John le Carre by The Little Drummer Girl

Author:The Little Drummer Girl
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Espionage, Intelligence Officers, British, General, Suspense, Middle East, Thrillers, Terrorism, Fiction, Prevention
ISBN: 9780143119746
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 1983-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

He was pleased, if strangely distracted. “It is both.” He started the engine. “Khalil for our town. Khalil for my brother. Khalil for the friend of God and of the Hebrew prophet Abraham, whom Islam respects, and who rests in our ancient mosque.” “Khalil then,” she said. “Khalil,” he agreed shortly. “Remember it. Also the circumstances in which he told it to you. Because he loves you. Because he loves his brother. Because you have kissed his brother’s gun and become of his blood.” They set off down the hillside, Joseph driving. She no longer knew herself, if she ever had. The sound of her own shooting was still ringing in her ears. The taste of the gun barrel was on her lips, and when he pointed out Olympus to her, all she saw was black and white rainstacks like atomic cloud. Joseph’s preoccupation was as great as her own, but his aim lay once more ahead of them, and while he drove he pressed forward ceaselessly with his narrative, heaping detail upon detail. Khalil again. The times they had together before he went off to fight. Nottingham, the great meeting of their souls. His sister Fatmeh and his great love for her. About his other brothers, dead. They hit the coast road. The traffic was factory towers like prisons looking in on her. She tried to keep herself awake for him, but eventually the effort was too much. She put her head on his shoulder and for a while escaped. The hotel in Thessalonika was an antique Edwardian pile with floodlit domes and an air of circumstance. Their suite was on the top floor, with a children’s alcove, a twenty-foot bathroom, and scratched twenties furniture like home. She had put on the light but he ordered her to switch it off. He had had food sent up, but neither of them had touched it. There was a bay window and he stood in it with his back to her, gazing down into the green square and the moonlit waterfront beyond it. Charlie sat on the bed. The room was filled with stray Greek music from the street. “So, Charlie.” “So, Charlie,” she echoed quietly, waiting for the explanation that was owed to her. “You have pledged yourself to my battle. But what battle? How is it fought? Where? I have talked of the cause, I have talked of action: we believe, therefore we do. I have told you that terror is theatre, and that sometimes the world has to be lifted up by its ears before it will listen to justice.” She shifted restlessly. “Repeatedly, in my letters, in our long discussions, I have promised to bring you to the point of action. But I have prevaricated. I have delayed. Until tonight. Perhaps I do not trust you. Or perhaps I have learned to love you too much and do not wish to put you in the front line. You do not know which of these is true, but sometimes you have felt hurt by my secrecy.

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