Gunner Kelly

any drifter . . . Aloysius Kelly could have spotted the bomb — he knew the form: he’d more likely set one than be caught by one. But if the KGB set it — if he gave them a body . . . then no more pursuit: out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety —

the old, old story, Benedikt, man!”

Benedikt stared at him. More likely to set a bomb than be caught by one —

“And Michael Kelly?”

“And Michael Kelly ... It would have been Michael who set him up in that cottage — if he gave Michael money years before, some of it would have been for the betting shop debts, and some for the bolt-hole . . . But after the bomb, if Michael knew he was still alive, then Michael was a little nettle still growing among the flowers. And little nettles have a way of growing bigger.”

But that didn’t fit. “Are you suggesting that Michael got away from Aloysius? That he realised he’d be next?” He shook his head.

“No.”

Audley frowned. “Michael’s no fool. Damn it—you can see that for yourself.” But then he shook his head. “No ... I take your point

—it isn’t likely. But there was something that bound them dummy1

together: blood had been thick enough for Michael. It could have been thick enough for Aloysius ... at least to start with, until the idea of being absolutely safe began to corrode his mind.” Pause.

“Remember Mr Smith’s parting shot? Running changes a man?”

That was more like it. To kill a blood-relative who had also been a friend . . . that might daunt any man; and the Irish were a strange race, in which poetry and romantic chivalry mingled with dark notions of blood sacrifice. Yet also that image of corrosion was right: to leave one’s life in another man’s hands . . . for Aloysius Kelly could never be sure that the KGB would not reach Audley’s conclusion, and look to confirm their suspicion from Michael. And Aloysius of all men would know how unremitting they were in pursuit, too ... to leave one’s life to such a chance—

“Perhaps he just gave Michael a sporting chance, for old times’

sake. ‘I’ll count from one to a hundred—and then watch yourself, me boyo.’ ” Audley’s eyes widened in amazement at his own imagination. “That’s the trouble—why I’d never take an Irish job: I like them too much as people, and I find them totally incomprehensible—I studied their history at Cambridge from Strongbow to Parnell and Gladstone, and I could never answer a single question right, even when I knew the facts. And I wish to hell I’d never promised Jane and Becky— that I’d never promised to make sense of this, damn it!”

Jane?

But Jane didn’t matter. Audley had lifted the stakes far above little girls with the possibility of this final duel between the two Kellys, Aloysius and Michael.

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The outer door of the museum banged behind him, and the Corporal’s boots cracked like rifle-shots on the concrete floor.

“I have a car for you, sir.” The Corporal addressed Benedikt as though Audley was as invisible as he’d promised to be. “Major Kennedy’s wife’s car actually, that the lady brought back with her from our last posting ... I hope you have no objection to a foreign car, sir?”

Benedikt goggled at him. “A f-foreign car, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir. A Volkswagen Scirocco GL—a Jerry car, but very nippy, and I think your young lads will like it ... If you’ve no objection?”

Benedikt looked at Audley, then back at the Corporal. “No objection, Corporal. A Jerry car will do very well for me, thank you. No objection at all.”

Zu Ruhm und Sieg! A Volkswagen would be just right for that.

PART THREE

You pays your money, and you takes your choice The Old House,

Steeple Horley,

Sussex

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My dear Jack,

You will, of course, be getting my official report of occurrences in Duntisbury Chase both before and after my somewhat traumatic meeting with you. But that will be couched in the proper jargon, abbreviated and bowdlerised so as not to offend less understanding official eyes and ears than yours, furnished and ornamented with such excuses and explanations as may mitigate my crimes if not altogether exculpate me from censure, and— apart from the usual suppressio vert suggestio falsi— with one or two outright falsehoods which I consider necessary and which I confide they will swallow.

This private letter I am writing partly to set the record straight, but partly also because you may find out more from another source; and— not least because I must admit a gross original error of judgement— I would not wish you to be wrong-footed in such an event. I must also admit that if I was sure we could get away with it I would not be putting pen to paper now. But better from me now than from some enemy— or innocent source— later.

By ‘we’, you see, I mean your daughter Jane and me.

The fault, however, is all mine, not Jane’s. Becky Maxwell-Smith, a friend of hers at Bristol University, confided in her. Being your cleverest one Jane smelt bad trouble. But— still being your cleverest— she also knew that you were up to your ears in work (Cheltenham) and that I was on leave, so she turned to me.

