Secret Kingdom (27 page)

‘What do you want from me?’

He wanted to choke, to spill out his guts. He felt the bile burning his throat, the rush of saliva in his mouth. He put his head between his knees. Was his interrogator telling the truth? Would they kill the girl? Or was this all some kind of appalling game of bluff? He had no way of knowing. For the first time he felt defeated, outmanoeuvred. He was in the Russian’s power and there was nothing he could do about it. He could not let the girl die. Whatever else he did, he could not let that happen.

‘What must I do to save her?’

What Martineau hadn’t bargained for was the desperate nature of his longing, the perpetual ache deep in his bones, the raw edges of his nerve-endings, his stomach turning over when he thought of her. There wasn’t a moment when he didn’t want her face, her laughter, her presence, her body. His feelings for Eva had gone too deep to be torn off his back like a shirt at the end of the day and thrown on to the floor for tomorrow’s laundry. That was the clever part. Carswell hadn’t said he shouldn’t remain in love with Eva. The instruction was brutally simple. He was not to
see
her any more. The relationship was to be broken off, ended. How he did it, whether he suffered or not, was a matter of indifference to Carswell and those he worked for. They’d given their verdict: provided he gave her up, he’d get the benefit of the doubt that he’d given away no secrets to Eva. How he coped with it was up to him. He’d know what to do.

He made an effort of will. He tried not to think of her. He threw himself with manic energy into anything he did. He measured his life by the moment and worked hard at it. But Eva’s presence swooped and dived over him like a swallow before a storm. Whatever he did, wherever he was, she would appear suddenly, unexpectedly, devastatingly subverting his intentions. He was defenceless against the assaults of his memories of her on his body and his mind. He discovered intimations of her in the words he used, the actions he took, the places he went, what he ate, what he drank. She was everywhere, in everything, surrounding him, invading him, enveloping him. Budapest was her, the Danube, the bridges, the cobbled streets of Buda, the cries and laughter in the streets, the silence of the night broken only by the chimes of the city’s clocks marking the stations of his insomnia. Even round the table in the board room at the embassy.

Her presence, like the truth of his love for her, was inescapable. His life was joined to hers. They were inseparable. As each day passed his longing did not diminish. Nourished by her absence, it grew. Without her he was wounded, mutilated, much less than whole. Recovery was only possible through her and with her. But he was forbidden to see her ever again. For the rest of his life she
could only be a memory. His condition was hopeless. The wound was fatal. He was incurable.

*

‘Why are you not seeing the Englishman any more, Mama?’

It is nearly midnight. Mother and daughter are in bed, their bodies covered by a single sheet. The room is in darkness.

‘Why do you want to know?’

Don’t talk about him to me, don’t mention his name. Pretend he is dead. Pretend we never met. Leave him alone so I may try to forget.

‘I liked him.’ That is Dora’s way of saying I know you liked him, Mother, so why have you stopped seeing him? ‘He had a kind face.’

Don’t say any more. Don’t make it worse than it already is.

‘Did you love him?’

What can she say? She cannot betray herself or Martineau. ‘Yes.’

I loved him because he gave me back my life.

‘Did he love you?’

‘I think so. Yes.’ I know he loved me. Of course he loved me. You can tell her that. ‘Yes, he did.’

When he left he took away the gift he gave me. He doesn’t know what he has done. That is why I feel the loss every moment of every day.

‘Then why don’t you see him?’

‘It was impossible. He is English. We are Hungarian. He belongs in the West, we belong in the East. We are on different sides in an undeclared war.’

‘Was it dangerous to know him?’

‘It might have been, yes.’

‘So you decided to break it off.’

‘Yes.’

There are some sacrifices you have to make. That was the speech she made to herself. She told herself again and again each day why she had to give up Martineau. Perhaps with time she might believe what she told herself.

Dora has fallen asleep. She hears the soft cadence of her breathing. She turns away and lets the tears flow silently down her cheeks.

Oh, Bobby, where are you? What are you doing? Why won’t you come back to me?

