He looked at his watch. Seven fifty-seven. Three minutes to go.
This was the time he hated, the long minutes hardly daring to breathe, waiting for Vardas to appear, worrying in case the signal he was responding to was a set-up because Vardas had been caught by the AVH. Suddenly armed men would emerge from the bushes and he’d be sitting there, his hands above his head, knowing it was all over. Either that, or Vardas was watching him from his hiding place off the road – always different, always impossible to detect – waiting until he was sure he had not been followed, that his car was empty, once more displaying the formidable caution that had kept him alive for so long.
The car door opened quietly and a familiar face smiled at him. Vardas had never once failed to keep an appointment. He looked at his watch. Eight o’clock exactly.
‘My friend.’
They’d got away with it once more. Fleetingly he asked himself, how much longer can this last? Then his sense of self-preservation took over and the moment for introspection was gone. Martineau drove on up the hill in silence, and turned down the deserted and unkempt drive of an unoccupied villa which was slowly falling to pieces. (This was the city in microcosm, Martineau thought. Couldn’t the regime see what they were destroying? Or didn’t they care?) He came to a halt out of sight of the road under some trees. For a moment they sat in silence, straining for the sounds of other vehicles coming up the hill.
‘I am glad to see you.’ Vardas was nervous. He hadn’t seen him like this before. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I would give you a precise answer if I were able to,’ Vardas said in his careful English. Martineau had always wanted to know who had taught him the language, but had never liked to ask. ‘There are too many signs of unusual activity to be ignored but there are few facts at present. However, I have not got you away from your ambassador’s birthday celebration on a wild-goose chase. General Abrasimov has arrived in Budapest and that has only one possible interpretation.’
‘Who’s Abrasimov?’ Martineau asked. ‘He’s a new one on me.’
Not a lot was known about him, Vardas said. He was a tank commander who had been seconded to the Kremlin two or three years before to work on ‘counter-revolution strategy’, what to do when the occupying power needs to suppress the locals. He’d caught the approving eye of his superiors some years before when he’d been involved in the brutal suppression of a student revolt in Vilnius. He was now one of a younger group of generals who were being groomed for power. If the reactions to his arrival Vardas had witnessed were anything to go by, his presence meant that the Soviets were preparing for the worst.
‘He’s here to keep the Soviet lid on the country tightly nailed down, I take it?’
Vardas nodded gravely. ‘Marxism tells us that every uprising is a counter-revolution organized by the agents of fascist imperialism who must be taught a lesson. In the communist handbook, a lesson is brutal repression of the guilty followed by even more brutal reprisals against the innocent pour encourager les autres.’
‘Is Abrasimov’s presence a precautionary measure, or should we read more into it?’ Martineau asked.
‘His arrival is a signal that Moscow’s patience is running out,’ Vardas said. ‘If there is a rebellion, Abrasimov guarantees that we are in no doubt about the nature of the Soviet response.’
‘Would he order Soviet troops into the city if there was some kind of uprising?’
‘He will not give the order himself. That must come from the Politburo. But he is the Kremlin’s man. What he recommends will not lightly be ignored.’
Vardas spoke quietly and unemotionally but what he said had the force of an explosion. In his imagination Martineau conjured up horrific images of the familiar streets of Budapest laid waste by Soviet tanks, littered with the bodies of the dead and dying, torn fragments of the Hungarian flag clenched in their hands. He shivered despite the heat of the evening.
‘What are the odds on an uprising now?’
‘I am not a betting man, my friend. Officially, of course, none whatsoever. Our Government maintains the fiction that everything is under control and messages to that effect are sent regularly to the Kremlin, wrapped up in the usual fraternal greetings. Abrasimov’s presence in Budapest shows these messages are not believed. Both we and the Soviets know that it only needs one event, one small incident, perhaps of no significance in itself, to light the fire.’
The Opera House, Martineau wanted to say, but nothing had happened since. How strange this country was, a fire waiting to be lit, but the obvious firelighters didn’t appear to work. The incident that did finally set the place alight would probably be something quite unexpected.
‘The Soviets are terrified that public anger could lead to the sudden defeat of the government they control. That is a situation they cannot contemplate. A small state defying a world power, even for a day, sends out an unacceptable message. Hence Abrasimov. I have no doubt that when the moment comes his orders will be to extinguish the fire with all the means at his command.’
‘He sounds a nasty piece of work.’
For a moment Vardas looked at him as if he didn’t understand what Martineau had said, and Martineau cursed his thoughtlessness. English understatement didn’t travel. When he smiled it was to show comprehension, not amusement. ‘He is a man greatly to be feared. He has a nickname. He’s known as the knifeman.’
‘Why is that?’
‘There are stories that he likes to cut the throats of his enemies himself.’
*
They talked quietly in the dark for an hour about other evidence of the growing Soviet response to the possibility of an insurrection. With a map on his knee, Vardas showed Martineau how quickly the 6th and 126th armoured divisions could be dispersed around the country.