Unwisely, as it turned out, but she can hardly be blamed for assuming that I represented Age and Wisdom, for not knowing that I was going through one of my accidie periods (why the hell didn ‘t dummy1

you give me Cheltenham? I’ve a friend teaching modern languages there at school)— bored out of my mind and ready for any mischief.

The moment I arrived at Duntisbury Chase I was lost: that marvellous place— a little world of its own under its unbelievable sky—and that Irishman.

You know my hang-ups about the Irish— which probably date from the time 1 fluffed a question at Cambridge on Elizabeth Tudor’s Irish policy: I just don’t understand them. But I’d read the Maxwell memo (saying that it was definitely not an IRA hit) before I went on leave. So he seemed a safe enough object for close study

— at least, that’s what I told myself.

Self-indulgence and stupidity— I know! But it was good fun— and I was able to watch over Becky, as I’d promised— until our loyal Bundesnachrichtendienst ally turned up out of the blue. I should have reported to you then, but I thought I’d stand a better chance with you if I came bearing gifts— namely, how and why the Germans had reached Duntisbury Chase ahead of us (or, in this case,you, Jack—to be brutally frank), as well as Gunner Kelly’s secret, whatever it might be.

As it turned out, Captain Schneider’s explanation for his presence was— and is— decidedly thin, which made me all the more curious about his appearance. I wanted more, but I had an appointment with one of my American contacts, who was digging dirt on Gunner Kelly for me in recompense for past favours.

And that, of course, produced the dynamite too unstable for me to handle, which I brought to you with my tail between my legs— not least because I was terrified that the next thing we’d get in dummy1

Duntisbury Chase was a herd of CIA tourists sampling the rural charms of the place, and making Michael bolt— and scaring off Aloysius (if he was alive).

The problem was, as I explained briefly when I saw you, that I couldn’t be in two places at once, for only saints have the gift of bi-location. But I had to see you— so I had to trust Captain Schneider.

Had to? That’s unfair to him: I sent him back to the Chase because I trusted him— not because I had no choice.

Or trusted him on one level, anyway. Because I’m damn sure he lied about his reason for being there. More likely— more humiliatingly likely, if their Wiesbaden computer is as good as rumour has it— he was there because he already knew about Aloysius Kelly’s connection with Michael Kelly and they surely wanted Aloysius just as much as we did, if not more. He put on a damn good show of innocence, right to the end. And he’s a very sharp and resourceful young man, as well as being a brave one (like we said in the war: when they ‘re bad, they ’re very, very bad. . .but when they ‘re good, they’re sometimes a damn sight better than us; and he’s very much his father’s son, and his father by all accounts was very good indeed).

The point is, I had my source on him (but mostly on his father), and I liked the cut of his jib. You might say he’s everything I’m not—

or, seeing that I’m the wrong generation (the war-wounded one), he’s everything that our pupil Paul Mitchell isn’t: Paul is English, with a cynical-pragmatic French strain— Benedikt Schneider is half-English, but actually all German . . . serious (Christian), efficient, perhaps rather sentimental-romantic, but above all dummy1

honourable. In fact, allowing that he wasn’t old and bruised and rubbed all over with alcohol, and more than half-crazy and Prussian with it, he was like old Blücher after Ligny and before Waterloo. When I left him in the tank museum, he ‘d given me his word and he meant to keep it.

So I trusted him, anyway— I even told him about Aloysius Kelly, if he didn’t know already, so that he wouldn’t go back to the Chase not knowing who he might end up against.

And you know how things went wrong after that, at our end—your end— with you at Cheltenham, and the time we lost because of that: my fault— my sin— mihi paenitet— or is it me paenitet, I can’t remember, my Latin’s getting rustier every day— but I lost the hours of life and death that mattered there, Jack. So I was on the road back, south from Cheltenham, when it all blew up. And every time I get it wrong, someone dies— like that young policeman died, and like lovely Frances died—

“Captain Schneider!” Miss Becky exhibited equal measures of surprise and envy. “Where’s David? And where did you get that car? What a beautiful colour!”

Smile. “It’s called ‘Champagne’.” It was a woman’s colour, certainly: left to himself, he would have chosen silver in Germany, and British Racing Green in Britain if Volkswagen offered that shade. “I borrowed it from one of his armoured corps friends.”

