The High Commissioner

by Jon Cleary

  “I don’t think so.” Quentin would resign before they sacked him. He turned the conversation. “If he does go back – for good, I mean, will you stay on here?”

  She picked up her fork again, began to eat without relish. She had worked long enough in government to recognise censorship: Malone was going to tell her nothing. “Stay at Australia House or stay in London? I don’t think I’d want to work for any other High Commissioner, not after him. I might go back to Australia for a visit, see my parents. Why?”

  “They’re in Melbourne, aren’t they? Would you come to Sydney?”

  “Why Sydney? I thought you worked in Canberra.”

  He was getting careless. “We have a branch office in Sydney. I work out of there most of the time.”

  “Somehow I can’t see you as a spy.”

  “I’m not a spy. I’m a security agent.” He was fluent again.

  “It’s the same thing. You have to be deceitful to be successful at it. And you don’t seem the deceitful sort.”

  “Only professionally,” he said, and hoped it was true.

  “I was deceived once,” she said, remembering the physics lecturer. “I shouldn’t want it to happen again.”

  He hoped she would understand when he explained to her why he had deceived her. He might even have to call Quentin as a witness for the defence.

  “There’s the reception to-morrow night at Lancaster House,” she said. “Can we be partners again? If you’re going Saturday—”

  “I was going to ask you.”

  “I got in early.” She smiled. “How’s your Osso Bucco?”

  “Great” His taste had suddenly come back. He grinned at her, picked up the bone and began to chew the meat from it. “I saw them do this in some Italian film. It’s the sensible way.”

  “To hell with decorum.” She laughed and picked up the bone from her own plate. They were munching on the meat slobbering gravy down their chins, grinning with pleasure at each other, selfish in their forgetfulness of everyone but themselves, when they heard the front door open. Lisa put down her bone, wiped her chin and looked over her shoulder at the door that led into the hall. “Is that you, Joseph?”

  The butler, in dark suit, his Homburg held in his hand, came to the door. His professional eye automatically checked the table; he pursed his lips when he saw the wine bottle without a napkin wrapped round it. He would speak to the cook in the morning. “You wanted something, miss?”

  Lisa shook her head. “No, it’s all right, Joseph. Have a nice afternoon?”

  “Yes, thank you.” It had been one of the worst afternoons of his life; nothing in Budapest had been worse. “Good night, miss. Good night, sir.”

  Joseph withdrew and they heard him going down the lower stairs that led to his room in the basement. Lisa picked up her bone again, but Malone said, “What was the matter with him, I wonder?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He looked ill. Or anyway unhappy.”

  “Hungarians always look like that underneath. I’ve never believed all that propaganda about their being so gay and happy. They’re not all Zsa Zsa Gabors.” She looked at him soberly over the gravy-dripping bone. “He might have personal problems, too. Butlers do, I suppose.”

  Chapter Ten

  Joseph stood for a moment at the top of the stairs that led up from the basement. Below him he could hear the cook complaining to the daily charwoman about cooking breakfasts for people who did not eat them; she was tossing pots and pans about in tinny chords of protest. In the hall Quentin, hat in one hand, brief-case in the other, was saying good-bye to Sheila. Both of them looked tired and worried; Quentin leaned forward and kissed his wife comfortingly on the cheek. Sheila raised both hands and seemed to clutch at him through the shoulders of his jacket; she said something and Quentin shook his head sadly. Joseph stood studying them and for the first time since they had come to this house he began to have some feeling for them. It had been part of his training that he should never become involved with people and up till now he had avoided any traps. He had even avoided marriage, though once or twice he had been tempted: he was not incapable of love. He felt no love for the couple standing at the end of the hall, but he felt sympathy. And that was the beginning of involvement

  Then the front-door-bell rang and he walked along past the Quentins and opened the door. Larter stood there; the Rolls was at the kerb. “Coming,” said Quentin, and looked up at Malone as the latter came down the stairs. “You’d better cash that cheque today. There may not be time to-morrow.”

