Gabriel's Moon, page 20
‘Jesus Christ,’ Gabriel said, shaken, thinking about the awful reality of the situation, of men stubbing out burning cigarettes on her flesh, like a human ashtray. He was unnerved and troubled by the way she’d spoken so matter-of-factly, as if she were talking about a dental appointment. He didn’t know what to say – how disgusting, how bestial, how despicable, how ‘anything’ – any commiseration, however genuine, would seem feeble and banal against the reality of what the young Faith Green had gone through. She was suddenly quiet, also, as if recalling what had happened, though her face remained stonily impassive.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ she said, looking round at him. ‘Clear our heads, set the world to rights.’
They dressed and wandered off up the road, Faith seeming to know where she was going. It was a cool, overcast, breezy day and Gabriel was both uncomfortable in, and glad of, Vivian’s tweed overcoat. It fitted him very well.
He reached out for her hand but she batted it away.
‘Why won’t you let me hold your hand? Your Vivian did, I saw him.’
‘Vivian is my beau. He’s entitled.’
‘What am I, then?’
‘You?’ She paused. ‘You’re my spy.’
They turned off the road and followed a sandy path through a wide grassy heath with great tracts of gorse and heather. From time to time Faith would point out a plant. ‘Oh, look, that’s thrift.’ Or, ‘Sea lavender, how amazing,’ and pluck off a flower and hold it to her nose and then his.
‘What does a chartered surveyor actually do?’ Gabriel asked.
‘Ah, I think, you know, he analyses structures, looking for defects, makes sure that the budgeted costs are met, manages contractual relationships between the various parties on a project. That sort of thing.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Gabriel, my dear.’
My dear, he thought. He reached for her hand again, now they were in the middle of the heath, and she let him hold it. They walked on, hand in hand, recent lovers.
She pointed up with her free hand.
‘Look, a kestrel!’
Gabriel looked. The bird glided the meagre thermals, looking for prey.
‘Quite the nature-lover,’ he said.
‘That’s why I enjoy your travel books.’
Travel books, he thought. Was that a gentle slight?
They were approaching a copse of pines and larches, beyond them stretched the salt marsh, and beyond that was the River Blyth, with its gleaming mudbanks and tidal creeks. He could see the top of the white lighthouse in the middle of Southwold. Maybe she planned to circumnavigate the town.
In the copse, she suggested they sit down for a breather and they found a patch of turfy grass that was dry. Gabriel was keen for a cigarette, but he was also keen for a kiss and didn’t want his smoky breath to put Faith off.
He touched her face with his knuckles.
‘I’m still in a kind of shock,’ he said. ‘About what you told me, about what happened in that house in Paris. I’m sort of traumatized—’
‘You’re traumatized? How do you think I cope with those memories?’
‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.’
He wondered if he should tell her about the fire and his mother – his own trauma that had ruined his sleep for decades. He would save it for another time.
‘May I kiss you?’ he asked.
‘You may.’
They kissed, gently, the tips of their tongues touching, and Gabriel felt a sense of exhilarated happiness well up in him, his lungs inflating, his shoulders easing with the emotional surge. Heartbeat. Forehead-glow. Erection.
They broke apart.
‘Gabriel, I need to ask you something.’
‘Anything you like.’
‘Where are the tapes?’
‘What tapes?’ he replied, not thinking, he was so caught up in the moment of his intense happiness.
‘The Lumumba tapes.’
Now everything good was suddenly gone, he felt. Their laughter, her confiding in him about her wartime ordeal, the tender building of their carnal, intimate familiarity with each other. Her calculating mind had still been at work, he thought, with some bitterness.
‘So that’s what this has all been about?’ he said, harshly.
‘Wrong. You followed me to Southwold. I didn’t lure you here.’
He drew his knees up and enfolded them with his arms, thinking.
‘Why do you need those tapes so badly? It was just an interview for a newspaper.’
‘Let me explain,’ she said.
