He produced a carrier bag containing some apples, a meat pie, a packet of biscuits and a bottle of lemonade. Probing even more deeply beneath the traveller’s debris, he emerged with a pair of low-heeled women’s shoes which fitted him nicely and an orange windcheater which was far too big.
Caroline felt herself alarmed. So far all they had done was use a little petrol. Even people with dangling dolls and nodding Alsatians had rights.
‘You’re not going to steal that stuff?’ she said.
‘No,’ said Hazlitt. ‘Purchase. Money, please.’
‘You’re being very free with my cash,’ she said, but handed over her purse.
‘Let me see,’ said Hazlitt. ‘Apples, say tenpence. Biscuits the same. One cellophane-wrapped pie—they should pay us to eat such things—but say fivepence. And for the lemonade. Shoes, two pound? Say two-fifty. Windcheater three-fifty. That makes a grand total of six-thirty, call it seven. There we are. Better leave the key in the ignition. Hope no one steals it. Or finds it, for that matter. We may need it again later.’
He clambered out of the car, resplendent in his new gear.
‘Fit? Then let’s go.’
‘Go where?’ demanded Caroline, wondering for the first time why people should want to park their cars in such an unlikely spot. There was little evidence of human habitation nearby.
Hazlitt pointed to a sign with an arrow pointing in the direction of the sea. It read SKARA BRAE.
‘What is Skara Brae?’ asked Caroline, following Hazlitt along a springy turf path.
‘A neolithic village,’ explained Hazlitt. ‘Just the place for an American scholar and an English administrator to have a tête-à-tête.’
They arrived at the shore, pausing by an old building on the edge of the grass-matted sand-dunes. An attempt had been made to shore it up against the ravages of the tide, but it looked as if it were probably too late. About a furlong away they could see a mound which seemed to house the remains of the prehistoric village. Some people were standing on top of it peering down into the ground. A man in a shiny peaked cap was talking and pointing.
‘Let’s sit here for a while,’ suggested Hazlitt. ‘You can have a look at the remains later.’
Despite everything he’s not going to miss a chance to drag me round some more antiquities! thought Caroline wonderingly. Her friendship with Hazlitt seemed to have developed in, among, or upon a series of ruined abbeys, tumbledown castles and shabby stately homes.
‘You first,’ said Hazlitt, making himself comfortable on a large grey stone and taking a bite out of an apple.
Caroline told her story swiftly and with little interruption.
‘You hit Tommy Poulson?’ said Hazlitt at one point.
‘Well, yes, I don’t suppose he’d have tried to stop me running away, but I didn’t want to make any trouble for him. So I made it look good by hitting him, you follow?’
Apart from this, Hazlitt let her reach the end of her narrative without comment and Caroline was a little piqued at the lack of ‘Oohs!’ and ‘Ahs!’ of amazement at her courage and ingenuity. Listening to her own story as she talked, it sounded pretty good.
‘Your turn,’ she said now. ‘And, remember, the truth!’
‘I told the trio it was the Young Conservatives,’ said Hazlitt slowly, ‘but it all really began, I suppose, in the Army.’
‘The Army?’ said Caroline. ‘My God. You mean Sholto and Tarquin were right? You did fight in the war?’
Quickly she tried to work out how old this meant Hazlitt must really be.
‘No!’ he said long-sufferingly. ‘National Service. I did two years in the early fifties. I was in the RAF. They taught me all about radar and I spent most of my time in West Berlin, before the Wall, of course. It was a curious thing, National Service. For most people the only way to survive the boredom, the debasement and the homesickness was through some excess or other. Drunkenness was the popular favourite. And a lot of people got religion, for instance. Me, I got communism. We had an enthusiast on the station. He introduced me to some locals. Nice people, they made me feel at home. It gave me somewhere to go at weekends, real houses with home comforts, that sort of thing. After a year I was quite happy to tell them anything they asked about my work. Christ, it was so completely unimportant! I was a radar technician, what did I know? I’d had to sign the Official Secrets Act, but that didn’t mean much more to me than having my religion officially registered as C of E.’
