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Authors: Daniel Easterman
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I’d picked up in Alexandria. Perhaps you’ve heard the rumours yourself. Tell me or not, as you like -it’s your decision.
‘Anyway, tonight I followed a man to the coast. He drove a little Citroen. A very careful driver. A little slow: not easy to follow. He parked his car on a road by the sea. After a while, he got out and walked down the road a little; then he began to wait. I waited too. You understand, Patrick. In this business of ours, waiting is of such importance.
‘But our friend was not too clever. He let himself be seen. Someone attacked him.’ The Russian put
the cigarette to his lips and inhaled slowly. He did not look at Patrick.
‘I think you know what happened after that,’ he continued. ‘When you came out the second time, I followed you. That’s the truth, Patrick. You led me here yourself.’
Patrick felt the pew beneath his thighs, cold and hard. It reminded him of long Masses he had sat through as a child, of the confessional’s dank odour, of guilt, remorse and tears. And of the terrible boredom of life.
What made you show yourself, Alex? Didn’t you want to follow me any more? Didn’t you want to see where I might lead you?’
‘I decided it was time we talked. Time we shared our thoughts. We can help one another. Don’t you agree?’
Patrick said nothing. Across the vanishing rows of silent pews, he could still make out the unmoving figure of Eamonn De Faoite, inexplicably murdered. In the early morning stillness, the small church filled with ghosts. Men he had killed or allowed to die. Men he had betrayed, men he had bought and sold, all dead or as good as dead, all unshriven, all unforgiving. Hasan Abi Shaqra coming to him for amnesty, his blood shattered across the dust like bright red shards of glass, abandoned eyes opening and closing in disbelief.
‘I’m no longer with the Agency, Alex. It’s true, whether or not you choose to believe me. I know nothing of your rumours, I never saw the man you followed before tonight. I’m not lying to you.’
Up aloft, tiny feet scratched on wood. Years ago, someone had seen a vision here, a statue moving or oozing blood, or perhaps the Virgin herself, pale in a blue veil - Patrick could not remember. What did it
matter anyway? Nothing had changed. And a priest lay dead on the altar with his sins still heavy on his heart.
‘Please tell me what you know, Patrick. We aren’t children. I don’t believe in coincidence.’
‘I’ve told you. I’m no longer in circulation. If you don’t believe me, have it checked out. One phone call, that’s all it’ll take.’
Chekulayev lifted the cigarette from his lips. He did it without affectation or self-consciousness.
“You were always too trusting, Patrick. That’s a great fault in an agent. Perhaps you thought I was your friend. Some of us thrive on that conceit, that we are brothers beneath the skin, allies beneath our ideologies. It was easy to think that in Beirut. They hated us all without discrimination. They took us hostage, killed us. We were all unbelievers, all without salvation. And such a camaraderie that gave us: my enemy’s enemy is my friend. Such talk. Such foolishness.
‘People like us don’t have friends, Patrick. We can’t afford to. For me it would be the final luxury, something more insidious than American cigarettes or French perfume. Friendship has a smell of decadence, it lies on the skin longer than attar of roses. They would smell it on my body and whip the skin from my flesh and the flesh from my bones to exorcize it. So please don’t ask me to believe you. Tell me the truth instead. Tell me about Passover.’
Patrick started. Not ‘pass over’, but ‘Passover’. Was that what De Faoite had said? What did it mean? He said nothing. This was such a game. They were playing such a game. ‘Tell me what you know. Tell me the truth.’ Like children at charades, they mimed and signed to one another with grotesque gestures. But unlike children, they
‘Anyway, tonight I followed a man to the coast. He drove a little Citroen. A very careful driver. A little slow: not easy to follow. He parked his car on a road by the sea. After a while, he got out and walked down the road a little; then he began to wait. I waited too. You understand, Patrick. In this business of ours, waiting is of such importance.
‘But our friend was not too clever. He let himself be seen. Someone attacked him.’ The Russian put
the cigarette to his lips and inhaled slowly. He did not look at Patrick.
‘I think you know what happened after that,’ he continued. ‘When you came out the second time, I followed you. That’s the truth, Patrick. You led me here yourself.’
Patrick felt the pew beneath his thighs, cold and hard. It reminded him of long Masses he had sat through as a child, of the confessional’s dank odour, of guilt, remorse and tears. And of the terrible boredom of life.
What made you show yourself, Alex? Didn’t you want to follow me any more? Didn’t you want to see where I might lead you?’
‘I decided it was time we talked. Time we shared our thoughts. We can help one another. Don’t you agree?’
Patrick said nothing. Across the vanishing rows of silent pews, he could still make out the unmoving figure of Eamonn De Faoite, inexplicably murdered. In the early morning stillness, the small church filled with ghosts. Men he had killed or allowed to die. Men he had betrayed, men he had bought and sold, all dead or as good as dead, all unshriven, all unforgiving. Hasan Abi Shaqra coming to him for amnesty, his blood shattered across the dust like bright red shards of glass, abandoned eyes opening and closing in disbelief.
‘I’m no longer with the Agency, Alex. It’s true, whether or not you choose to believe me. I know nothing of your rumours, I never saw the man you followed before tonight. I’m not lying to you.’
Up aloft, tiny feet scratched on wood. Years ago, someone had seen a vision here, a statue moving or oozing blood, or perhaps the Virgin herself, pale in a blue veil - Patrick could not remember. What did it
matter anyway? Nothing had changed. And a priest lay dead on the altar with his sins still heavy on his heart.
‘Please tell me what you know, Patrick. We aren’t children. I don’t believe in coincidence.’
‘I’ve told you. I’m no longer in circulation. If you don’t believe me, have it checked out. One phone call, that’s all it’ll take.’
Chekulayev lifted the cigarette from his lips. He did it without affectation or self-consciousness.
“You were always too trusting, Patrick. That’s a great fault in an agent. Perhaps you thought I was your friend. Some of us thrive on that conceit, that we are brothers beneath the skin, allies beneath our ideologies. It was easy to think that in Beirut. They hated us all without discrimination. They took us hostage, killed us. We were all unbelievers, all without salvation. And such a camaraderie that gave us: my enemy’s enemy is my friend. Such talk. Such foolishness.
‘People like us don’t have friends, Patrick. We can’t afford to. For me it would be the final luxury, something more insidious than American cigarettes or French perfume. Friendship has a smell of decadence, it lies on the skin longer than attar of roses. They would smell it on my body and whip the skin from my flesh and the flesh from my bones to exorcize it. So please don’t ask me to believe you. Tell me the truth instead. Tell me about Passover.’
Patrick started. Not ‘pass over’, but ‘Passover’. Was that what De Faoite had said? What did it mean? He said nothing. This was such a game. They were playing such a game. ‘Tell me what you know. Tell me the truth.’ Like children at charades, they mimed and signed to one another with grotesque gestures. But unlike children, they
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