Secret Kingdom (26 page)

He didn’t answer her question. She didn’t answer it either. It was too painful for both of them.

‘Whatever I may be, I’m not cold-hearted.’

It was then that she reached over and kissed him.

At first glance [
Martineau wrote
],
the Petofi Circle would appear to be little more than a vehicle for the reunion of former youth activists. Closer inspection shows that political protest in this country is conducted in a coded language. Recently, a well-attended evening meeting of the PC discussed Yugoslav literature and ended with a declaration of support for Yugoslavia. In Hungary that must be
read as an outright rejection of Rakosi’s anti-Tito campaign. Its significance will have been understood by the government.

Further discussions on political and economic topics have followed since, with the attendance at some meetings numbering as many as two thousand. What began life as a reunion of old comrades is rapidly becoming an embryonic political force. The speakers are careful to avoid any mention of the two topics they know will cause the authorities to shut them down – Soviet domination in Hungary or the one-party state. What they have done is to develop their own subtle method of conveying meaning. In the alternative language of opposition, such statements are potent symbols. Applause for the speakers is a clear declaration of solidarity and assent, though never one to which the ever-present secret service men in the crowd can object.

The Petofi Circle acts as a focus for sublimated dissent. It is creating an opposition to Moscow’s puppet government. It is bringing the public discussion of political issues back on the street, awakening the conscience of a repressed people and breaking the years of silence under the communists. Not unsurprisingly, similar discussion groups are appearing in other parts of the country. These are the beginnings of a core of resistance that some here believe will sweep through the country.

The West cannot afford to cut itself off from what is happening or underestimate the consequences of a revolution against the Soviets. The repercussions will extend way beyond the borders of this beleaguered country. We must now seriously consider the possibility that the Soviets, given a fierce shove by the Hungarians, might see their empire begin the process of collapse from the weight of its internal contradictions. Communism as a political orthodoxy is not about to end tomorrow. However, handled correctly, the process that could lead to its unravelling might begin tomorrow. That is the importance of what is happening here now.

Martineau arranges to take Eva out to dinner, arguing to himself that it will be easier to break the news in a neutral setting. He is late, held up at the embassy waiting for a telephone call from London that doesn’t come. She is sitting at the table when he arrives. The delight in her eyes when she looks up and sees him, her pleasure in his presence, not to speak of her beauty, contrive to break his resolve. He hasn’t the heart to upset her happiness. How easily he deceives himself. He drinks more than he intends, talks feverishly throughout dinner and is easily persuaded by Eva to return to the flat after they’ve eaten. Dora is staying with her friend. He thanks heaven for Dora’s friend, stays the night and says nothing.

On the way to his office early the following morning, he is overcome by guilt at his cowardice. Nothing, not even his memories of Eva lying in his arms, can obliterate the force of Carswell’s warning, that his personal circumstances are too fragile to avoid the instruction. It will be painful, he knows, but the pain must be faced and the relationship ended. Eva can have no part in his life now. As he takes the lift to the fourth floor, he resolves to act on this knowledge. He will see her tonight and end the affair. Like a man awaiting execution, he finds it impossible to believe in the reality of his own death but is buoyed up by the exhilaration of dying for a cause.

By midday his determination has evaporated. The cause is no longer worth a life. He feels trapped and increasingly desperate. Morose and brooding, he avoids Eva for two days, using his work
as the excuse. If he does not see her, nothing is to be decided. Unaware that any sentence has been passed, she is reprieved. Then she telephones, the call is irresistible and he goes to Vaci Street.

*

‘I have to speak to you, Eva.’ The words burst from him like an explosion. He is standing in her sitting room, in his shirtsleeves, drinking beer.

‘What about?’

There’s no escape now. It is all much worse than the scene he has replayed in his mind so many times.

‘Us. You and me. What’s happened between us.’

She knows by the sound of his voice that he is serious. She stands beside him and takes his hand.

‘What is it?’

On the way over in the taxi he has rehearsed a dozen ways of telling her that they can have no future because of what he is. Now it comes to it, the words vanish. He is tongue-tied. He has no idea what to say.

‘Bobby. Tell me, please.’

‘I haven’t told you the truth about myself.’

‘Oh, that.’ Does she sound dismissive, or is it just his imagination?

‘I’m not what I said I was.’

‘You don’t work at the embassy?’

‘I’m not a diplomat.’