‘What?’ said Caroline.
‘Church of England,’ said Hazlitt. ‘You were either that or Roman Catholic. Well, nothing happened really. I spent two years rather more pleasantly than I would have done otherwise, then returned home and went up to university. Oxford.’
‘You mean there are others?’ mocked Caroline.
‘Try not to be frivolous. I was still a communist, you understand. It seemed a rather clever thing to be and there were lots of other rather clever young men who all clearly felt the same. But Oxford offered opportunities for other things than working for the cause. And privately I was losing a bit of enthusiasm when I was invited to meet someone rather important in the party. The Man. That’s how I thought of him. He had no name. He was a big man, almost bald, with piercing grey eyes. Very impressive. We sat and talked for a long time. I was on my best dialectic behaviour, of course. He seemed particularly impressed by my willingness to pass on the non-secret secrets of my military experience.
‘Well, nothing happened for a few weeks, then I was sent for again. This time it was suggested to me that in the present climate of witch-hunting which surrounded party membership—the backwash of McCarthyism was still being felt at that time—it might be useful if some younger members who seemed likely to achieve high success in their careers should seem publicly to have left the party.’
‘My God !’ said Caroline. ‘You mean they wanted you to become a “sleeper”?’
‘I see you have the terminology off pat,’ said Hazlitt. ‘I was a little more naive in those days. Yes, really. I mean, I didn’t think in terms of spies or subversive activity, that kind of thing. I was flattered by the implication that one day I would be in a position of influence, and it seemed sensible to conceal anything which might affect my chances. So I left the party. It was fairly easy to do. A gradual break, confirmed when Hungary happened a couple of years later and people were dropping out like apples in autumn. I set about being a young lad about Oxford, having a good time. I did it very well. So bloody well, in fact, that at the end of the three years I was quite obviously far too frivolous for the Diplomatic Service and failed miserably by both exam and interview. Then I got a real taste of what I had let myself in for. I met the Man again. He was furious. I was far too nervous of him to tell him that I reckoned that spiritually I had really left the party. But I managed to declare that I couldn’t see myself in the Foreign Office, still less in politics, and that I was considering trying university administration.
‘Well, we parted amicably and I began my long and distinguished career. It’s absurd, but I never imagined they could really see me as a potential Burgess or Maclean. It didn’t begin to dawn on me until ’sixty-three and Philby. Then suddenly for the first time I realised how narrowly I’d missed the same kind of demands being made on me ! And I complimented myself on having entered a sphere of work totally uninteresting from the Man’s point of view. I know it would have been better to make a clean break even then, but that required more nerve than I possessed. All that seemed necessary was to lead the life of an apolitical gourmet, so I thought whatthehell ! I mean, I was an apolitical gourmet! The trouble was, I got interested in my work and started to do well. And the real trouble started after I did that stint in Balowa eighteen months ago. I did a good job and got on well with the people I met from all walks of life. Among them was Colonel Oto, whom I’d met a couple of times in Oxford in the fifties when he too had seemed to be an apolitical gourmet. He didn’t seem all that much different as an army colonel, not till they had
their little bit of bother last December and he emerged as top man.’
‘Are you going to eat all those apples or can I have one?’ asked Caroline.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Hazlitt, passing the bag.
‘Spare me the phoney apologies and make the story,’ said Caroline.
‘Well, they wanted me back at Balowa University this year, as you know. Everything had quietened down and I was happy to go. In fact I felt quite pleased at being specially invited by the president. Then I got the call.’
‘The call?’
‘Yes. I had to go and see the Man again. I’d no idea what it was about, but I went. Why not?’
‘You must have been mad!’
‘Perhaps. We talked. I prevaricated a bit. Not all that much. It’s remarkable how easy it is to have good communist principles in the comfort of an English University! The crunch came, as I thought, after a couple of hours. Would I be willing to do the party a small service in Balowa. What? I asked. Just pass a message. No danger, no complications. A once only thing.’
