November Man Page 3

  But there had been no secret about his friendship with the man. Hollis had cultivated it, in fact, as part of the honours hunt. And the connection was still remembered, he knew, in a government suspicious of according him the recognition he was convinced he unquestionably deserved.

  It would take a long time to rid himself of the George stigma, he accepted: there would not be a knighthood or peerage for many years.

  He was flushed and hoped Marion wouldn’t detect it. She was aware of the disappointment, if not the reason for his fear, and her knowledge disconcerted him, as if she had opened the door of the lavatory while he was using it.

  In complete contrast with his enjoyment of superficial publicity, Hollis was an intensely private man, frightened of anyone knowing him. Or about him.

  ‘Of course not,’ he answered smoothly. ‘I always discounted those rumours.’

  He was conscious of Marion looking at him intently, but this time he refused to respond.

  Positively, the young man snapped the recorder off. Hollis rose, extending his hand, making a resolution to refuse all such interviews. It was the first he’d given for a long time, preferring the frequent antiseptic releases from his publicity section. And he’d return to that system, he decided, frightened. The danger of personal meetings outweighed their benefit. It was still too soon.

  ‘Delighted,’ he assured Bradford. ‘If anything occurs to you that you’ve missed, give me a ring any time.’

  His movement had been seen from the house and the Rolls Corniche appeared along the driveway which looped around three sides of the house. The number-plate was JH 1. Each of the six family cars carried personalized registrations.

  He shook hands with the photographer and accompanied both men across the lawns to the waiting car. As he walked back he saw Marion lying on her back in the lounging chair, smiling quizzically at him.

  Her feeling of distaste towards the man rose within her, like nausea. He was an actor, she thought, a man following lines chalked upon the ground, always guaranteeing the perfect entry. She enjoyed the metaphor, enlarging it. And it was true, she reflected. Jocelyn’s life was spent walking along prepared tracks, preferably with spectator stands arranged on either side.

  Initially that must have been part of the attraction, she supposed, the ambience that she had described as confidence and her opposing family disdained as shallow conceit. Oh God, why hadn’t she listened? Why had it seemed so important to prove that Marion Murray, the baby of the dynasty, could break away from that carefully charted life and prove her independence by marrying someone they regarded as a fly-by-night?

  Jocelyn Hollis was a tall man, constantly aware of himself and the impression he was having upon other people, refusing the usual stoop of a person over six feet tall, and instead tilting his head upwards, accentuating his height and forcing people to gaze up. Carefully styled, she thought, like everything else. Jocelyn had his suits made at Poole, his monogrammed shirts at Turnbull and Asser and his shoes at Lobb; and every article was duplicated four times, enabling complete wardrobes to be kept in London, Paris, Buckinghamshire and New York.

  Like painting by numbers, she sneered mentally. If only once he had worn a tie with an egg-stain, she thought, irrationally. Marion felt suddenly frightened by her almost childish contempt. To anyone else, she accepted honestly, it would seem largely groundless, apparently fed by little more than boredom. And the spoiled girl’s need to inflict upon someone else the responsibility for her mistake. It would even be difficult to substantiate acceptable grounds for divorce from Jocelyn. And that was unquestionably the direction in which their marriage was moving. She felt trapped by him, like a drowning person being dragged beneath the surface by a blanket of clothing.

  ‘You’re quite an operator, Jocelyn,’ she said, in her clipped New England accent.

  The millionaire threw the dregs of his mineral water into the swimming pool and filled the glass from the wine-bottle from which he’d served the journalist. Now she was almost constantly hostile, he thought.

  And there was no reason, no reason at all. She was becoming a woman he didn’t know any more.

  ‘What does that mean?’ he asked. He looked away from her as if it were a disinterested inquiry.

  ‘You’re a consummate performer,’ she said, mouthing her earlier thoughts and staring at him to gauge his reaction. There seemed little point in pretence any more. He would have to be a willing partner to a divorce, she thought, otherwise it would drag on for years. Or made not to love her any more.

