A Woman Involved (55 page)

‘Forgive me,’ he repeated, ‘I’m not man enough for the job. I thought I could, but evidently I haven’t the guts for it.’ He clambered shakily to his feet. He left his gun on the ground. He had flecks of vomit on his jacket. He slumped back against the car, his arms hanging, utter exhaustion on his face.

‘Well, get on with it, man. I know I should fight to the last drop of blood for the Church but I’ve done my best and you’ve outgunned me.’ He added, almost wearily: I made my last confession before I came here, so make it quick.’ Then he closed his eyes impatiently, buried his fingers into his shirt and pulled out a crucifix. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t compromised anybody, I said my confession to this.’

Morgan stood there, knees bent, both hands training the gun on the man, and with all his sick heart he just wanted to break down and weep. He said hoarsely,

‘You understand why I’ve got to do it?’

‘Yes, yes, man, I’m not – a fool – for the same reasons I had to kill you. For the sake of the Church. I can be made to talk by the Russians. Et cetera, et cetera. I know that. If one sticks one’s nose into politics, one must expect to get it bloodied. So get it over, Englishman. Quickly please!’

And Morgan Wanted to vomit also, and bellow his anguish to the skies, and before he could lose his nerve he strode at the man. He pulled out the canister of nerve gas and thrust it at the cardinal’s startled face, and he pressed the plunger.

Pieter Gunter’s knees buckled, and he collapsed, unconscious.

Morgan grabbed him up by his armpits, and he dragged him.

Dragged him round the front of the car, gasping, rasping, the tears running down his face. He dragged him to the driver’s door. He dropped the man, opened the door. He heaved him up again, and he wrestled the top half of him onto the driver’s seat. Whimpering. He then ran around to the passenger door and scrambled in. He heaved the cardinal into the car. Then he ran back to the driver’s door. He shoved and wrestled his legs in. Then he heaved the man up, into the seated position. The head hung forward. Morgan wrestled his seat-belt on. Then he ran back to the passenger side.

He picked up the cardinal’s gun. The tears were running down his face. He scrambled into the back seat of the car. He leant over and grabbed the cardinal’s right hand. He fumbled the pistol into the palm. He closed the fingers around the butt. He bent the elbow and brought the pistol muzzle against the man’s temple. He closed his gloved finger around the trigger. He screwed up his eyes, and he wanted to bellow his anguish.
He cried: ‘
God, forgive me
…’ And his finger tightened on the trigger.

He felt it click, and tighten. And a retch of horror welled up in him. One more hair’s breadth and the man was dead.

And he could not pull the trigger.

He could not pull it,
and he let the arm drop.

Morgan scrambled out of the car, and the dam of tears broke. He staggered back against the car and he dropped his head, and he wept.

And oh God they were tears of happiness, of overwhelming relief, and he wept out loud:

‘
Okay, God …  It’s up to You now …  I’ve done my best …  Just get me to the Pope …’

The snow lay crisp on the rocky orchards, thick upon the old tiled roof of the farmhouse, and smoke curled up the chimneys.

It was a wonderful feeling coming back to his beautiful woman in this beautiful house, knowing that his work was done. He was not even worried that she would be furious with him for tricking her again – he had the best news in the world to tell her. He hooted from the top of the land, and rolled down his window and hollered, but he did not expect her to come bursting out of the door this time. He rolled the car down the track. As he got to the house, the door opened and Makepeace came out with the rifle. He looked very worried. He came to the window and said: ‘She’s in the bedroom.’

Morgan walked into the courtyard, a smile all over his face.

She was standing by the fire in the bedroom. She turned, unsmiling. Morgan walked up to her, a grin all over his face. He wanted to take her in his arms and laugh. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the envelope containing Cardinal Gunter’s confession and all the resignations. He said:

‘It’s all over. I’ve confronted the Secretary of State, and got everybody’s resignations, including his. And I’ve seen the Pope. He’s going to do a full investigation. And he’s going to see that the British leave us alone.’

Her eyes were wide.

He had told her everything, in detail. They lay on the double bed, the confessions and resignations scattered on the floor; she felt absolutely limp and laughy with relief. She wanted to throw her arms wide and laugh her praises to the Lord.

‘And the great man himself?’

Morgan smiled.

‘Very impressive, even in his dressing gown. Had a dragon on it. His English is a bit awkward. Very formal.’

‘A dragon?’

