The Tamarind Seed (15 page)

‘Oh my God, hearts and flowers again.' She turned away from him. ‘He's just a policeman in plain clothes. I must remember to look at his feet next time I see him; I'm sure they're enormous.'

Fergus said nothing; be understood his wife's dislike of Loder. He had offended her initially because she was a snob, and he refused to crawl. Now he was in a position to look down upon her because of her private activities, and worst of all, he had obviously deprived her of the services of her lover. Fergus knew this because she was irritable and more bitchy than normal. It was always a sign that she was in between men.

He opened the door and paused before leaving. In a way he was sorry for her. She had spent twenty years trying to punish him for his failure as a man, and only succeeded in destroying herself. He was conscious that the whole thing was ultimately his fault.

‘Have a good lunch,' he said. ‘Who's coming?'

‘Cyphers, Personnel, Military, Navy and Air. All ghastly, except Rachel Paterson. Thank God it's only once a year.'

‘You're very good with them,' he said, hoping to please her.

‘I should be, I've bad enough practice in the last twenty years. I keep to simple things like the Sports Day, the nursery school … what will everybody do on their next leave. Christ, it's unbelievable how dull they all are.' She heard the door close as he went out and stopped pretending to open letters.

One was from a friend, hoping to glean an invitation to stay during a coming trip to the States that summer; another was a very short note from her second son saying he had run out of money. Damn Fergus. Damn him for trying to play the diplomat with her, of all people. ‘You're very good with them.' As if she was a bloody Third Secretary's wife, spreading her wings for the first time as hostess. Of course she was good with the subordinate wives. She had made it her business to be; she knew how to be pleasant, condescending and formidable all at the same time. She was not liked or disliked, but she was held in awe, and that was what she wanted. She thought of Loder, and the blood rushed up, staining her neck a patchy red. He must have found out that she had been sleeping with his own assistant, Joe MacLeod. MacLeod had not kept an appointment with her for three weeks. His excuses were polite but unshakable. He was on duty, he had a previous engagement. He had not turned up twice, and she had spent over an hour in the room they rented at a motel ten miles out by the Potomac, waiting for him. He was much younger than she was, and he was a strenuous lover, devoid of sentiment or emotional after-thought. It had been an excellent arrangement; when it came to bed she was prepared to waive her class attitudes. MacLeod was no more of a gentleman than Loder, but he was six feet two inches tall, pleasant looking and very fit. He was the first very young man she had got involved with, and now that he had backed away, she felt the full humiliation of what she had done in selecting him. It was a bad sign, to go for youth like that. It was a real indication of age in a woman when she started lusting after her sons' generation.

But he was discreet; she could be sure that there wouldn't be any gossip, any vulgar hints among his colleagues. She had always chosen men who had more to lose by opening their mouths than to gain by a masculine boast. Men who were ambitious, and anxious not to make an enemy, after they had been dismissed.

Now, it was her turn. And all because of her husband talking to that scruffy little brute, talking a high-minded attitude about security. She ripped open her letters one by one, read them through without pleasure, and clipped them together to be answered. She took a cigarette from her box and searched unsuccessfully for matches. Her desk lighter didn't work; she knew this but she tried instinctively. It gave no spark. It was one of the old-fashioned variety, a large presentation piece from the staff at some other Embassy, given to her and Fergus years ago. She swore, and began opening all the desk drawers. No matches. It would have been easier to replace the cigarette, but suddenly smoking it had become important. She must be able to find a light. It was too ridiculous not to be able to have a cigarette when she wanted one so badly.

