by Wilbur Smith
‘General, if we are going to save this arm, I have to get her into theatre pretty damned quickly. The joint of the shoulder is shattered—’
The girl rolled the lovely head towards Peter. The thick springing golden hair was matted with drying blood, and there was a smear of it across one cheek.
Now her face was completely drained of all colour, like the head of an angel carved out of white marble. The skin had a waxen, almost translucent, lustre and only the eyes were still fierce, not dulled by the painkilling drugs that they had injected into her.
‘– I have asked the South Africans for co-operation—’ the doctor went on, ‘– they have two top orthopaedic surgeons standing by, and they have offered a helicopter to fly her into the Central Hospital at Edenvale.’
‘Already she was being treated, even by Thor, as the major celebrity she was. She had taken her first step along the rose-strewn pathway to glory, and Peter could imagine how the media would extol her beauty – they had gone berserk with extravagant praise for the swarthy ferrety-eyed Leila Khaled with her fine dark moustache – they would go over the top for this one.
Peter had never known any emotion so powerful as the emotion that gripped him now.
‘Get out,’ he said to the doctor.
‘Sir?’ The man looked startled.
‘Get out,’ Peter repeated, ‘all of you.’ And he waited until the opaque glass door closed behind them, before he spoke to the girl in conversational tones.
‘You have made me abandon my own principles, and descend to your level.’
The girl watched him uncertainly, her eyes flickered to the shot pistol that Peter held dangling from his right hand.
‘You have forced me, a career soldier, to disobey the orders of a superior officer in the face of the enemy.’ He paused. ‘I used to be a proud man, but when I have done what I must do now I will no longer have much of which to be proud.’
‘I demand to see the American Ambassador,’ said the girl huskily, still watching the pistol. ‘I am an American citizen. I demand the protection—’
Peter interrupted her, again speaking quickly. ‘This is not revenge. I am old and wise enough to know that revenge has the most bitter taste of all human excesses.’
‘You cannot do it—’ The girl’s voice rose, the same strident tones, but now shriller still with fear. ‘They will destroy you.’
But Peter went on as though she had not spoken. ‘It is not revenge,’ he repeated. ‘You, yourself, gave the reason clearly. If you continue to exist, they will come to get you back. As long as you live, others must die – and they will die stripped of all human dignity. They will die in terror, the same way you murdered—’
‘I am a woman. I am wounded. I am a prisoner of war,’ screamed the girl, trying to struggle upright.
‘Those are the old rules,’ Peter told her. ‘You tore up the book, and wrote a new one – I am playing to your rules now. I have been reduced to your level.’
‘You cannot kill me,’ the girl’s voice range wildly. ‘I still have work—’
‘Colin,’ Peter said quietly, without looking at the American. ‘You’d better get out now.’
Colin Noble hesitated, his right hand on the butt of the Browning, and the girl rolled her head towards him imploringly.
‘You can’t let him do it.’
‘Peter—’ Colin said.
‘You were right, Colin,’ Peter spoke quietly. ‘That kid did look a lot like Melissa-Jane.’
Colin Noble dropped his hand from the pistol and turned to the door. Now the girl was shrieking obscenity and threat, her voice incoherent with terror and hatred.
Colin closed the door softly and stood with his back to it. The single crash of shot was shockingly loud, and the stream of filthy abuse was cut off abruptly. The silence was even more appalling than the harrowing sounds which had preceded it. Colin did not move. He waited four, five seconds before the door clicked open and General Peter Stride came out into the main office. He handed the shot pistol to Colin and one barrel was hot in his hand.
Peter’s handsome aristocratic features seemed ravaged, as though by a long wasting disease. The face of a man who had leapt into the abyss.
Peter Stride left the glass door open, and walked away without looking back. Despite the terrible expression of despair, he still carried himself like a soldier and his tread was firm.
Colin Noble did not even look through the open door.
‘All right,’ he called to the doctor. ‘She’s all yours now.’ And he followed Peter Stride down the broad staircase.
