Confessional. Part 4

'Yes, I know,' Villiers told him.

'You know, and yet your famous SAS does nothing about it?'

'My country is not at war with the Yemen,' Villiers said. 'I am on loan from the British Army to help train and lead the Sultan of Oman's troops against Marxist guerrillas of the D.L.F.'

'We are not Marxists, Villiers Sahib. We of the Rashid go where we please and a major of the British SAS is a great prize. Worth many camels, many guns.'

'To whom?' Villiers asked.

Salim waved the cigarette at him. 'I have sent word to Fasari. The Russians are coming, some time today. They will pay a great deal for you. They have agreed to meet my price.'

'Whatever they offer, my people will pay more,' Villiers a.s.sured him. 'Deliver me safely in Dhofar and you may have anything you want. English sovereigns of gold, Maria Theresa silver thalers.'

'But Villiers Sahib, I have given my word,' Salim smiled mockingly.

'I know,' Villiers said. 'Don't tell me. To the Rashid, their word is everything.'

'Exactly!'

Salim got to his feet as the camel approached. It dropped

to its knees and Hamid, a young Rashid warrior in robes of ochre, a rifle slung across his back, came forward. He pulled on the line and the man at the other end fell on his hands and knees.

'What have we here?' Salim demanded.

'I found him in the night, walking across the desert.' Hamid went back to the camel and returned with a military-style water bottle and knapsack. 'He carried these.'

There was some bread in the knapsack and slabs of army rations. The labels were in Russian.

Salim held one down for Villiers to see, then said to the man in Arabic, 'You are Russian?'

The man was old with white hair, obviously exhausted, his khaki shirt soaked with sweat. He shook his head and his lips were swollen to twice their size. Salim held out the ladle filled with water. The man drank.

Villiers spoke fair Russian. He said, 'He wants to know who you are. Are you from Fasari?'

'Who are you?' the old man croaked.

'I'm a British officer. I was working for the Sultan's forces in Dhofar. Their people ambushed my patrol, killed my men and took me prisoner.'

'Does he speak English?'

'About three words. Presumably you have no Arabic?'

'No, but I think my English is probably better than your Russian. My name is Viktor Levin. I'm from Fasari. I was trying to get to Dhofar.'

To defect?' Villiers asked.

'Something like that.'

Salim said in Arabic. 'So, he speaks English to you. Is he not Russian, then?'

Villiers said quietly to Levin, 'No point in lying about you. Your people are turning up here today to pick me up.' He turned to Salim. 'Yes, Russian, from Fasari.'

'And what was he doing in Rashid country?'

'He was trying to reach Dhofar.'

Salim stared at him, eyes narrow. To escape from his own people?' He laughed out loud and slapped his thigh.

'Excellent. They should pay well for him, also. A bonus, my friend. Allah is good to me.' He nodded to Hamid. 'Put them inside and see that they are fed, then come to me,' and he walked away.

Levin was placed in a similar wooden halter to Villiers. They sat side-by-side against the wall in the cell. After a while, a woman in a black mask entered, squatted, and fed them in turn from a large wooden bowl containing goatmeat stew. It was impossible to see whether she was young or old. She wiped their mouths carefully, then left, closing the door.

Levin said, 'Why the masks? I don't understand that?'

'A symbol of the fact that they belong to their husbands. No other man may look.'

'A strange country,' Levin closed his eyes. Too hot.'

'How old are you?' Villiers asked.

'Sixty-eight.'

'Isn't that a little old for the defecting business? I should have thought you'd left it rather late.'

Levin opened his eyes and smiled gently. 'It's quite simple. My wife died last week in Leningrad. I've no children, so no one they can blackmail me with when I reach freedom.'

'What do you do?'

Tm Professor of Structural Engineering at the University of Leningrad. I've a particular interest in aircraft design. The Soviet Airforce has five MIG 2.35 at Fasari, ostensibly in a training role, so it's the training version of the plane they are using.'

'With modifications?' Villiers suggested.

'Exactly, so that it can be used in a ground attack role in mountainous country. The changes were made in Russia, but there have been problems which I was brought in to solve.'

'So, you've finally had enough? What were you hoping to do, go to Israel?'

'Not particularly. I'm not a convinced Zionist for one thing. No, England would be a much more attractive proposition. I was over there with a trade delegation in nineteen thirty-

nine, just before the war started. The best two months of my life.'

'I see.'

'I was hoping to get out in nineteen fifty-nine. Corresponded secretly with relatives in Israel who were going to help, then I was betrayed by someone I had thought a true friend. An old story, I was sentenced to five years.'

'In the Gulag.'

'No, somewhere much more interesting. Would you believe, a little Ulster town called Drumore?'