Somehow the fact that he still had Jane was not much consolation. He was sleeping badly, but there was nothing else to do but go to bed. I did my best, Papa, he thought and he could almost hear his father's reply: I'm not interested in whether you did your best, I want to know whether you succeeded or failed. But the history books do not remember the men who almost achieved greatness. But who would have thought that Jane might follow him? He was the victim of the most appallingly bad luck: that the wounded boy was allergic to penicillin that Jane had heard Anatoly speak that she was able to recognize a Russian accent and that Ellis had turned up to give her courage. They should have met in a place from which they had a good view of the approaches all around, so that they could have been forewarned of any approach. What would I do, cut his throat with a scalpel? He's much stronger than I am - I could never overcome him. I'd like to kill Ellis, he thought, if I had the nerve. He might have been able to silence Jane somehow (Don't think about it, don't even think about it) but if anything happened to her Ellis would want to know why.
He had no means of contacting Anatoly and, even if Jane had not smashed the radio, he was unable to leave the village to meet Anatoly, for Jane would immediately know what he was doing and would tell Ellis. He ran over the possibilities again and again, but he always ended up with the same conclusion: he had to leave Afghanistan. Now it was all over, and he felt worthless, a failure, a might-have-been. A week ago he had been fulfilled and happy, master of the situation, doing useful work while he waited for his big chance. JEAN-PIERRE walked aimlessly through the moonlit fields in the depths of a black depression.
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