The Persian Price (6 page)

This was not for Peters. If Andrew Barnes had shown him the meaning of warmth and disinterested love for his fellows, the National Guardsman who took aim at him and fired had taught Peters what it meant to hate. And to hate with a single-minded, pitiless intensity that gravitated naturally to the ultimate extreme of which the gentle Barnes would never have approved. Only violence could hope to overcome the organized violence of modern society. Absolute ruthlessness and total dedication to the cause were the requisites of revolutionaries if they were to be effective in the struggle.

By the time Peters graduated he was a leading member of the extremist Marxist cell that existed within the student organization. He was a marked agitator. Without saying goodbye to his parents, he took a plane down to Mexico. After that he shut his mind to them completely. He never felt an exile. He lived and moved among people like himself; dedicated, efficient, perfecting themselves for the work in hand. He learned to kill, to use explosives, to travel long distances under rough conditions. He was sent to Chile where he did valuable work, organizing sabotage and leading a brief guerilla expedition against an army camp. He stayed long enough to see Allende triumph and he was in Germany when he heard that the brief Marxist reign was over and the oppressors had gained power. In Bonn he and Madeleine Labouchère hi-jacked a Lufthansa 707, killing a steward and injuring three of the passengers. As a result of negotiations, four Palestinian terrorists were released from jail and he and the girl were given a safe conduct to Syria.

He stood by the apartment window for a moment; the sun was setting fire to the roofs of Tehran. There was no view but the streets and the blocks of buildings. An ugly city, built on a barren plain.

He had grown to love the real Iran, with its infinite variety; the lush northern slopes of the Elburz mountains leading down to the Caspian shore; the incredible carpet of spring flowers round Kerman, which had inspired the carpet weavers for a thousand years; the aridity of the Zagros mountains, broken by little green valleys and clear streams, which contrast had fired the poetic soul of ancient Persia and produced immortal verse; the brutal heat of the yellow deserts and the almost spiritual uplift occasioned by the beauty of the mosques at Isphahan; the marvels at Persepolis the city of the great Darius where he had helped with excavations. This was the land that drew pilgrims from the Western world, eager to sample the fruits of the ancient culture and exquisite visual arts of the great Aryan race that had been both conqueror and civilizing influence in the Eastern world. As a people they were proud, treacherous, cunning and deeply hospitable; the inequality of life between the rich and the poor was as harsh as anything he had witnessed even in Central America. He had thought himself immune to misery and disease after seeing the plight of the Indians; it was the gross display of wealth in Iran that brought his rage to the surface. He hated the rich, wherever they clustered like sores on the body of the working masses.

Over-fed, artificial, swollen with profits, they lived in luxury and idleness while others slaved and hungered. Age had not mellowed Peters. He knew nothing but the reasoning of fanatics like himself. He made love to a woman who two years before had knelt in the passenger lounge of an Israeli airport and sprayed women and children with machine-gun fire. There was no weakening of his resolve, no change in his opinions. But this time he didn't want to kill. He would have to be careful of Madeleine. In one way she was a bad choice. She had a light trigger finger and she wasn't influenced by age or sex. But a woman was essential and he felt he could control her. Now that the time was so near, he wanted to start off. He wanted to be on the plane and come down at Orly.

Madeleine was in the dingy little kitchen and he heard her singing. She never suffered from nerves; danger excited her, like sex. She was a remarkable specimen of the modern Arab woman, in spite of her German blood. Tough, determined, unscrupulous, and fierce; her nearest equivalent was her blood enemy, the female Israeli. She might set light to the bedsheets but it was impossible to love her in the conventional sense. For this reason alone, she was the perfect complement to him.

They drank a bottle of wine, ate an excellent kebab which she prepared, and made love till they were both exhausted. By nine the next morning she had left the flat and he was driving in a taxi down Eisenhower Road towards Mehrabad airport.

‘I hear you're going back tomorrow.'

Logan found her reading in James's shady sitting room; the windows onto the garden were open and the evening promised to be cooler.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘James managed to get me a seat for tomorrow morning.'