She told him that President Eisenhower himself had, in 1960, authorized the assassination of Patrice Lumumba. A CIA operative had been sent to Léopoldville with poisoned toothpaste that was meant to be placed in Lumumba’s bathroom. It was official, called ‘Operation Viking’, she said. It became a joint operation: CIA, MI6 and the Belgian SGRS. The Belgian operation was named ‘Barracuda’. The aims were identical.
‘All the interested parties,’ Faith said. ‘All of them agreed that Lumumba had to go, one way or another.’
‘Had to “go”? Nice euphemism.’
‘He couldn’t remain as Prime Minister. The Russians were pouring in troops and “advisors”. Lumumba had had some sort of mental breakdown—’
‘Not visible to me,’ he said.
‘That’s how it was being perceived. In the West. The Congo was being seen as a new Cuba in Central Africa. An island of communism. Lumumba as the new Castro. You can imagine the scenarios being drawn up. Panic stations.’
‘And how come you were involved?’
‘I had set up an informer, an agent, in his household, someone who was close to him.’ She paused, as if having second thoughts about what she was revealing. Then she continued. ‘In September, after you’d met him, after the Mobutu coup, such as it was, he was a virtual prisoner in his own residence, guarded by UN troops. I discovered, through my source, that he was about to escape and flee to Stanleyville, where his support was strongest. So I let the CIA agent know.’
She plucked at some grasses, shredded the seeds between her fingers, thinking.
‘I shouldn’t be telling you all this,’ she said. ‘But I know it’ll go no further.’
‘Who would I tell? I write travel books.’
‘He had to be captured before he reached Stanleyville, otherwise the whole Congo situation could have escalated – crazily – out of anyone’s control.’
‘Did you have him killed?’
‘No! Of course not. If you must know, the Belgians did it for the CIA.’ She shrugged. ‘But I now realize that if I hadn’t told them he’d escaped they would never have caught him.’ She folded her fingers together. ‘So it turned out I had played something of a key role.’ She looked to him, unabashed. ‘But it had to be done. I don’t have remorse. I won’t apologize.’
He saw the hardness in her. Maybe that was what happened when you were tortured for two days by men with cigarettes.
‘But why are my tapes so crucial? It’s all over now. What’s his name? – Mobutu – your guy is effectively in charge. Everybody’s happy with the new pro-Western regime. Lumumba is history.’
‘Not quite. You never knew this but, as you were taping your interview, Lumumba was doing the same. We found his tapes after he fled the residence, once he was imprisoned.’ She smiled, apologetically. ‘So now your tapes – your Lumumba tapes – are the only record of that conversation, that day. And some of the content is – what shall I say? – very, very delicate.’
‘The names.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Hillcrest, Sykes and Dupetit.’
‘Well remembered.’
‘What’s the significance?’
‘Hillcrest is a direct link to Eisenhower. His, you know, “enforcer”, his link with Allen Dulles and the CIA. His man in the field. Reported directly to him.’
‘Eisenhower is an ex-President—’
‘Who is very concerned about his legacy. Not to say obsessed.’
‘Dupetit is the Belgian, I suppose.’
‘Correct.’
‘So, who’s Sykes?’
She looked at him candidly, deliberating.
‘I’m Sykes.’
‘Oh, shit. Now I get it.’
‘That was my cover. I was “Imogen Sykes” in Léopoldville.’
Gabriel took this in. He was pretty sure this was a very filtered, very edited version of what had actually happened but there was an unmistakably plausible, honest element to it as well. Why would she tell him this otherwise? Tell him about Hillcrest and Eisenhower?
‘Why would you tell me these secrets?’ he asked.
‘Because I trust you.’
Because I’m your spy, he thought.
‘Is this why you slept with me?’ he asked again.
‘No,’ she said, reaching out and squeezing his hand for a second. ‘I slept with you because I wanted to.’
She stood up.
