Lie Down with Lions (1985)

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Because I believe in freedom, I suppose. And because I didn’t go through all this training just to do coronary bypasses for fat businessmen.” The lies came automatically to his lips.

“But why two years? People who do this usually go for three to six months, a year at the most. Two years seems like forever.”

“Does it?” Jean-Pierre gave a wry smile. “It’s difficult, you see, to achieve anything of real value in a shorter period. The idea of sending doctors there for a brief visit is highly inefficient. What the rebels need is some kind of permanent medical setup, a hospital that stays in the same place and has at least some of the same staff from one year to the next. As things are, half the people don’t know where to take their sick and wounded, they don’t follow the doctor’s orders because they never get to know him well enough to trust him, and nobody has any time for health education. And the cost of transporting the volunteers to the country and bringing them back makes their ‘free’ services rather expensive.” Jean-Pierre put so much effort into this speech that he almost believed it himself, and he had to remind himself of his true motive for going to Afghanistan, and of the real reason he had to stay for two years.

A voice behind him said: “Who’s going to give their services free?”

He turned around to see another couple carrying trays of food: Valerie, who was an intern like him; and her boyfriend, a radiologist. They sat down with Jean-Pierre and the brunette.

The brunette answered Valerie’s question. “Jean-Pierre is going to Afghanistan to work for the rebels.”

“Really?” Valerie was surprised. “I heard you had been offered a marvelous job in Houston.”

“I turned it down.”

She was impressed. “But why?”

“I consider it worthwhile to save the lives of freedom fighters; but a few Texan millionaires more or less won’t make any difference to anything.”

The radiologist was not as fascinated by Jean-Pierre as his girlfriend was. He swallowed a mouthful of potatoes and said: “No sweat. After you come back, you’ll have no trouble getting that same job offer again—you’ll be a hero as well as a doctor.”

“Do you think so?” said Jean-Pierre coolly. He did not like the turn the conversation was taking.

“Two people from this hospital went to Afghanistan last year,” the radiologist went on. “They both got great jobs when they came back.”

Jean-Pierre gave a tolerant smile. “It’s nice to know that I’ll be employable if I survive.”

“I should hope so!” said the brunette indignantly. “After such a sacrifice!”

“What do your parents think of the idea?” wondered Valerie.

“My mother approves,” said Jean-Pierre. Of course she approved: she loved a hero. Jean-Pierre could imagine what his father would say about idealistic young doctors who went to work for the Afghan rebels. Socialism doesn’t mean everyone can do what they want! he would say, his voice hoarse and urgent, his face reddening a little. What do you think those rebels are? They’re bandits, preying on the law-abiding peasants. Feudal institutions have to be wiped out before socialism can come in. He would hammer the table with one great fist. To make a souffle, you have to break eggs—to make socialism, you have to break heads! Don’t worry, Papa, I know all that. “My father is dead,” Jean- Pierre said. “But he was a freedom fighter himself. He fought in the Resistance during the war.”

“What did he do?” asked the skeptical radiologist, but Jean-Pierre never answered him because he had seen, coming across the canteen, Raoul Clermont, the editor of La Revolte, sweating in his Sunday suit. What the devil was the fat journalist doing in the hospital canteen?

“I need to have a word with you,” said Raoul without preamble. He was out of breath. Jean-Pierre gestured to a chair. “Raoul—”

“It’s urgent,” Raoul cut in, almost as if he did not want the others to hear his name.

“Why don’t you join us for lunch? Then we could talk at leisure.”

“I regret I cannot.”

Jean-Pierre heard a note of panic in the fat man’s voice. Looking into his eyes, he saw that they were pleading with him to stop fooling around. Surprised, Jean-Pierre stood up. “Okay,” he said. To cover the suddenness of it all he said playfully to the others: “Don’t eat my lunch—I’ll be back.” He took Raoul’s arm and they walked out of the canteen.

Jean-Pierre had intended to stop and talk outside the door, but Raoul kept on walking along the corridor. “Monsieur Leblond sent me,” he said.

“I was beginning to think he must be behind this,” said Jean-Pierre. It was a month ago that Raoul had taken him to meet Leblond, who had asked him to go to Afghanistan, ostensibly to help the rebels as many young French doctors did, but actually to spy for the Russians. Jean-Pierre had felt proud, apprehensive and most of all thrilled at the opportunity to do something really spectacular for the cause. His only fear had been that the organizations which sent doctors to Afghanistan would turn him down because he was a Communist. They had no way of knowing he was actually a Party member, and he certainly would not tell them—but they might know he was a Communist sympathizer. However, there were plenty of French Communists who were opposed to the invasion of Afghanistan. There was nevertheless a remote possibility that a cautious organization might suggest that Jean-Pierre would be happier working for some other group of freedom fighters—they also sent people to help the rebels in El Salvador, for example. In the end it had not happened: Jean-Pierre had been accepted immediately by Medecins pour la Liberte. He had told Raoul the good news, and Raoul had said there would be another meeting with Leblond. Perhaps this was to do with that. “But why the panic?”

“He wants to see you now.”

“Now?” Jean-Pierre was annoyed. “I’m on duty. I have patients—”

“Surely someone else will take care of them.”

“But what is the urgency? I don’t leave for another two months.”

“It’s not about Afghanistan.”

“Well, what is it about?”

“I don’t know.”

Then what has frightened you? wondered Jean-Pierre. “Have you no idea at all?”

“I know that Rahmi Coskun has been arrested.”

“The Turkish student?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what is it to do with me? I hardly know him.”

“Monsieur Leblond will explain.”

Jean-Pierre threw up his hands. “I can’t just walk out of here.”

“What would happen if you were taken ill?” said Raoul.

“I would tell the Nursing Officer, and she would call in a replacement. But—”

“So call her.” They had reached the entrance of the hospital, and there was a bank of internal phones on the wall.

This may be a test, thought Jean-Pierre, a loyalty test, to see whether I am serious enough to be given this mission. He decided to risk the wrath of the hospital authorities. He picked up the phone.

“I have been called away by a sudden family emergency,” he said when he got through. “You must get in touch with Dr. Roche immediately.”

“Yes, Doctor,” the nurse replied calmly. “I hope you have not received sad news.”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said hastily. “Good-bye. Oh—just a minute.” He had a postoperative patient who had been hemorrhaging during the night. “How is Madame Ferier?”

“Fine. The bleeding has not recommenced.”

“Good. Keep a close watch on her.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Jean-Pierre hung up. “All right,” he said to Raoul. “Let’s go.”

They walked to the car park and got into Raoul’s Renault 5. The inside of the car was hot from the midday