Алистер Маклин - Borrowed Time

‘So you never feared for your own future? You never thought about the possibility of being shut away for the rest of your life?’

‘I thought about it late at night. Sometimes. The same way I occasionally think about death, or getting mugged, or finding myself walking down Fifth Avenue with no clothes on – all that insecure stuff was there, but it didn’t hinder me, it didn’t make me draw back from what I had to do.’

‘None of it came to anything,’ Whitlock said. ‘Don’t you find that disheartening?’

‘No. What mattered was my, my …’

‘Subversion?’

‘Sure. Right.’ She pushed the specs back along her nose. ‘I was doing what was right. I thought that then and I think it now. So I admit it was kind of absurd, it was a wrong tack in just about every respect, but it was something carried out in the right spirit.’

‘I think I understand.’ Whitlock moved on to the next sculpture. The woman moved too.

‘You think I’m a real dope, don’t you?’

‘No,’ Whitlock said. ‘I don’t agree with a thing you did, but I don’t condemn you for it, and I don’t think you’re anywhere near being a dope. A starry-eyed idealist, maybe …’

‘So where do I stand?’

‘Looking at the situation one way, it’s kind of grave,’ Whitlock said. ‘Looking at it another – well, no harm’s done…’

‘But there are consequences at law,’ the woman said.

‘If you ever found yourself having to face them.’ Whitlock turned to her. ‘That’s why I suggested we meet up here. Away from people keeping tabs. I’m prepared to let you vanish.’

She stared at him. ‘For real?’

‘Absolutely.’

She went on staring. ‘There’s a price, right?’

He nodded.

‘How much?’

‘Oh, for Pete’s sake.’ Whitlock looked affronted. ‘I don’t mean money.’

‘What, then?’

‘A free and detailed confession.’

‘How detailed?’

‘I’ve written it out already.’ Whitlock took two folded sheets of paper from his pocket and handed them to the woman. ‘Why don’t you go over there, sit down and read it. If you feel you can sign it, then I’ve got a pen with me, too. We can have this whole thing sewn up before we get back to street level.’

‘And what happens then, assuming I sign it?’

‘Well, I happen to know you’re not strapped for money, and you’ve got fast foreign transfer facilities set up already …’

‘You’re thorough, Mr Whitlock.’

‘Frankly, Bridget, there’s nobody to touch me in that department. As I see it, you can take off for anywhere you want. I’m sure you’ve somewhere in mind, a hinterland.’

She nodded. ‘How long have I got?’

‘Forty-eight hours, tops.’

She opened the papers, glanced at them a moment, then said, ‘Give me the pen. I’ll sign now.’

‘Without reading your statement?’

‘You’re an honourable man, right?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Well then. There’s no problem, you won’t have stuck me with anything I didn’t do, and I’m sure my darkest deeds will be presented in the kindest possible light.’

She put the statement on the plinth of the Giacometti and signed and dated both sheets.

‘There.’ She handed it back to Whitlock. ‘Will this do any practical good, do you think? Or is it just an exercise in detection and tidying up?’

‘I hope it’ll do some good,’ Whitlock said.

‘Fine.’ She smiled and turned away. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I should be getting along. I’ve a lot of packing to do.’

The first thing Philpott did when he got into his room at the Hotel Jammu Ashok was pour himself a large brandy from a bottle of Remy VSOP he had brought with him. He then settled down to think over the situation. When he reached a decision, he had another large brandy.

Before turning in for the night he put through a call on a scrambler circuit to C.W. Whitlock. There was a delay while the decoder at the US end connected, then Whitlock came on the line.

‘I believe I’ve stumbled on something that will be more than a simple addition to what TF3 are doing out here,’ Philpott told him. ‘But I’ll let you know more later. Has anything important turned up?’

‘Well, yes,’ Whitlock said. ‘It cancels part of your reason for going to Kashmir. Policy Control have sent us a memo.’

‘Yes?’

‘They’ve fixed a date for a techniques-and-procedures review. Two days from now.’

‘What, even though they know I’m not there?’

‘That’s it.’

‘But how can I defend myself if I’m not there?’

‘Strictly speaking,’ Whitlock said, ‘you don’t need to put up a defence, or put in an appearance, since technically you’re not under attack.’

‘In other words they can bulldoze whether I’m there or not.’

‘I’ll be here, sir. And I fully intend to speak up on behalf of our freedom to swing to our own rhythm.’

‘Do we have much of a case?’

‘I’m working on it.’

Philpott paused and swallowed more brandy. ‘What do you really think, C.W.? Can my skin be saved here?’

‘Anything’s possible. And I’ll be trying my hardest.’

Meanwhile, in open country one hundred and sixty kilometres north-west of Philpott’s hotel, Mike and Sabrina, still on horseback, were making their way north with the guidance of the stars. As an exercise in root-level self-sufficiency Mike would have enjoyed it; as a necessity he found it frustratingly limited. He would have felt better about everything, Sabrina told him, if he’d had something to eat.

‘The horses have done a lot better than us,’ she said, her voice echoing eerily in the dark. ‘All that good fresh water, and the fodder – those were nice people.’

Under other circumstances Mike would have found them delightful. But he had been hungry for many hours now, and entering the village he had entertained the hope of a meal, anything at all to cancel his hunger. It was not to be. The people were transients. It was a ghost village, and although there was a good well, and the people carried fodder for their animals, there was no spare food for human beings.

‘It could only happen to us,’ Sabrina said now.

‘What could?’

‘Coming on a band of travelling acrobats and jugglers.’

‘Starving acrobats and jugglers,’ Mike corrected. ‘Who seemed to value their animals’ health above their own, I might add.’

‘They were just honest and kind, Mike. You still find that in India. Decent people who don’t think about themselves all the time.’

‘Whatever. I’m still hungry. I thought it would have passed off by now. It’s supposed to, isn’t it?’

‘Let’s just concentrate on making headway. Maybe when we hit a decent-sized town we can sell the horses and get ourselves some food.’

‘Ssh!’ Mike stopped his horse.

‘What is it?’

‘Ssh!’

They sat in silence. The horses were motionless. There was scarcely a breeze.

‘What did you think you heard?’

‘It was like somebody choking back a cough,’ Mike said.

They listened again.

‘I guess it must have been your turn to hallucinate,’ Sabrina said.

‘Don’t make jokes about it. I’m being cautious, I’m staying alert. It’s part of the job.’

‘Oh, sorry. I forgot myself. I should have been concentrating on learning all I can from you.’

Sabrina couldn’t see Mike’s face but she could imagine his expression.

‘Any little thing, any implied criticism, and you go all defensive,’ he said.

His horse snorted. Sabrina couldn’t help imagining it was a response to what he had said. She laughed.

‘Go ahead,’ Mike said. ‘Laugh. Mock. Mockery’s the gusto of tiny spirits. You know that?’