Peter Dickinson - Shadow of a Hero

They climbed the stairs together. While Letta groped behind her books Momma stood in the doorway, in what seemed to be a sort of daze, but as Letta crossed to get the other package out from behind her clothes she strode in, took one of the plastic bags which held Van’s clothes out of the grip and looked at the print on it.

‘Vienna,’ she said. ‘He was supposed to be in Wolverhampton.’

‘It might be from when he came over before.’

Momma tipped the bag out. There were some new socks, still with their wrapping-strip round them. The writing was German. A till-slip fluttered to the floor. Momma picked it up and read the date.

‘This Monday,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

Grandad was sitting up in bed playing his own brand of patience on a tray while he listened on his short-wave radio to what sounded like a news broadcast in Romanian. He must have been expecting Momma with his pills, but was clearly surprised to see Letta.

‘Hello, my darlings,’ he said, then looking at them more sharply added, ‘Not bad news from the hospital, I hope.’

‘No. Well, not from the hospital,’ said Momma. ‘But we need your help. Letta’s got something to tell you which I don’t like the sound of at all. Can you stand it? I know it’s late, but we’ve got to make our minds up tonight.’

‘Of course.’

He looked questioningly at Letta, who told her story again. It was far easier doing it for him than it had been for Momma. He held out his hands for the packets when she got to that bit, looked at them briefly, and laid them down on either side of his bed. When she’d finished he shook his head.

‘These people are idiots,’ he said.

‘Van told us he was going to Wolverhampton,’ said Momma, ‘but he seems to have been in Varina. I don’t like my children lying to me. It’s some kind of bomb, isn’t it?’

‘Almost certainly,’ said Grandad, picking the yellow package up and weighing it in his hands. ‘Semtex, or something of the kind. If it had been the sort of explosives we used, they would need a far larger amount to do any serious damage. If so, it should be highly stable, and perfectly safe . . . I have one thing to say, my darlings. These people are conspirators. Because of that they see conspiracies everywhere. They will not automatically assume that Van has betrayed them, or that Letta has lied. They are perfectly capable of believing that the accident was deliberately engineered by some powerful organization, the CIA or the British Secret Services, so that the packages could be abstracted. In fact that is what they would prefer to believe. It will fuel their own myth about themselves, their belief in their importance . . .’

‘What on earth do they think they’re up to?’ said Momma. ‘This is England, for God’s sake! It’s got nothing to do with Varina!’

‘It’s hard to say precisely what they intend,’ said Grandad. ‘My best information is that part of Vasa’s strategy is to engineer a break-down in relations between Romania and Bulgaria, and then to stage some kind of incident at Listru next year between the Bulgarian authorities and Varinians who are Romanian citizens attending the festival, thus giving the Romanians an excuse to intervene, and ultimately to annex our southern province into Romania. This would allow a unitary Varinian state to begin to be formed, under the hegemony of Romania. If this is right, it is a crazy strategy. It is inconceivable that the Romanians, with their concern over their Hungarian minority in the north, would let themselves be lured into such a scheme. Vasa has some influence in Bucharest, but there is a limit to what even he can do with bribery and blackmail.’

‘Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with us,’ said Momma. ‘What on earth could he gain by blowing anything up here?’

‘Publicity, of course. The most likely target is some kind of cultural monument . . . Ah, there is to be a Bulgarian trade fair at Birmingham in November . . . that is a possibility, for an overt motive, at least. But I think it likely that Vasa and his immediate circle may have another idea in their minds. Suppose such an explosion were to take place. Suppose it were then revealed that my grandson was directly implicated, that the explosives had been stored in the house where I live . . . You follow?’

‘Oh, God!’ said Momma. ‘We’ve got to get them out of here.’

‘Couldn’t you ask your policeman to help?’ said Letta.

‘Policeman!’ said Momma.

‘He’s not that kind of policeman,’ said Letta.

‘I’m afraid he is,’ said Grandad. ‘There are limits to what even a privileged security official would be prepared to hush up, and a plan to commit a terrorist offence on British soil is certainly beyond them. Unpleasant though it is, we are trapped by Van’s complicity. Minna, you will have to find somewhere to dispose of them. Separately, if possible. Deep.’

‘All right,’ said Momma. ‘I’ll think of something . . . oh, yes. Do you remember, Letta . . .’

‘Don’t tell us,’ said Grandad. ‘The less we know, the fewer lies we have to remember.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Momma again. ‘I thought we’d got clear of all this sort of thing. All right.’

She spoke in Field, because of Grandad, but it was the same strained, dry voice she’d used to tell Letta what had happened at Lapiri. She put her hands to her face, hiding her eyes, and bowed her head. She paid no attention when Letta moved to her side and put her arm round her to comfort her. Letta glanced at Grandad, but he held up his hand to stop her from speaking. He seemed far away. After a while he reached for his pad and made some notes.

‘It seems to me I shall still have to talk to my policeman,’ he said.

‘No! Please!’ said Momma. ‘Van’s been punished enough.’

‘I am partly thinking about Van. We have to shield him from Hector and his friends.’

‘I’m going to ring the hospital and see if I can get him a private room. And, Letta, you must send him a card saying everything’s all right.’

‘That is sensible, but it is a short-term measure. We must persuade these people to leave Van alone indefinitely. Suppose they were led to believe that Van was being followed by the British security services, who then took advantage of the accident to search the motor cycle, and discovered the bomb, and removed it, I think Hector would rapidly retract his patriotism into activities such as bagpipe-dancing. He is not the stuff of heroes, you know. I can tell my policeman enough to give him cause to interview Hector, but not enough to incriminate Van. Then, when Van is well enough, he must be given the same version of events . . . Minna, dear, you had better call the hospital before it is too late.’

‘I suppose so. I haven’t given you your pills.’

‘Letta can do that. Will you take these things now?’

He flicked his hand contemptuously towards the packages.

‘I’ll put them straight in the car. I must set my alarm. I want to get there when it’s just light. Oh, Poppa, please, please be careful what you say! Letta, you’ll have to get your own breakfast. And your Poppa’s going to ring any minute. Oh, what am I going to tell him now?’

The sentences came in gasps, with slow indrawn breaths between. She sounded at the end of her tether, but then she straightened, moving her head from side to side as if she were easing her neck, and picked up the packages.

‘All right,’ she said, in her normal brisk voice. ‘I think that’s the best we can do. Goodnight, Poppa. Thank heavens you’re here. Don’t be too late, Letta, and remember to set your alarm. If you hear mine, just go back to sleep.’

She left. Grandad made some more notes while Letta started counting the pills out, thinking as she did so about what had just happened. Something struck her and she looked round. The movement must have caught his eye, because he glanced up enquiringly.