‘And you refused,’ said Caroline.
‘Oh no. I agreed! Why not. It seemed a little enough thing to keep them happy. And I couldn’t really believe that these little espionage routines either helped or hindered anyone.’
‘You say you used to be naive!’ said Caroline. ‘If you’d have been a girl, you’d have got laid first time out!’
‘I know nothing of such things,’ said Hazlitt primly. ‘All I wanted was a quiet life. No trouble. I was thinking of settling down. Or was that naive too?’
‘Depends what you had in mind,’ said Caroline casually, the apple sticking in her throat. He ignored her invitation and went on.
‘No, the real trouble started when I found out what they really wanted me to do.’
‘Not just pass a message? I thought not. What then?’
‘Assassinate Oto.’
‘Jesus!’ said Caroline, swallowing half the apple at one go. ‘You’re putting me on!’
‘Afraid not. Of course, I demurred. They thought I was just concerned for my safety, assured me that there would be very little danger. They didn’t want me to shoot Oto or blow him up, nothing like that. No. All they wanted me to do was poison him. They had some stuff extracted from a cassava fruit, whatever that is. Kills with all the symptoms of alcoholic poisoning—Oto’s a pretty hard drinker. It’s incredible, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve said it! My God, Bill, what did you do?’
‘What would you have done?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s see. I’d have got in touch with CIA or something. What’s the English equivalent?’
‘MI something. Well, I didn’t need to. I told the Man I’d need time to think, and British Intelligence got in touch with me. I had to laugh, really. They knew everything about me, right from my days in Berlin! Some “sleeper”! My cradle had been carefully watched over by just about everyone in the game, it seemed.’
‘And that was when they recruited you,’ said Caroline, nodding as the pieces began to fall into place.
‘When they what?’ He sounded surprised.
‘You don’t have to act coy,’ said Caroline. ‘Campbell told me on the boat, remember? Or didn’t I mention that bit?’
‘Told you what?’
‘That you were working for British Intelligence. Look, why don’t I just head back to Stromness, pick up Campbell and bring him back here? With him around, you’d be safe enough, surely.’
Hazlitt began to laugh. While it was pleasant to see him regain a little of his old jollity, Caroline was not altogether happy about the laugh.
‘You mean Campbell doesn’t work for British Intelligence?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘Oh yes. He certainly does that.’
‘And didn’t they want to recruit you?’
‘They certainly did. And still do, I believe.’
‘Well then.’
‘I don’t want to be recruited. I don’t fancy it one little bit. Not for me; no, it’s not for me.’
‘For Godsake!’ snapped Caroline. ‘You left it a bit late to jump on your moral high horse, didn’t you? Okay, so you don’t want to go around assassinating people for the Reds. But helping one of your own government’s agencies doesn’t exactly make you a fascist reactionary pig, does it?’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Hazlitt. ‘The only thing is, they wanted me to kill Oto as well.’
12
The people visiting the ruins had finished now and were moving back towards the road.
‘Fancy a look?’ said Hazlitt, rising and pulling Caroline to her feet.
They walked along the stony beach hand in hand. Overhead the sky was blue, and the shore and the sea were bathed in a light of such clarity that it seemed to enter into and inform all that it touched.
‘Poor old Oto!’ said Caroline. ‘Doesn’t anyone like him?’
‘Only me,’ said Hazlitt. ‘And quite a lot of Africans. But they don’t count, of course. Once again I demurred. It was pointed out to me firmly but politely that if they wanted, they could see me put away for a couple of years.’
‘Framing seems to be their speciality!’
‘Well, I did break the Official Secrets Act twenty years ago,’ said Hazlitt. ‘They pressed me hard, wanted information—I had very little—and names.’
He paused. Caroline glanced at his normally cherubic face and thought how haggard he was looking.
‘You had names?’
‘A couple. Contacts had to he made. I’d kept my eyes open, put two and two together.’
He fell silent again.
‘So you gave the names?’