  He shrugged, ill at ease.

  ‘Public relations,’ he dismissed shortly. ‘Important for the businesses.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ she rejected. It was an affectation of hers to swear sometimes; he was unsure whether it was to imply the nearness of a temper he had never known her lose, or to gain attention.

  ‘It doesn’t do anything for the businesses,’ she went on. ‘It’s an ego trip. Why not be honest with yourself?’

  He held forward the bottle, but she shook her head.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t do it,’ she continued, seriously. Why couldn’t he be the man she had imagined him to be in those first few months, the vibrant, internationally known tycoon? Was it correct, the jibe that James had made – ‘you’re not in love with a man – you’re in love with a Hollywood image’? Perhaps. But they’d been wrong to dismiss Jocelyn as a fly-by-night. He certainly wasn’t that. And he did love her, she knew. It was that knowledge, she accepted, that fuelled her attitude in trying to destroy the feeling he had for her. And by so doing, she continued, honestly, she was trying to free herself from some of the guilt she felt.

  ‘Do what?’ he queried, not wanting to continue the conversation.

  She sighed, annoyed at his refusal even to argue. ‘It’s so … so undignified, somehow.’

  ‘That’s an odd remark, coming from someone whose family is in a newspaper or magazine somewhere in the world every day of the year,’ he finally snapped back irritably. Why the hell did she have to keep on, like a dog scratching for a lost bone?

  ‘But there’s a difference,’ she tried, genuinely. ‘Look at what’s written. Rubbish, all of it, except for the speeches that James makes. We don’t pursue the media … they chase us …’

  ‘Neither do I,’ came back Hollis positively. ‘But if an approach is made from a responsible publication, then I co-operate precisely for the reasons you’ve just mentioned. If they couldn’t get to me they’d start inventing the crap they do about the Murray family.’

  She shook her head, refusing to accept the argument.

  ‘You love it, darling,’ she insisted. There was no affection in the endearment. It was all over, she knew. James had been right. Her feeling had been for the image, not the man.

  ‘Sorry if I embarrass you,’ he said, regretting the words immediately he spoke.

  She laughed outright, clapping her hands in pleasure.

  ‘Whoops,’ she said. ‘Jocelyn’s getting irritable.’

  ‘And why the hell not?’ he protested. He saw her flinch at his anger.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, for Christ’s sake?’ he demanded.

  She shook her head, lacking the courage to accept his lead.

  ‘Let’s forget it,’ she said, knowing he’d be disconcerted at losing his temper. He had a low threshold for anger, she knew, but kept it rigidly under control: her mental picture of him was of a smiling face.

  ‘If you’ve something to discuss, then we’ll talk about it,’ he insisted, seeing his disadvantage. His annoyance was clogging every word he uttered. He was only completely sure of himself in the boardroom or in business discussions, he realized suddenly.

  Marion, like all the Murray family, had been bred to win in everything, even the smallest disagreement.

  ‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ she said, concluding the subject on her own terms and refusing to recognize her cowardice. She clapped her hands again, but louder this time, like someone summoning a servant. ‘
It’s closed,’ she declared. ‘Finished.’

  For a long time they sat in silence, Marion seeking justification for her attitude towards her husband.

  For someone who had achieved his success to need the connived admiration of an unknown audience showed a definite personality defect, she considered. She remembered the irrational anger that had erupted when he had learned he was was not going to be included in the honours list, and frowned, unhappily. It was almost the reaction of someone mentally unbalanced. But that was ridiculous. No one could say Jocelyn had a mental problem, just because his father had killed himself over business strain. She watched him add to his wineglass and stirred in her chair, as if she were physically uncomfortable. That was a stupid reaction too. she thought, drinking in the afternoon just because he’d lost a minor argument. But then he wouldn’t get drunk. He never had, as long as she had known him. Like losing his temper, it was something never allowed to happen. It would be interesting, she mused, to see Jocelyn out of control. Or would it, she wondered. Perhaps not.

