010 The Little Drummer Girl by Le Carre John

Author:Le Carre, John
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780886460693
Publisher: Dh Audio
Published: 1983-05-22T17:28:54+00:00

"In ‘56 because I wanted to be a hero, in ‘67 for peace. And in ‘73"--he seemed to find it harder to remember--"for Israel," he said.

"And now? What are you fighting for this time?"

Because it is there, she thought. To save lives. Because they asked me to. So that my villagers can dance the dabke, and listen to the tales of travellers at the well.

"Jose?"

"Yes, Charlie."

"How did you pick up those dishy scars?"

In the darkness, his long pauses had acquired a campfire excitement.

"The burn marks, I would say, I got them sitting in a tank. The bullet-holes from getting out of it."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty. Twenty-one."

At the age of eight I joined the Ashbal, she thought. At the age of fifteen--

"So who's Daddy?" she asked, determined to keep up the momentum.

"He was a pioneer. An early settler."

"Where from?"

"Poland."

"When?"

"In the twenties. In the thirdaliyah, if you know what that means."

She didn't, but for the moment it didn't matter.

"What was his trade?"

"A construction worker. Worked with his hands. Turned a sand dune into a city. Called it Tel Aviv. A Socialist--the practical kind. Didn't think much of God. Never drank. Never owned anything worth more than a few dollars."

"Is that what you would have liked to be too?" she asked.

He'll never answer, she thought. He's asleep. Don't be impertinent.

"I chose the higher calling," he replied drily.

Or it chose you, she thought, which is what choice is called when you are born into captivity. And somehow, quite quickly, she fell asleep.

But Gadi Becker, the seasoned warrior, lay patiently awake, staring at the darkness and listening to the uneven breathing of his young recruit. Why had he spoken to her like that? Why had he declared himself to her at the very moment when he was dispatching her on her first mission? Sometimes he no longer trusted himself. He would flex his muscles only to find that the cords of discipline did not tighten against him as they used to. He would set a straight course, only to look back and marvel at his degree of error. What am I dreaming of, he wondered, the fighting or the peace? He was too old for both. Too old to go on, too old to stop. Too old to give himself, yet unable to withhold. Too old not to know the smell of death before he killed. He listened again as her breathing settled to the calmer rhythm of sleep. Holding his wrist Kurtz-style before him in the darkness, he looked at the luminous dial of his watch. Then, so quietly that even wide awake she would have been hard-pressed to hear him, he put on his red blazer and stole from the room.

The night concierge was an alert man, and had only to see the well-dressed gentleman approach him to sense at once the proximity of a large tip.

"You have telegram forms?" Becker demanded, in a peremptory tone.

The night concierge dived below his counter.

Becker began writing. Large, careful letters in a black ink. He had

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