Now was the moment for him to retract, to make some move towards her, however slight. In spite of the hurt which was so real it was like a physical pain, she still hoped. Whether it was because some love for him was left or out of cowardice, she didn't know. He seemed cool, even impatient, as if having to talk to her was an irritant.

‘I've asked Janet to come out. We've run into trouble with that bastard Khorvan. I'll have my hands full out here for some time. Why don't you go to Ireland?'

It had never occurred to her to go home. Her father wouldn't be sympathetic. He'd thought she was a fool to marry Logan anyway and he'd say she was an even bigger fool to walk out on the money now.

‘I could take Lucy,' she said.

Immediately he frowned.

‘No,' he said. ‘I don't like her being dragged around. She's all right where she is, in her own home.' He lit a cigarette. ‘We'll sort things out when I get home,' he said. ‘I'm sorry it's turned out like this. I'm sure you know that. But I can't give any time to it at the moment. I've got to get Imshan settled first.'

She got up and went to the garden door.

‘You certainly know your priorities,' she said quietly. ‘And as far as my child is concerned, if I want to take her home with me, I will.' She walked out into the garden without saying goodbye.

James Kelly drove her to the airport. He had given her the address of his solicitors.

‘They're a bit old-fashioned; they're not the kind to deal with a bastard like Logan, but they'll know who to recommend. Promise you'll go and see them.'

They were waiting by the departure lounge; the flight had been called and she was just about to go through passport control. Two Iranian police were checking the passengers and their hand luggage with a detector. They were running the detector over the canvas grip carried by a man immediately in front of her. He was tall and blonde and looked like an American junior professor.

‘I will, I promise you,' Eileen said. ‘I don't know what I would have done without you, James.'

He smiled; his dark hair flopped over his forehead as he bent down to her. ‘You'd have been all right,' he said. ‘You've got the guts of the Irish. Goodbye, Eileen. I'll ring you in a couple of days. Take care, and don't worry. And if you want me, just cable and I'll come home.'

She reached up and kissed him; she felt his hand grip her shoulder. Then she turned, as the flight was called for the last time. She passed through the detector screen and was given back her handbag. She followed the blonde man into the departure lounge and across to gate 7.

An Iranian woman, wearing the chador, her face covered to the eyes, paddled a few steps between them. She carried a little boy with wistful black eyes, greedily eating his fist. There was no resemblance, but Eileen thought of Lucy at that moment. From the moment she came back from the fashionable nursing home, the child had been in the care of a nanny. She had been too ill to protest at the annexation of her child. As she boarded the plane, she realized that for the first time since she was born, Lucy was going to belong to her. And that she would have to fight Logan every inch of the way to keep her.

She settled into a seat near the Exit door, fastened her seat-belt and opened the book she had tried to read the day before. She was not even aware that the American was beside her. They were each to remember, in very different circumstances, that their lives had joined for the first time when they shared that journey together.

3

Jean Resnais passed the time at Orly waiting for Peters and Madeleine to arrive by watching the girls in the lounge. There was a pretty blonde who pleased him: a thin, sensual little girl with long hair and tiny breasts sticking through her shirt. He could have picked her up easily, and was sorry that he had no time. He was small and dark, with a sallow, intelligent face; his clothes were conservative and he carried a briefcase. He looked a prosperous businessman around thirty. His real age was nearer thirty-five and he was an expert rifle and revolver shot. The plane for London was due to leave in an hour; he wandered over to the Arrivals board and checked. Several women watched him. The plane from Tehran had landed. Madeleine should join him in the departure lounge. As far as he knew, Peters was taking a plane an hour later.

Resnais saw her walking through, carrying one light case; he went after her, passed through passport control and was stopped at the security point. Madeleine had gone through. The London flight was being called. A policeman ran his hands up and down him, while Resnais stood, with a slight grin on his face as if it were all a joke, his arms lifted away from his sides.