‘Well, no. No, I didn’t feel able to. They’d done me no harm. I could see no reason why …’
The light on the sea and land seemed to enter Caroline’s mind.
‘It’s someone you know! Someone at the university?’
He released her hand.
‘Listen, Caroline, I can’t talk about it. In fact, I’ve talked too much. I don’t want you to get involved.’
‘You’re a bit late, aren’t you?’ she mocked.
‘Perhaps. But at least no one’s trying to get rid of you permanently! I told both lots that I wasn’t playing ball, you see. And got an ultimatum from both. That was bad enough, but worse was that the party found out that the intelligence lot were on to me.’
‘Why was that worse?’
Hazlitt laughed.
‘If British Intelligence don’t trust me, they just put me in jail. But if the party want rid of me, they’ve got to be more final! No one was sure which way I would jump. I wanted a breathing space, so I dug out my old camping gear, topped up with stuff from Enoch Arden’s and set out for Skye. Untraceable, I thought! And that’s the story of my life.’
‘Oh, Bill, what are we going to do?’
He was touched by the we and took her hand again. But there was no hint of a long-term solution in his mind. The immediate problem loomed too large. Safety for Caroline—and for himself, survival.
‘We are going to look at Skara Brae,’ said Hazlitt.
To her surprise, Caroline found herself enjoying the next half-hour. She was sure they ought to be doing something else and at first paid little attention to the custodian’s description of the village, which consisted of the remains of seven huts connected by narrow alleyways. No roofs remained and as the huts were buried to the tops of their walls in what turned out to be a stone-age midden heap, it was possible to walk around well above living level and peer down.
In several of the huts there was an erection of stones—three uprights topped by a slab on which the same arrangement was repeated—which she took to have some unfathomable religious significance, rather like Stonehenge. It wasn’t until their guide referred to it as a ‘dresser’ that she realised that the four recesses formed by the structure were in fact cupboards. In here some neolithic housewife had kept her cooking utensils alongside her husband’s more warlike instruments. This simple domesti
c fact brought the place alive for her and after the custodian had finished his patter and retired, she and Hazlitt stood peering down through the glass roof which had been put over the most perfectly preserved of the huts.
‘An uncomplicated kind of life,’ she said, almost enviously.
‘Up to a point. They had their troubles too. Remember, they were driven out of here by a sandstorm and they never came back. We at least can go back.’
‘I hope so,’ said Caroline.
They left the site and strolled along the beach till the horn of the bay hid them from any subsequent visitors.
‘We’re being very casual,’ said Caroline suddenly. ‘What’s the plan?’
Hazlitt took off his glasses and mopped his forehead with the nine inches of pyjama sleeve which persisted in slipping down over his hands. Far from being casual, his mind had been working furiously for the past hour to arrive at the best course of action.
‘Here’s what I think,’ he said in his best Vice-Chancellor’s committee voice. ‘We’ve got to get back to the mainland somehow. That means either the ferry from Stromness or a plane from Kirkwall. I know nothing about the air services, but the ferry leaves about nine o’clock in the morning. Obviously it’ll be watched …’
‘You mean the police?’ interrupted Caroline.
‘For you, the police. I’m not a wanted criminal, am I? But there’ll be others looking for me. Now, I don’t expect they’ll be on the alert till the ferry starts being loaded. If we get to the pier in the early hours of the morning it shouldn’t be difficult to slip aboard and hide until the other passengers start arriving.’
Caroline was dubious.
‘How do we get back to Stromness?’ she asked.
‘We hang around here till it’s dark,’ said Hazlitt. ‘Then I check whether the Cortina’s been spotted and removed. If not, we drive gently to the outskirts of Stromness and abandon it once more.’
‘And if it has been found?’
‘Then we walk. It’s only seven or eight miles. A couple of hours on a fine night.’
‘I thought you might say that,’ said Caroline bitterly. ‘Why the hell couldn’t you have gone into hiding somewhere nice like San Francisco. Nobody walks in San Francisco.’
Death Takes the Low Road Page 12