‘A gift from somebody in Korea, he said.’

‘Popes shouldn’t sport dragons, should they? And how did he take all this, you and the Secretary of State walking in at midnight?’

‘Thunderstruck when the cardinal confessed. Couldn’t believe it.’

‘But he took notes, and all that?’

‘Of course.’

‘But didn’t want the microfilm?’

‘Of course. Very anxious. But he finally accepted that I couldn’t hand it over until his papal investigation was satisfactorily finished.’

‘And how did the cardinal really behave throughout all this? Except “very correctly”?’

‘Really, very correctly. He had recovered his composure. A man of great fortitude. Made a clean breast. Gave in his resignation, et cetera.’

She said, ‘And, you’re satisfied he’ll cooperate fully with the investigation, and accept banishment to some obscure outpost of the Church’s empire?’

‘He has no choice, because I’ve got his confession. And for the same reason the Pope must make him go. The Pope won’t risk a scandal like that.’

‘But do you think he’s innocent now?’

‘Yes. I wasn’t sure before. Not at all. But when he couldn’t bring himself to shoot me, and then vomited and surrendered – no man could have acted that out. And when he regained consciousness, amazed to be alive …’ He shook his head. ‘We were both very emotional.’

She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand. ‘Thank God he couldn’t pull the trigger. And thank God you couldn’t either.’ She sighed. ‘But you said he knew too much, the Russians could still get at him? Do you think it’s safe now, if he’s sent to some obscure outpost?’

Morgan hardly cared any more. He had done his best.

‘The Church must be able to spirit him away somewhere. Like the Congo. Or the Outer Hebrides. It’s safer to keep him within the cloisters than throw him out into the big wide world.’

She smiled at the ceiling. ‘Oh, just thank God …’ Then she turned to him with a smile from all her heart. ‘I admire you so much. And love you so much.’

He had never been happier in his life.

‘I love you too. And admire you.’

She sat up and shook her fingers through her hair.

‘So, we’re full of mutual admiration. And it’s all over! …’ She held her happy face with both hands a moment, then said: ‘Now all we’ve got to do is get the British and Russians off our backs.’

‘The Pope guarantees that. “‘They’ll have me to deal with”, he said.’

She smiled. ‘You think he likes you, huh?’

‘There’ll always be a bed for us in the Vatican.’ He added, ‘If we’re married, of course.’

‘Oh, I’ll marry you, Jack Morgan, RN Retired …’

Makepeace left the next day, carrying a letter to post to Carrington from London, telling him to get off their backs:

‘
You can tell the French government that they can go ahead and prosecute Klaus Barbie. Because the microfilm has been destroyed. And you can tell Her Majesty’s government that I have written a lengthy account of what they tried to do, sparing no sordid details, and I have placed this, sealed, in the hands of a very competent lawyer to be published if we suffer any further harassment whatsoever. It will make Watergate look like a caper. So tell Brink-Ford and Her Majesty to call off their goons, and tell our ambassador in Moscow to tell the Kremlin to call off their goons too. And never darken my horizons again, Carrington, or you and Her Majesty’s government will come tumbling down …
’

In fact he had not yet written the story for the lawyer to hold: he had intended doing so that very night, for Makepeace to deliver, but he had been too tired and too happy to face the task. However, he fully intended doing so, when they returned to England. But for the time being he was sure that his letter to Carrington, plus the Pope’s message, was enough to intimidate them. And he was sure that nobody would find them.

But, after Makepeace left, Morgan did work out an escape route, in case they ever needed it. He went to a village and bought a second-hand motorcycle, a Guzzi 350cc track cycle, with a pillion. About a mile downstream from the farmhouse, the forestry road crossed the river at a small bridge. He hid the motorcycle under the bridge, covered in a plastic sheet and
shrubbery. They went over the escape route together. They would jump into the stream that ran past the house and make their way down to the river, leaving no tracks. Once in the river, they would make their way down to the bridge, still leaving no tracks. They would get on the motorcycle and ride away down any number of forestry trails, to the main road. It was a good plan but he did not think they would ever need it. They practised it once, then put it out of their minds: they did not want to think about anything but each other until the new year.