She got up and went downstairs. Fergus's study was next door to hers. It was a meticulously arranged and maintained working room. There were no concessions to his taste, and he had rejected her attempt to decorate it when they first arrived. There was a huge, business-like desk, a hideous green angle-poise lamp, bookcases from the floor to the ceiling, and a small filing cabinet. A photograph of her and their children was the only touch which she privately described, with nausea, as ‘homely'. There were cigarettes in a small shagreen box, another present, but no desk lighter and no matches. She opened two drawers before she found anything. The lighter was right at the back, packed neatly in a box, and inside a chamois leather sleeve. She took it out and looked at it; she had never seen Fergus use it before. It looked new, and it had the special sheen of high carat gold. How the hell had he come by it—he never bought expensive nicknacks for himself. She pressed the tiny catch and it burst into flame. She lit the cigarette, turning the lighter over in both hands. It was gold; she could see the hallmark on the bottom. Beautifully chased, long and elegantly shaped. She examined the box. Tiffany. Very expensive indeed. Certainly, Fergus had not bought it for himself. When the idea formulated, she literally swallowed smoke, and coughed. He had somebody. Not a woman—she was sure of that. By Christ, it had better not be a woman, after denying her, if he had been able to do it with somebody else … That couldn't have been borne. She rejected it instantly; that just couldn't even be considered. There was a limit to what she could take in a marriage to a homosexual. Normality with another woman went beyond that limit. It must be a man. Fergus must have a man, a lover. A rich lover. She stood there in the study, the cigarette hanging in the corner of her mouth, holding the lighter like a talisman. Her hands were shaking. After all these years, cheating and humiliating him, believing that he lived a eunuch's life;
she
had been deceived, at the end. He could afford to be browbeaten and insulted by her when she felt like it, because he had a refuge of his own.

She took the lighter back to her own room. She hesitated, wondering where to put it. He would miss it, and start searching. He would never look in her handbag. She put it in a zipped compartment and closed the fastener. When he couldn't find it, he might have to mention it to her. And that would be her moment.

She looked at her watch; she was still shaking slightly. It was eleven-thirty. She went downstairs to see that the flowers had been arranged and to see the housekeeper about the menu for dinner. They had eighteen guests that evening.

‘It's an interesting situation,' Loder said. ‘Very interesting; how long will the bastard string this girl along before he tries to pull her in?'

‘That must surely depend upon the girl.' Fergus Stephenson sipped his wine. It was a fine, light Riesling, which he considered paid a delicate compliment to the fish. Loder appeared to enjoy his; he was eating steadily and talking at the same time. The subject had come up because Fergus had mentioned his interview with Richard Paterson. Loder had conveyed his impression of the Group Captain without saying much. The discussion about Judith Farrow followed naturally.

‘I know,' he said, ‘that you don't like this business much. I know you think it's dirty work, poking around other people's private lives. But it has to be done, Mr. Stephenson, and somebody has to do it.'

‘Of course it's necessary,' Fergus said. ‘It's just distasteful. I feel sorry for this girl, Mrs. Farrow. If she's telling the truth this relationship is perfectly innocent.'

‘Oh she's certainly doing that,' Loder admitted. ‘I wasn't sure, but I am now. She's not up to anything, but it's inevitable that before long she'll get the squeeze put on. I've told her, but she won't accept it. She can be an awkward piece, too.' The word made Fergus smile; it should have made him wince. He liked Loder more and more. How did the French describe such a relationship—
nostalgie de la bou.
It was an intranslatable description of the impulse to frequent an environment and cultivate friends of baser degree than oneself. A wish to roll in the mud. A poor, inadequate attempt to turn the succinct French phrase into clumsy English. However, true of him or not, he found Loder a refreshing experience.

‘You're sure this man Sverdlov is going to try and blackmail her, or exert some pressure?' he asked. ‘It couldn't be just—well, a friendship?'

‘Not with him,' Loder said. ‘We know all about him, Mr. Stephenson. He's the unfriendly kind. You know, it took some time to put him in the right slot. He was here about eighteen months before we connected him with the Sverdlov who was their trigger man in Hungary.'

‘How did you find out?'

‘Just a check; one of those things we ought to do more often and don't, because we've got so much unimportant bumf to deal with. I looked up his record. He'd been promoted from Lieutenant to Colonel inside two years, round about the time of the uprising. Then a rotten posting to Copenhagen. The jump was in the wrong direction, the promotion spelled him out as a big fish, Copenhagen was a backwater. Copenhagen wasn't a serious posting, just a blind, a rest period to let the heat cool off him after Budapest. He was four years there, with a stint in East Berlin and a gap which must have meant he was in Moscow. Then he comes here. Assistant to that old Army mule Golitsyn. I tracked back on him, and I found that he and the Sverdlov who cleaned up in Budapest were one and the same man. That made him K.G.B. and in my opinion, the General's boss, not his subordinate. So it's not likely he's wining and dining Mrs. Farrow because he likes blue eyes, is it?'