‘It is a significant military force, highly mobile. They have many tank transporters. The loyalty of the troops may be suspect but their commanders will terrorize them into action.’
‘What can you put up against a force like that?’
‘A few students and workers with rifles, Molotov cocktails. Militarily, nothing. Any planner would tell you the battle is lost before it is begun. Such a judgement ignores our sense of ourselves as a nation, our patriotism, our refusal to accept what we believe to be wrong. The people here yearn for freedom. That is a powerful emotion. A small incident could ignite a fire that might spread quickly across the country. Thousands of citizens will come out in the street, of that I am certain, with the flag of Hungary in their hands. They will demand their freedom, the restoration of democracy, the right to self-determination.’
When he’d first heard the argument soon after his arrival in Budapest, Martineau had dismissed it as hopeless romanticism. As he came to know the proud Magyar nation, his response had become one of admiration, even envy that such deep nationalistic feelings could still exist after so many decades of servitude to one regime or another. If a sense of patriotism could survive that kind of history, then one day it must triumph.
Vardas looked at Martineau, his eyes shining in the gloom. ‘Perhaps the desperate sound of our voices will travel outside our country and someone will hear us. That is the gamble our people will have to take.’
‘Isn’t that a risk?’ Martineau asked, wondering how far he could go. ‘Can you be sure the world will listen?’
‘Would you betray those who are prepared to die for ideals you share?’
It was still light outside and getting hotter. Though the car windows were open Martineau felt oppressed. Idealism was flourishing in Hungary because the political situation was so extreme. How do you convey that message to the West, where the same pressures did not apply? Where other crises, other policies, called for your attention? This man had no knowledge of that kind of indifference. He had a simple faith that those who believed as you did would come to your aid in time of need.
‘Is this the endgame?’ Martineau asked.
‘I fear
it is the beginning of the final chapter, yes. How long that chapter will last I cannot say. But I have an unhappy feeling that I know what the ending will be.’
He touched Martineau’s hand. ‘Thank you, my friend, for your faith in me. I trust I have repaid it.’
Then, as silently as he had appeared, he was gone.
*
In the last twenty-four hours [Martineau wrote] we have learned that General A. Abrasimov has arrived on special assignment from the Kremlin. With this information, together with the build-up of Soviet armoured divisions currently on manoeuvres on the north-eastern border of the country, we can assume that the Soviets are preparing for a resolution of the present uncertainty. Tensions continue to rise in the capital.
Moscow’s action in sending Abrasimov here signifies a change of tactic. It is reasonable to suppose that the Kremlin expects an uprising and that, when the moment comes, their hard man on the spot will be authorized to use all the powers at his disposal to suppress it rapidly and if necessary brutally.
Moscow now appears to be on the rack in Hungary. We need urgently to consider what opportunities this situation presents us with in the West. How could we support the Hungarians in their struggle for freedom? Are fine words enough? Would we be prepared to stand by and watch the innocent slaughtered for proclaiming beliefs we share with them? Could the reputation of the West survive the silent accusation of the slaughter of thousands of innocent men and women on the streets of the cities? These searching questions are being asked by this brave people, and they demand a response. Not to give one would be seen clearly as a betrayal of the very principles we proclaim. We cannot let them go unanswered.
2
Without warning, Martineau had descended on him with the instruction that he was to escort Christine to the ambassador’s birthday dinner. Surely there were others more suitable? He was new to the embassy and very junior compared to those he imagined would be the ambassador’s guests. By the time he was ready to voice his concerns, Martineau had vanished.
‘Bad luck, Hugh,’ Christine Martineau said, taking his arm. ‘You’ve drawn the short straw.’
At dinner he was placed at one end of the long table, with Christine next to him. During the first course she was actively engaged in conversation with her neighbour. He didn’t know the couple sitting opposite him, and they showed little interest. He gave his cold beetroot soup more attention than it deserved and wished he was somewhere else.
Perhaps Christine would say something that might help him understand Martineau. Then he might be able to get closer to him, eliminate the distance he found so irritating, say the things he wanted to say. There was a mystery about him: Carswell had hinted as much when they’d had lunch in London. Martineau had suffered as a result of his involvement with Peter the Great; whether through his own fault or that of others, he wasn’t sure. Unquestionably, his career had been blighted. Perhaps the wound had gone deeper; perhaps his nerve had gone, something broken inside. That could be the reason why he found it hard to trust anyone.
‘I’ve been shamefully neglecting you,’ Christine said, leaning towards him. ‘I hope you will forgive me.’
He noticed she had her own bottle of vodka which had been waiting by her place before they sat down. She had refilled her glass twice before they’d finished their soup. The waiter must have had instructions because he made no attempt to give her wine.
‘Bobby treating you all right?’
‘Yes,’ he answered helplessly, attempting to hide his confusion at her unexpected question. Had Martineau told her about their quarrel outside the Opera House?