*

It was at unexpected moments, in the middle of conversations with Randall or Hart, while shaving or lying in the bath, that Martineau’s longing for Eva would surge through him uncontrollably, like a fire that refuses to die. That was when he wanted to weep, to cry out her name, to give some form to his emotions. With an enormous effort he smothered his feelings. He would feel himself going hot, he would start to sweat, beads visible on his forehead. Once as he held out his cup to be refilled, he saw his hand shaking.

‘You all right, old boy?’ Randall asked him at one of their conferences before the morning telephone call to London. ‘You look a bit seedy to me.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Martineau lied. ‘Some summer bug I’ve picked up. I’ll be all right. Probably the heat.’

He overheard Randall say a few days later, ‘Whatever Bobby’s got, he doesn’t seem able to shake it off. I’m wondering if we shouldn’t get the quack to take a look at him. We don’t want him going sick on us at a time like this.’

The unedited film of Joe Leman’s confession has never been recovered. Perhaps it lies hidden in some unopened vault of AVH secrets, its existence forgotten, waiting to be unearthed by a diligent archivist searching for documentary evidence of the years of communist rule. Perhaps the celluloid has disintegrated inside its rusty can and been thrown out by a janitor careless of its historical interest. Perhaps, on balance, it is better that its fate is unknown, the resurrected images of a systematic humiliation of an innocent man remain unseen and the ghost of Leman’s shame rests quietly in its grave.

Edited copies were distributed by Soviet officials to Western news agencies within hours of the event taking place. Attempts by both the SIS and the CIA to prove that Leman’s confession was a fiction of the film editor’s skill quickly foundered. The reluctant verdict was that the film was authentic. The KGB had staged an effective propaganda event. Neither Western intelligence organization had a suitable response. The Soviets could claim a whitewash.

The newsreel shown in cinemas around the world opens with the shot of a bemused man being led into a room by a Hungarian
colonel. The prisoner wears a jacket, trousers, an open-necked shirt. ‘Joe Leman, the British agent provocateur, prepares to admit his crimes to the world’s press,’ the triumphant voice of the Soviet commentator tells us in English. Leman appears diminished, confused, uncertain, in need of guidance. As he emerges into the bright arc lights, he shades his eyes with his hand. For a moment he hesitates; his expression suggests he is wondering if he should not turn round and flee. The Hungarian colonel, sensing his failing nerve, takes him by the arm and leads him to the dais. The prisoner has clearly been held in darkness for long periods. He is sleepwalking in a world of his own imagining.

Leman sits down at a table. His expression is frozen. Each movement is like an instruction on a plan he has only recently committed to memory. He surveys the crowded room. He makes out rows of chairs filled with what he assumes are members of the press. Perhaps they are Russians masquerading, drafted in to provide an audience. Facing him on the table are banks of microphones. He looks around for faces he might recognize. If there are any he cannot see them. It is at that moment that his expression changes. He feels waves of unspoken hostility sweep up through the auditorium towards him. (Is it real or in his mind?) Once more he looks round, calculating the distance between the dais and the door, wondering if he can make good his escape. The Hungarian officer whispers something in his ear and then gets to his feet.

‘Comrades,’ he says, ‘Mr Leman wishes to read a statement.’

The room leans forward in anticipation, concentrating on the small figure sitting at the table. The film shows the attentive faces of the audience in the small auditorium, the tension in the row of news cameramen at the back of the room as they check their viewfinders. Leman clears his throat, looks nervously across at the colonel who nods. It is time to begin.

(‘Wishing to cleanse his conscience of the wrongs perpetrated on him by the lies of Western propaganda, Leman reveals the extent of the subversive activities of Western agencies and their plans to sabotage a democratic socialist state,’ declaims the haughty newsreel commentary.)

Leman speaks quietly in English. His voice is hoarse, disembodied, bereft of expression. He makes no attempt to imbue his text with any emphasis. He pronounces the words slowly and carefully in a
monotone, as if they are unfamiliar and he is trying desperately to discover their meaning as he reads them for the first time. Is he drugged, or ill? Or so frightened he can hardly speak? Once or twice he stumbles over the words. Each time his head nods in irritation and he reads the text again. He appears puzzled, mystified by the nature of the connection between himself and the statement he is reading. He does not once look up at his audience. Perhaps he thinks that if he cannot see them they might not exist.