There was a long hard gallop over good going and open pasture to the crest of the ridge, with only one gate. Melissa-Jane led on her bay filly, her Christmas gift from Uncle Steven. She was in the midst of the passionate love affair that most pubescent girls have with horses, and she looked truly good astride the glistening thoroughbred. The cold struck high colour into her cheeks and the braid of honey-coloured hair thumped gaily down her back at each stride. She had blossomed even in the few weeks since last Peter had seen her – and he realized with some awe and considerable pride that she was fast becoming a great beauty.
Peter was up on one of Steven’s hunters, a big rangy animal with the strength to carry his weight, but the gelding was slogging hard to hold the flying pair that danced ahead of him.
At the hedge, Melissa-Jane scorned the gate, gathered the filly with fine strong hands and took her up and over. Her little round bottom lifted out of the saddle as she leaned into the jump, and clods of black earth flew from the filly’s hooves.
As soon as she was over she swivelled in the saddle to watch him, and Peter realized that he was under challenge. The hedge immediately appeared to be head-high and he noticed for the first time how the ground fell away at a steep angle beyond. He had not ridden for almost two years, and it was the first time he had been up on this gelding – but the horse went for the jump gamely, and they brushed the top of the hedge, landed awkwardly, stumbled with Peter up on his neck for an appalling instant of time in which he was convinced he was to take a toss in front of his daughter’s critical eye; caught his balance, held the gelding’s head up and they came away still together.
‘Super-Star!’ Melissa-Jane shouted laughing, and by the time he caught her she had dismounted under the yew tree at the crest, and was waiting for him with her breath steaming in the crisp calm air.
‘Our land once went right as far as the church—’ Peter pointed to the distant grey needle of stone that pricked the belly of the sky, ‘– and there almost to the top of the downs.’ He turned to point in the opposite direction.
‘Yes.’ Melissa-Jane slipped her arm through his as they stood close together under the yew. ‘The family had to sell it when Grandfather died. You told me And that’s right too. One family shouldn’t own so much.’
Peter glanced down at her, startled. ‘My God, a communist in the family. An asp in the bosom.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Daddy darling. It’s Uncle Steven who is the bloated plutocrat. You’re not a capitalist – you aren’t even employed any more—’ And the instant she had said it, her laughter collapsed around her and she looked stricken. ‘– Oh, I didn’t mean that. I truly didn’t.’
It was almost a month now since Peter’s resignation had been accepted by the War Office, but the scandal had not yet run out of steam.
The first heady paeans of praise for the success of Thor’s Delta strike had lasted only a few days. The glowing editorials, the full front pages, the lead news item on every television channel, the effusive messages of congratulations from the leaders of the Western governments, the impromptu triumph for Peter Stride and his little band of heroes, had quickly struck an odd note, a sudden souring of the ecstasies.
The racist Government of South Africa had actually agreed to the release of political prisoners before the assault, one of the hijackers had been taken alive, and died of gunshot wounds received in the terminal buildings. The
n one of the released hostages, a freelance journalist who had been covering the medical convention in Mauritius and was returning aboard the hijacked aircraft, published a sensational eye-witness account of the entire episode, and a dozen other passengers supported his claims that there had been screams from the fourth hijacker, screams for mercy, before she was shot to death after her capture.
A storm of condemnation and vilification from the extreme left of the British Labour Government had swept through the Westminster parliament, and had been echoed by the Democrats in the American Congress. The very existence of the Thor Command had come under scrutiny and been condemned in extravagant terms. The Communist parties of France and Italy had marched, and the detonation of an M.26 hand grenade – one of those stolen by the Baader-Meinhof gang from the American base in Metz – amongst the crowd leaving the Parc des Princes football stadium in Paris had killed one and injured twenty-three. A telephone call to the offices of France Soir by a man speaking accented French claimed that this fresh atrocity was revenge for the murder of four hijackers by the Imperialist execution squad.
