Failing to find the right words for the situation Johnny turned his whisky glass in his hand and went to sit down on the sofa opposite. For the next half an hour, he listened to Butterfield’s quiet outpourings of love; how he had met Hetty Moran by chance in the gym of the Grosvenor House Hotel; how they had immediately hit it off; how her vitality had made him feel alive again; how sympathetic she had been on hearing of the death of his wife; how he wrote lengthy emails to her almost every day.
Caspers regarded Butterfield gravely throughout all this. He stroked his beard to conceal his embarrassment.
‘Well. This is a surprise. I really don’t know what to say.’
‘No … no. Well. There’s nothing to say really.’ Stephen smiled at the ineffable workings of destiny. Then he looked at Johnny in an expectant way, as if seeking approval. Johnny responded:
‘Look, that’s … mmn … splendid. You must bring her to meet us some time. We’re having a weekend party in Wiltshire in a couple of weeks to celebrate Arnold Thorpe’s Nobel laureate. Why don’t you come and bring her along? I’ll make sure you are sent an invitation with the details.’
‘Yes. Fine. Thank you. That would be lovely.’ Stephen finished his drink and got up to leave. ‘She’s going to come to Amsterdam with me and I’m taking her to Paris for a weekend too.’
Half an hour after Stephen had gone Lillian Caspers returned home from a flurry of shopping and heard the news. She put her carrier bags down on the kitchen table and fastened a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her brown eyes shone with indignation.
‘How awful,’ she said. ‘How could he? So soon. How awful. Don’t you think that’s awful, Felix?’
Her son raised a supercilious eyebrow and yawned to demonstrate his indifference. He picked up his magazine and continued to read.
Chapter Ten
When the phone rang Victor was still in bed. It was his father-in-law Lord Pankton.
‘I phoned because there’s a banker chap called Eddie Sursok. He’s funding a new wing of medieval literature at the British Library – just up your street. I mentioned that you were a specialist in the field in case anything might come up for you work-wise. There is a dinner in his honour at the library tomorrow. Would you like me to arrange for you to come along?’
Victor pretended to have flu. He mumbled his apologies from under the bedclothes.
‘Never mind, old chap,’ said Lord Pankton. ‘I’ll go along and put in a good word for you.’
The chairman of the British Library, Lord Dinwell, had been astonished but grateful to accept Eddie Sursok’s offer of donating a specialist room to the library. Sursok had never before shown any interest in the intellectual life of the country. The board decided that the new ‘Sursok’ room should house a collection of rare medieval books and manuscripts. The dinner, with Sursok as guest of honour, had been arranged by the library to coincide with the exhibition of painted glass from ancient Antioch. It was a subtle reference to Sursok’s Syrian-Palestinian background.
Guests were invited to stroll around the exhibition before being summoned up the flight of stairs to lunch. The meal was to take place on the upper level. Tables were laid within sight of the great glass-enclosed columns of the George III collection. Each table seated eight people and was laid with a fine linen tablecloth, silver cutlery, elegant glassware and magnificent sprays of white waxy flowers in silver jugs.
As Sursok mounted the escalator escorted by Lord Dinwell, he was unpleasantly surprised to see the jaunty square beard and gleaming brown hair of Johannes Caspers on the ground floor immediately below him. Caspers, drink in hand, was immersed in conversation with his son Felix. At that moment Felix Caspers looked up. There was something wild in his blue eyes. His blond hair was crinkly and his open lips were glistening and red. He nudged his father who also looked up and waved a hand at Sursok. It had not occurred to Eddie that Caspers might be invited or that Caspers himself might be a donor to the library. Sursok was even more unsettled to find that Caspers and his son were seated opposite him at the table.
Apart from the chairman, the other guests at Sursok’s table included a property developer and his wife; the TV historian, windbag and chronic show-off, Robert Sharp; Lord Pankton, octogenarian philanthropist and Dr Mahjoub, an eagle-eyed Palestinian historian.
Sursok was seated next to Lord Pankton. The ageing peer had wads of hair, huge hanks of it like frayed hemp sprouting from his balding head. He had yellowing teeth and exuded a warm aura of rotten sentimental humanity.