‘I guessed you weren’t a diplomat. I see many diplomats in my profession. You don’t behave like one. If you did, you would not be here now.’

‘I’m an intelligence officer. The people I work for have found out about us.’

Those are the fatal words. Once they are uttered, there can be no turning back. He sees the expression in her face change. She understands the rules of this particular game. Does that tell him something about her?

‘Are they telling you to leave me?’

‘Yes.’

For a moment she says nothing. Then she gets up and walks away, leaning her head against the wall, her back to him. ‘I can’t live without you, Bobby. I will die if you go.’

‘What do you think I feel like?’

There’s an awful distance between them. It is worse than he feared it might be.

‘Then listen to me. Don’t listen to them.’ She is facing him now.

‘What choice do I have, Eva?’

‘It’s your life.’

‘They control it.’

‘Why? Why must it be like this?’ He is beside her and she holds on to him desperately, tears in her eyes. ‘I can guess what your people say about me. That woman is a communist, do not trust her. Being with her is dangerous. Am I right?’

He says nothing.

‘I cannot stop them believing what they like but it is not true. What matters is that you believe me when I say I’m not any of those things. I am a Hungarian woman who has fallen in love with you. I have loved men before, I have been to bed with men I thought I loved, but until I met you, I had never known my own heart. Now, when I was least prepared for it, I have found what I have always wanted. It is the most wonderful discovery of my life.’

She kisses his hand and holds it against her cheek. He wants to weep he feels so wretched. He believes what she says; these are the words he has waited all his life to hear. He knows she is telling the truth – he only has to look at the pain and distress in her eyes to see that – and he knows that nothing he can do can save them.

‘It’s out of my control,’ he says again. ‘It’s because of what I represent and what you represent. It’s nothing to do with us as individuals.’

‘Isn’t it better that we should love each other than want to kill each other?’ she asks bitterly. He knows she doesn’t expect an answer. ‘What will become of us, Bobby? What’s going to happen?’

‘I don’t know. I wish I did but I don’t.’

‘You cannot let them do this to us, Bobby. I won’t let them take you away from me.’

She throws herself on him, holding him tightly to her. He feels her warm tears on his skin. It is more than he can bear. How can anyone ask him to give up this woman? Has Carswell any notion of what love is?

‘Please, Eva. Don’t cry, please.’

‘Even my daughter has noticed how I have changed these last few weeks. She says to me, it is that Englishman, isn’t it? Are you having an affair with him? No, I tell her. This is not an affair. For the first time in my life I am truly in love. When I tell her that she kisses me and tells me she is happy because she knows I am happy.’

He cannot talk any more. Words have become meaningless because they are powerless, they can change nothing. He takes her in his arms and kisses her, tasting the tears on her cheeks. He loves her and she loves him. For a few moments the importance of this admission defies the future. She has told him all he needs to hear. She is his and his alone. He will love her and the world and its demands will be forgotten.

‘Love me,’ she murmurs in his ear. ‘Love me once more. Take me away from all this pain.’

He does as she asks. It is all he can do.

*

She lies against him sleeping. Once, briefly, she cries in her sleep. Translucent lozenges of tears slip down her cheeks. He wipes her eyes with a corner of the sheet but she does not wake up. He reaches out and traces his fingers along her body, gently so he won’t disturb her, feeling the velvet of her skin through his fingertips. He tries to imagine what it will be like without her, knowing that she is here, in this city, in this street, in this apartment, in this bed, but without him. He tries to understand what separation from her will mean, but he is so overwhelmed by her presence that his imagination fails him.

In another life with different rules, he would be free to touch her, kiss her, stay with her as often and for as long as he wished. There would be no Christine, no guilt, no concealment, no lies. But in the life he lives, with the rules he plays by, after tonight he will no longer be able to approach her. The soft warm skin that he can touch freely now will be denied him, on the other side of an invisible border, even though it is aching for his caress.

‘Is this the last time?’ he asks himself. He gazes at her naked body, he hears the soft sound of her breathing, he smells the warm sweetness of her presence. ‘After tonight, will I never see you again?’

Hope drains out of him. There is nothing he can do. The love he has searched for has been taken from him the moment he has
found it. He turns away from the sleeping body of the woman he loves and faces the wall.

*

He looks out of the window. The grey of the sky is streaked with pink. The street lights blaze, though the streets are empty. There is a sense of emptiness and absence not only of the sounds of people and movement, but of hope and joy. The world is suspended, waiting for the day to do its worst.

