to the first part of Rachel's confidence with real sympathy; the way they had drifted, his lack of interest in her, his career worship at the expense of her wish for a child—it was all quite familiar and only confirmed Margaret's opinion of Paterson as a selfish swine.

She had listened to the story of the early morning telephone call; she had known about Paterson's mistress in New York, and quite illogically, held it against him. When Rachel repeated his explanation of that call, it constituted such a shock that for a moment Margaret Stephenson couldn't speak. Now, in the space of the few minutes while the other woman broke down into tears and stumbled through the story, confusing it in her distress, Margaret's acute intelligence, schooled by a lifetime of living with diplomacy, saw the point of that one frightful revelation and the possible direction in which it could lead. Then she took the shock as she had taken everything of real importance; outwardly unchanged, calm and in control of herself.

Someone in the Russian Embassy was about to defect to Britain.

Out of the welter of Rachel Paterson's material troubles, that one fact stood out independent of anything else. She took hold of Rachel's hand for a moment.

‘I know he didn't stay in New York,' Rachel was saying. ‘He came back and saw the Ambassador that night, he told me. So he wasn't with
her
…'

‘Of course he wasn't,' Margaret said. ‘If he went to the Ambassador that proves the story is true. Did he say this Russian was important?'

Rachel paused; she couldn't see the relevance of the question to herself.

‘I don't remember really. Yes, I think he did say something about it when he came back, but I didn't take much notice. I was so shocked to discover about this girl. He swore he never slept with her—do you think he could be telling me the truth?'

‘I'm sure he could,' Margaret said. If he had gone to the Ambassador, then the whole story must be correct; he wasn't likely to involve the Head of the Washington Embassy on behalf of a filing clerk. If the Russian was an important diplomat, then that increased the danger. ‘I'm sure he hasn't been unfaithful,' she said. ‘There's no harm in taking someone out to dinner a few times.' She was saying things mechanically, her mind racing away from Rachel Paterson's jealous miseries, racing to the ultimate conclusion like a greyhound after a lethal hare. If someone defected, they paid blood money for protection. They betrayed agents, secrets.

‘I've got it out of proportion, I suppose.' Rachel went up in her estimation for having reached that conclusion by herself. Margaret glanced at her watch. Eleven-fifteen. Where the hell would Fergus be? In his office—at a meeting? ‘You must take a grip on yourself.' She made her voice firm. ‘You have an attractive husband, and there's nothing more foolish than going round suspecting him when he's not doing anything. It's the surest way of bringing it to his mind. You say you're worried about Senhora Fuentes Gargano coming to dinner?'

‘Yes I am; he obviously likes her, and she's terribly pretty and amusing. I look such a bolster at the moment!'

‘Not for much longer.' Margaret stood. It was time to get rid of her. She had to find Fergus. ‘Take my advice, my dear. Write to the Fuentes Garganos and invite them yourself. Be charming to her and tell your husband you think she's fabulous, and so
nice.
I promise you, he'll lose interest immediately. Now I must send you home, I'm afraid. I have an appointment in ten minutes.'

She sent Rachel back in her own car; she shook hands and then gave her a little friendly peck on the cheek. She went to her sitting room at a run, banging the door behind her. She wrenched the telephone off its cradle and dialled her husband's office number. His secretary answered. Margaret had a short way with secretaries when she wanted to get through to Fergus; she had been resented by every girl who worked for him.

‘Mr. Stephenson, please. Mrs. Stephenson speaking.'

‘I'm afraid he's in conference with Mr. Hopkirk.'