‘Well, don’t be taken in. He can be a real bastard when he wants to be.’ She looked suddenly anxious. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk about your boss like that, should I? How can you know him, you’ve only been here a few weeks. I’m married to him, that’s the difference, so I should know him better than anyone, shouldn’t I?’
She was interrupted by a call for the ambassador’s health to be drunk. Glasses were raised, Archie’s name intoned and conversation resumed.
‘Where was I?’
‘You were telling me about your husband,’ he replied carefully.
‘You aren’t taking his side already, are you?’ Christine laughed. ‘I may have to ask Archie to sit me next to someone else.’
‘I’m on no one’s side, Mrs Martineau. I’m the new boy.’
‘You must call me Christine. Will you promise to do that?’
‘If that’s what you wish.’
‘Is everything all right, dear?’ Rachel Randall, on a mid-dinner round of inspection, was leaning over his shoulder. ‘We’re not boring you to death, are we, Hugh?’
‘Of course not, Mrs Randall. I’m delighted to be here. Wonderful evening.’
‘Enjoy Christine while you have her. I shall be making all the men change places in a moment.’
‘Does it shock you that I can talk about Bobby like that when I’ve never met you before?’
The trick, he was learning, was to say nothing. She always answered her own questions.
‘That’s what makes it so easy, the fact that I don’t know you. Bobby’s a great charmer. Don’t be deceived. I fell for it once. I wanted you to know there’s another side to him. He’s not all sweetness and light.’
He was moved after that, placed next to Rachel Randall, who insisted on telling him how impossible it was to get the Hungarian domestics to do things properly in the embassy.
‘I put it all down to this awful communism, dear. It takes away their initiative. They’re quite unable to do anything unless Marx says they can, and it seems that he never got round to saying that cleaning the silver was good for the soul, if communists have souls. Do communists have souls? What do you think? I know they don’t believe in God.’
‘Perhaps the problem is they aren’t used to cleaning silver.’
She talked to him about Budapest, all the time with half an eye on her husband and their guests. Was he enjoying living abroad? Wasn’t Bobby Martineau fun? She’d always had a soft spot for him, he was so amusing, what a shame he wasn’t here this evening. She and Christine went back a long way, had Christine told him that? They’d been at school together, donkey’s years ago, who’d have imagined they’d end up married to men in the diplomatic and stationed in this out-of-the-way place. Wasn’t life strange? You never knew what was around the next corner, did you?
He learned little that was new during the evening. The enigma of Martineau remained, neither exploded nor unravelled. The man was popular, had charm, was married, possibly unhappily (if you believed Christine and the wreck of the vodka bottle, though he wasn’t sure he did) and that was about it. He was no further forward.
It was well after midnight when Christine came up to him, glass in hand, and said: ‘I think it’s time you took me home.’
He was given the keys to one of the embassy cars (‘Bring it back in one piece, old boy, won’t you? It’s impossible to get spares in this hole’) and he drove a silent Christine over the Szecheny Bridge, past Moscow Square and out towards the Buda hills.
‘Won’t you come in?’
‘It’s late. I should be getting back.’
‘Come and have a drink. I promise I won’t tell Bobby you stayed out late.’ More laughter, more mockery. ‘I’m not going to eat you.’
The apartment was on the first floor of a two-storey building. They sat on a veranda overlooking the garden. A few lights twinkled on the hills in front of them. In the moonlight, he turned towards Christine Martineau and saw that she was crying.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m so sorry. Take no notice. I’ll be fine in a moment.’
‘Why don’t you tell me what makes you unhappy?’ he asked, finding courage from nowhere.
‘Can you stay all night, and tomorrow too?’
‘It can’t be as bad as that,’ he said.
A light wind had sprung up from somewhere, cooling the night air, making it bea
rable. It was some time before Christine broke the silence.
‘Don’t judge him too harshly by what you see now,’ she said slowly. ‘Something went badly wrong in Moscow. God knows what, he never talks about his work. But Moscow changed him, he lost his belief in himself and he’s never been the same since. We were recalled to London eventually but the damage had been done by then. There was some kind of inquisition. Bobby said his department had become very political and he’d fallen foul of someone more powerful than he was, something to do with jealousy over work he’d done in Moscow. He seemed to give in, to accept that what he’d dreamed of was never going to be within his reach. We were exiled to Rio. It was an unbearable time, a prison sentence. He was miserable, impossible. I don’t think Bobby’s ever truly recovered from what happened in Moscow.’
She was telling him more about herself than her husband. He saw in the darkness the chasm of loneliness into which her life had fallen, the years of postings to distant places, having to live within the narrow limits of embassy society where, surely, everyone had known about Bobby’s difficulties. For the first time he felt sorry for her.
They sat in silence. A solitary car drove by, its headlights illuminating a corner of the garden for a moment. Then darkness once more.
‘It’s time you went home,’ she said, standing up. ‘You’ve had a rotten evening. I’m sorry about that. I’ll try to be jollier next time. But thank you for keeping me company. I’m glad you came.’
Secret Kingdom Page 16