A Little White Death by John Lawton Read Free Book Online

Troy sat on the terrace beneath a vast red parasol, sipped a citron pressé, and watched the sun sink into the Mediterranean. The last hardy
hearty roared by on waterskis, rubber-suited against the January day. Small boats and big boats dotted the seascape all the way to the horizon. He knew next to nothing about boats and ships. The
little ones, the ones with single masts, he was pretty certain were sloops. The bigger ones sailing into the network of wharves and warehouses on the north side could be anything – he could
not tell a bark from a barquentine, a square-rigger from a schooner.
    A day without the cutting wind, a day albeit far from his fantasy of floating around in shirtsleeves, had warmed him, literally, to the Mediterranean. He was, he had always thought, ‘not a
Med person’. He had been dragged uncomplainingly on several grand tours as a child; he had seen towers lean and heard bridges sigh, and gazed unimpressed on the dug-out ruins of a city that
bore his own name; but had never seen himself as a man to laze away his days on a Greek island, or become one of those Englishmen in exile, Graham Greene in Antibes, D. H. Lawrence on Sardinia, or
Robert Graves on Majorca. He took holidays, when he took them, in England. With his pigs and his long-playing records – though he had yet to get around to the joys of stereophonic sound
– and his books.
    A waiter coughed politely to drag Troy back to the real world and the present day.
    ‘A package for you, M’sieur. Delivered by hand.’
    It was one of those padded envelopes, bulky and heavy. Charlie. It had to be from Charlie.
    Troy ripped it open. Inside the package was a second envelope and a short, typed, unsigned message.
    ‘Sorry. Change of venue. Still, you always did want to visit the old place, didn’t you?’
    In the second envelope was a Soviet Foreign Ministry letter of authorisation in lieu of a visa, stamped and signed and counter-stamped and countersigned, made out in Troy’s name, and four
airline tickets – Beirut to Athens by Zippo Charters, Athens to Moscow by Aeroflot, Moscow to Zurich by Aeroflot and Zurich to London by BOAC. He checked the itinerary. He had two days in
Russia. Two days in Russia. The old country. Land of his father, land of his grandfather and all their fathers before them. It was the last place on earth he wanted to be.

 
§ 6
    Said Hussein found him, checking out of the Saint-Georges in the morning. He looked at the suitcase, he looked at Troy and drew the obvious conclusion.
    ‘You know where he was.’
    It was not a question.
    ‘Yes,’ said Troy.
    ‘You’re not going to tell me.’
    ‘I can’t. Believe me, I can’t.’
    ‘You’re not playing the game, Mr Troy. If I had been the one to find out, I would tell you.’
    ‘What I know you cannot use. If you do, it’s Charlie’s life on the line. I admit it’s not fair on you as a journalist, but that’s the way it is. If it’s any
consolation to you, I’d be happy to talk to the family when I get back. You can have Charlie’s job. Dammit, you can have Alliss’s too.’
    ‘Which I won’t refuse.’
    ‘Glad to hear it.’
    ‘There’s a war coming. Israel and the Arabs again. Perhaps two or three years from now, but coming nonetheless. Arthur’s not up to a war. He’d have to be replaced sooner
or later.’
    Hussein paused as he so often did in consideration of his next remark.
    ‘But’, he continued, ‘don’t you think it’s a bit ruthless?’
    ‘No,’ said Troy. ‘No I don’t.’ Now he too searched for the considered phrase.
    ‘He’s had his day.’
    Hussein did not seem to disagree with this.
    ‘There is one thing. I will have to continue to look for Charlie and, worse from your point of view, look into Charlie. My employers will expect that of me. Supposing it turns out that
Charlie was a spy?’
    ‘I think that’s a foregone conclusion,’ said Troy.
    ‘I meant a spy while he was here. Suppose the journalism was