Pressure for Peter’s discharge had come initially from the Pentagon, and there was very little doubt that Dr Kingston Parker was the accuser, though, as head of Atlas, he was never identified, total secrecy still surrounding the project. The media had begun to demand an investigation of all the circumstances surrounding Thor. ‘– And if it is ascertained that criminal irregularities did indeed exist in the conduct of the operation, that the person or persons responsible be brought to trial either by a military tribunal or the civil courts.’ Fortunately the media had not yet unravelled the full scope of Atlas Command. Only Thor was under scrutiny; they did not yet suspect the existence of either Mercury or Diana.
Within the War Office and the governments of both America and Britain, there had been much sympathy and support for Peter Stride – but he had made it easier for his friends and for himself by tendering his resignation. The resignation had been accepted, but still the left was clamouring for more. They wanted blood, Peter Stride’s blood.
Now Melissa-Jane’s huge pansy violet eyes flooded with the tears of mortification. ‘I didn’t mean that I truly didn’t’
‘One thing about being out of a job – I have more time to be with my favourite girl.’ He smiled down at her, but she would not be mollified.
‘I don’t believe the horrible things they are saying. I know you are a man of honour, Daddy’
‘Thank you.’ And he felt the ache of it, the guilt and the sorrow. They were silent a little longer, still standing close together, and Peter spoke first.
‘You are going to be a palaeontologist—’ he said.
‘No. That was last month. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not interested in old bones any more. Now I’m going to be a doctor, a child specialist.’
‘That’s good.’ Peter nodded gravely. ‘But let’s go back to old bones for a moment. The age of the great reptiles. The dinosaurs – why did they fade into extinction?’
They could not adapt to a changing environment.’ Melissa-Jane had the answer promptly.
Peter murmured, ‘– A concept like honour. Is it outdated in today’s world, I wonder?’ Then he saw the puzzlement, the hurt in her eyes, and he knew they had wandered onto dangerous ground. His daughter had a burning love for all living things, particularly human beings. Despite her age, she had a developed political and social conscience, distinguished by total belief in shining ideals and the essential beauty and goodness of mankind. There would be time in the years ahead for the agony of disillusion. The term ‘man or woman of honour’ was Melissa-Jane’s ultimate accolade. No matter that it could be applied to any of her current heroes or heroines – the Prince of Wales, or the singer of popular songs with an outrageous name that Peter could never remember, to Virginia Wade, the former Wimbledon champion, or to the Fifth Form science teacher at Roedean who had aroused Melissa-Jane’s interest in medicine—Peter knew that he should feel proper gratitude for being included in this exalted company.
‘I will try to live up to your opinion of me.’ He stooped and kissed her, surprised at the strength of his love for this child-woman. ‘And now it’s too cold to stand here any longer, and Pat will never forgive us if we are late for lunch.’
They clattered over the stone cobbles of the stable yard, riding knee to knee, and before he dismounted, Peter indulged himself in the pleasure of his favourite view of the house that had always been home, even though it belonged now, together with the title, to Steven, the older brother, older by three hours only, but older none the less.
The house was red brick with a roof that ran at fifty different unlikely angles. It missed being hideous by a subtle margin and achieved a fairytale enchantment. Peter could never grudge it to Steven, who loved the sprawling edifice with something close to passion.
Perhaps the desire to own the house and to restore it to its former magnificence was the goad which had pricked Steven to the superhuman effort that a British resident must make against taxation and socialist restrictions in order to amass anything like a fortune.
Steven had made that effort and now Abbots Yew stood immaculate and well-beloved in glorious gardens, and Sir Steven kept baronial style.
His affairs were so complicated, spread over so many continents that even the British taxman must have been daunted Peter had once skirted this subject with his twin brother, and Steven had replied quietly.
‘When a law is patently unjust, such as our tax law is, it’s the duty of an honest man to subvert it.’