How is it possible that this beautiful city with its elegant houses, its intricate decorations, its gypsy music, its dances, all its natural abundance and energy should be held back, separated from its own nature, by the will of a few men? How cruel that its beauty should contain a horror that stalks its streets day and night.

He hears a church bell strike five times.

*

When the morning comes he will get up and shave. He will see her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she gets out of bed. He will take a last look at the naked body that he has come to know so well before she wraps herself in a dressing gown. She will fuss around him, straightening his tie, brushing his hair with her fingers, cutting bread, pouring his coffee, but she will say nothing of any importance, she will not look him in the eye. He will drink the coffee, collect his things from the bedroom, put on his jacket, take one last look down into the street from the balcony – it is his instinct always to check that his exit is clear – and turn to leave.

She will throw herself into his arms, clinging to him desperately. He knows she will hate herself for this because she will have wanted him to leave the flat before she bursts into tears. He will kiss her, hold her, he will tell her he loves her again and again, then he will disentangle himself, look at her one last time and leave the flat. As he goes down the stairs, he knows his heart will break.

He had no idea what time it was when they came to get him. His watch had been removed when he had arrived at the prison along with all his other possessions, his belt and his shoelaces. His guards, whom he had not seen before, took him by a different route from his cell to a new interrogation room. Not a word was said on the way. He was treated anonymously, an object that had to be moved quickly and efficiently from one location to another. It was dark outside. This was the first time he had been interrogated at night.

His interrogator was a Soviet general. He had a gold signet ring, he noticed, a gold watch, an immaculate uniform. Signs of vanity? he wondered. He was about forty, he guessed, and thickset, with prematurely greying hair and heavy black eyebrows over dark eyes that gave nothing away. A square, pale face. The pallid skin of a man of interiors, used to the artificial light of prisons, interrogation rooms, execution chambers, gave him an air of colourless cruelty. The look of a hangman.

This was it. The preliminaries were over. The real test was about to begin.
Give nothing away.
How easy it was to say that before you came face to face with your interrogator. Leman felt his body chill in a mist of fear.

‘It is hard to conceal secrets from us, Mr Leman.’ He spoke in Russian without apology or explanation. Neither appeared necessary. ‘We have good sources in your country. We know a great deal about you.’

The ground rules of the interrogation were being spelled out. If the Soviets were able to gather information in London, how much better they must be on their own territory. Leman would have little scope for imaginative manoeuvres.

The general opened a leather briefcase and retrieved a file. (Where would the communist system be without its inexhaustible supply of files, each one thicker than the one before, each one an elaborate web of lies and deceptions designed to implicate the innocent?) In a neutral voice, he read out a summary of Leman’s life. Date and place of birth. Parents’ names and occupation. Cambridge. His visit to the Soviet Union as an undergraduate. The Institute. Anna. Moore Street. No mention of Sykes. That was a relief. If they hadn’t discovered his connection with Sykes, then maybe there were other gaps in their knowledge. He’d have to wait and see.

‘We know you did not come here of your own accord.’ He held up the file in a gesture that suggested Leman was being asked to take an oath before testifying. ‘Who sent you?’

‘Surely your sources in London told you that.’

‘Who sent you?’ The question was repeated with a chilling patience.

‘No one.’

‘You are an academic by training. You have a job as an analyst at the Institute of Soviet Affairs in London. There is no evidence in your past life to suggest that you are a man of action. One day you relinquish the cautious habits of a lifetime and the next you are arrested on the outskirts of Budapest without a visa. You cannot expect me to believe you took such a decision on your own.’

The Russian was pacing the floor, playing with a gold fountain pen. He turned it over and over in his hands, watching it catch the light and send reflected beams dancing around the room.

‘Nobody else is involved but me.’

The blow was completely unexpected, and so fast that he never saw it coming. The general’s fingers whipped his cheek, his nails stinging rather than hurting him.

‘It will be better if you answer my questions truthfully.’

Leman rubbed his cheek. Time to give something away. Take the facts and bend them enough to convince.

‘I went to Vienna to do research connected with my work at the Institute. On my first night there I went out for a short walk before bed. On my way back to the apartment I was attacked by two men, tied up and dragged into their car. They drove me to an industrial area out of town and put me on to a barge which set off down the Danube. Some hours later I was forcibly disembarked somewhere
in Hungary and left to fend for myself. I have no idea why I was abducted nor who did it. When your people stopped me, I was trying to get back to Vienna. I didn’t want to be in Hungary, as you’re suggesting. I’m here against my will.’

