(2013) Collateral Damage (28 page)

'But I doubt Standartenfuhrer Koller is solely motivated by politics.
Oh, no! What he wanted to do, more than anything else, was control me. And in the
end he did. Fouche-Larimand told me it took them almost three years to track me
and Siegfried down in Paris. And of course a two-man cell system with orders picked
up from a dead-letter-box isn't that difficult to control once you've got the right
codes. They got those from Siegfried. They tortured him. They pulled his toe-nails
out like the Gestapo used to - it must have made them feel very nostalgic. 'After
Siegfried was found in the river, and I thought the Israelis had got on to us, it
all fitted. I received a message all in the right code, saying that we're closing
the dead-letter-box and going over to a live cut-out because the situation's too
fluid. The next thing I know I receive orders to use a particularly stupid sort
of bomb to knock over the publishing gentleman in London. That was clever. It not
only kept the quarrel between you and the Realists hot, just when it looked as though
it was beginning to cool down, but also kills a passing innocent. Within twenty-four
hours the press is demanding the rope for terrorists.

'The weak part of their operation was Le Poidevin - the cutout.
He just didn't fit. He didn't look like the sort of person we'd use. After the London
fuck-up I smelt something. It was the bomb as well. So old-fashioned, absolutely
dependent on the target's timing. Why not
a mercury
fuse?
We have them. So I took a chance and followed this cut-out home. We had quite an
evening together. He got very pissed on Calvados. He even sang a German war song
he said Fouche-Larimand was always singing. It's a song my father likes very much,
but I didn't make the connection at the time.'

'A Nazi song?' she asked, draining her filfar.

'No.
A sentimental song about the promise of
spring even after the darkest winter.

'"
Everything passes.
One day it'll be over,
After
every December, There's always
a May.
"'

He spoke the words to her in English. 'And do you like this song?'

'Once I couldn't stand it. Now sometimes I can see the attraction.'

'It's May very soon.'

'Yes.'

'When Le Poidevin had finished you killed him?' It was more of
a statement than a question.

'No, I didn't - although I might as well have for all the trouble
the ungrateful bastard caused me. But I didn't kill him, because there didn't seem
to be much point. He was a hopeless old queen who didn't understand what he'd gotten
into and they'd used him, blackmailed him because he was a collaborator. I just
frightened the shit out of him. The only explanation I can think of is that he killed
himself. Fouche-Larimand denied that they did it and since he seems to have told
the truth about almost everything else I don't know why he should have lied about
that.'

'Why didn't you kill Fouche-Larimand?'

'It would have been doing him too much of a favour. I'm not in
the euthanasia business. I wanted him to suffer the way Siggy did.'

He told her about his brush with the same sword-stick the Frenchman
used on himself and patted his hip.

'It was my best revenge. He really enjoyed telling me about
Standartenfuhrer Koller's latest campaign, watching me squirm. Afterwards I wandered
about Athens for hours - got drunk. It made me feel dirty, used.
Almost as if I'd been incestuously raped.'

'What are you going to do now?'

'I don't know. Maybe I should go back to Germany and kill him.
Probably I should have done it a long time ago - he's the person I've been fighting
all my life.'

'But you won't.' She was looking directly at him, resting her
hands on her chin. She had her sun-glasses off and her eyes sparkled like a fountain.

'Perhaps you're right. In a way it would be just what he'd want
me to do.
The final victory.
Imagine what a ball Axel Springer
would have with it: "Red Monster Slays Father".

'Anyway, I've got a better idea. I've decided to write him a
letter. I'm going to write him a letter telling him how he'd better watch himself
every living minute of the day because the moment he drops his guard - the moment
he drops his guard that's when we're going to get him. That's worse in some ways,
because it's a real life-sentence. He's going to have to ask for police protection
or hire himself bodyguards to guard him from his own son. He'll never be able to
put his head on the pillow at night without wondering whether he will wake up in
the morning or watch a car come up close alongside without wondering who is in it.
And the police won't protect him forever and the hired bodyguards will be expensive
and lazy and he knows they're no guarantee. And the important thing is that he won't
doubt for a moment that I intend to do this because that's what he would do and
he has never wanted to understand that I'm not him. His last years are going to
be fucking tormented.'