The kind-hearted aristocrat took it for granted that Eddie Sursok was genuinely interested in rare medieval books. In fact, Eddie Sursok hardly ever read a book, either ancient or modern. Lord Pankton turned his beneficent gaze on him trying to find common ground:
‘My son-in-law is a medieval scholar you know. Victor Skynnard. Have you heard of him?’
Sursok shook his head.
‘No. No-one ever has.’ Lord Pankton sighed. His bald dome radiated perplexity. ‘He’s a political radical so I still have to support him financially, of course. He’s started writing plays these days. He has a mentor – the actress Vera Scobie, another radical. She encourages his playwriting. All the same …’ His voice petered out and he shook his head and smiled benevolently at the antics of his son-in-law.
As soon as the other guests took their places at the table Robert Sharp the TV historian fell out with Dr Mahjoub the Palestinian historian. Sharp was unable to resist one or two pointed jabs at his rival. He held his head cockily to one side.
‘I hear the way some Palestinians got rich was by selling villages to the Israelis.’ His small mischievous eyes flickered between Dr Mahjoub and Sursok. Then, seeing Dr Mahjoub’s furious reaction he patted him on the arm and said, ‘Don’t look like that. I’d have done it myself.’
One or two people glanced over at Sursok to see if he had heard the remarks but Sursok was leaning back in his chair seemingly relaxed and smiling at his host. Lord Dinwell rose to his feet from the snowy mountain range of crested napkins around him and tapped a spoon on his glass for silence:
‘Before we eat, may I just say briefly that this dinner is in honour of Eddie Sursok. He has recently become one of our most generous benefactors. I wish to express my thanks on behalf of the British Library for his contribution to the intellectual life of the country. Will you please raise your glasses for a toast?’
Everyone except Eddie rose to their feet. Eddie remained seated. He wore his trademark collarless loose shirt which hung below his coal-black jacket. His complexion was dark yellow ochre. The shadow of a beard made his jaw look as if it were smeared with coal dust. He felt awkward at having all eyes fixed upon him. Public occasions did not suit him. However, he managed to acknowledge the compliments with an ungainly nod. He was not at all put out when Dr Mahjoub asked him: ‘How is your son Khaled these days? I met him many years ago. Is he still working for the PLO and Fatah? Or has he progressed on to Hamas?’
Eddie smiled.
‘Khaled is not my son. As it happens I saw him last night briefly. I’m not sure what he is doing now. He is Hyppolita’s son – my first wife. I don’t see her. She’s gone to ground somewhere in Surrey.’
Lord Pankton joined in the conversation, cocking his head sideways to give his good ear the advantage:
‘Oh is your son a terrorist? What a coincidence. My son-in-law is a Trotskyist. Victor Skynnard. Do you know him at all? The actress Vera Scobie is a great pal of his. She’s a radical too. She was kind enough to appear in one of his plays. A huge flop. Did you hear about it? Apparently it went down quite well in Germany. You see the Germans like all that high-minded abstract stuff. The Germans don’t mind being bored. They think it is all part of the experience. The French don’t mind being a bit bored. But the English can’t stand it.’
The dinner party had loosened its stays. Guests chatted amiably amidst a debris of crumbs, candles, half empty wine glasses and rumpled napkins. Coffee was being brought around and ser
ved to those who had ordered it. Then, in all innocence, Johannes Caspers leaned forward across the table and dropped a small bomb in Eddie Sursok’s lap:
‘Tell me Eddie, I’ve always had an interest in etymology. Does the word Palestine come from the same root as Philistine? Would it be correct to refer to you as a Philistine?’ He looked around the table laughing.
Few people noticed the extraordinary transformation that came over Eddie Sursok’s face. Those dining across the table from him could see the tiny capillaries under his skin begin to fill with blood. At first the effect on those fine blood vessels was almost imperceptible but gradually, as the engorgement increased, patches of darker red began to show unevenly under his left eye and on his right cheek. Soon four or five patches on his face became suffused with darkness. He had pushed his chair back and was staring down at his lap. The lividity spread over his features, reached full strength and began to fade again.