  Malone nodded reluctandy. “This reception to-night, sir – what’s the drees?”

  “I’ve already told Joseph to lay out my extra tails for you. I’m afraid it’s full dress again. Decorations if you have any.”

  Malone grinned, but his joking was an effort this morning. “I have my Bondi surf club’s bronze medal.”

  “I’d wear it, Mr. Malone,” said Sheila. “It means as much as some of the other decorations you’ll see to-night.”

  Joseph was aware of some sort of atmosphere between the Quentins and Malone; you could not live in other people’s houses and remain insensitive to currents in relationships. Quentin kissed his wife again, then led Malone out of the house. Joseph closed the front door and turned back as Sheila spoke to him. “Joseph, would you bring up the three large suitcases from the store-room?”

  He hid his surprise. “You’re going away, madame?”

  He noticed her hesitation, as if she hadn’t quite decided what to tell him. “Just a short holiday. My husband needs a rest.”

  “He does look tired. And you, too, madame. When will you be leaving?”

  “To-morrow, if the conference finishes.”

  “I thought it Was to finish today?”

  “There’s an extra session planned for to-morrow morning.” She began to move up the stairs. He had always admired her because she was a beautiful woman and he had a Hungarian’s eye for beautiful women; but this morning she looked old and almost ugly. “Bring the cases up to my room.”

  Joseph went down to the basement and through the kitchen. The Cockney charwoman and the Spanish housemaid were sitting at the table having a cup of tea; they gave him a cool look as he went by, dismissing him as a snob. The cook, a middle-aged woman with goitre-affected eyes and a low boiling point of injustice, was still clashing pots and pans; she hurled them into the sink, splashing water over Joseph as he passed. A transistor radio was turned up full blast as another protest: Radio Caroline warned fishermen to look out for squalls. Joseph went on into the store-room, glad that he would not have to put up with the cook much longer.

  He put two suitcases in his own room, then took three large ones upstairs. He knocked on the door of the Quentins’ bedroom and Sheila opened it; he was shocked to see that she had been weeping, but he said nothing. She had obviously tried to hide her tears, but he had seen enough women weeping to recognise the signs: Budapest had been full of sorrowing women in 1956. He went past Sheila into the room, set down the suitcases and returned to the doorway. “Will that be all, madame?”

  “The clock, Joseph – when will it be fixed?”

  “I am to pick it up today.”

  “It’s getting old and it wasn’t expensive to begin with. Perhaps I should get a new one.” Then she shook her head, as if she had decided there was no sense in what she had said.

  “I shouldn’t do that, madame,” Joseph said, and tried not to sound too emphatic. “The watchmaker thought it a very good clock. It was just a minor fault.”

  Sheila nodded carelessly, as if the clock no longer interested her. Joseph stuthed her for a moment, then closed the door and went back downstairs and down to the basement. He went through the kitchen, ignoring the three women still there, and into his own room. He locked the door and sat down on the bed and took the cheque from his pocket. It wasn’t riches, but it was a good price for murder. Especially when the alternative was a sort of bankruptcy.

  He hadn’t quite
believed it when the small Oriental man had come up beside him yesterday in Knightsbridge and said, “Would you come with me, sir? I have a gun in my pocket—”

  He had looked down and seen that the man had one hand in the pocket of his cheap, ill-fitting jacket. It was incredible that people could be shot in Brompton Road in broad daylight but England could no longer be relied upon. Decorations for pop singers and ducal castles turned into circuses: murder outside Harrods was consistent with such a new way of life. If the Russians would only be patient the West would defeat itself. . . . “Where are we going?”

  A taxi drew up beside them and Harrods’ commissionaire held open the door for them. My God, Joseph thought, even Harrods are in the conspiracy! “Where to, sir?”

  “Avenue Road, St. John’s Wood,” said Pham Chinh, and sat back as the taxi-driver, arrogant as any duke, did a U-turn and held up traffic in both directions for at least four blocks.

