The Tamarind Seed (32 page)

Sverdlov was dead, and his knowledge of ‘Blue' had died with him in that frightful holocaust. Napalm in a confined space. He shut the thought out of his mind. Years of living a deception had taught him the discipline that the past could never be allowed to come back into the present. For a man doing what he did, there could be no private indulgence like taking out a memory to gloat or grieve. Nothing could exist but the present. He didn't even think of telling his wife what had happened. She had never spoken of it since, and he felt instinctively that she would never mention it again.

For all her insensitivity, this was something she would prefer to forget. As he could now forget it. The danger was past. He was safe.

The room in St. Patricia's Nursing Home was quiet and shaded; for nearly three weeks Judith had looked out at the view through the window. An attractive garden was laid out, with green grass, constantly watered against the scorching sun, orderly beds of bright crimson Callas, and a beautiful misshapen frangipani, exuding its scent on the gentle wind. Beyond the garden a sheet of bright blue sea sparkled in the sunlight; twice she had seen a cruise liner inching its way along the horizon. There were storms, when the sky darkened and the rain swept in lashing torrents against the windows.

At night the view changed to one of lunar stillness. There were no lights outside; the sea and the garden, the frangipani and the palm trees on the beach existed in moonlight; when the moon was covered they disappeared. By the side of the window there was a tall tamarind tree, its graceful branches floating in the wind. It carried a mass of pods, all heavy with ripe seeds. At Judith's request, the nuns had moved her bed so she couldn't see it through the window. When she was well enough, she got out of bed and sat in a chair. She didn't read; she refused the wireless which was sent up to her. She spent the time of recovery from her injuries staring out at the garden and the sea. The burns on her legs had healed; they were second degree. There was a deep gash on her right arm where she had cut herself on the window trying to get away from the fire, she would carry that scar for the rest of her life. Her memory of that morning was confused; her mind rejected details because the sensation of horror was too vivid to be borne. It had been over very quickly, so she understood afterwards, though the moments while she screamed and clawed at the louvre windows barricading her into the room, seemed immeasurable in time. Heat and smoke were pouring upwards from the inferno on the floor below; the fire was roaring like an animal, licking and spurting up the walls and the stairway which was a mass of orange flames. Judith was nearly unconscious when the two Barbadian police on duty outside the bungalow had smashed the window in with an axe, and dragged her out. Her clothes were smouldering, her legs burned by the fire spouting through the floor of the bedroom. Two minutes after she was lifted outside, the roof collapsed and the whole bungalow opened like a volcano mouth, belching a huge tongue of fire into the sky.

She was taken to St. Patricia's in preference to the new hospital in Bridgetown. It was easier to keep a guard on her room and a discreet watch on visitors to the private nursing home. But by the time she was ready to leave, they had all gone. Nobody intended harming her. She was of no interest, alive or dead; they had got Sverdlov, and the British withdrew their security men. A single Barbadian constable remained on duty in the grounds. It was no more than a gesture.

Nancy Nielson had flown over the first week to see her. She had sat by the bed, holding Judith's hand, giving her messages from Sam Nielson, repeating the same futile clichés about taking things easy and not worrying; trying to ease the suffering of someone who could not be comforted. Judith felt the physical pain through a haze of analgesics. Nothing invented by medical science could dull the agony in her mind. She had appreciated Nancy's coming and her sympathy. It was good of Sam to offer whatever she needed; kind of her friends to send messages. Even the hotel manager appeared one day, with flowers. She appreciated that people were sorry about what had happened to her and wanted to help. But there was nothing they could do.

Nobody could bring back the man whose voice was clearer in her mind than the comforting tones of the living, or restore the touch of the hand which had held hers, without either of them knowing it was the last contact they would ever make.

He was dead. He had gone down the stairs; she had heard his tread crossing the floor. Seconds later the lethal little bomb had bounced through the door and spattered its blazing death all over the room.

A strange man had come to see her in the nursing home; he hadn't given her his name. She had a vague impression of having spoken to him once before. He asked if there was anything she wanted, or any arrangements she would like made for her return to the States. She shook her head. Nothing. She wanted nothing. He told her how she had been rescued; he explained that a bomb had been thrown through the open sliding door. The dreadful speed and ferocity of the fire was explained by the use of napalm. She didn't ask the only question which mattered. There wasn't any need. She knew the answer. He hadn't said anything either. He had held out his hand and said, ‘Goodbye, Mrs. Farrow. I'm sorry.' When he had gone she remembered that he had the same voice as the man who had telephoned about the plane seat, moments before it happened.

Now she was well enough to leave. The nuns had shown their understanding of her wish to be left alone and of her disinclination to go into the outside world. They had offered her a room for as long as she wished. It was as if the calm and cheerful Scottish Sister Superior knew that her body had healed that much faster than her mind. But permanent escape was impossible. When Judith knew this, it was time for her to go. Nancy Nielson was coming over the next morning to fly her back. She was going to stay with the Nielsons for a week or so, at Sam's insistence. She hadn't the energy to refuse them; also obstinacy within the shelter of the nursing home was one thing. She might be only too glad to let Mrs. Nielson take full responsibility. Judith leaned forward in the chair. It was five o'clock. Quite soon the first grey shadow would creep up from the sea; like someone pulling a shutter from below, blocking out the sun. She remembered thinking of the dusk on Barbados in those precise terms, the first night she had come there, running away from Richard Paterson. Running from a trivial, shallow adventure with a married man, imagining herself hurt, unhappy. The comparison with what she felt at that moment was so contemptible that she made a thoughtless movement, and the gash on her arm gave her a sharp reminder not to jerk about. Nothing in her life had penetrated her like the death of Sverdlov. The loss of her father—the accident which killed her husband—nothing had opened every nerve as the horrific murder of a man she had neither lived with nor admitted that she loved. It was not possible to cry for him; he would have made fun of her tears. The grey line was growing darker and rising faster. It would soon be the West Indian night. Until one of the sisters came and switched them on, Judith was content to sit without lights. There was a knock at the door. She called out to come in; she didn't turn round.