Smile again. “He is a Panzer man, from long ago, Fräulein—I have learnt that this day, at the tank museum which is in the middle of dummy1

nowhere.”

The smile came back to him. “At Bovington?” Her face lit up.

“He’s a dragoon, actually. It’s rather nice—how they still have

‘dragoons’ and ’hussars‘—and ’the Household Cavalry‘, who ride horses only for the Queen, but really drive tanks and such things.”

The smile embraced him. “Not that he did—he’s a terrible driver—

he crashes the gears on his Cavalier something awful, I’d never let him ride one of my horses—” the smile edited itself“—but where is he?”

“He’s gone home.” He fabricated slight embarrassment. “He spoke with his wife upon the telephone, from—from the museum of Panzers, Fräulein.”

“Faith?”

“Faith?”

“His wife—Faith.”

“Ach so—Faith—his wife.” He was conscious of serving up another inadequate explanation which needed more substance.

“There was some pressing family matter, I believe. But he said for you to telephone him at his home—the number I have for you.” He felt in his pocket. “And he said that he would return very soon, perhaps by nightfall.”

“Oh.” Audley’s absence had worried her, but now she was at least partially reassured. “He said to phone him?”

“Yes. At his home.” As he handed over the slip of paper he remembered his duty. “And Mr Kelly? I am to speak with him, if you please.”

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“Yes—of course . . .” More and more she was over-matched by the deadly game she had allowed herself to play, he could see that very clearly. But she was a long way from giving in to her fear even now. “He’s in the West Tower. Peter Bradley and Blackie are up there with him at the moment, running over our plans for this evening.”

“Our plans?”

“Didn’t David tell you?” She thought for a moment. “It was Michael’s idea . . . now that we’ve got the radios—to have two practice runs this evening, just after dark.” She smiled again.

“When you . . . arrived last night there was a certain amount of . . .

confusion. We don’t want that next time, so Michael’s arranged two intrusions for this evening—one will be coming over the top, by Caesar’s Camp, and the other will come down the stream, from the ford.”

That was interesting—interesting that Gunner Kelly had marked the stream as an approach route into the heart of the village . . . and interesting also that he had chosen to test the defences at two points which single intruders might favour. Whereas the KGB ...

the Special Bureau would send in a three man squad for this sort of operation: one man to make the hit, one backing him up, and a driver to get them in close and out quickly. For though they might expect the target to be on his guard after the Old General’s death, they would not— could not—imagine a community-in-arms waiting for them.

But then, equally, what did Michael Kelly expect? Or ... if Audley had warned him of KGB practices . . . why was he practising for a dummy1

single intruder? Why—unless Audley was right, and he already knew that it would be just that—just Aloysius Kelly—

“Captain?”

Benedikt blinked quickly, aware too late that he had been staring the poor girl out of countenance. “Forgive me, Fräulein! I was thinking . . . you are being very careful. And that is good: you are right to be very careful.” He smiled.

“Yes.” She did not find his smile reassuring, but she bore up bravely. “David said not to relax for a moment. And not to trust anyone we don’t know.”

“Including me?” Mother would not approve of her—of what she was doing. But Papa’s attitude would be more relaxed.

“Oh no! David said . . .” She trailed off. “Is what we are doing so very wrong, Captain Schneider?”

“Wrong?” He played for time.

“We’re not going to kill anyone. If we can help it.”

“You were going to kill someone—at first—weren’t you?” He watched her. “Or Mr Kelly was, anyway.”

She bit her lip. “Yes. That would have been wrong—David made us see that. But . . . these people . . . who do things like this—

killing Grandfather . . .”

“It was Mr Kelly they were after, though—yes?”

“That makes it worse. Killing Grandfather—or it might have been anyone passing by—just as though he didn’t matter one way or the other ... as though he was nothing—and ordinary people are dummy1

nothing.” Suddenly she was defiant. “Well, we’re going to show them that people aren’t nothing. That’s what we’re going to do.”

“Them?” The phenomenon of the worm turning—and turning into a cobra as it turned—was an old and interesting one. But he had no time for it today. “And who is ‘them’, Fräulein?”

“Whoever comes. It doesn’t matter.”

“But only Mr Kelly knows. Because only Mr Kelly can summon them. Does that not worry you?”

“Why should it worry us?”