Peter’s old-fashioned sense of rightness had baulked at such logic, but he let it pass.
It was strange that it had worked this way for the two brothers, for Peter had always been the brilliant one, and the family had always referred to ‘Poor Steven’. Nobody was very surprised when Steven left Sandhurst amid dark whispers halfway through his final year – but two years later Steven was already a millionaire while Peter was a lowly second lieutenant in the British Army Peter grinned without rancour at the memory. He had always been particularly fond of his elder brother – but at that moment his train of thought was interrupted as his eye caught the mirror-like finish of the silver limousine parked at the end of the stable yard. It was one of those long Mercedes-Benz favoured by pop stars, Arab oil men, or heads of state. The chauffeur was uniformed in sober navy blue and was busy burnishing the paintwork to an even higher gloss. Even Steven did not run to that sort of transportation, and Peter felt mildly intrigued. House guests at Abbots Yew were always interesting. Steven Stride did not concern himself with those who did not wield either power, wealth or extraordinary talent. Beyond the Mercedes 600 was parked another smaller model; this one was black and the two men in it had the hard closed faces that marked them as bodyguards.
Melissa-Jane rolled her eyes at the automobile. ‘Another bloated plutocrat, I expect,’ she muttered. It was the currently favoured term of extreme disapproval, a great advance on ‘grotty’ which had preceded it, Peter could not help thinking as he helped his daughter unsaddle and then rub down the horses. They went up through the rose garden, arm in arm, and then laughing together into the main drawing-room.
‘Peter old boy!’ Steven came to meet him, as tall as his brother, and once he had been as lean, but good living had thickened his body while at the same time the strains of being a professional deal maker had greyed his hair at the temples and laced his moustache with silver bristles. His face was not quite a mirror image of Peter’s, slightly more fleshy and florid – but the twin resemblance was still strongly marked, and now his face was alive with pleasure
‘Thought you’d broken your bloody neck, what!’ Steven carefully cultivated the bluff manner of the country squire to shield his quick and shrewd intelligence.
Now he turned to Melissa-Jane and hugged her with barely a touch of incestuous pleasure. ‘How did Florence Nightingale go?’
‘She’s a darling, Uncle Steven. I will never be able to thank you.’<
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‘Peter, I would like you to meet a very charming lady—’
She had been talking to Patricia Stride, Steven’s wife, and now as she turned, the winter sunshine through the bay windows behind lit her with a soft romantic aura.
Peter felt as though the earth had tilted under his feet, and a fist closed around his ribs constricting his breathing and inhibiting the action of his heart.
He recognized her immediately from the photographs in the official file during the long-drawn-out kidnapping and subsequent murder of her husband. At one stage it had seemed that the kidnappers had crossed the Channel with their victim, and Thor had gone to condition Alpha for almost a week. Peter had studied the photographs that had been assembled from a dozen sources, but even the glossy coloured portraits from Vogue and Jours de France had not been able to capture the magnificence of the woman.
Surprisingly, he saw his own immediate recognition reflected. There was no change in her expression, but it flared briefly like dark-green emerald fire in her eyes. There was no question in Peter’s mind but that she had recognized him, and as he stepped towards her he realized she was tall, but the fine proportion of her body had not made that immediately apparent. Her skirt was of a fine wool crêpe which moulded the long, stately legs of a dancer.
‘Baroness, may I present my brother. General Stride.’
‘How do you do, General.’ Her English was almost perfect, a low husky voice, the slight accent very attractive, but she pronounced his rank as three distinct syllables.
‘Peter, this is Baroness Altmann.’
Her thick glossy black hair was scraped back severely from the forehead with a perfect arrowhead of widow’s peak at the centre, emphasizing the high Slavic cheekbones and the unblemished perfection of her skin – but her jawline was too square and strong for beauty, and the mouth had an arrogant determined line to it. Magnificent, but not beautiful – and Peter found himself violently attracted. The breathless wholesale feeling he had not experienced for twenty years.