The radiologist was not as fascinated by Jean-Pierre as his girlfriend was. He swallowed a mouthful of potatoes and said: “No sweat. After you come back, you’ll have no trouble getting that same job offer again—you’ll be a hero as well as a doctor.”
“Do you think so?” said Jean-Pierre coolly. He did not like the turn the conversation was taking.
“Two people from this hospital went to Afghanistan last year,” the radiologist went on. “They both got great jobs when they came back.”
Jean-Pierre gave a tolerant smile. “It’s nice to know that I’ll be employable if I survive.”
“I should hope so!” said the brunette indignantly. “After such a sacrifice!”
“What do your parents think of the idea?” wondered Valérie.
“My mother approves,” said Jean-Pierre. Of course she approved: she loved a hero. Jean-Pierre could imagine what his father would say about idealistic young doctors who went to work for the Afghan rebels. Socialism doesn’t mean everyone can do what they want! he would say, his voice hoarse and urgent, his face reddening a little. What do you think those rebels are? They’re bandits, preying on the law-abiding peasants. Feudal institutions have to be wiped out before socialism can come in. He would hammer the table with one great fist. To make a soufflé, you have to break eggs—to make socialism, you have to break heads! Don’t worry, Papa, I know all that. “My father is dead,” Jean-Pierre said. “But he was a freedom fighter himself. He fought in the Resistance during the war.”
“What did he do?” asked the skeptical radiologist, but Jean-Pierre never answered him because he had seen, coming across the canteen, Raoul Clermont, the editor of La Révolte, sweating in his Sunday suit. What the devil was the fat journalist doing in the hospital canteen?
“I need to have a word with you,” said Raoul without preamble. He was out of breath. Jean-Pierre gestured to a chair. “Raoul—”
“It’s urgent,” Raoul cut in, almost as if he did not want the others to hear his name.
“Why don’t you join us for lunch? Then we could talk at leisure.”
“I regret I cannot.”
Jean-Pierre heard a note of panic in the fat man’s voice. Looking into his eyes, he saw that they were pleading with him to stop fooling around. Surprised, Jean-Pierre stood up. “Okay,” he said. To cover the suddenness of it all he said playfully to the others: “Don’t eat my lunch—I’ll be back.” He took Raoul’s arm and they walked out of the canteen.
Jean-Pierre had intended to stop and talk outside the door, but Raoul kept on walking along the corridor. “Monsieur Leblond sent me,” he said.
“I was beginning to think he must be behind this,” said Jean-Pierre. It was a month ago that Raoul had taken him to meet Leblond, who had asked him to go to Afghanistan, ostensibly to help the rebels as many young French doctors did, but actually to spy for the Russians. Jean-Pierre had felt proud, apprehensive and most of all thrilled at the opportunity to do something really spectacular for the cause. His only fear had been that the organizations which sent doctors to Afghanistan would turn him down because he was a Communist. They had no way of knowing he was actually a Party member, and he certainly would not tell them—but they might know he was a Communist sympathizer. However, there were plenty of French Communists who were opposed to the invasion of Afghanistan. There was nevertheless a remote possibility that a cautious organization might suggest that Jean-Pierre would be happier working for some other group of freedom fighters—they also sent people to help the rebels in El Salvador, for example. In the end it had not happened: Jean-Pierre had been accepted immediately by Médecins pour la Liberté. He had told Raoul the good news, and Raoul had said there would be another meeting with Leblond. Perhaps this was to do with that. “But why the panic?”
“He wants to see you now.”
“Now?” Jean-Pierre was annoyed. “I’m on duty. I have patients—”
“Surely someone else will take care of them.”
“But what is the urgency? I don’t leave for another two months.”
“It’s not about Afghanistan.”
“Well, what is it about?”
“I don’t know.”
Then what has frightened you? wondered Jean-Pierre. “Have you no idea at all?”
“I know that Rahmi Coskun has been arrested.”
“The Turkish student?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know.”
“And what is it to do with me? I hardly know him.”
“Monsieur Leblond will explain.”
Jean-Pierre threw up his hands. “I can’t just walk out of here.”
“What would happen if you were taken ill?” said Raoul.
“I would tell the Nursing Officer, and she would call in a replacement. But—”
“So call her.” They had reached the entrance of the hospital, and there was a bank of internal phones on the wall.
This may be a test, thought Jean-Pierre, a loyalty test, to see whether I am serious enough to be given this mission. He decided to risk the wrath of the hospital authorities. He picked up the phone.
“I have been called away by a sudden family emergency,” he said when he got through. “You must get in touch with Dr. Roche immediately.”
“Yes, Doctor,” the nurse replied calmly. “I hope you have not received sad news.”
“I’ll tell you later,” he said hastily. “Good-bye. Oh—just a minute.” He had a postoperative patient who had been hemorrhaging during the night. “How is Madame Ferier?”
“Fine. The bleeding has not recommenced.”
“Good. Keep a close watch on her.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Jean-Pierre hung up. “All right,” he said to Raoul. “Let’s go.”
They walked to the car park and got into Raoul’s Renault 5. The inside of the car was hot from the midday sun. Raoul drove fast through back streets. Jean-Pierre felt nervous. He did not know exactly who Leblond was, but he assumed the man was something in the KGB. Jean-Pierre found himself wondering whether he had done anything to offend that much-feared organization; and, if so, what the punishment might be.
Surely they could not have found out about Jane.
His asking her to go to Afghanistan with him was no business of theirs. There were sure to be others in the Party anyway, perhaps a nurse to help Jean-Pierre at his destination, perhaps other doctors headed for various parts of the country: why shouldn’t Jane be among them? She was not a nurse, but she could take a crash course, and her great advantage was that she could speak some Farsi, the Persian language, a form of which was spoken in the area where Jean-Pierre was going.
He hoped she would go with him out of idealism and a sense of adventure. He hoped she would forget about Ellis while she was there, and would fall in love with the nearest European, who would of course be Jean-Pierre.
He had also hoped the Party would never know that he had encouraged her to go for his own reasons. There was no need for them to know, no way they would find out, normally—or so he had thought. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps they were angry.
This is foolish, he told himself. I’ve done nothing wrong, really; and even if I had there would be no punishment. This is the real KGB, not the mythical institution that strikes fear into the hearts of subscribers to the Reader’s Digest.
Raoul parked the car. They had stopped outside an expensive apartment building in the rue de l’Université. It was the place where Jean-Pierre had met Leblond the last time. They left the car and went inside. The lobby was gloomy. They climbed the curving staircase to the first floor and rang a bell. How much my life has changed, thought Jean-Pierre, since the last time I waited at this door!