Of the immediate and less immediate aftermath of the operation, the world knew a lot more than it realised; and certainly a lot more than Charlie. It knew, for instance--or could have done if it had studied the smaller news items of the foreign pages of the Anglo-Saxon press--that a suspected Palestinian terrorist had died in a shoot-out with members of a crack West German unit, and that his woman hostage, not named, had been removed to hospital in a state of shock, but was otherwise unhurt. The German newspapers carried more lurid versions of the story--"the wild west comes to the black forest"--but the stories were so remarkably assured, yet contradictory, that it was hard to make anything of them. A link with the abortive Freiburg bomb attack against Professor Minkel--originally reported dead, but later discovered to have made a miraculous escape--was so wittily denied by the urbane Dr. Alexis that everyone took it for granted. But it was only proper, said the wiser leader-writers, that we should not be told too much.
A succession of other minor incidents around the Western hemisphere raised occasional speculation about the doings of one or another Arab terrorist organisation, but really with so many rival groups these days, it was a toss-up where one should point the finger. The senseless gunning-down in broad daylight of Dr. Anton Mesterbein, for instance, the Swiss humanist lawyer, campaigner for minority rights, and son of the eminent financier, was laid squarely at the door of an extremist Falangist organisation that had recently "declared war" against Europeans overtly sympathetic to the Palestinian "occupation" of the Lebanon. The outrage occurred as the victim was leaving his villa for work--unprotected, as usual--and the world was deeply shocked for at least the first part of a morning. When a letter claiming responsibility and signed "Free Lebanon" was received by the editor of a Zürich newspaper, and declared authentic, a junior Lebanese diplomat was asked to leave the country, and did so philosophically.
The car-bombing of a Rejectionist Front diplomat outside the newly completed mosque in St. John's Wood rated hardly a notice anywhere; it was the fourth such killing in as many months.
On the other hand, the bloodthirsty knifing of the Italian musician and newspaper columnist Albert Rossino, and of his German lady companion, whose naked and barely recognisable bodies were discovered weeks later beside a Tyrolean lake, was declared by the Austrian authorities to have no political significance at all, despite the fact that both victims had radical connections. On the evidence available, they preferred to treat the case as a crime of passion. The lady, one Astrid Berger, was well known for her bizarre appetites, and it was held probable, if grotesque, that no third party was involved. A succession of other, less interesting deaths passed virtually unnoticed, as did the Israeli bombing of an ancient desert fortress on the Syrian border, which Jerusalem sources claimed was being used as a Palestinian training base for foreign terrorists. As to the four-hundred-pound bomb that exploded on a hilltop outside Beirut, destroying a luxurious summer villa and killing its occupants--which included both Tayeh and Fatmeh--it was about as impenetrable as any other act of terror in that tragic region.
But Charlie, in her seaside fastness, knew none of this; or, more accurately, she knew it all in general, and was either too bored or too frightened to receive the details. At first, she would only swim or take slow, aimless walks to the end of the beach and back, clutching her bathrobe to her throat while her bodyguards followed her at a respectful distance. In the sea, she was inclined to sit herself at the shallow, waveless edge, and make washing movements with the sea water, first her face and then her arms and hands. The other girls, on instruction, bathed naked; but when Charlie declined to follow this liberating example, the psychiatrist ordered them to cover themselves again, and wait.
Kurtz came to see her once a week, sometimes twice. He was extremely gentle with her; patient and faithful, even when she screamed at him. His information was practical, and all to her advantage.
A godfather had been invented for her, he said, an old friend of her father's who had struck it rich and recently died in Switzerland, leaving her a large sum of money which, since it came from foreign sources, would be free of capital transfer tax in the United Kingdom.
The British authorities had been spoken to, and had accepted--for reasons Charlie could not be party to--that no useful purpose would be served by digging further into her relationship with certain European and Palestinian extremists, he said. Kurtz was also able to reassure her of Quilley's good opinion of her: the police, he said, had actually made a point of calling on him to explain that their suspicion about Charlie had been misdirected.
Kurtz also discussed with Charlie methods of explaining her abrupt disappearance from London, and Charlie passively agreed to a concoction involving fear of police harassment, a mild nervous breakdown, and a mystery lover whom she had picked up after her stay in Mykonos, a married man who had led her a dance and finally dumped her. It was not till he started to school her in this, and presume to test her on small points, that she became pale and started to tremble. A similar manifestation occurred when Kurtz announced to her, somewhat unwisely, that "the highest level" had ruled she could claim Israeli citizenship any time she wished for the rest of her life.
"Give it to Fatmeh," she snapped, and Kurtz, who by then had a number of new cases going, had to consult the file in order to remind himself who Fatmeh was; or had been.
As to her career, said Kurtz, there were some exciting things waiting for her as soon as she felt ready to handle them. A couple of fine Hollywood producers had developed a sincere interest in Charlie during her absence, and were anxious to have her come right out to the Coast and do some screen tests. One actually had a small part up his sleeve that he thought might be just right for her; Kurtz didn't know the details. And there were some nice things happening in the London theatre scene as well.
"I just want to go back to where I was," Charlie said.
Kurtz said that could be arranged, dear, no problem.
The psychiatrist was a bright young fellow with a twinkle in his eye and a military background, and he was not at all given to self-analysis or any other kind of gloomy introspection.
Indeed, his concern seemed to be less to make her talk than to convince her that she shouldn't; in his profession, he must have been a most divided man. He took her for drives, first along the coast roads, then into Tel Aviv. But, when he injudiciously pointed out some of the few fine old Arab houses that had survived development, Charlie became incoherent with anger. He took her to out-of-the-way restaurants, swam with her, and even lay beside her on the beach and chatted her up a little, until she told him, with a strange twist in her voice, that she would prefer to talk to him in his office. When he heard that she liked to ride, he ordered horses, and they had a grand day's riding during which she seemed to forget herself completely. But the next day she was too quiet again for his taste, and he told Kurtz to wait another week at least. And sure enough the same evening she began a prolonged and unexplained fit of vomiting, which was all the more strange considering how little she was eating.