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Authors: Francis Bennett

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‘I think it’s good news,’ he told Watson-Jones, trying to sound positive. ‘Leman’s turned up, alive and well.’

‘Harry Watts won’t like that, will he? Serves him right. Nosy bastard.’ Watson-Jones didn’t look up from the document he was reading but he spoke with the triumphant tone of the victor. He’d got one over the Opposition witchfinder-general. ‘Where did he surface?’

‘Budapest.’

‘Budapest?’ The man was all attention now. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Read this.’ Pountney handed over the telegram.

‘What in God’s name is Leman doing in Hungary?’

‘We don’t know. No one’s been able to speak to him yet. He’s being held in custody. Randall says it doesn’t look good.’

‘I never thought the day would come when I’d see eye to eye with Archie Randall, but he’s right. It couldn’t look worse.’

Pountney saw the now familiar gesture Watson-Jones employed when under stress, a hand pushed repeatedly through his dark hair.

‘There’s going to be some heavy flak around when this one breaks and no mistake. We’ve got to prepare for a lot of ducking and diving.’ His instinct, as always, was fixed on how to limit political damage. Leman, the man suffering at the centre of the crisis, was
forgotten. ‘We’ll need to distance ourselves from Leman, make sure there’s nothing that can connect him with us. You know the form, Gerry. He was on his own, an unknown quantity, nothing to do with us. Draft a statement for me, will you? I’ll have a word with the gaffer upstairs, then we’ll brief the press. We’ve got to keep our noses clean on this one.’

‘What about Leman?’

‘What about him?’ Watson-Jones sounded as if he couldn’t remember who Leman was.

‘What are we to do about him? We can’t leave him to rot.’

‘Tell Randall to find him a local lawyer. Not that it’ll do him much good. They’ll probably lock him away for the rest of the century, I shouldn’t wonder. Serves the stupid bugger right, doesn’t it? Teach him not to go wandering without permission.’

*

Tears ran down her face. There was no sound of sobbing, no movement of the shoulders, no anguish apparent in her expression; only a stream of tears from blinking eyes, a silent image of grief, confusion, incomprehension, fathomless anxiety.

‘What does it mean?’

They were the only words she had spoken since Anna had arrived in Strutton Ground. The cry of the oppressed since the world began.
What does it mean
?

‘Joe’s alive. We must be thankful for that.’ If he’s alive, we can hope, Anna wanted to tell them, though what for she didn’t know.

The idea that her son was in prison so far away in a communist country was terrifying Esther. Communists were devils, that was the limit of her knowledge. They’d never intruded into her life before so she’d never had to bother about them. After all, you didn’t meet communists between Strutton Ground and Warwick Way, did you?

‘In prison with those people, he’s as good as dead,’ Esther said mournfully. ‘Maybe we never see him again.’

‘Why is Joe in Budapest?’ Manny asked. He stood beside her, equally lost, silently shaking his head, desperate to understand the implications of what Anna had told them. ‘That’s what I don’t understand. What’s he doing there? This is a bad mess. What we going to do about it?’

I know and I don’t know, Anna wanted to say. What I do know
I can’t tell you because you won’t understand and it won’t help.

‘We won’t know the answer to that until someone is able to speak to him.’

‘Who will speak to him?’

‘Someone from the embassy, I imagine.’

‘They’re no good, those people. They don’t care.’

Anna saw the helplessness on both their faces. The world they knew, its careful limits set by the customers who came to their shop with their worn-down shoes, the whine of Manny’s machine, the ring of the till, the familiar shouts of the traders in the market, the simple, uncomplicated relationships of their daily lives, the harmless barricades of habit and routine they had built up, had vanished, demolished in an instant by a distant event far beyond their power of reasoning or imagining.

The heartless world of politics and power had burst into their lives, destroying everything in its path. Suddenly, they were alone, abandoned by the few certainties their arduous lives had brought them. They stood on the edge of a precipice. Their only son, on whom they had pinned such hopes for the future, had been cruelly snatched from them. Now they were caught up in a terrible nightmare from which they would wake only to find themselves hopelessly lost in an unrecognizable terrain, the dreams for which they had both worked so hard in ruins at their feet.