She looked at him. His eyelids had narrowed to slits. It was
much more like the Koller she had heard about. Except there was a rough edge to
his voice and when she looked again she saw that his eyes were brimming with tears.

Afterwards, as she drove back to her flat in the MG, they passed
an EOKA memorial in the form of a bronze statue of a young guerrilla, forever hurling
a grenade at the perfidious British. 'A shrine for a terrorist,'
grinned
Koller. His depression seemed to have lifted. When she
changed gear she made sure her hand brushed his knee.

 
In the early evening Koller
was woken by several loud explosions. 'Rebecca' felt his body tense besides her,
sensed him peer around the darkened room.

'Don't worry,' she said. 'It's only fireworks. The Greek kids
let them off for Easter. It goes on for days.'

'It sounds like a whole army out there. I thought the Turks were
coming for us.' He was ashamed of his nervousness, trying to laugh it off.

'They're home-made. It's illegal, but all the kids do it. Sometimes
they blow their hands off.'

As she spoke there was a particularly spectacular report. 'Neutron
bomb,' said Koller - but he still sounded uncertain. 'They put them in empty buildings
- half-built ones - so that they echo.'

She sprang naked from the bed and ran over to the window to peer
through the venetian blinds. 'No Turks,' she said. 'Would you like a cigarette?'

'And a brandy,' he commanded.

He watched her leave the room, still naked, a dancer's silhouette
of firm muscle with a maid's arrogant breasts.

Their love-making had been as uneven as it had been sudden. When
they got back to the flat she had produced her own bottle of filfar and insisted
that they drank several more glasses. She had been coquettish then, giggling, sometimes
staring intently into his eyes, sitting close enough for him to feel her heat. It
had reminded Koller of a whore's synthetic seduction, the smiling mask always betrayed
by the dead eyes. It had not stopped him wanting her.

In the end, he had seasoned lust with caution by taking her to
bed in his room, where they had sweated out the alcohol in laboured, vengeful climaxes
above the pistol he had stolen from her. Yet afterwards, he noticed a change in
her mood. The mask slipped and the eyes came to life. There had been odd, puzzling
moments of tenderness. Once she had caressed the wound on his hip and whispered,
'Maybe you should go. Maybe you should leave here.'

'Why? Am I in danger?'

'Not while I'm with you.'

But he noted how she avoided the question, and made sure he was
not asleep until she was.

 
She told herself she was
weak, susceptible to feeble female emotions. After all, she wasn't a prostitute.
She reasoned that if she slept with a man, even a traitor, then it was only normal
that a certain animal affection developed. But although she tried to suppress these
feelings she knew there was more to it than sheer physical infatuation. After the
first night she could not believe that this Hans Koller, a man who had sacrificed
much to fight for her cause, was a traitor. For once the organisation was wrong.
Intuition fought blind obedience and won. She was convinced he was telling the truth,
just as later she had to face up to the fact that there had been no need to sleep
with him - he wasn't going anywhere. He had nowhere to go. And in their pillow-talk
he had told her he had dreamed of her and she believed him.

Next morning, when the time came to telephone Beirut, she decided
to hell with discipline; she told them what she thought. It would be a terrible
tragedy, she said. They must not take action without hearing his side of things.

The person who took the call was
George,
now back in Beirut helping to arrange Dove's departure for Cyprus. The Lebanese
detective's information had not been entirely correct. It was true there had been
a plan to get the Englishman out by boat, but there were difficulties. Now they
were going by car to Damascus and by air from there. The hold-up had been getting
Dove a Syrian visa. George relayed 'Rebecca's' misgivings to Abu Kamal.

'What did you tell her?' his boss asked.

'I told her that perhaps she was right and that, in any case,
there had been another delay and we wouldn't be there until the day after tomorrow
at the earliest,' he said in his terrible Arabic.