At that moment Felix Caspers, who had been in a sulk until then because he had forgone an evening clubbing to accompany his father, noticed the silver jug of white blossoms decorating the table and drew his father’s attention to them. Caspers leaned forward and touched a spray of the waxy flowers with genuine appreciation.
‘How beautiful. White mariposa flowers aren’t they? It’s the national flower of Cuba. Stands for the purity of ideals, rebelliousness and independence.’
Johnny Caspers smiled.
‘Poor old Cuba will be like Las Vegas before long.’ He turned to the property developer at his side.
‘Some beautiful property to be had in Havana when the time comes.’
Dr Mahjoub sipped his coffee and said with a touch of ice in his voice:
‘Yes indeed. Poor Cuba. Waiting for the iron hand of American freedom to fall on it. Whenever Americans use the word freedom what they actually mean is capitalism. It is capitalism that Americans want to spread around the world not freedom. I’d rather be in jail for the rest of my life than infected with the American idea of liberty.’
The TV historian immediately disagreed in his petulant squawky voice:
‘Oh pooh pooh. You’re caught up in this hysterical hatred of America like everyone else. We live in the age of hysteria and exaggeration. Hysteria impregnates our lives. Soap-powder ads jostle next to warfare programmes so there’s no difference in value. Everything is reduced to hysterical information to feed our hysteria. And you’ve fallen victim to it.’
The two men fell into a heated argument with the Palestinian historian’s sharp pointed beard raised as if he was about to stab his opponent with it.
Eddie Sursok’s attention was elsewhere. His chin was sunk in his chest and he was gazing ahead of him with the fixed stare of a child violinist. Eventually, he looked up and regarded Caspers with a sort of fascination. He hardly took in what was being said around him but he managed to smile and nod when guests thanked and congratulated him. People were getting to their feet. After a while he rose, stumbling a little, and left with them to look downstairs for his driver.
As Sursok was driven away there was a disturbance outside the library. Felix Caspers had been taken violently ill and was vomiting into the kerb while his father tried to hail a taxi.
Chapter Eleven
On Sundays Barbara took Dawn with her to work. As soon as they left Hector drove over to Littlestone. Mark opened the back door, his hair still damp from the shower. Without his glasses the pale circle of skin around his eyes made him look owlish and vulnerable.
‘Sorry. Come in. I’ve only just got up. We stayed up late talking after you left.’
They went into the front room. To Hector’s relief there was no sign of the other men. The shutters were still drawn and the room smelled of stale smoke. Mark switched on the light. Hector confronted Mark straight away.
‘What on earth are you doing with those people? I hate religious fundamentalism of any sort. I hate religion.’
Mark smoothed back his hair and smiled.
‘Me too. But sometimes they attack the same things that I want to attack. You can make strategic alliances for particular targets. Look at the attacks on Mumbai. It was the hugely wealthy hotels and western bankers that were targeted. It was not dissimilar to what we targeted in the seventies. Do you want tea?’
They went into the kitchen. Hector persisted:
‘Those people are nuts. What we did at least had its basis in popular support. It was some sort of search for justice or equality. Times are different now. It’s not what people here want.’
‘True. What people here want is to crawl through shopping malls like maggots through a dead sheep.’
‘If shopping makes them happy, why not? You’re out of touch.’
‘I disagree. It is exactly the right time to have more attacks on the capitalist system. It’s already rocking. A few more shoves might send it over the edge. Are you trying to say that you don’t want to help me, comrade? That’s OK but just tell me outright. I took a big risk coming back. I need to know where I stand.’
‘No. Look. I’ll always … I’ll do whatever I can. I just think you’re climbing up the wrong rope.’
Mark rinsed out two cups at the sink and continued, calmly, ‘I was hoping that you’d be involved in something I’m setting up. It is exactly the sort of thing we both believe in. Unless you’ve changed, of course. My pal Sam Jones in Australia was planning an operation in Amsterdam when he was arrested. The target is the HCB bank. That’s something you’d approve of surely. There are plenty of other comrades and brothers in Holland, not just Islamists or jihadis but non-religious radicals in Dutch universities who see the HCB bank as a legitimate target.’