  “I don’t know anyone in St. John’s Wood.” Joseph showed no sign of being afraid, but his hand was clutched tightly on the clock in its brown-paper bag. It was a poor weapon, but it was the only one he had; if he hurled it into the face of the other man, the man would surely be knocked out. But by then the bullet would just as surely be in his own gut. “Are you from one of the embassies?”

  “Mr. Chen wants to see you,” said Pham Chinh, watching him closely.

  Joseph pursed his lips, went to say something, then sat back. “Why the gun, then? Did he think I wouldn’t come?”

  Pham Chinh shrugged and smiled. “One never knows. We had to see if you were the man we wanted. You have just proved you are.”

  Joseph was puzzled, but said nothing. The two men sat in silence all the way to St. John’s Wood. Pham Chinh gave the number of the house in Avenue Road to the driver and the taxi pulled into a gravelled courtyard in front of a large neo-Georgian house. Joseph got out and waited while the man paid the driver. Up till now he had always met Chen and Pai in shabby restaurants at various main-line railway stations around London; the Russians had chosen slightly better meeting places, such as the restaurant at Festival Hall. Neither of them had ever asked him to meet them at such a stylish rendezvous as this. He was Impressed, though still puzzled.

  The taxi drove away. Pham Chinh opened the front door and Joseph went ahead of him into a hall that impressed the Hungarian as much as the exterior of the house had done. A Dufy hung on one wall: an original, not a print, he noted with approval. A silk-seated arm-chair stood beside a small Wall-table: he classed them both as Regency and also genuine. The Chinese, it seemed, were making the most of the evils of capitalism while they were here in London.

  Pham Chinh led the way into a large drawing-room, but stood aside as soon as he entered the door. Joseph was one step past him when he realised he had been tricked. He stopped and half-turned, but the woman standing by the window said, “Sit down, Joseph, unless you want to be hurt. Pham Chinh’s gun has a silencer on it and silencers do ruin the accuracy – but I hardly think he could miss at that distance.” She looked at Pham Chinh. “Is he the man we wanted?”

  Pham Chinh nodded. “As soon as I mentioned Chen’s name, he knew who I meant. He’s the one, all right.”

  Madame Cholon introduced herself, then sat down and waved Joseph to a chair. “Do I call you Joseph, or have you another name?”

  “Liszt,” said Joseph. But Madame Cholon made no comment: she knew little of Western music, and Hungarian rhapsothes were as nothing compared to what had been practised in the Hall of Mirrors brothel in Saigon. But Joseph made his own comment on Madame Cholon: “I’ve heard your name mentioned.”

  “Where – at the High Commissioner’s house?” She was interested, but not alarmed. Pallain had told her that Scotland Yard were curious about her. But the years with Bay Vien had taught her nothing but contempt for the police. “How much have you heard about me?”

  Joseph looked at Pham Chinh, still standing with his hand in his jacket pocket. “If we are going to talk, does he have to stand there like that all the time? I’m not used to discussion under the nose of a gun.”

  Madame Cholon smiled. “You have a certain sang froid, Monsieur Liszt. I wonder if you have enough to do what I want you to do?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Kill your employer.”

  Joseph’s sang froid deserted him for the moment; he heard himself say, “Which one?”

  Her smile widened. “An understandable question, monsieur. You have several, haven’t you? It must be confusing at times. But I’m only interested in one of them. Mr. Quentin.”

  Joseph recovered his poise. He sat back, shook his head. “Definitely not. I’m not a murderer, madame.”

  “But you’re several other things, aren’t you?” Madame Cholon’s tone was sweet, so sweet: she could have been practising her brothel wiles. “A double agent, for instance. Working for the Russians and also the Chinese.”

  Again his poise slipped: “Who told you that?”

  “An American friend.” She thought of Jamaica lying dead on the bed upstairs; he had proved useful after all.

  Joseph could feel himself beginning to sweat. He looked at Pham Chinh, who had taken his hand from his pocket but still stood leaning against the door jamb, blocking any escape. He licked lips hps and looked back at Madame Cholon. “Who else knows?”