‘Shall we wander back? Vivian’s arriving around teatime.’
Gabriel rose. What the hell, he thought.
‘The tapes are buried under a holly bush in my garden.’
She looked at him – warmly, he thought, her eyes shining.
‘Thank you, Gabriel.’
‘I’ll dig them up and deliver them to you at the Institute.’
They walked on, heading back into Southwold.
‘It’s the right thing to do,’ she said. ‘Everyone will calm down, now. All the Sturm und Drang over. It’ll make you safe.’
‘Oh. Good. Nice to know.’
She changed the subject, deliberately, and asked him about his next book. He prattled on about it, outlining his small dilemmas, his changing itineraries. She seemed to be listening and made the odd comment as they walked down the bank of the Blyth and back into Southwold. When they reached the North Parade, she stopped.
‘Isn’t your pub up that street?’
‘What? Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘That’s handy. I’ll say goodbye, Gabriel. Thank you. For everything. I won’t forget.’
She kissed his cheek and walked away.
She won’t forget what? he asked himself a little sourly. Their lovemaking? Or the fact that she now knew where his Lumumba tapes were?
She turned round and came back.
‘Ah, Vivian’s coat,’ she said, wryly. ‘That would require a bit of explaining.’
He took off Vivian’s overcoat and gave it back to her and then watched her walking back to her ‘beau’, her lover, her chartered surveyor, for a few moments before striding up the street again to the Albion to pack his bag and check out.
As soon as he returned to Redburn Street, he picked up his trowel and headed out into the garden with a torch. He saw, instantly, as he stood in front of the holly bush, that the earth in the border had been disturbed. He didn’t need to dig, he knew – they had beaten him to it. Fast work. Very impressive. He spat on the ground.
He went back into the flat in need of alcohol. In the kitchen, fetching a glass, he noticed that Tyrone’s patent glue traps were both entirely mouse-less, mouse-free. So much for the great expert. In the sitting room, gas fire roaring, he poured himself three fingers of whisky, lit a cigarette and sat down to think back over his time in Southwold with Faith Green. Two things immediately struck him.
First, she had never asked him how he knew she was in Southwold, how he had traced her there. That may just have been an oversight, he supposed. He would guarantee it would cross her mind later, however.
Second, she had never mentioned Caldwell and his defection. Neither had he, he reminded himself, but that was entirely deliberate on his part – a way of trying to keep himself distanced from the event. But this omission by Faith was a different case – altogether more baffling. It should almost have been the first thing they talked about. He sipped at his whisky. And it was troubling that she hadn’t, he thought. She should have brought it up; it didn’t make sense not to . . .
What could he do about it? Nothing. He closed his eyes and tried to remember everything about the night he had slept with Faith Green. It all came back, in copious, enticing detail.
The phone rang and he decided to pick it up. Maybe it was Faith.
‘Hello?’
‘Gabriel – it’s me, Lorraine. Can I see you, darlin’? We need to speak.’
9.
The Transformation
He went to his usual travel agent and booked his trip to Krems for mid-October. He had decided he was going to fly to Vienna and hire a car and meander down the Danube to the town famous for a nearby castle, Dürnstein, that had housed Richard the Lionheart when he had been captured and held to ransom between 1192 and 1194.
As ever, the simple fact of planning a trip made his mood improve. Once the Krems chapter was written he’d send Inigo the ‘work in progress’ to stir his anticipation: the Thames, the Tweed, the Liffey, the Danube – the new book was taking a pleasing shape, he thought.
He’d arranged to meet Lorraine in the Goat and Crow at 12.30, still not wanting to invite her to the flat and encourage further thoughts of residency. In fact, he was rather dreading the encounter, post Southwold, and made his way to the pub early for a morale-bolstering gin and tonic.
Lorraine arrived promptly. They kissed and he went to the bar to order her a Bacardi and Coke. She looked different, and, glancing around to look back at her, he noticed that her hair was considerably shorter and blonder – following her brother’s lead, he supposed.