‘It's extremely important,' Margaret cut in angrily. ‘Please tell him to call me as soon as possible.' She rang off. Damn him! Damn and blast everything about him! Rage with him for not being available was giving way to a sense of how luck had played on her side by sending Rachel Paterson along with her confidences. Pure chance, dictated by her initial whim of taking a liking to the girl. The graciousness, the odd marks of favour she had shown the air attaché's wife, the genuine sympathy when she was tipsy and miserable at the Brazilians the night before—it had all contributed to the discovery of something which could be the total ruin of her husband and herself. There might be no danger; she forced herself to consider that and quell the furious ringing of alarm bells in her mind. The Russian, whoever he was, probably knew nothing about Fergus; he might not even know of such an agent's existence. Might. Might not. Their survival could hang on two words. Their destruction could follow if it became one. She had told her husband the truth when she said that his disgrace and punishment would have given her personal satisfaction. Her feelings towards him were cruel and vengeful to an unbalanced degree, increased to frenzy by the discovery that he had put her and all she valued most at such an appalling risk. She loved her position; she enjoyed the privilege, the sense of influence that went with the top doplomatic posts. She wanted to end her public career with a spectacular success, mistress of one of the three major Embassies, Paris, Moscow or New York. Paris was the one on which her heart was set. The glamorous shade of Diana Norwich still hung about the Borghese Palace in the Fauburg St. Honoré.

She, Margaret Stephenson, lacking the legendary beauty, but endowed with the breeding, the personality and the aura of a different kind of feminine power, was the only diplomatic wife capable of taking the place occupied by one of the most famous women of her time. It was the culmination of Margaret's ambition, her justification for the sordid marriage, her loveless adulteries, her assumption of a gangster toughness in pursuit of what she wanted.

What the hell was keeping him from calling?… Suddenly the strain overcame her. Paterson had flown to New York on Saturday, seen the Ambassador the same night. It was now Friday morning. The Russian might have come over already.

She was on the telephone again. ‘I want to speak to my husband. Put me through at once.'

Fergus sounded surprised; he had a gentle voice which the telephone accentuated. ‘Margaret? I'm rather busy at the moment.'

‘You've got to come home,' she broke in on him, her tones low. ‘Something terrible has happened. About your lighter.'

There was a slight clearing of the throat which became a little cough; she heard it clearly.

‘Oh dear,' he said. ‘All right, don't worry, ‘I'll slip round in about a quarter of an hour; Eric and I have nearly finished.'

‘Christ!' Loder said, ‘Friday—you mean this Friday? That's cutting it pretty fine!'

‘That's what I said.' Judith Farrow's voice sounded strained and irritable from New York. ‘But that's the message. I'm going to Barbados with him, on that flight, and we'll be at the Beach Hotel, St. James. He wants to get out as quickly as possible. He's sure he's being watched. Can you make the arrangements in the time?'

‘I'll bloody well have to,' Loder snapped back at her. Her attitude irritated him; she was unaware of it, but her concern for the Russian made her aggressive; she had stood up to him the first time they met, and he hadn't forgotten it. ‘Is that all he said?'

‘He'll have the documents with him.' She remembered that last. ‘He particularly asked to get to London by Saturday or Sunday at the latest. Could it be any time on Friday night? I think he's mad to do it this way, but he says he's covered himself with his Embassy.'

‘I'll bet he has,' Loder said. ‘If he's picked Barbados, he knows what he's doing—nobody better. As for Friday night, tell him that's impossible. I can't lay on a plane capable of making it non-stop to London at this short notice. I can commandeer part of a commercial aircraft, but that will take twenty-four hours to get it cleared. I can get him out on a Saturday flight. Tell him there'll be protection laid on at the hotel, and to stay inside when you get there. You understand that? Stay inside till our chaps come to collect you. Okay?'

‘Yes, I'll tell him. And don't worry, I'll see he doesn't leave his room.'

‘You do that,' Loder said. ‘I want those bloody papers, whatever happens. You're not expecting to go back with him, are you? That's not on; I thought I'd warn you.'

‘You needn't have bothered,' Judith cut in on him. ‘I'm going to Barbados because he needs me as an alibi. I've no intention of going to London, Mr. Loder. All I want to do is come back here and get on with my own business, for a change. That is if I don't lose my job, taking time off!'

