Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [67]
The plastic casing cracked.
She would have to hit it harder.
She lifted the stone and brought it down again. This time the casing broke, revealing the innards of the instrument: she saw a printed circuit, a loudspeaker cone and a pair of batteries with Russian script on them. She took out the batteries and threw them on the floor, then started to smash the mechanism.
She was grabbed from behind suddenly, and Jean-Pierre’s voice shouted: “What are you doing?”
She struggled against his grip, got free for a moment and struck another blow at the little radio.
He grasped her shoulders and hurled her aside. She stumbled and fell to the floor. She landed awkwardly, twisting her wrist.
He stared at the radio. “It’s ruined!” he said. “It’s irreparable!” He grabbed her by the shirt and hauled her to her feet. “You don’t know what you’ve done!” he screamed. There was despair and hot rage in his eyes.
“Let me go!” she shouted at him. He had no right to act like this when it was he who had lied to her. “How dare you manhandle me!”
“How dare I?” He let go of her shirt, drew back his arm and punched her hard. The blow landed in the middle of her abdomen. For a split second she was simply paralyzed with shock; then the pain came, deep inside where she was still sore from having had Chantal, and she cried out and bent over with her hands clutching her middle.
Her eyes were shut tight, so she did not see the second blow coming.
His punch landed full on her mouth. She screamed. She could hardly believe he was doing this to her. She opened her eyes and looked at him, terrified that he would hit her again.
“How dare I?” he screamed. “How dare I?”
She fell to her knees on the dirt floor, and began to sob with shock and pain and misery. Her mouth hurt so much she could hardly speak. “Please don’t hit me,” she managed. “Don’t hit me again.” She held a hand in front of her face defensively.
He knelt down, shoved her hand aside and thrust his face into hers. “How long have you known?” he hissed.
She licked her lips. They were swelling already. She dabbed at them with her sleeve, and it came away bloody. She said: “Since I saw you in the stone hut . . . on the way to Cobak.”
“But you didn’t see anything!”
“He spoke with a Russian accent, and said he had blisters. I figured it out from there.”
There was a pause while that sank in. “Why now?” he said. “Why didn’t you break the radio before?”
“I didn’t dare to.”
“And now?”
“Ellis is here.”
“So?”
Jane summoned up what little courage she had left. “If you don’t stop this . . . spying . . . I’ll tell Ellis, and he will stop you.”
He took her by the throat. “And what if I strangle you, you bitch?”
“If any harm comes to me . . . Ellis will want to know why. He’s still in love with me.”
She stared at him. Hatred burned in his eyes. “Now I’ll never get him!” he said. She wondered who he meant. Ellis? No. Masud? Could it be that Jean-Pierre’s ultimate purpose was to kill Masud? His hands were still around her throat. She felt his grip tighten. She watched his face fearfully.
Then Chantal cried.
Jean-Pierre’s expression changed dramatically. The hostility went from his eyes, and the fixed, taut look of anger crumpled; and finally, to Jane’s amazement, he put his hands over his eyes and began to cry.
She gazed at him with incredulity. She found herself feeling pity for him, and thought: Don’t be a fool—the bastard just beat you up. But despite herself she was touched by his tears. “Don’t cry,” she said quietly. Her voice was surprisingly gentle. She touched his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for what I did to you. My life’s work . . . all for nothing.”
She realized with astonishment and a trace of self-disgust that she was no longer angry with him, despite her swollen lips and the continuing pain in her tummy. She gave in to the sentiment, and put her arms around him, patting his back as if comforting a child.