‘It is a good tactic, Mr Leman, to make one’s lies as close to the truth as possible. I can see you have been professionally trained. My difficulty is, I do not believe a single word.’

Again, the sudden movement, a stinging pain across his cheek and this time the taste of blood in his mouth.

‘I have here on this paper the details of everything you have done since you set foot on our soil. Where you have been. The people you have talked to. There is hardly an hour of your time that we cannot describe. I see no evidence of your wish to return home before your mission is completed.’

‘I have no mission.’

‘You contrived to stay here unnoticed for as long as you could and many people were involved in that deception.’ More papers from the file. ‘Here is a list of the names of the men and women you would have met in Budapest had we not chosen to interrupt your journey. All of them are known to be hostile to the democratic regime in Hungary. Are you convinced by how much we know about you, Mr Leman? It is not helpful to either of us if you continue to conceal the truth. Why not make things easy for yourself and tell me who sent you here and why.’

‘I have told you all I have to say.’

He waited for the blow but this time his interrogator did not move.

‘It is not brave but foolish, Mr Leman, to defy those who hold you in their power. It is a pointless tactic that will achieve nothing. I do not wish to spend all night here and I am sure you do not either. I suggest we put aside this silly game and treat this meeting with the gravity it deserves.’

‘Unless you believe me, we will spend all night here.’ Leman smiled insolently and instantly felt sharp fingers stinging his cheeks.

‘Do I make myself clear?’

Leman wiped blood from the corner of his eye where the Russian’s ring had torn the skin, and said nothing.

‘Let us begin again, this time with the truth.’

In the lonely hours he had spent in his cell he had imagined such
an interview. Each time he had reached this question, why are you here, what are you doing in our country, he had failed to find a convincing answer and his imagined interrogation had come to an abrupt end. He would rely on his instincts and the inspiration of the moment, he told himself as he lay on the hard bed in the darkness. Now the moment had come it was unlike anything he had imagined, and in his terror, his instinct had deserted him. His mind was frozen, his imagination trapped deep in his mind which was paralysed with fear. Was this the time to acknowledge Sykes? If he did, would they believe him?

‘You want me to admit to an involvement with the British Intelligence Service,’ Leman said slowly. ‘With the sources you have, I am sure you already know that I have no connections with them. I know no one in the Service. I have never met anyone in the Service. They have nothing to do with my being here.’

‘Making an illegal entry into this country calls for certain arrangements, Mr Leman.’ His interrogator was changing tack. ‘Not every barge-owner will carry illegals.’

‘I had money. I paid people to get me over the border.’

‘Ah, yes. The rich girlfriend. How useful to have such an unquestioning source of finance for your schemes.’ Silence. ‘You still have not told me where you got your connections.’

‘You know what Vienna’s like.’

‘Unlike you, Mr Leman, I have never been there.’

‘A city where money talks.’

‘A corrupt bourgeois society.’ The Russian got up from his seat and walked around the room. He was shorter than Leman had reckoned, a stockier, more heavily built man, but strong. The weight was muscle, not excess flesh, he was sure of that.

‘So, with the help of your rich and impressionable girlfriend, you are now here among us, a mysterious Englishman who claims he is not a spy, that he has nothing to do with British Intelligence, who crossed our borders on his own. His motive? He wanted to satisfy his curiosity about life behind the Iron Curtain.’

The Russian was standing over him, locking out the light from the lamp on the desk. A menacing presence.

‘Tell me, Mr Leman, are you convinced by such a story? We are both intelligent men. Why can’t we be honest with each other? Neither of us finds your story believable because both of us know
you are not telling the truth. I do not understand the reasons for your unwillingness to explain your presence among us here, and you do not seem to appreciate the powers at my command to make you answer my questions.’

He looked at Leman like a hangman assessing his victim to calculate the length of the drop.

‘What matters is that you are here in Budapest illegally; you and your companions have committed acts of sabotage against the state; you are my prisoner and likely to remain so for some time. One day, perhaps, you will tell me why you came here. Or perhaps the facts will emerge at your trial.’

Acts of sabotage.
It was nonsense. Lies.
Lies.
He wanted to shout at his interrogator but some instinct held him back. Don’t fight what you can’t defeat. The lie is an instrument of power. The rules are different here. Do nothing until you know what you are up against.