“For two reasons, Fräulein. Do you not want to know why they want him dead? Suppose Mr Kelly is a bad man . . . ?”

Her chin came up. “Michael served with Grandfather. If he was good enough for Grandfather, he’s good enough for us.” She looked at him proudly. “You never met Grandfather, so you can’t understand. But that’s the way it is.”

Amazing! But also wonderful in its ancient meaning: full of wonder

—the faith out of which great good and great evil came, according to its inspiration, from Jesus Christ to Karl Marx and Adolf Hitler.

“So—”

“Michael would have died for Grandfather.” She cut him off. “You should have seen him after . . . after the bomb. He could never have pretended that—the way he was . . . And he could have run away afterwards. But he didn’t, Captain Schneider.”

“No. He didn’t.” She was beautiful, thought Benedikt. God grant me another time, another place!

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“And he may still die for him, Captain Schneider. Because he’s the target here—no one else is in danger.”

He nodded. “Yes. But he is also an old soldier. So are you sure he will not prefer to kill for your Grandfather still?”

She smiled suddenly. “Because he has Grandfather’s old gun?

Captain ... he doesn’t know it, but that gun has no firing pin. It wouldn’t hurt a baby.” The smile became almost tender. “We know Michael. . . That was the only part of him we didn’t trust—

that’s why I gave him the gun, you see. Just in case.”

God in heaven! thought Benedikt. And that was a complication if things went wrong, too.

“But don’t you dare tell him that, though,” she admonished him.

“The moment he sends off for them, to let them know he’s here, we shalln’t let him out of our sight for a moment—David’s got it all worked out—that was why David was so angry when he went out to see you last night.... But. . . you go and talk to him—ask him about Grandfather ... I must go and see about supper—”

The rooms passed him by, dreamlike . . . Gunner Kelly— Michael Kelly—up against Aloysius, if not the KGB . . . with a useless weapon in his hand— God in heaven!

At the foot of the spiral staircase in the West Tower he met Blackie Nabb coming down, with a bearded young man at his back.

“Evenin‘, sir,” Blackie acknowledged him with an air of armed neutrality, his shot-gun safely broken open under his arm, while the bearded young man studied him in silence, frankly curious, as dummy1

he squeezed past up the narrow stair.

Duntisbury Chase was going on the alert between the two of them, guessed Benedikt: old and new skills, they had . . . but would that alliance be enough against Aloysius Kelly, whose own experience went back to General Franco’s war?

“Ahhh—Mr David’s German gentleman—Captain!” Kelly chose his Irish voice with which to greet him. But then he peered past him, towards the empty landing. “An‘ the Great Man himself—?”

“Dr Audley is at home. His wife summoned him.” The thin excuse again.

“Did she now?” Polite—but absolute—disbelief. “An‘ him a good family man? Well!”

“Miss Rebecca is telephoning him at his home now.” With Kelly that somehow only stretched the lie even more thinly.

“Is she so?” Kelly cocked an eyebrow at him. “An‘ not checkin’ up on me, then?”

“Checking up on you?”

“Uh-huh,” agreed Kelly equably. “After exchangin‘ notes with you, Captain.” Then he grinned. “I should have shot you last night, I’m thinkin’, an‘ said ’sorry‘ afterwards.”

Benedikt decided to be very German. “Please?”

“Ah now—don’t be givin‘ me that!” Kelly brushed his incomprehension aside. “You know what I mean very well. For I’ve fought you fellas—six long years . . . An’ if it was one thing dummy1

you never were, it was foolish. ‘Twas only when that little man—

him with the Charlie Chaplin moustache—’twas only when he interfered that you made mistakes . . . You never let us down otherwise, the Squire always said. So don’t be disappointin‘ me, eh? Checkin’ on me, he’ll be.”

Better to say nothing at all, Benedikt corrected himself.

“Or maybe he doesn’t need to check now?” Kelly stared at him for a moment, and then stood up suddenly and turned towards the window behind him for another moment, and tljen swung back just as quickly. “The hell with that! There was a fella I knew once, that’s dead and gone, but you lot can never rest easy because of him

—that’s why you’re here. Because there’s no other reason worth a damn—deny that if you can!”

There was no point in arguing. “And if I do not choose to deny it, Mr Kelly?”

“Faith—then you’ve wasted your time! For he told me nothing—

nothing—would you believe that?” He paused for only half a second. “But of course you would not! It’s the one thing that none of you will believe—because you can’t afford to believe it!

