Unofficial and Deniable. John Davis Gordon

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СКАЧАТЬ mostly military stuff. I microfilmed everything and copied all her disks.’ He indicated a small hand-grip on the end of the table.

      ‘When you go back in after she’s unpacked, will you be able to identify the new notes and disks?’

      ‘Yeah, all her disks are numbered, and all her notebooks, and all the entries are dated. When do you want me to go in again, sir?’

      ‘Give her a chance to settle down and establish a routine. Maybe she goes to the gym every day, or for a jog. You better set up an OP and find out her movements.’

      ‘Where, in a car?’

      ‘In a car. Read a paper, like they do in the movies. Move the car around, and change the model. Put Spicer on to the job as well, do a rota with him.’

      ‘Does Spicer know about this?’

      ‘No, and there’s no need for him to, just tell him I say so.’

      ‘He likes you, Spicer does, wants to know when you’re coming to his whorehouse again.’

      Harker smiled. ‘And give me a call every morning before nine o’clock to report progress.’

      A week later Harker had established a pattern of Josephine Valentine’s movements: Clements reported that her study light burned until about midnight every night, so she was writing hard. She slept until about mid-morning when she went to the corner delicatessen to buy newspapers, milk and fresh fruit. At one o’clock she emerged again wearing a leotard, wheeling a bicycle and wearing a pink crash helmet: on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays she rode across town, belting through the traffic, to attend an aerobics and dance class in a loft studio on the west side of Manhattan. On Tuesdays and Thursdays she rode to the rackets club where she played squash. In both cases she returned to her apartment block at three o’clock; her study light burned until midnight.

      ‘No evidence of a boyfriend yet?’

      ‘Not yet, sir,’ Clements said. ‘You want me to go in again one lunchtime? She’s settled down now, all her new gear must be on that desk.’

      Harker sighed. He hated this – the risk, plus the dishonour of it, of unlawfully entering somebody’s home. But, war is war.

      ‘Not yet, helluva risk doing it in daylight. We’ve done well in a week. Let’s cool it, I’ll see if I can meet her at the yacht club or the rackets club before we do anything dangerous.’

      It was much easier to meet her than anticipated. He had imagined that she would be surrounded by friends, that he would have to bide his time and ask somebody to introduce him, or contrive, with his usual uneasiness, to strike up a casual conversation. But she was alone when he first saw her, sitting at a table reading Time magazine: she was dressed to play squash, wearing a short white skirt, her racket on the table.

      ‘Miss Valentine?’

      He had expected her to have a no-nonsense manner but she looked up with a ready smile. ‘Yes?’ And she was even more beautiful than her photograph suggested. And, for a flash, Harker glimpsed her again in that room in the heat of battle, naked but for her white panties, her breasts swinging as she turned on him.

      ‘I’m Jack Harker, I’m a member here. I saw your picture in the paper some time back and I’ve read a number of the war stories you’ve written. So I decided to be bold and introduce myself, because I admired them.’

      ‘Why, thank you!’ Josephine Valentine beamed. Praise is the quickest way to a writer’s heart but she surprised Harker by seeming flustered by it; he had expected a hard-nosed war journo who had seen and heard all the blandishments – instead she was blushing.

      ‘May I sit down a moment?’

      ‘Certainly, but I’m off to play squash in a few minutes.’ Harker sat, and she continued hastily, for something to say: ‘And what are you doing in New York, Mr Harker? You’re not American, with that accent.’

      ‘No, I’m a sort of British–South African mongrel.’

      ‘I see.’

      He wondered whether she thought she saw a racist. ‘I run a publishing firm here, Harvest House. We’re fairly new in town but we’re keen. And that’s another reason I’ve introduced myself, apart from the pleasure of meeting you – I wondered whether you’ve considered writing a book?’

      He felt he saw the light in her eyes.

      ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘I’m busy writing one right now. About South Africa, in fact.’

      ‘Well,’ Harker said, ‘would you consider having lunch with me one day to discuss it? Or dinner?’

      ‘That would be lovely.’

      He felt a shit but he was a publisher. And war requires espionage. Personally, he felt as pleased as she was. As he watched her walk away to her squash date he thought: what a lovely girl, what lovely legs …

5

      ‘Never conceal,’ the Chairman had said, ‘that you were in the South African army. People like Clements and Spicer can do that but you’ll be too high-profile to get away with a lie like that – you may fool people for a while but sooner or later somebody who knows you will blow into town and people will wonder why you concealed the truth. So tell ’em upfront: you were a professional officer fighting an honourable war against communism. Rub in Sandhurst, the sword of honour, all that good stuff. But disown apartheid, make all the usual noises against it – these people love to hear others singing their song …’

      But it wasn’t that easy when Harker met Josephine Valentine the next Saturday for lunch at the Tavern on the Green. She came striding into the restaurant, ravishingly beautiful, her long blonde hair flowing, wreathed in smiles for her potential publisher, the file containing her typescript under her arm. He had intended telling her that they had met at the Battle of Bassinga only if the conversation and atmosphere between them warranted it: within minutes of the small-talk beginning he saw a look enter her eyes, a glint of challenge when he mentioned his military background, and he decided against it. She listened with close attention as he sketched in his personal history, fiddling with the cutlery. Then she politely took up the cudgel.

      An honourable war? Yes, she understood how a career officer had to do his duty to the state, even if he didn’t personally approve of all its policies. And she understood how most people might consider the communists to be dangerous people, she could understand that honourable soldiers would feel justified in fighting them to their last breath – one took up a military career to defend one’s country and that would necessarily involve killing as many of the perceived enemy as possible. But in the case of South Africa, the communist ‘enemy’ – she made quotation marks with her fingers – was also fighting for the liberation of South Africa from the apartheid yoke, helping the ANC in their armed struggle. This surely made the Cubans the honourable soldiers, because apartheid – ‘on your own admission, Mr Harker’ – is evil, and the intelligent, honourable South African army officer must surely have seen this paradox and been in a quandary, not so? He was indirectly – indeed directly, surely? – fighting for the evil of apartheid? So how this officer could have justified his actions, if only to himself, profoundly puzzled her. A moral dilemma, no?

      ‘Did СКАЧАТЬ