Once more the Russian set off round the room, pacing solemnly, blowing out smoke. He had his back to Leman when he spoke again.

‘You were captured with someone else, a young woman. She was one of your accomplices in your misguided attempt to destabilize this sovereign state.’

‘No, that’s not true.’ He knew the moment he said it that he should not have spoken out.

‘She is being held in a cell not many yards from here. In a few hours’ time, she will be taken out and shot.’

‘
No
.’

It was a cry torn from his heart, a response that was both involuntary and unavoidable. The thought of that young girl with her child’s body, her trusting eyes, dying because she had dared to get into a car with him was impossible. (‘I will be your sister.’ Wasn’t that what she’d said?) He shivered at the horror of it.

The Russian looked at his watch. ‘Dawn comes early in summer. If my watch is correct, she has little more than two hours to live.’

‘You can’t do this. It’s inhuman. The girl’s innocent.’

‘Innocent of what?’

‘She is nothing to do with me. Nothing at all.’

‘She was sitting beside you in the car, Mr Leman. How do you explain that?’

‘She had no idea who I was. She wanted a lift. We picked her
up. We spoke Russian together. She thought I was Russian.’

‘That is not what she told us. She has made a confession stating the opposite.’ The Russian searched his briefcase again and read from a document. ‘I was aware at once that Leman was an agent of the West. I offered him help and support in his declared intention to create unrest in the country. I see now the error of my ways. I was deceived by the spy Leman into acting against the interests of the Hungarian people. He made me betray my country.’

‘She’s a child. She had no idea what she was signing.’ His voice was urgent, hoarse.

‘She was assisting an agent of a foreign power when we arrested her.’

‘That’s not true. She didn’t know who I was.’

‘In this country treachery is a capital offence, Mr Leman.’

‘You cannot do this!’ He was standing up, shouting across the desk at the Russian, his body trembling with the realization that he was pleading for the girl’s life. ‘You cannot kill a child.’

‘Here is her confession. If you do not believe me, read it. There is no sign of pressure. It is a voluntary confession.’ He took out a carbon copy from an envelope and passed it to Leman who refused to take it.

‘I don’t believe a word of it.’ Leman turned away in contempt. ‘There’s no girl here in any cell. You’re not having anyone shot at dawn. That’s a lie you’ve made up to frighten me into admitting crimes I’ve not committed. Well, you’re going to have to do better than that.’

‘Then your scepticism must be challenged.’ The general got up and walked to the window. ‘Come here,’ he commanded. Leman joined him at the window. ‘Look out there.’ He put his arm on Leman’s shoulder to direct where he should look. ‘You see the courtyard? Perhaps you would like more light.’

He made a signal with his arm and at once lights flooded the courtyard. An area like a small parade ground, surrounded by stone walls on all sides. No doors or windows visible anywhere. Leman knew what he was being shown. A killing ground. He felt sick with terror. Only an effort of will stopped him from turning away.

‘Over there is the wall in front of which we place the condemned prisoners. Can you see?’ Leman felt renewed pressure between his shoulder blades. ‘The execution squad line up down there.’ More
pressure. ‘We will bring you down to the courtyard to watch the procedure. You will stand over there. The girl will, naturally, pass close by you on her way to die. You will see the terror in her eyes, you will smell the terror on her body. Perhaps you have not been present at an execution before. Terror exudes from the bodies of those about to die. Especially women. It is an evil stench. One that sticks to you for days after, it follows you wherever you go. After an execution, one smells of the fear of one’s own death. She will see you standing there, Mr Leman. She will cry out, call your name, beg you to save her life. She will scream and struggle in a last frenzied attempt to stay alive. But of course it will be too late. At the signal, the execution squad will fire. The officer in charge will inspect the body to ensure it is dead. If necessary, he will administer the
coup de grâce
with a revolver. Then her corpse will be removed for disposal. We do not return the corpses of traitors to their families. The yard will empty. The event will have taken two, perhaps three minutes of our time. Life will go on. The world will continue to spin. The state will have one less enemy to worry about. You will have the death of this girl-child, as you call her, on your conscience.’

The Russian pulled him away from the window, forcing Leman to look at him.

‘Are you brave enough for that, Mr Leman? Can you stand by and watch a young girl being led to her death? Can you live with the knowledge that you will have been the instrument of her capture and execution? Are you strong enough for that?’