He brought their drinks over. Lorraine accepted one of his Gitanes and they both lit up.
‘I don’t know how to say this, Gabe,’ she said.
‘Say what?’
‘I’m just going to blurt it out.’
‘All right.’
‘I’ve met someone else. While you was away.’
Gabriel felt his spine stiffen, instinctively.
‘What? Oh, please, no, Lorraine!’ He made an effort to sound as upset as possible.
‘Sorry, darlin’. I never, ever expected it to happen, neither. Never.’
She explained. There had been a short-order chef at the Fulham Road Wimpy’s – one Ken Lubbock – whom she knew fancied her. Since the shop had been closed and they’d been made redundant they’d had the odd drink together to mope and commiserate. Then Ken bought the lease on a small shop and decided to open a sandwich bar in Clipstone Street behind the BBC. He’d asked Lorraine to be ‘front of house’ and a partner in the business. He suggested they call it ‘Lorraine’s’. They’d had several meetings, thrashed out the terms and, you know, one thing led to another.
‘I’m in shock,’ Gabriel said, improvising. ‘I never saw this coming, Lorraine.’
‘Neither did I. But first of all, I needed a job, and you know, Ken’s a lovely bloke. Can I have another, please, Gabriel?’
Gabriel went back to the bar. In one sense this was an awkward situation resolved, guilt free. Then he immediately felt guilty for his complacency. But in another sense he knew he was going to miss Lorraine and not just for their wild nights of sex. She brought out something natural and unrefined in him, he realized. It was very easy being with her, he had to admit – in a curious way he became entirely himself in her company. Ken Lubbock, lucky bastard.
‘I wish you luck, Lorraine,’ he said, back at their table. ‘We’ll still be friends, I hope.’
‘Oh, yeah, course. Tyrone was telling me how he was sort of working for you a bit now. We’ll stay in touch, Gabe, that’s for sure.’
He looked across the table at her, wondering suddenly if in fact he’d ever known anybody as fully as he’d known Lorraine Rogan. They had shared more intimacies than most couples, he’d wager. But now he had Faith Green. And that made everything different; everything had changed. And then he told himself he was a fool: he didn’t ‘have’ Faith Green at all. Still, there was always the Southwold moment. Nobody could deny that night—
‘What’re you smiling at, Gabriel Dax?’
‘Just thinking how much fun we’ve had, that’s all.’
‘But you was always away. What were you doing in bloody Suffolk?’
‘Ah, research. For my book.’
‘See? You’ll be off again and I won’t catch sight of you for two or three months. You can’t build a, you know, sort of proper relationship like that. Can’t be a proper couple.’
‘I accept that. I’m hopeless. You’re better off without me.’
They chatted on. There was a flat above the shop, she said. She was going to move in with Ken. Gabriel could hear distant wedding bells.
When they parted, outside the pub, Lorraine said she wanted to give him one last kiss. They went down a side alley and she kissed him, fiercely, her tongue deep in his mouth.
‘You won’t forget me, will you, Gabriel?’ she said, with a knowing smile, then sauntered off.
Gabriel shopped for groceries in the King’s Road in a vaguely, pleasantly melancholic mood, running through his fervent memories of Lorraine. It couldn’t have ended in a better way, he sensed; sometimes, life just handed you a solution on a plate. End of a chapter, he supposed, feeling a little remorse. It was always hard to be the one who was dumped, however relieved you might be.
He wandered back down Smith Street and St Leonard’s Terrace, heading for Redburn Street, and saw the silver Mercedes parked in Tedworth Square.
He knocked on the window and was glad to see he made Faith jump.
‘Looking for me?’ he said.
In his flat she did her usual complimentary prowl around. She was wearing a two-tone tweed suit – biscuit and dark chocolate with a Persian-lamb collar. He watched her, admiringly, thinking, should I try to kiss her? The last time we were together we made love.