‘No,' Stephenson said. ‘If he's that sort of man, it obviously isn't.' Loder lit a cigarette. ‘He's a bloody butcher,' he said. ‘He murdered the Hungarians; treason trials, executions, the lot. I haven't told her yet, but when the crunch comes, I'm going to. Then we'll see how she takes it. She may just be shocked enough to work for us against him.'

‘But wouldn't that be very dangerous?' Fergus looked at him with surprise.

‘Yes, very. But that's part of the price for getting mixed up with these people. I'm going to try and see she pays it.'

‘If you don't mind my saying so,' Fergus said, ‘it
is
a dirty business. And I do fed sorry for her.'

‘Anyway I've kept the Americans happy,' Loder said. ‘They're leaving this one to us. I send regular reports, and keep Farrow under watch. From what you say, Group Captain Paterson won't be seeing her again, so that's the main problem out of the way.'

‘He practically offered to inform against her,' Fergus said. ‘But he couldn't think of anything to say. I really don't admire him for it. My wife doesn't think much of him either.' He mentioned Margaret from time to time, just to keep up the appearance of normality.

‘She's a good judge,' Loder said. ‘But he's no security risk. In my judgement, he'd turn in his own mother if it threatened his career.'

Coffee was brought to them, and Stephenson ordered a small glass of William; the sharp scent of pears drifted into Loder's nostrils. He noticed how moderate the Minister was; he drank very little, but always the best; he smoked lightly and never between courses. He had chosen a liqueur that Loder had never even heard of; he rather liked the smell. A curious man; gentle, but by no means without cynical appreciation. A scholar, but lacking in arrogance and self esteem. Conversely when Loder was with him, he was stimulated to give his best. He would never have believed it possible to like someone in Stephenson's position. Now he enjoyed a friendship which was increasing in value. He thought of that randy cow, with her bleached silver hair and her imperious attitude, getting a subordinate like Joe MacLeod to knock her up. His mental vocabulary sank to its lowest level when it was describing Margaret Stephenson. The Honourable Mrs. Stephenson. The daughter of a bloody peer, with a string of politicians and a Scottish duke in the background. Screwing a man young enough to be her son, in a scruffy motel room, twice a week. He thought of her with loathing. He had said a few well chosen words to MacLeod, which he hoped had impressed him with the inadvisability of sleeping with Ministers' wives, or
any
wife, come to that, of
any
member of the Embassy staff, and the even greater folly of opening his bleeding mouth about his work. He had verbally killed MacLeod, and then resuscitated him, because he was a very good man at his job and he was entitled to make one mistake without losing his career. But only one. Loder felt confident that he wasn't likely to make another.

Besides, he himself had decided to bend the rules a little. He should have made a private report on Mrs. Fergus Stephenson's moral activities to his own chief in London. But he had not done so. And he never would, for the sake of her husband. There was no harm she could do, except get involved in a scandal, and from what he gleaned from MacLeod, she was experienced enough to keep clean in public. Besides, Fergus knew. He felt so sorry for him; poor bastard, putting up with a wife who did that sort of thing, going through the motions, year after year. Loder would have liked to knock her head off. A man like Stephenson didn't deserve to be treated like that.

‘Have a cigarette?' He offered his case to Stephenson, who took one. He had noticed that the Minister smoked Benson and Hedges, and he had bought some specially.

‘Thank you.' Stephenson felt in his pocket. ‘I'm afraid I have no lighter. I must have left it behind.' He accepted Loder's match. He had left the lighter in his desk drawer in its usual place.

He finished his coffee and paid the bill. Loder thanked him for a very pleasant lunch, and suggested, somewhat diffidently, that perhaps he might lunch one day later that month with him.