The detector slid over his hand case and ‘pinged' loudly. He shrugged, opened the case and revealed a metal flask. It was full of brandy. They waved him on, and he boarded the plane. He didn't sit near Madeleine or look at the other passengers. He settled into his seat as soon as the plane levelled off, tilted it back and went to sleep. He didn't notice Eileen Field because she was in the front of the plane in the first-class section.

When they arrived in London, he joined the taxi queue outside the No. 1 building. Madeleine was beside him. He grinned at her, showing his white teeth. They had spent some time in Syria together on a training course and she had never liked him. When he smiled he reminded her of a dog that was preparing to bite.

‘Where are you going?' he asked her.

‘Victoria,' she said.

‘So am I,' Resnais said. ‘Why don't we share – these taxis are very expensive.'

‘You could have caught the bus,' Madeleine answered.

‘I have to get a train.'

‘All right then; let's share the next one.'

They got inside and slammed the door. Madeleine gave the driver an address in Pimlico, behind the station. It was a third-class hotel and not too particular about its clients. Couples had been known to take a room for an hour without arousing comment.

‘Well,' Resnais said, ‘have a good flight?'

‘Very smooth. Very boring. I hate flying.'

‘You're looking well,' he remarked. He knew, as all the group did, that she was sleeping with the American. He also knew that she disliked him and he was amused by her attitude. He had never accepted women as equals; he had worked with them, but they had one primary function and it wasn't revolutionary. He had never loved anyone in his life, but he had a sentimental attachment for dogs which had almost got him killed. He had adopted a starving mongrel during his stay in the Syrian outpost. When he took part in a dawn raid across into Israel the animal followed. It had run barking towards the kibbutz.

Even so he kept a half-bred Alsatian in his two-roomed flat in Paris. A friend was looking after it in his absence; he explained that he had to go back to Marseilles to see his father who was ill.

‘Is everything going well?'

‘Peters thinks so,' she said. ‘And if he's satisfied, it must be. He'll be meeting us tonight. We stay at this place in Pimlico for one night only and then move on.'

‘What about Peters?'

‘He stays separately. We join up for the flight out.'

Resnais laughed at her. ‘You won't like that much, will you?'

Madeleine looked out of the window. Neat suburban houses, set in identical plots of garden ran past the window.

‘This is a job,' she said, without looking at him. ‘Maybe the most important one we've ever done. It isn't time for making your stupid jokes.'

He only laughed again. They booked into the hotel. When they were alone, Madeleine opened her suitcase and took out a nightdress. Resnais watched her.

‘Ah,' he said, ‘what a pity you don't like me, chérie. I suppose you expect me to sleep on the floor?'

‘No,' Madeleine glanced up at him briefly, ‘in the chair. We should stay here for about an hour. Then we can go out and get something to eat. Peters has told me where to go. He'll meet us there.'

She took a French magazine out of her case, sat on the bed and started reading. Resnais lounged in the scuffed armchair and wondered if his dog was missing him.

It was six-thirty when Eileen arrived at Eaton Square. Kelly had sent a cable telling them to expect her. The Portuguese butler opened the front door, took her case and said, ‘Welcome home, Madame.'

‘Thank you, Mario. Everything all right?'

It was not a serious question. The house was perfectly run by a large staff; Logan paid top wages but he required faultless service and, in spite of a shortage of domestic workers, it was typical that he got what he demanded. There were fresh flowers, boldly and beautifully arranged in the hall; hot-house roses in her bedroom and a maid waiting to take her coat and prepare a bath for her. For years Eileen had lived in this style and after the first reaction from her old, easy-going Irish life, she had taken it for granted. It was part of being married to a very rich, exacting man. She had decorated and furnished the house herself, successfully resisting the suggestion that the interior decorator who had done Logan's office suite should take charge of arrangements. He had been delighted with the result. He had a natural eye for quality, and her taste was exactly what he wanted. Elegance and luxury, but no touch of ostentation. A magnificent Irish Chippendale desk was her father's wedding present to them. It was the kind of generous, unrealistic gesture that Logan didn't appreciate, especially since the old man was short of money. He would have preferred to buy his own desk and not be milked for loans in later years that were never going to be repaid.