The commentator says nothing because there is no need to speak. Leman is saying everything that is necessary. The camera holds him in unbroken close-up. The downcast eyes give his pale face the appearance of a death mask.

He and other agents of the West, he says, conspired to enter Hungarian territory covertly, with the express intention of bringing military help to local fascist elements to assist in the overturning of the democratically elected government of a sovereign state. What he did was wrong, he knows that now. Why did he commit this crime? The West is a corrupt system, he explains. His presence in Budapest is evidence of its corruption. He was wilfully misled by those he worked for, the British Government and its Secret Intelligence Service. They told him that the country was ready for counter-revolution, that he would be greeted with open arms by revolutionaries and that the Soviet army was in a weakened state, ready to be brushed aside by a local insurrection.

(A frame-by-frame analysis of the film reveals that what had passed for a nervous tic on Leman’s part was in fact a frequent eye movement to his left, seeking signals of approbation from the Hungarian colonel that he is doing what is required of him.)

He now knows he was mistaken. In direct contradiction to the lies he has been told, he has found a contented country, a happy people, no foundation for the talk of insurrection, a thriving economy and welfare system; indeed all the components of a successful socialist state. A country grateful to its powerful neighbour for the strength of their protection against the continual aggression of the West. There is no foundation for the rumour of insurrection from within Hungary’s own borders.

What the edited version does not show is that twice during his presentation Leman comes to a complete stop. He appears unable to read the words in his prepared text. He looks up helplessly, in
his eyes a silent appeal to his audience. He is confused, desperate, lost. The Hungarian colonel distracts him by handing him a glass of water which Leman drinks. He starts again. The second time the colonel has to tap his wrist with his pencil. Leman awakes. He drags himself reluctantly back to the present from his brief moment of retreat in the depths of his soul. He lowers his eyes once more, gathers himself and the monotone continues.

He wishes to put on record his sincere apologies to the Hungarian people for the wrongs he has done them and their Soviet friends. He criticizes himself for believing the lies he was told. He condemns his former employers for their threat of unprovoked aggression towards a peaceable country in the Soviet sphere of influence. He and others like him were wrong to come to Hungary with the intention of wrecking the great achievements of socialism in that country. He bitterly regrets the errors that led him to impede the victory of the working class. He wishes publicly to disown his former self.

‘I accept my guilt,’ Leman reads. ‘I will put my trust in the Hungarian legal system and the historically progressive role of the workers’ state to find an appropriate punishment for the crimes I have committed.’

(‘Broken by the moral burden of his crimes,’ the Soviet commentator remarks, ‘the subversive Leman throws himself on the mercy of his patriotic hosts, the Hungarian people themselves.’)

Only then does he look up to face the cameras. His eyes are dead, his face without expression. There is no life left in him. His audience sees that they have been listening to a corpse.

‘Thank you for your attention.’

The edited version of the film allows Leman’s face to dissolve slowly into images taken by a moving camera as it travels around a ghost town, of ruined houses, devastated streets, doors blasted from their hinges, shutters and glass torn from windows. Broken crockery and scorched clothes lie scattered carelessly over every surface; a clock without hands has been discarded in the street, its spring twisted around it. Rubble is strewn everywhere. It is chaos. The only ordered image is that of the neat lines of corpses covered in makeshift shrouds of rugs or overcoats, any material that can be pressed into service. Only their feet, some booted, some bare, remain visible. The camera slows as it glides past the smaller corpses of children and babies. The
few survivors stand by, their stricken faces bemused and lost in their grief, the men silently vengeful, the women screaming with horror at the loss of their families.

Over the succession of moving images, the voice of the commentator intones.

‘… scenes of the devastation caused by the unprovoked attack by imperialist agents on the innocent population. Only minutes before this community had been going about its labours. Returning from the fields at the end of the day, feeding their children before bed, preparing the evening meal. Then, unprovoked, the shells rained down on them, killing them where they stood, men, women and children …’