The line went dead, and Loder allowed himself to jab two fingers in the air. That had stung her; uppity bitch, pretending she wasn't involved with the Russian. He put her out of his mind. Saturday or Sunday. He told his secretary to get him a list of scheduled flights going to London from Barbados on Saturday, from mid-morning on. He drafted a cable to London, had it coded and sent off, requesting that a ‘green' signal should be sent to the Ambassador on his behalf. This would give him full authority to do whatever he thought necessary without referring back to the Ambassador, or to Stephenson should the Head of the Embassy be away.

With the ‘green' in his pocket, Loder could take over an entire VC10 if he wanted to; he could call on as many security men within the Embassy as he needed, and also expect the fullest co-operation from the internal security service of the Barbadian Government. He would probably need the Canadians to help on the island. He hesitated trying to decide if it were possible to get Sverdlov off the island without enlisting the Canadian contacts. A posse of Canadian Secret Service men standing round the Beach Hotel would look bloody suspicious; he could get a couple of men out on the flight with Sverdlov tomorrow; they could keep an eye on the hotel. He decided to dispense with Canadian assistance.

His secretary came back with the information that there was only one non-stop flight to London from Barbados on Saturday and that was at seven-thirty in the evening. There was an Alitalia at eleven on Sunday morning, making four stops, Trinidad, Nassau, Bermuda, then London, last stop Rome. Both flights were fully booked and the British night flight was also wait listed. Loder swore; the girl pretended not to hear. He must be upset because he had used some really awful language to himself. ‘Get through to BOAC's top man in New York,' he said. ‘Then I'll speak to him.'

The call was unsuccessful; the man Loder needed was out of town. A further telephone call unearthed his assistant, who couldn't give the authority anyway, but at least it disclosed a telephone number where his chief could be found. An hour and a half later Loder got through to him at the third attempt. Previously he had been on his way down and delayed by traffic, then to Loder's intense rage, he was asked to call back as the man was in the bath tub and a brisk American woman refused any suggestion of getting him out of it to answer the call. When he finally connected, Loder was unnecessarily curt. He needed three first class seats for the night flight from Barbados. Yes, he knew he was asking something which was practically impossible and he appreciated the difficulty of turning people out of their seats on a fully booked flight—none the less, he was not asking for the accommodation on the aircraft, but giving warning that it would be requisitioned on HM Government's authority. He would produce that authority by the next day, and unless he was assisted by the Corporation, he would not hesitate to requisition the whole aircraft. He hung up. Moments later the internal telephone rang on his desk. He was still mentally fighting BOAC when he realised that the caller was Fergus Stephenson. They hadn't lunched together for a month; Loder had meant to suggest a date to Stephenson, but when the cable called him back to London, the urgency of tracking down ‘Blue' and the immediate prospect of Sverdlov's defection had driven everything else out of his mind. Above all, he was a supreme professional; this fanatical dedication to his job had contributed to his broken marriage; it couldn't allow the most valued personal relationship to claim a moment which properly belonged to his job in a time of crisis. For the first time, he refused an invitation from Fergus, who sounded disappointed. The Minister said something pleasant and rang off.

Loder ordered sandwiches and orange juice to be sent to his office; he also told his secretary he would need her for most of the evening. She complied without resentment: there was a ‘flap' on in Loder's slang terminology, and she enjoyed the excitement. She had a good working relationship with him; he had never made a pass at her, which was a relief because she considered him a repulsive-looking little man. He was considerate in general, and when the pressure of work increased to the present frenzied pitch, he remembered to thank her afterwards. She couldn't have said she liked or disliked him; she was more similar in type to him than she realised. She too loved the job.

‘What are you going to do?' Margaret Stephenson demanded. ‘Loder won't see you, now what?'

Her husband had poured himself a glass of sherry; the choice struck her as infuriating. Brandy was the appropriate antidote to the kind of shock he had received. There was something so offensively sissy about that glass of sherry that she could have knocked it out of his hand. He was extremely shaken; he had come back from his office and stood listening while she told him what Rachel Paterson had said. At one moment he seemed likely to interrupt; Margaret silenced him by saying immediately that Paterson had gone to the Ambassador, so there couldn't be any doubt about the story being true. Then she had asked him the one vital question.