  ‘Looking forward to tonight?’ she asked, offering a truce.

  He shrugged, but didn’t reply.

  ‘I am,’ she went on. ‘I like gazing around and wondering at all the history that’s been made in the room where I’m sitting.’

  That evening they were flying to Paris for dinner with James Murray at the American embassy in the Avenue Gabriel.

  ‘You’d better tell me what your brother has been doing lately, so I won’t offend him with idiot questions,’ he said.

  She looked at him, sadly. There had rarely been a meeting between them when she hadn’t thought of her husband’s demeanour to James as that of a student deferring to a teacher he was trying to impress.

  ‘I get the feeling something is happening with James,’ she offered.

  ‘Like what?’ he said. The quickness of the question indicated his feelings.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged, vaguely.

  ‘The elections?’ queried Hollis. Oh God, he thought, the irritation rising. Imagine the man being President, he reflected: it would be unbearable.

  She nodded.

  ‘But how could it happen?’ he challenged. ‘He’s strong in the Party, certainly. But he couldn’t fight a campaign from more than three thousand miles away. He needs to be in America to run for President.’

  ‘Of course he does,’ agreed Marion. ‘Which is what I can’t work out.’

  There was the crunch of gravel as the car returned from the railway station. She looked towards it, as if it were a reminder, then pushed herself away from the chair.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ she said. ‘We’d better change.’

  He started to follow and she turned to him. ‘I think’, she said, almost to herself, ‘that I might ask my brother tonight what his intentions are.’

  And maybe, she thought, let him know what mine are with Jocelyn. She paused at the thought. And maybe she wouldn’t, she decided realistically. Because James had led the family objection to the marriage, then hadn’t spoken for the first year. To divulge her feelings would be to concede defeat. And that was a very difficult thing for Marion to do. The only person she really wanted to defeat, she accepted, was James, the favoured child of the family. No, she determined, entering the house. James shouldn’t know. Not yet, anyway.

  It came seeping back so easily, thought Altmann, the apprehension of knowing he was the object of scrutiny. He’d known it constantly in the camp, daily expecting selection for the next experiment or extermination-truck, and here it was again, the same bubbling sweat and the nausea, leaden in his stomach, threatening to erupt and attract just the sort of attention he wanted to avoid. Needing movement, his feet began scuffing aimlessly over the highly polished floor of the coffee-house. The woman sitting opposite stared nervously. Altmann looked away, tightening his hands against his thighs.

  The man whom Altmann had identified sat three tables away in Demels, staring unconcerned out into the Köhlmarkt. Altmann had become aware of him the previous night, sitting on the far side of the Frances Karna restaurant. Twice during dinner he’d looked up to see the man staring at him unblinkingly.

  The man’s presence in the coffee-shop meant he had confirmed another suspicion, too, decided the Austrian. His apartment had been entered the previous night.

  The burglary had been comparatively professional, he thought, the scratches around the lock barely discernible and the articles in the bedroom and study hardly moved from their normal positions. But there had been scratches which hadn’t existed before. And things had been displaced.

  He stirred his coffee, watching the cream pool in the middle of the cup.

  Who? he wondered. In the level at which he operated, everyone was an expert. There was none of the stumbling amateurism of the Finnish dockside. Even slightly visible scratches weren’t left on doorlocks. And observers didn’t wear the same suit and shirt on consecutive days and have identifying limps. He used the pretence of blowing his nose to dab the perspiration from his upper lip, realizing his hand was twitching.

  Impulsively he snatched the bill and hurried to the cash desk, conscious that the woman who had shared his table was still frowning at him. He halted immediately outside the café, his mind jammed by panic, unsure which way to go. Instinctively he turned right, towards the Hapsburg Palace: there would be tourists there. If the man followed, he could lose him in the crowds.

