The Tamarind Seed Read Free

pool.
    Down by the patio one yellow light was burning over the shuttered bar. There was no need for it. The huge white moon hung in the sky, surrounded by stars. Looking up, Judith found every cliché speeding through her mind. The moon was like a pearl, the stars like diamonds; the palm trees waved and the crickets sang. It was all so corny and impossible until one saw the reality. Then it could never be described without using a coinage of words which had become debased. She dived into the pool, and started swimming, up and down, very lazily, her mind occupied with playing the game of metaphors, trying to think of ways to describe the night.
    â€˜Evenin’. Lovely evenin’.’ It was the same odd accent, less exaggerated than the taxi driver’s speech, but unmistakable. She turned and saw a man standing by the pool’s edge. He wore a cloth cap, which he took off.
    â€˜Good evening,’ Judith said. ‘Are you the night watchman?’
    â€˜Yes, Mam.’
    â€˜I’m staying here,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t sleep. It’s so lovely and warm.’
    â€˜Yes, Mam,’ the man said. ‘Right warm it is.’ He put his cap on again, saluted her with a torch and moved away. Judith went on swimming.
    The man had come quietly round the edge of the building, where he could see the figure slipping through the lighted water, without being seen. He stood and watched her, until she climbed out, and then he got a look at her under the yellow light, as she dried her legs and rubbed her body with a towel. She was young. She had a pretty face. He went back and let himself into his bungalow before she came up the path. He had a bottle of whisky in his sitting room. That was one American habit he had picked up. He drank Scotch in preference to vodka. Some people would have said that was when the rot had started. He smiled to himself, filled a glass half full and went back to his balcony. The light next door went out.
    In a specially equipped dark room on the lower ground floor of the Soviet Embassy on 1125 16th, Washington D.C., a roll of microfilm was being developed and enlarged. The process took some time, and it was watched by two Embassy officials. The film covered thirty pages of typed foolscap, with some handwritten insertions; the enlargements carried headings in thick type, and some of the letters were from the State Department, others originated in the British Embassy, and there were several copies of memos from the White House. The shorter and older of the two officials leaned over the developing tanks and read a little of what was on the print.
    â€˜Excellent,’ he said. ‘Another one of major importance.’
    The second man was his junior assistant, a lieutenant in the Army, who was officially an attaché. He was very junior and he stayed three paces to the rear of his superior.
    â€˜It’ll be copied out and assembled in the “Blue” file, General.’
    â€˜Excellent,’ General Golitsyn said again. He looked at the luminous watch on his wrist. ‘I must go. I have an appointment with the Hungarian Ambassador. You will stay here until all the prints are ready. The “Blue” file must be on my desk in the morning, at nine.’
    He went out of the room; the lieutenant saluted him, an assistant rushed to open the door to let him out. The General went upstairs to his rooms to change into his uniform. Unlike the Western diplomats who wore civilian clothes, the members of the Soviet Embassy who were serving officers declined to follow this custom. The General liked his uniform; there was a patchwork of medals across the left breast, awarded for a life of service to his country, and including several foreign decorations. He was thinking of the ‘Blue’ file as he got ready to go out. Nominally he was the head of the Mission; he held the rank of General, he was an old, revered member of his country’s political hierarchy.