Hector began to feel claustrophobic in the house.
‘Do you fancy going for a walk?’
‘Let’s go.’ Mark pulled on his leather biking jacket.
The two men walked along the coast road. Ahead of them the bay curved round in a huge sweep. The sky was blue. At the end of a spur of land the squat towers of Dungeness power station stood outlined against the long white-fleeced sky. The morning mists had lifted and the sun was shining. Mark kicked a pebble towards the beach.
‘Did you read about the explosions at the electricity sub-station in Dartford?’
Hector stopped in his tracks and looked at Mark in dismay.
‘Was that something to do with those guys? But that was idiotic. For fuck’s sake. Why?’
‘Practice.’
Hector stood still and shook his head. A family of three came towards them, their hair blowing in the breeze. The mother held the back of the saddle as her blond son wobbled by on his bicycle.
Mark waited till the family had passed.
‘So you’re no longer prepared to fight for your beliefs. You were once.’
‘There’s nothing worth fighting for just now. Times change.’
Mark spoke with cool venom:
‘Well I’d still like to see the whole system crash and burn in flames. And I’ll do what I can to bring that about. I still nurse that feeling. It’s my core. People might think of it as a tumour inside me. I don’t care. It’s grown so big that if it was taken out I would probably die anyway. Why do they think that it’s only Muslims who feel like this? Yes. I fucking hate religion too but not as much as I hate capitalism. So I don’t mind if a bunch of maniacs blow things up even if I don’t always agree with their reasons.’
Hector was taken aback by his ferocity.
‘So you agree that those guys are maniacs, then?’
‘Yes. And I don’t give a shit. Good luck to them.’
They walked on in silence until Mark calmed down. Hector challenged him:
‘We didn’t target innocent people.’
‘We kidnapped and killed.’
‘I didn’t.’ Hector suddenly stood still and looked at Mark with suspicion.
Mark stopped in turn and saw Hector looking at him.
‘Come off it, Hector. You weren’t averse to attacking people you saw as collabor
ators. You were quite proficient with guns and explosives if I remember rightly. The Alitalia offices? The Alitalia flight? Banco di Roma? They just got you on the wrong charges.’
‘Banco di Roma had a history of fascism in Ethiopia.’
‘The HCB bank has a similar history in Indonesia and Surinam. See what I mean?’
‘No-one was hurt at the Banco di Roma.’
‘Luck.’
‘Luck plays a part in every story.’ Hector was ruffled. They continued walking.
‘Oh how we used to say we would never get old and lose our passion,’ Mark mocked. ‘Well I haven’t lost mine.’ He turned to confront Hector. The sunlight made the sea sparkle behind him. His features had a certain relaxed clarity because his face was in the shade and he did not have to screw up his eyes against the sun. He put his hand on Hector’s shoulder.
‘You mentioned Khaled yesterday. Ask him. He’s Eddie Sursok’s stepson isn’t he? Ask him what Sursok and the HCB bank have been doing in various parts of the world. In fact I’d like to speak to Khaled when you can get hold of him.’
Hector said nothing. Mark stared at the ground and then said with a knowing smile, ‘Shahid was right, I suppose. He said everyone drifts to the right as they get older.’
With some anguish Hector recalled how once, in what now seemed to be another age, he had sat with Mark on the bed in their Milan flat with the stuffed Russian bear looking down at them both from the hall. The two of them made a vow. They swore an earnest oath: that they would never betray each other and that they would never give up their beliefs when they got older.
A steady wind blew in their faces. They walked on past Derek Jarman’s tarred plank cottage with its bright yellow-painted window frames. Hector remained silent. Finally he spoke:
‘Those guys hate unbelievers. They’ll shaft you.’
‘Sam Jones was a convert and I have the information and contacts they need. There are more British white guys than you might think who have converted. I’m not one but I’m indispensable to them at the moment. I can follow the target, for instance, without looking suspicious.’
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