'You did right,' said Kamal, 'although I've never doubted her
before. Do you think she believed you?'

'No doubt about it,' said George. 'Women often keep their brains
between their legs.'

'It's usually the way,' agreed Kamal, whose Marxism had not entirely
overcome the prejudices of a traditional upbringing.

'He's a lucky man. His last days will have been sweet. When will
you be there?'

'Tonight at the latest.'

'Good. See that it's tidy.'

When she returned from making her call Koller came up quietly
behind her, kissed her on the back of her neck and cupped her breasts. 'Tell me
your real name, goddess,' he commanded. It was the first time he had asked.

'Nadia.'
She said it hesitantly, as
if she had almost forgotten it herself.

'Does Rebecca have news for Benjamin he said, reverting to
their code-names
.

'They say there's been another delay. They say they'll definitely
be here the day after tomorrow.'

There would be time to tell him more. She wanted to think about
it. To warn him was one sort of treachery; not to
was
betraying
herself. And she was certain of his innocence. What had he said? 'We never make
little mistakes.'

It was her duty to see that this time there were no mistakes.
She would have to make sure they held Dove back while Hans told his story. Perhaps
they would end up killing the Englishman. That would be better. The man was obviously
a maniac. Her eye caught the label on a bottle of Othello wine. 'If I don't tell
him,' she shuddered, 'he'll think I betrayed him like the Moor misjudged Desdemona.'

'Time for a siesta,' he said.

It was not yet noon, but she allowed him to lead her back to
bed. Somewhere close by a church bell began to chime. It was the Orthodox Good Friday.

12. No Shrines for a Terrorist

Dove watched as a National Guard band in unpressed battledress
and scuffed boots slow-marched the Easter procession from the church with a rolling
dirge, their kettle-drums draped in black crepe. Behind them came a solemn platoon
of infantry, old British bolt-action rifles reversed and pointing to the ground.
After the soldiers the flanks were guarded by a troop of boy scouts, who held their
long poles horizontally so that they formed a fence around the venerable white-bearded
bishops displaying icons and the curly-haired choir-boys swinging incense. At the
roadside old ladies crossed themselves as the huge wooden crucifix went by and teenage
boys in jeans and sweaters slunk off into the night to ignite more of their homemade
explosives behind walls or under culverts. The fireworks went off with monstrous
reports, sometimes drowning out the band's mournful clarinets.

A familiar long-haired figure detached himself from the crowd
and came up close to the Englishman so that when he spoke Dove could smell the whisky
on his breath. 'It's looking good,' said George. 'Her car's there and I don't think
they'd go out without it. Remember - leave the chick alone unless she tries to pull
a piece on you. We want to talk to her.'

And if she's dumb enough to come out shooting, thought George,
then fuck her luck. He had enough problems tonight. It was like being asked to put
down a dog you had trained. He had the feeling he wasn't going to forget this one
in a hurry. He patted the hip-flask. The whisky helped a bit. Not much. Hash might
have been better, but he didn't trust himself on it. In Nam Charlie had stomped
all over dudes too stoned to fight.

Dove wondered exactly what 'a talk' meant and whether he might
not be doing the woman a favour if he did shoot her, but he didn't say anything.
Instead he asked, 'What do you think the chances are of the girl getting to a gun?'

 
'She'll probably have
one around, but not that close and the key should give you the edge. They won't
be expecting somebody straight through the front door. Just remember - drop Koller
right away. Don't stand there telling him your goddamn life history and why you're
doin' it. Just waste the bastard. I'll be right behind you and take the girl. But
don't look round for me I'll watch your back. Keep your eyes on Koller and keep
putting holes in him until he stops moving. Don't be afraid to empty the magazine.'

'It'll be a pleasure,' said Dove. Yet even as he said it he wondered
if it would be. It was so preposterously neat. More like an execution. They had
not only found out where Koller was staying, but George had even managed to get
a key made. How had he done that? It worried him - but he had come too far and had
loved Emma too much to turn back now.