Because the thing that he had—whatever it was ... it was too big for you—is that a fact, now?”

Nothing?

“But I tell a lie! It was not nothing he told me—” Kelly leaned towards him “—he did tell me one thing. And you know what that was?”

Nothing? Or one thing?

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“He said to me: ‘I think I’m safe home at last, Michael— me that hates ’em all, for the black bastards they are, both sides of ‘em, that’ll never let a man rest . . . But if anything happens to me, then you start runnin’, Michael, an‘ don’t look over your shoulder, an’

don’t ever stop, because it’ll be you they’ll be after then, in case I’ve given it to you!‘ ” Gunner Kelly wiped his hand across his mouth. “An’ it did happen to him—so I ran. That’s all.”

“He gave you nothing?”

“Captain—don’t you think that if he’d given me anything I’d not have given it up by now? Mary, Mother of God! But how can you prove that you don’t know what you don’t know? You can only run

—that’s all you can do!”

Suddenly his face changed. “But then there was the Old General—

the Squire . . . that was the best man that God ever made out of clay ... I asked him for a bed for the night, an‘ I told him why I was running. And he gave me four years and his own life in exchange, is what he did.”

The man wasn’t lying. Aloysius Kelly was dead and it was the KGB who were coming to Duntisbury Chase—Benedikt had never been more certain of anything in his life.

“So this time—just for this time—I’m not running.” Kelly shook his head quickly. “Oh—I know we’ll not get them as have given the orders ... I know we’ll never get them—they’ll die in their beds most likely, one way—another way . . . But we’ll get the bastards who did their dirty work—it’ll be the same fellas, I’ll be bound . . .

An‘ we’ll make a great scandal, an’ get the headlines in all the papers—an‘ that’ll be big trouble for them, back home, that they’ll dummy1

not be forgiven for. An’ that’ll be something that’s better than nothing. They’ll not forget us, by God!”

In his own way he was saying what Miss Becky had said, thought Benedikt. And even if it wasn’t true Gunner Kelly believed it to be true.

And more, also: this would be a killing, not a capturing, if Gunner Kelly could make it so. Of that he was also certain.

So Audley had been right not to trust Gunner Kelly, whether it was Aloysius or the KGB out there: and prudence, in the most remote possibility that they were both wrong about Aloysius, decreed that he should be slowed down.

“But what about Miss Becky? Do you not have an obligation to her?”

“Ah—she’ll be all right. It’ll all be over, and her no part of it.”

Gunner Kelly looked at him. “I mind a time . . . Dr Audley said your dad was an anti-tank gunner—is that a fact, now?”

“Yes.” Benedikt frowned. What had Papa to do with this— with Gunner Kelly and Miss Becky?

“So he was, then! Well, I mind a time—it was in Tunisia it was, when I was with the Squire . . . And we bedded down in this little valley, minding our own business, an‘ thinking there wasn’t a Jerry within fifteen miles of us—an’ nothing in front of us, do you see . . . not that it was our affair what was in front of us—it was 25

pounders we had, and gunners we were . . . An‘ then there was all this terrible row one night—and it was bloody Jerries—” Kelly registered Benedikt suddenly “— that’s to say, it was Germans out dummy1

in front of us somewhere, where they’d no right to be at all... It was a wearying night, we had, not knowing what was going on over the ridge in front. But the Squire and all, they reckoned there was nothing we could do, an’ it was best to leave it to whoever was busy there, because the Germans weren’t coming forward, so far as we could make out, an‘ they weren’t shooting at us—they didn’t seem to be shooting at anything much, they were just shooting over our little valley. ... I think the Squire did get out for a bit, because that was the sort of thing he did. But he came back pretty smartish . . . Anyway, in the morning, a whole lot of Gordons came through—Scotsmen, anyway—infantry, clearing up the way they do ... walking along an’ shooting a few people, and taking prisoners, an‘ that . . . An’ the Squire says to me ‘Come on, Kelly, an’ let’s go an‘ have a look over the top there.’ And the first thing we saw was these Bofors guns—anti-aircraft guns . . . But they hadn’t been attacked, the crews had spent the whole night cowering in their emplacement, just like us ... So we went on a bit