They had a lovely time that December, without the fear any more. It felt as if the weight of the world had fallen from their shoulders. He still Went out every day, with the FN rifle, to check the snow for footprints, but he was sure that they were safe. Every second day or so they drove to one of the villages to buy groceries, and now they no longer dashed in and out; they stopped in a bar if they felt like it, or a restaurant and had lunch. It was nice way out here in the country, the snow-clad Alps rearing up, the narrow streets white with snow, the fires in the hearth, the good smell of cooking, the red-cheeked children playing with their sleds, the innkeeper jolly. A week before Christmas they went to buy a suckling pig for dinner; but when the butcher produced a piglet, squealing, for her admiration before slaughtering it, she squealed herself and insisted on buying the animal on the hoof, alive and well.

‘What’re we going to do with it when we leave?’ Morgan sighed.

‘
He was going to kill it!
’

She bought a chicken instead, already deceased. That same day, in the market, she saw two forlorn geese, and she bought them as well. Then, her appetite for conservation whetted, she bought two ducks, male and female.

‘What’re we going to do with all this livestock when we leave?’ he said.

‘We’ll board them with a farmer until we come back. Which will be soon.’

There were other signs of that intention. She had started whitewashing the walls, and Morgan was set to work repairing things; and now every time they went to the village she came
back with this vase and those pretty dishes and that nice set of brass oil lamps, and all kinds of household gear, new buckets and brooms and mops, and paint for stripping old furniture and preserving wood. Two days before Christmas he went into the forest to get a Christmas tree, and to check the snow for footprints, and when he came back she had got stuck into an uncobbled corner of the courtyard with a spade, digging a duck pond. ‘In the new year we’ll build them a proper one.’

‘Anna, in the new year we’ve got to go back to work and start making a living.’

‘How can we? What’ll we do with all these animals?’

But work was going to be fun. She was going to sail with him, for the first year the ship would be their home, the sea would be their garden, every evening they would have their sundowners on the bridge, watching the sun go down. But all that was in the new year, and maybe not before February, what with all these animals. Morgan helped her dig the duck pond, and then mixed up a sack of cement, and lined it. The ducks and geese thought it was terrific.

‘Oh, it’s going to be lovely here in summer …’

It was a lovely Christmas Day. She decorated the Christmas tree with tinsel and candles. She pot-roasted the chicken with potatoes and pumpkin. She had been unable to buy an English Christmas pudding but she had made a splendid drunken trifle, and to make it set she had left it outside overnight. And there was cherry brandy and champagne and nuts. It was beautifully jolly sitting round the kitchen table, the candles flickering, the fire crackling, the snow outside, and the sounds of great splashing in the duck pond. When she began to get along with the cherry brandy she wanted to bring the geese in because it was so cosy, but they refused. It Was lovely, the fire, the wine, the tree, the dinner, her rosy cheeks and her smiley, happy face. They drank a toast to absent friends, and for a sentimental minute they even wished Makepeace was still here. ‘Here’s to Makepeace,’ she said. ‘Good man.’

‘I just hope we never see him again.’

‘Are you quite sure he won’t tell anybody where we are?’

‘He’s not very bright, but he’s not stupid, and he means well.’

‘He was very sweet to me. Very worried how I was feeling.’

‘Nice guy, Makepeace.’

‘Who else can we drink to? Cardinal Gunter?’

Morgan smiled, and for a moment he felt his eyes burn. He raised his glass. To the cardinal. Good guy, too.’

She thought a moment, then took his hand across the table. She smiled and said: ‘I have a confession to make.’

She considered her words, then said: ‘When you first got involved in this, I thought you were out of your depth. No, I’ll rephrase that …’ She paused. ‘I have always thought of you as a most honourable man. British public school, Royal Navy, the best of the British virtues. And you are, indeed. But I thought you were out of your league in the big bad world of politics as I knew it, through Max – an honourable schoolboy approach to life. And so, I had no confidence that you would be able to handle all this. I thought you just wouldn’t be …  devious enough. And so when you said we were going back to Switzerland to get the microfilm, I was going to get it from you, and do it my way.’ She paused. ‘And so when we were together here before you went away, and we were so happy, it was a sort of …  sad, fatalistic happiness. Because I knew it could not last. We could never be really safe, because you did not know about the big bad world and had not thought it all through. So I was just grateful to be happy for a little while. But now …’ She smiled with all her heart, and suddenly her eyes were glistening. ‘Now I’ve seen that you
are
clever enough. You thought of everything. And, on top of it all, still honourable …’ Her eyes glistened. ‘You don’t know what a remarkable achievement that is, in this rotten world.’