‘Hello, Mrs. Farrow. Mind if I turn on some light?'

It was Jack Loder. He flicked the switch by the door and the room filled with light from the enclosed glass bowl in the ceiling. He came towards Judith and held out his hand. She looked worse than he had expected; she glanced up at him and didn't move. The hand dropped back to his side and plunged into a trouser pocket; he coughed with embarrassment. Then Judith spoke.

‘Get out of here,' she said. ‘I don't know why you've come, but get out.'

‘I understand how you feel.' Loder perched on the edge of her bed, his stubby fingers interlocked on his knee. One foot, in a highly polished light brown shoe, was swinging backwards and forwards. ‘I thought I ought to come and see how you were getting on.'

‘Thank you,' she said. ‘Well you've seen, haven't you? I'm not feeling very well, so would you please go away now?'

He got off the bed; the concilatory pose had vanished.

‘It wasn't my fault,' he said suddenly. ‘It's no good blaming me. I did my part. It wasn't me who left the door open for them!'

‘No,' Judith agreed. ‘No,
I didn't shut it properly
—oh God, don't you think I'm going mad knowing it was all my fault!'

‘We lost the “Blue” file,' Loder said. ‘That went in the fire too.'

‘Stop talking about your bloody
file
! What do I care about a
file
!' She began to cry. Loder had seen a number of women crying and he had never met one who could do it without making themselves ugly in the process. Judith Farrow's body heaved, she was bent double, her face hidden. It was a brutal manifestation of grief, and it made him uncomfortable.

‘Don't cry like that,' he said. ‘He wasn't worth it; you never really knew him at all. He got what he deserved.'

She raised her head. ‘You bastard,' she said.

‘He was K.G.B. himself.' Loder lit a cigarette. ‘He was going to get a dose of his own medicine, that's all. Just think of what he really was, and you won't cry a bloody tear for him.'

‘I don't care what he was,' she said. ‘He was burned to death! Isn't that enough for you?'

‘I'm sorry you got mixed up in this business; you can call me anything you like if it makes you feel better. They tell me you've made a good recovery, and you're going back to the States tomorrow.'

‘Yes,' Judith answered. She leaned back in the chair; the outburst had exhausted her. She wanted him to go away, just to go away.

‘If you've any decency,' she said, ‘you'll leave me alone now. Please.'

‘Okay.' Loder had finished his cigarette; he found an ashtray and rubbed out the stub. He went over and touched her on the shoulder. ‘I brought something for you,' he said. ‘Here.'

It was an envelope; she tore it open clumsily, she could hardly see what she was doing. Something rolled out on to her skirt. Judith picked it up in her fingers. It was black and shining, oblong shaped.

‘Where did you get this?'

‘He said you'd know what it was.' Loder sounded somewhere in the distance.

‘It's a tamarind seed. Where did you get it?' The white face stared up at him; the voice was a whisper.

‘From a friend of yours in London.' The ugly, freckled face was dour, unfriendly. ‘Here, don't pass out on me for Christ's sake! Pull yourself together!'

‘What friend.' Judith said. ‘What friend in London—only one person in the world would send me this …'

‘That's right.' Loder was smoking again. ‘I told you not to cry about him. He isn't dead, Mrs. Farrow.'

‘I don't believe you,' she said. ‘It isn't possible … I heard him go downstairs. The next minute that thing burst …'

‘You remember one of my chaps telephoned and you said he wouldn't stay under cover? Well, they were getting worried; there was a yacht hanging around and it didn't look right in that storm. So they decided to pull him in and keep him hidden till they took him to the airport. When he came down those stairs, Mrs. Farrow, my two men were waiting for him; he never knew what hit him. As they got him out of the door that bomb came over the balcony.

‘There were only seconds in it or they'd have been killed too. But they always say the devil looks after his own.'

‘Oh my God,' Judith was saying, over and over again. ‘My God …'

‘We gave out he'd been trapped inside,' Loder went on. ‘His K.G.B. pals think he's dead, and “Blue”, whoever he is, will think he's safe. The heat's off him now, and all we want is information.'

‘I can't believe it,' she said. She opened her clenched hand and looked down at the little brown seed.

‘He's safe,' Loder said. ‘But he's not happy. He wants you. We've promised him all the comforts of home, but there's no obligation, you don't have to go.'

Slowly Judith pulled herself up; she held on to the back of the chair for support.

‘I never liked you, Mr. Loder,' she said. ‘But I never thought you were a fool.'

About the Author

Evelyn Anthony is the pen name of Evelyn Ward-Thomas, a female British author who began writing in 1949. She gained considerable success with her historical novels—two of which were selected for the American Literary Guild—before winning huge acclaim for her espionage thrillers. Her book,
The Occupying Power
, won the Yorkshire Post Fiction Prize, and her 1971 novel,
The Tamarind Seed
, was made into a film starring Julie Andrews and Omar Sharif. Anthony's books have been translated into nineteen languages. She lives in Essex, England.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1971 by Anthony Enterprises, Ltd.

Cover design by Tammy Seidick

ISBN: 978-1-5040-2195-1

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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