—for they said there was guns in front of them down the ridge, which we took to be more Bofors . . . But then we came upon this extraordinary gun—begod, we more like tripped over it, for it was almost invisible, with no shield that I recall, an‘ no more than knee-high to a little fella . . . but with this great long barrel along the ground, pointing across the next valley. And there were its owners in their slit-trench just nearby, brewing up. So the Squire says:

’Who the devil are you, then?‘ And looks at the long gun, ’An‘

what the devil is that?’ says he, pointing at it ... An‘ they says

’Why, that’s the new 17-pounder, that is—an‘ if you want to know what it does, just you look across yonder’. An‘ they points across dummy1

the valley, an’ there’s four—maybe half a dozen—Jerry tanks, that’s come round the side across their front, poor devils—twelve hundred yards away . . . twelve hundred yards, if it was an inch!”

He shook his head in wonderment which had evidently not decreased in forty years. “That was the first time the 17-pounder ever went into action—in front of our gun position, saving our bacon. We couldn’t believe our eyes, I tell you!”

Benedikt looked at the Irishman questioningly. “Yes?”

“Aargh! Do ye not see?” Kelly cocked his head at such obtuseness.

“ ‘Tis us that are the 17-pounders here—you and me, and Dr Audley . . . An’ maybe Blackie Nabb and one or two others at a pinch. So if it’s Miss Becky you’re worried about— why, she shall sleep sound in her bed while we’re doing the business that has to be done, an‘ her none the wiser.” Then he smiled at Benedikt, and for the first time there was a hint of something more than mere calculation in his eye. “I understand you, Captain: a fine young lady, she is—and with a heart as big as her grandsire’s. But she has her life before her . . . And the rest of us can look after ourselves well enough.”

Somewhere far away, but still within the house, a bell rang out a tuneless electrical alarm.

Kelly looked at his watch. “There now! That’ll be young Mr Bradley calling me to my duty with him, havin‘ all our people placed where they should be. The marvels of science!” He smiled at Benedikt again. “Your concern does you credit, Captain. Once upon a time it would have been a pleasure to have fought you—an’

now it’s glad I am that you’re on the same side. But you must dummy1

excuse me while I go to see how young Peter’s getting on. Then I’ll be with you for supper in the kitchen before we put our defences through their paces—eh?”

Schneider knew there was something wrong then, but only by instinct, not by reason, so he says. Kelly was too calm and confident—‘ laid back’, is it? ‘Serene’ almost, Schneider says: not so much like the old phoenix before it goes into the fire, but more like the new one which comes out of the flames, born again.

So he knew something was wrong, just as I always knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it any more than I could, because neither of us is a computer with total instantaneous recall. But he thought he still had some time in his pocket, and he knew Kelly was with Peter Bradley in what passed for their control room, so he went to look for Becky to find out whether she’d confirmed my alleged whereabouts.

Becky was making the supper. She’d phoned my wife, who had said that I was in the bath and would phone back, as I’d instructed her to do. And he talked with her for a few minutes, for the sake of politeness. Only, by that time the thing in the back of his mind, which had been nagging him, but which he still couldn’t reach, was on the way to driving him half frantic. He went out from the kitchen, down the passage and into the main hall.

The main hall at Duntisbury Manor is where a lot of the family portraits are: a selection of military Maxwells down the years, with the Sargent picture of Colonel Julian, the poet, in pride of place.

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No picture of the Old General, of course— he was never self-considering enough to have one painted. And yet he was there all the same, said Schneider: it was the Old General— the Squire—

who filled his mind, not Kelly. Not either of the Kellys. Just the Old General.

And then he had it. ‘Like it was the Old General gave it to me,’ he says. And you can make what you like of that—

“Miss Rebecca—do not argue, I beg of you! He must not leave the Chase! I have told Peter Bradley to give that order, but he does not know me—he will not obey me. But he will obey you, Fräulein!”

He had to reach her somehow.

“But, Captain—he is with Peter, surely—”

“No! He has gone, I tell you!” He felt time accelerating away from him. “When Peter rang the bell it was to tell him that a car had passed the ford—a car with three men in it.”

“Yes, but—”

“He told Peter not to worry—that they were accounted for and expected. Expected?” If it frightened her—he had no choice. “What men?”

