Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [120]
Rundstedt said quietly, “And if he does not report?”
“If he does not report, I shall reconsider just the same.”
Rundstedt nodded assent. “With your permission I will return to my command.”
“Granted.”
Rundstedt got to his feet, gave the military salute and went out. In the copper-lined elevator, falling four hundred feet to the underground garage, he felt his stomach turn over and wondered whether the sensation was caused by the speed of descent or by the thought that the destiny of his country lay in the hands of a single spy, whereabouts unknown.
Part Six
31
LUCY WOKE UP SLOWLY. SHE ROSE GRADUALLY, languidly, from the warm void of deep sleep, up through layers of unconsciousness, perceiving the world piece by isolated piece: first the warm, hard male body beside her; then the strangeness of Henry’s bed; the noise of the storm outside, as angry and tireless as yesterday and the day before; the faint smell of the man’s skin; her arm across his chest, her leg thrown across his as if to keep him there, her breasts pressed against his side; the light of day beating against her eyelids; the regular, light breathing that blew softly across her face; and then, all at once like the solution to a puzzle, the realization that she was flagrantly and adulterously lying with a man she had met only forty-eight hours before, and that they were naked in bed in her husband’s house. For the second time.
She opened her eyes and saw Jo. My God…she’d overslept.
He was standing beside the bed in his rumpled pajamas, hair tousled, a battered rag doll under his arm, sucking his thumb and staring wide-eyed at his mummy and the strange man cuddling each other in bed. Lucy could not read his expression, for at this time of day he stared wide-eyed at most things, as if all the world was new and marvelous every morning. She stared back at him in silence, not knowing what to say.
Then Henry’s deep voice said, “Good morning.”
Jo took his thumb out of his mouth, said, “Good morning,” turned around and went out of the bedroom.
“Damn, damn,” Lucy said.
Henry slid down in the bed until his face was level with hers, and kissed her. His hand went between her thighs and held her possessively.
She pushed him away. “For God’s sake, stop.”
“Why?”
“Jo’s seen us.”
“So what?”
“He can talk, you know. Sooner or later he’ll say something to David. What am I going to do?”
“Do nothing. Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters.”
“I don’t see why, the way he is. You shouldn’t feel guilty.”
Lucy suddenly realized that Henry simply had no conception of the complex tangle of loyalties and obligations that constituted a marriage. Any marriage, but especially hers. “It’s not that simple,” she said.
She got out of bed and crossed the landing to her own bedroom. She slipped into panties, trousers and a sweater, then remembered she had destroyed all Henry’s clothes and had to lend him some of David’s. She found underwear and socks, a knitted shirt and a V-necked pullover, and finally—right at the bottom of a trunk—one pair of trousers that were not cut off at the knee and sewn up. All the while Jo watched her in silence.
She took the clothes into the other bedroom. Henry had gone into the bathroom to shave. She called through the door, “Your clothes are on the bed.”
She went downstairs, lit the stove in the kitchen and put a saucepan of water on to heat. She decided to have boiled eggs for breakfast. She washed Jo’s face at the kitchen sink, combed his hair and dressed him quickly. “You’re very quiet this morning,” she said brightly. He made no reply.
Henry came down and sat at the table, as naturally as if he had been doing it every morning for years. Lucy felt very weird, seeing him there in David’s clothes, handing him a breakfast egg, putting a rack of toast on the table in front of him.
Jo said suddenly, “Is my daddy dead?”
Henry