"Because most of your problem is here, and you've got to come to terms with it. Take the girl-friend—take the tonic . . .
and take a month." God passed a month across the desk to him. "And come back and see me in five weeks—"
Five minutes later Roche had the shakes again, right on the street outside God's house and worse than before. And five minutes after that he was fortifying himself in the café-bar at the corner, in preparation before phoning in to Major Ballance. He stared into the drink, trying not to drink it because he already needed another one.
A genuine illness, if not an actual disease, might have been enough to put Jean-Paul off. But what he'd got was the shakes, and a month to get rid of them, which was worse, because in a month they'd be worse too. And then, or very soon, Jean-Paul would see them; and then it wouldn't be a tonic and a month's leave, because it would be a matter of Jean-Paul's preservation.
He had drunk the drink, and the waiter, who knew his man, filled his glass without being asked.
God had been right about one thing: it was a sort of disease, even if it wasn't some bloody pyrexia of unknown origin—it dummy5
was a pyrexia of known origin . . . pyrexia, whatever it was, sounded like the sort of disease a careless young soldier might have picked up out east, and that was really what it had been, he saw now. A disease.
He had caught it on a beach in Japan, and it had been feeding on him for six years without his knowing about it, and then without his understanding the symptoms he had experienced—not until the first authentic reports had come out of Hungary had he begun to add the facts to those symptoms. Or was that really it?
But causes hardly mattered now. All that mattered now was the progression of the shakes from his hands to his face, because when that happened Jean-Paul was bound to recognise the tell-tale signs, which he must be trained to spot.
With an effort, he left his second drink half-finished and found the phone. "Roche here—Bill?"
"How are you, young David? What did the quack say?"
“He's given me a tonic, Bill."
Major Ballance started to laugh, but the laugh turned into a paroxysm of coughing before Roche could add his month's leave to the tonic. Roche waited for the noise to subside.
"Bill?"
"A tonic?" Major Ballance managed at last, still wheezing.
"Then you will allow me to add a little gin to it—export gin."
What?"
dummy5
" 'Most Urgent from London for Captain Roche'—you've got a signal all of your very own, dear boy! Somebody up there loves you after all."
It was too early for Bill to start drinking. "What d'you mean, Bill?"
"I mean . . . you've got a posting—and a very good one too. It couldn't have happened to a nicer chap."
Roche leaned against the wall. "A posting?"
"That's what it amounts to. They want to see you there tomorrow morning at 1100 hours—a nice civilised time—
FSMO 1100 hours, best bib and tucker."
Roche's hand started to shake again. "What's so good about that, Bill? Maybe they're going to bowler-hat me." That would be the day! But something worse was far more likely.
"Not what but who, David. And where ... Sir Eustace Avery in Room 821, Eighth Floor, Abernathy House—that's the rest of it. So I'm booking you an afternoon flight to give you time to take a leisurely breakfast tomorrow. Congratulations."
"Sir Eustace Avery?" Roche dredged his memory. "Isn't he the one you said was a stuffed shirt?"
"Ah-ha! Stuffed shirt he may be. But he was plain Mr Avery then, on the RIP sub-committee last year—now he's been birthday-honoured into Sir Eustace, as a reward for his great and good services in the late catastrophe . . . So if he wants you, young David, you'll be hitching your waggon to a star, not vegetating in our communications room here .... The dummy5
Eighth Floor of the Abernathy overlooks the river, too—on the Embankment, just past Cleopatra's Needle. Very 'igh class property for very 'igh class operations."
"What operations, Bill?"
"The new group, dear boy—don't you ever listen to the in-house gossip?"
Bill always knew everything. "What new group?"
"Ah . . . well, it is a bit secret, I suppose. Maybe I shouldn't gab about it on an open line." Major Ballance brightened.
"But then the Frogs aren't really into wire-tapping, and everyone except you this side of the Kremlin already knows about it. So I don't suppose it matters much. . . Sir Eustace's new group—'Research and Development' is the euphemism in current use . . . He's been recruiting for the last month—
everyone hand-picked, true-blue and never been a card-carrying CP member, even as a child . . . and with automatic promotion, so rumour has it. Big time stuff, in fact.... so congratulations, Major Roche."
Roche was horrified. This was worse than God's solution to his problems—far worse.
"But Bill . . . I've got a chit for a month's leave in my pocket—
sick leave."
"Then tear it up. This is your great opportunity—you miss this one, and you'll be sucking on the hind tit for the rest of your life with the awkward squad, like me. Besides which, it's an order, so you don't have any choice." Bill's voice dummy5
hardened, then softened again. "And it's what you really need for what ails you, young David. A cure is much better than a tonic for a sick man—"
He had to phone Jean-Paul next, but he needed the rest of his drink more than ever.
Room 821 sounded more like a kill than a cure for his sickness. In fact, the only person who'd be really pleased was Jean-Paul himself, who was always reproaching him with the slowness of his professional advancement and the low grade of his material.
He stared into the colourless liquid. There was no escaping from the truth that he'd always been a great disappointment to the Comrades, as well as to himself. If Bill was right—and Bill was usually right—it was the cruellest of ironies that he was now about to go up at last when he was at last resolved to get out at the first safe opportunity.
But they'd got him now, both of them: if he fluffed the interview, he'd be on borrowed time with Jean-Paul; but if he didn't fluff it he'd be exactly where the Comrades had always wanted him to be, and then they'd never let go.
There was only one option left, but it terrified him utterly.
He'd already thought about it, he'd even had nightmares about it, waking and sleeping.
PUO was a laugh: he hadn't got PUO and there was no cure for what he'd got.
The only treatment for gangrene was amputation.
dummy5
Reconnaissance:
Young Master David
I
"MR Cox?" inquired a voice, disembodied and slightly metallic, but also recognizably female.
Roche looked round the lift for some evidence of a microphone, and found nothing. There weren't even any controls: Cox had simply ushered him into the blank box, and the doors had closed behind them, and the lift had shuddered and moved upwards. Or downwards, as the case might be, for all the directional feeling he had experienced—
downwards would have been more appropriate. Not down to a particular floor, but down to a level, and some level in the Ninth Circle of Nether Hell, which Dante had reserved for the traitors.
"And Captain Roche," replied Cox, to no one in particular, unperturbed by the absence of anything into which the reply could be addressed. "Captain Roche's appointment is timed for eleven-hundred hours, madam."