… that was a total wound, painful and throbbing.
He opened the door of the car and eased himself out.
His watch showed past eight and the sun was coming high from behind the flats, casting great shadows and playing patterns on the weeds that grew unchecked on the open ground. He walked warily away from the vehicle taking in his surroundings till he came to the opened gateway which led to the made-up road and further away to the lines of sand-brick, terraced houses that lay behind the long tin fence. There were more people there, none concerning themselves with the tall young figure who watched them.
As his eyes played on the short horizon of chimney tops and television aerials it took him little effort to realize that he had no knowledge of his whereabouts. They had driven a long way since crossing the bridge, he had known that as he jolted in the seat with the motion of the car. Then he remembered the A to Z street guide he had bought, that had stayed in the grip, and he looked for a street name that would help him to identify his location. It would be at the far end of the line of houses, where the junction was. But there were too many people out on the pavements readying themselves for work and school and shopping.
Later they would be gone, and that would be the time to walk the whole length of the street to find its name.
By the time he turned on his heel and drifted slowly back toward the car his mind was made up. There was no possibility that he could follow the path of abject defeat taken by the Irishman. When the men of the General Command went across the enemy's border there was no retreat if they were cut off and surrounded short of their target. They stood and fought and died where they were trapped. Few returned to receive the adulation of their comrades after a successful mission, none returned to admit failure. Failure and surrender were the cancer growths in a movement such as his; despair would be close behind, and hopelessness, and then the victory for the enemy. If we lose our courage, he thought, we can lay down our rifles, fold away the denim fatigues and go back to ploughing the fields of Lebanon and Jordan; we will never see the hills of Nablus and the groves of Haifa.
There was a poem he had read in Beirut, written after the degradation of the Six Day War. One verse alone remained in his mind, clear and without complication.
People may be divided into two classes, those who grin Vacant and lopsidedly,
Who've given in,
And the rest of us who grin
To prove he isn't there,
The worm within.
It would be a sentence of death to go on. A conscious and measured decision. But it had been so for his brothers at Beisan, or on the sea front of Tel Aviv, or at Nahariya.
They had stayed to die, had accepted its inevitability. He felt a great calmness after his mind was concentrated. The tears ceased to roll on his face, and deep in his belly the tightness had gone. There would be no insinuating, creeping rottenness, no worm.
Mackowicz did not inform David Sokarev that a visitor had arrived at the hotel expecting to take breakfast with the scientist. He was left in his room playing with the toast and the little packets of butter and the plastic marmalade jars, unaware of the heated dispute being fought out in the lobby. When the tall, white-haired, upright figure of Sir Humphrey Talbot, Fellow of the Royal Society, glasses half-moon and far down the bridge of his nose, had come to the reception desk and asked for the Israeli's room number a Special Branch man had folded the newspaper he had been reading and walked to Sir Humphrey's shoulder, indicating to the girl behind the desk the information should not be given.
'Can I help you, sir?' His voice was pitched low, inaudible to the other guests who milled about the counter handing in keys, seeking directions, writing travellers' cheques.
'I don't think so.' He turned back toward the girl.
'Young lady, I was asking you the room number where Professor Sokarev is staying.'
'He's not taking visitors, sir,' said the detective.
'And who might you be?' snapped the other man, already in poor humour at the frustration of the delay, coupled with the early hour he had risen in order to travel from his home in Cambridge to keep the appointment.
'Detective Sergeant Harvey, Special Branch, Scotland Yard. I'm afraid the Professor is not able to see anyone this morning. It's a very clear instruction we've had, sir. I hope you haven't been inconvenienced.'
'Of course I've been inconvenienced. I've come up from the country to see the man. I have a letter from him inviting me.' Sir Humphrey reached into his faded leather briefcase, riffled through the papers, and with a look of triumph on his face produced a single-page letter. 'There, read that. Very simple, I would have thought. Clearly typed and with his signature at the bottom, on headed paper from Dimona.'
The detective read it through, motioned for the visitor to wait, and picked up a house phone. He spoke quickly and out of Sir Humphrey's earshot, put the receiver down and came back to Sir Humphrey's side.
'One of the Professor's colleagues will be down to see you directly, sir. To explain the position.'
'But he's travelling on his own. It says so in the letter…'
'I think you will find that things have changed some-what, sir, in the last few hours. Have you seen a newspaper this morning?'
'Of course I haven't. Not read one anyway — just glanced. Been travelling, haven't I?' if you had, perhaps it would be clearer to you, sir.'
The lift door opened and Mackowicz emerged. His jacket had been hurriedly put on, tangling with his shirt collar. At least he's hiding his shoulder holster, bloody cowboy, thought the detective. Might have shaved by this time in the morning. Mackowicz read the Jetter, and handed it back.
'I regret that your journey has been unnecessary. Professor Sokarev is receiving no visitors before his speech this evening. I am sorry.'
Sir Humphrey's voice rose in anger. 'But this is absol utely ridiculous, damned ridiculous. I've travelled half-way across southern England to get here at the Professor's invitation, and you, without even the courtesy of introducing yourself, tell me I shouldn't have come. What sort of nonsense is this?'
'My name is Mackowicz, I am with the Professor's party. I can only repeat my apologies that you were not forewarned by our embassy that it would be impossible for Professor Sokarev to keep his appointment with you.'
'I demand to speak to him on the telephone. He's an old friend.'
'That, too, I am afraid, will not be possible. He is taking no calls. I am sorry, sir.'
Sir Humphrey was not used to being spoken to in such a way. He was accustomed to deference, a smoothing of his way. He was uncertain how to react toward the young man with his open shirt, casual leather jacket and a day's growth on his chin, who met his gaze so unswervingly.
'Well, when in heaven's name will I be able to see him?'
'Are you going to the Professor's speech this evening?'
'Of course I'm going. I'm chairing the damned thing.'
'There will be an opportunity then,' said Mackowicz. 'I see from the Professor's letter that he was expecting you to drive him to his speech this evening. That, too, I am afraid, has been changed. But at the university you will have an opportunity to meet with him and talk.'
'And perhaps you would be so kind as to inform me the reason for this lunatic carry-on?'
The detective sergeant handed him a morning paper.
'You seem not to have taken in the news, sir. Perhaps that will help you to understand our problems…'