‘What do we do?’ Esther asked, her voice tremulous, lost.

‘Now we know where he is, we can work to get him back here, can’t we?’ Anna said, trying to reinvest some sense of purpose into their shattered lives. But her words held no meaning because they were unable to hear them.

3

The line to Budapest was bad and he had to shout. No, Randall told him, they hadn’t seen Leman yet, though firm representations had been made to the ministry and they expected to be allowed a visit once the Hungarians had gone through the usual histrionic ritual of outraged innocence.

Unofficially he’d been told that Leman was to be charged with spying for the West, but paranoia was standard practice in cases like
these. Spit in the street in this place and you risked being accused of working for the West. His best guess was that they should know the worst by the end of the week.

Yes, it would come to trial, he’d be surprised if it didn’t. Finding a stray Englishman inside their borders was an opportunity too good to miss. The Hungarians would certainly play to the Kremlin gallery on this one, so expect some excitement. He advised Pountney not to hold his breath over sending any observers out from London. He didn’t think the Hungarians would wear that for a moment. He’d expect them to appoint a local defence lawyer, which was a damn sight more than they’d do for their own people they’d picked up with Leman. For all he knew, they’d probably shot them already.

At this stage there wasn’t much more to report but it was early days, wasn’t it? He’d keep in touch.

‘Oh, Christ,’ Pountney said to Margaret as he put down the telephone. ‘Randall sounded excited. I think he’s enjoying this.’

4

They break for lunch. Different types of sausage in a vinegar sauce and salad are brought up from the kitchens. There is no beer or wine, they drink mineral water and talk about their early days in the Service (‘Very different then, eh?’), the new Director-General (‘Hardly ever see him, Bobby. Not a mixer. Very much his own man’) and what is going on in the Middle East. Carswell disapproves of that.

‘Nasser’s a jumped-up nobody who wants to play ball with the big boys, make a name for himself. By taking him seriously we’ve built him up into something he isn’t, and now we’re reacting to the threat we’ve created. God’s knows what’s going to happen, but it’s got disaster written all over it.’

Martineau hadn’t heard Carswell question the party line before. The divisions in the Service must be deeper than he’d imagined. What
was
going on in London?

‘It’s not the Service that’s lost direction, it’s the country,’ Carswell answers. ‘We don’t know who we are any more. We’re giving up our empire and haven’t found anything to put in its place. We
cling on to a political role whose economic and military justification vanished years ago. We deceive ourselves about our past and fool ourselves about our future. We peddle illusions, not power, and though we know the dangers we can’t stop ourselves because the truth is too painful to face. Whatever we do, the Americans and the Russians can do better. Yet we still demand to join their game. The fact is we can’t, but try arguing the case in London as a rational human being and see where it gets you. Self-delusion is addictive, Bobby. There’s a lot of it about.’

Martineau pours the coffee. If Carswell’s disillusion is anything to go by, then London’s in a mess. No point in probing deeper now. This isn’t a time for questions like that. Remember, he tells himself, someone in London called you a traitor. You’re not off the hook yet.

‘What’s going on here, Bobby? Is the place going to blow up?’

‘Bound to, yes.’

‘The Hungarians will take to the streets, even though they know they can’t win?’

‘They’re prepared to die for what they believe in. These are brave people, Nigel, driven to the end of what they can tolerate.’

‘It’ll be carnage.’ Carswell appears shocked by the prospect.

‘It’ll be harshly suppressed by the Soviets and there’ll be a lot of blood on the streets. No question.’

‘Is that inevitable?’

‘Unless we stop all this dreaming about traitors in our own ranks, face up to what’s happening here and decide to do something about it, yes, it is.’

Carswell was silent for a moment. ‘Our lot have got their nose up Nasser’s arse and the Yanks are busy getting ready to elect Ike for a second term. That’s the problem, Bobby. Finding someone who cares. No one’s bloody interested in Hungary right now.’

‘I care. My Borises care.’ His anger is barely under control. ‘Isn’t that enough for you?’

Carswell pondered while he poked around in the bowl of his pipe. ‘It’s not as straightforward as you might suppose, Bobby. You should know that by now.’

Martineau’s heart sank. He could sense what was coming.