  At the T-junction he stopped, watching the traffic emerge from beneath the giant archway and join the convoy already filling the road. It was impulse, fuelled by his rising anxiety, that made him half turn and realize the close proximity of the man with the lame leg. Immediately he pulled away, so that the push was mistimed, catching his shoulder instead of the spot in his back towards which it was directed. Still he staggered off-balance, snatching for the pole supporting the traffic lights, and then he heard the woman’s scream of warning and saw the Mercedes that had swept too wide from the palace exit, the driver having apparent difficulty in completing the turn.

  Altmann clung to the pole, using his momentum to swing him clear of the road and then back on to the pavement. The skidding car clipped the pole, vibrating it and numbing his hands. He had a second’s impression of a tight, controlled face behind the wheel. For the briefest moment, his eyes connected with those of the driver: they were blank of expression. With the merest wrist-movement, the car came under control, tyres howling. And then there was a louder sound, the repeated blast of the traffic policeman’s whistle, but the slewing, dented vehicle accelerated through the Köhlmarkt, scattering shoppers and pedestrians.

  There was an antique shop on the corner, and Altmann slumped back against the window, pressing his head against the glass, needing its coldness. He felt hands upon him and someone placed something into his hands which he realized was a glass of water. He drank, without needing it. A stool was put against his legs and he sat, head slumped, only vaguely aware of the babble round him as people who had stood with him at the crossing gave their conflicting accounts. Expertly done, he thought. It had been a miraculously lucky escape.

  He became aware of someone standing before him and looked up, focusing upon the patient policeman.

  ‘… an accident …’ he managed, his voice uneven. ‘Stumbled on the curb … stupid mistake …’

  The policeman nodded, his face empty, the notebook held out like a tray upon which he expected something to be placed.

  Quickly, Altmann provided his name and address and a brief account of what had happened. He started to look round as he spoke. The limping man had vanished, of course.

  People began to thin round him, their drama of the day over, and finally he stood, returning the glass and the stool to the shopkeeper.

  Slowly, keeping close to the buildings, he began walking carefully back to the old part of the city, tense for the nearness of any passer-by or the sudden acceleration of a vehicle.

  He’d wet himself, he realized, in sudden discomfort. With g
reat self-control he prevented the outburst of tears.

  (4)

  Igor Melkovsky sat alert before the kidney-shaped table around which the fifteen members of the Praesidium of the U.S.S.R. were grouped, staring at him. The Foreign Minister stirred the papers before him, as if he needed reminding about the account he was giving of his meetings with Dennison and Murray.

  ‘We have everything,’ he said, concluding the report. ‘The wheat that will prevent any extension of the famine, assistance to prevent it happening again and the guarantee of technical and engineering help for the gas and oil explorations.’

  Viktor Doborin, the First Secretary, frowned like a child unable to comprehend a simple multiplication-table.

  ‘They conceded it all?’ he queried.

  Melkovsky, a small man with wispy, uncontrollable hair and an anaemic face which gave him the appearance of being permanently unwell, smiled at the question.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He allowed the smile to broaden. ‘But that’s not the way they see it.’

  There was a movement of uncertainty among the men half-circled around the table. Melkovsky sat back, quite relaxed. Confidence burned through him, like pepper-vodka on a cold day. He could distantly hear the muted traffic of Moscow coming through the window of the Kremlin conference-room and turned slightly, watching the dust drift into the shaft of light from the fading summer sun. Great credit would come from the negotiations, he decided.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better explain,’ suggested Doborin. The Foreign Minister regarded the deal as a coup, he realized.

  ‘The discussions weren’t about wheat and technological aid,’ elucidated the Foreign Minister. ‘They were about nuclear disarmament and troop-withdrawals from Europe.’

  There were smiles round the table.

  ‘So for three days,’ continued Melkovsky, ‘we talked round and round in circles and then they began putting forward the bribes.’