drawn and sunken. Self-destruction lurked in eyes that were listless one moment, bright as a diamond the next. His hair, what there was of it, had turned pure-white and clung, in sweat-matted disarray, to his skull. His palsied hands were knotted with arthritis. Beads of perspiration clung to his worn-out face. He was wearing a pair of soiled, hopelessly wrinkled white pants and a white dress shirt, open almost to the waist.
‘Parlez-vous francais? Habla Usted espanol? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’
‘English. We speak English.’
‘English’ he said, ‘so you are Englishmen, then?’ He spoke the language well, although with a guttural accent.
‘Americans.’
‘Americans!’ He stared at them suspiciously and then said, in a fevered and annoyed tone, ‘Yes, yes, what is it? I’m a busy man. Can’t you see I’m busy? Eh? Look at this desk, just look at it! Projects, projects, pro— Never enough hours in the day to get... My secretary... I haven’t seen ... uh, she’s off on holiday. That bitch.’
He frantically moved papers around on the desk.
‘Danilov?’ O’Hara said.
The haunted man peered at him through the flickering candlelight. ‘I know you,’ he said. There was panic in his voice. ‘You’re here to kill me.’ He backed into the corner of his cell-like room, whimpering like a scared puppy, holding his umbrella in front of him, its point gleaming dangerously. O’Hara backed away from the deadly weapon.
‘I want to help you,’ O’Hara said.
‘I don’t want help. Get away from me. You’re one of them.’
‘One of whom?’
Danilov’s mood changed suddenly. ‘Don’t try to-You think I’m a fool? How did you get— All right, all right, where’s Security? Security! How did you get— Security! They sold me sold me... Oh, those bastards.. .‘ He closed his eyes and
beat one fist on his knee.
‘Nobody sold you out, Danilov. I promise you, your secret is safe with us. I’ve been on the dodge myself — for over a year.’
Danilov’s mood changed again. He giggled and spoke in mock musical tones. ‘Don’t believe you,’ he said, as if he were singing a song. ‘You lie. Everyone lies. Did you know that lying is an art?’
He waited for an answer, his eyebrows raised, then went on, ‘In the KGB they teach lying, like they teach point in ballet. Basic. Basic!’ A long pause. ‘Who are you? I do know you, don’t I?’
‘We’ve never met officially. My name’s O’Hara.’
‘O’Hara ... O’Hara... Irish, eh? IRA?’
‘American.’
‘Yesyesyesyoutoldmethatallrightallright,’ he babbled in frustration. Then, just as quickly, he became almost playful again. ‘Well, Slip the doodle-do, right?’ He leaned on the umbrella and danced a jig around it. ‘The cock-a- doodle-do.’ He raised his head and crowed like a rooster.
‘Mad as a fuckin’ hatter,’ the Magician whispered. ‘Let’s get the hell outa here. This guy’s absolutely tutti-fruiti, off-the- wall, bananas, Sailor.’
‘We didn’t come all the way up here to end up with nothing, Magician.’ O’Hara raised his voice and called out, ‘Mr Danilov?’
The little man stopped and peered forlornly over his shoulder at O’Hara.
‘We have a similar problem, Mr Daniov.’
The little man stopped his dance and looked at O’Hara quizzically. ‘Oh, really? The soil up here ... terrible, terrible. But.. . I have prevailed, sir.’ He pointed to the daisies. ‘Grown in pure rock. This place is a veritable Gibraltar. But... I did
prevail.’
‘My problem is not gardening,’ O’ Hara said.
‘Oh?’
‘My problem is, my own section chief sanctioned me.’
Danilov looked at him with suspicion. Then his mind began to shift; there was a glimmer of recognition, perhaps. ‘Happens all the time,’ he said. ‘When you trust someone, that’s the one not to trust. I call it my reversal theory, eh? Or is it the other way around?’
‘We want to help you, Danilov.’
‘To do what?’
‘Do you know why you’re here?’
‘Peace. Serenity. I don’t want to leave here. I like it here. No surprises anymore. I can’t stand surprises. Can’t stand
wondering. Every day is the same here. Food is the same. People are the same. I have a garden, just outside there. But it’s raining. Later, perhaps, we can take a stroll. Perhaps in the morning. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. . . Time will tell, eh? Are you a guest here too?’
He skittered close to O’Hara and said in a low voice, ‘I must warn you, the food is wretched. But the service, ah, the service