‘We have a lot of reports from a lot of different people. We have
to weigh them up, balance them out and take the line we think is right.’

‘For God’s sake, Nigel. You can’t weigh up the truth. It’s either true or it’s nothing, worthless. I’m telling you there is going to be an uprising here. Tomorrow, next week, the week after, I don’t know when, but soon, soon. The Soviets will bring in their tanks, and the only possible outcome of their intervention will be a slaughter. That is what will happen. That is the truth.’ He paused. Only you don’t believe me, do you?’

‘I said, it’s not as simple as that.’

‘I’ve got the best sources possible, honest, brave, good men and women whom I trust, I know what they’re telling me is true. And you won’t listen. What am I to do?’

‘Give it time. Things may change.’

‘What if they don’t change before it’s too late? What then?’

Carswell hesitated before replying. ‘You’re not kosher at Merton House right now, Bobby. This resurrected Peter business, the charges I’ve been investigating, have damaged you. You’ve not got a strong platform on which to build your case.’

‘Am I lying to you? Am I inventing a revolution? You’re here, now, can’t you feel the tension in the air? What do I matter? It’s the people in the street we should be worrying about.’

For the first time Carswell looked uncomfortable.

‘When I’m back, I will do my best to put things straight, you have my word on that. But I can’t promise success. Nothing will happen quickly. You must understand that. Of all the charges we have to face, that of traitor is the hardest to eliminate. It’s like hacking at granite with your bare hands.’

Innocent people are going to die,
he wants to shout.
We have the power to save them but only if we act now, before it’s too late. How can we live with their deaths on our conscience
?

He has to close his eyes tightly to stop himself getting up to throttle Carswell. Then his anger passes and he’s back once more with his familiar despair.

The questioning continues through the afternoon, a twisting journey back again and again over familiar ground, Eva, Hart, Peter, his Moscow affair with Marie-France Pelissier. Each time the path is a little different. Carswell’s method is full of Jesuitical devices to trap him if he is lying. But Martineau has nothing to lie about and he
recognizes the technique. At one point he feels sorry for Carswell. It doesn’t last.

*

Four o’clock. Martineau is exhausted. He struggles to keep his concentration because the interview isn’t over yet. The heat remains oppressive. He notices the damp patches on Carswell’s shirt and how red his face is. He’s forgotten how bad he is in the heat. If he’s stuck it out for several hours it shows how serious the situation is.

‘That’s it then? Nothing more to add, is there?’

How many times have they been over everything? Three? Four? Surely Carswell can’t want to do it again.

‘You’ve given me all I need.’ He yawns and looks up at Martineau. ‘That’s it.’

‘What’s the verdict? Will I live?’

‘You’ve got a good few years in you yet.’

‘Did you expect otherwise?’

Carswell relaxes. The tension in his body eases and he leans forward, head in hands, his full weight on the table. Martineau knows what that means. It isn’t over yet, even though Carswell wants him to believe it is. He still has one more trick up his sleeve. The Carswell Twist.

‘On the way out here, I didn’t know what to think, Bobby. Heart versus head. You know the form. My heart knew the accusations against you couldn’t be true, my head told me anything is possible.’

He wants me to think he’s jumping over the table and sitting on my side. Get my defences down. It’s not over yet, is it, you crafty bugger? I know what you’re up to.

‘What happens now?’

‘That’s up to the Director-General. What I hope is we’ll be able to put an end to all this nonsense once and for all and get back to doing the work we’re paid to do. But he’s new to the Service, so I can’t be sure he’ll see it my way.’

‘So we wait, do we?’

‘We wait, yes.’

Is that it? Nothing up his sleeve after all? Come on, Nigel. Surprise me.

Carswell puts his glasses away in his pocket. He is about to get up from his chair. ‘Oh, there is one last point, Bobby.’

Bastard.

‘The girl’s got to go. I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’

‘The girl has nothing to do with any of this.’ That was no defence, he knew, but he couldn’t give her up without a fight.

‘She’s the hook you’re hanging on. I can’t return empty-handed.’

‘Her head or mine, is that the deal?’

‘Your head’s not on offer, Bobby. After what you’ve told me, it never was. Do I have your word you’ll get rid of her?’

BOOK: Secret Kingdom
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