  “No one – as yet.” She was enjoying his disquiet; anyone else’s torture was her pleasure. “But I’m sure the Russians would not be pleased to learn you were also working for the Chinese. That isn’t part of your contract with them, is it?”

  “This American—” He wondered who it could be. “How much did he tell you?”

  “Everything he knew. And he seemed to know a lot.”

  That was one of the dangers of the game: that you could be exposed by people whose existence you never even suspected. “But why did he tell you?”

  “We–er–persuaded him.” She ran her tongue over her hps, as if recapturing a taste. She had been surprised that Jamaica had told her as much as he had; but perhaps at that stage he had still hoped to leave the house alive and thought that the information about Joseph was a small price to pay. After all, as he had said, he had stumbled on Joseph’s activities only by accident. He had been watching Chen to see if she would meet him, and instead Joseph had turned up. Then he had followed Joseph and seen him meet a Russian. “Do you want me to tell you what I know?”

  Joseph tried again for some poise. He sat back again, crossed one leg elegandy over the other. “Since you are evidentiy going to make a proposition to me, I’d like to know how much you have to bargain with.”

  Madame Cholon’s eyes came as close to twinkling as was possible with her. “I do admire you, monsieur. I can see why you have lasted as long as you have. Well, your history. Our American friend knew nothing of your early life, but that really doesn’t interest us. You were working for the Russians in Budapest before 1956.” She did not know how Jamaica had got his extra information; she could only assume that, given a clue, he had known where to go next. “You got out of Hungary, ostensibly as a refugee, and came here in December 1956. You worked for two years for Lord Porthleven, another eighteen months for the Duke of Isis, then you went to work for the previous Australian High Commissioner, Sir James Gable. You can’t have had much to pass on to the Russians up till this conference. The Australians like to think they are important, but they are nobothes in world affairs. Don’t you agree?”

  “A good butler never discusses his masters,” said Joseph, who had never worked in a royal household nor been approached by Sunday newspapers.

  “And I’m sure you’re a good butler. I just hope you won’t discuss me when our little business is done. Shall I go on?” Joseph nodded. He was playing for time, though he did not know what use time would be to him. “Some time in the past month the Chinese found out you were working for the Russians. When it became apparent that Quentin was to be one of the leading men at this conference, they approached you. I
don’t know whether they blackmailed you or bribed you, perhaps both. In any case you began to work for them. I don’t know what you were able to tell them – our American friend hadn’t got on to that.”

  “So his information on me must have been very recent?”

  “I gather it was. He may not even have transmitted it to his superiors. I don’t know.” She smiled again. “But that’s your worry, monsieur, not mine. All I can tell you is that if you don’t do as I ask, then someone will be told about you. It would be very awkward for you, wouldn’t it, if the Australians, the Russians and the Chinese were all disillusioned about you? Traitor to three countries, not counting Hungary. That would be some sort of record, wouldn’t it?”

  Joseph sat for a while in silence, one leg still crossed over the other; but there was a stiffness about him now that no longer made him look at ease. He remembered all the years of training, at the Marx-Engels school at Gorky, then at Verkhovnoye and finally at Gaczyna. They had taught him all the uses of guns and explosives, but no amount of teaching and propaganda could make one a killer unless the urge to kill was already there, like a seed waiting to be nurtured. They had never recognised that the seed was not in him and he had never told them. His primary use was as an agent, at which, up till now, he had been good; and an agent, if he is really good, should never be in a situation where he has to kill. But now the situation had at last arrived.

  “I couldn’t kill him in cold blood,” he said.

  Madame Cholon had no reservations, other than tactical ones, about how the murder was to be committed. “It would be best if we could devise some way that wouldn’t implicate you.” She smiled at him again. “Just in case we want to use you again.”

  “You’re very sure I shan’t doublecross you,” said Joseph, with a side glance at Pham Chinh. “What if I should go to the Chinese – or the Russians – and tell them what you’ve just proposed? It mightn’t fit in with their plans. And they might decide to—”