“I don’t know. But—”

“He knows.” He was committed now. “He was expecting them—

and he has gone to meet them.” He cast around desperately in his memory for something with which to convince her. But the truth would be meaningless to her, even if he had had time for it. “This is what he planned—from the start. . . Where are most of your dummy1

people now? They are out of the way on the ridge and along the stream where he sent them. You must believe me, Miss Rebecca!”

Suddenly her hand came to her mouth. “That gun he has—! Oh God!”

Huh! thought Benedikt. But if that would move her, then that must be his way. “I will go, Miss Rebecca—I have the car outside. But you must give that order: he is to be stopped at all costs.”

“Yes—yes—”

“Has he a car?” Without a car the man couldn’t get far.

“No—yes . . . My Metro is at Blackie’s—he’ll know that—” She didn’t stop to wonder why he was asking her.

“Well, you’ve got your road-blocks—set them up, then. And stop him at gun-point—” God in heaven! What would that lead to? But he had no more time to worry about that. “—but give that order, Miss Rebecca—now!”

“Yes.” Her decision reached, she started to move. And then stopped. “You won’t get past the lodge gates. But the key’s hanging up by the backdoor—on a hook—”

Odd how last-minute thoughts make the difference. But then odd about that 17-pounder story . . . of all the stories he could have told. Though perhaps not so odd, on second thoughts, Jack: he told a story for Captain Schneider, and no one else, I suppose.

But if she hadn’t remembered about the locked gates . . . Kelly just nipped over the wall, and headed for Blackie Nabb’s garage. But Schneider went round the back to get the key— and there was this dummy1

KGB heavy lying stone-cold dead (or still warm, rather) by the open backdoor. Three shots for him— he was the back-up man, so maybe he’d smelt something wrong and was moving when Kelly hit him; whereas the squad leader inside the lodge— the one who’d expected to wait for Kelly, and had found Kelly waiting for him—

just one heart-shot for him, nice and clean. Gunner Kelly indeed, by God! But not with an old 25-pounder— and not with an old war souvenir with no firing pin either, which told Schneider all he needed to know, which he’d only suspected until then, but was sure now— the neat head-shot— and also warned him of what lay ahead: two hundred yards away up the road, nicely parked on the verge, under the trees by the estate wall where Kelly had crossed out of the wood— a brown 2-litre Cortina, six years old and as anonymous as you could wish for, except for the driver lying dead across the front seat— another head-shot at close quarters for him, he never knew what hit him.

So Schneider put his foot down then—

It was the same tableau he had seen once before, but with differences out of a nightmare.

The farm tractor and its hay-bale-loaded trailer were slewed across the road, out of the same gateway. But now a pale blue Metro was nosed against it, driver’s door wide. That was one difference.

Inconsequential things: the Metro’s engine was still running. . . one of the gate-posts leaned out of true, beside a buckled fence, from yesterday’s charade—

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Blackie Nabb stood up from where he had been squatting beside the body on the verge. And, in the same movement, his shot-gun came up to cover Benedikt. And death brushed across him, light as a cobweb, as he faced the man in the long moment which it took to lift his empty hands.

Inconsequential things: the dead man’s legs—how did he know the man was dead?—stretched out of the tall summer grass into the road—old scuffed leather boots, hob-nailed with iron studs.

Benedikt found his voice. “Miss Rebecca sent me.” The words sounded foreign.

Blackie Nabb made a sound in his throat. “Too late.” He eyes left Benedikt’s face for an instant. “Over there.” The shot-gun lowered slowly.

Benedikt moved cautiously. There was a silenced Heckler and Koch pistol in the road, lying beside the Metro’s toy-like nearside wheel. Then he saw Kelly.

“He is dead?” More foreign words.

“I dunno. An‘ I don’t much care, neither.” Blackie’s voice was matter-of-fact.

Benedikt looked at him.

“Down by the stream, we were.” Blackie drew breath. “An‘ the message come—to stop ’un. An‘ Old Cecil drove the tractor, an’ I sets on the back. We got ‘ere just before ’im.”

There were sounds in the distance.

“‘E says to Old Cecil ’Open up the road‘ . . . An’, for an answer, Old Cecil just gets off the tractor.” Another breath, almost a sigh.

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“An‘ ’e says again, ‘Open up the road’. An‘ Old Cecil says ’No‘.

An’ then there’s this . . . like a thump, as I was a-comin‘ round the side.” He looked straight at Benedikt. ’“E didn’t give ‘im no chance. An’ I didn’t give him none, neither.”

Benedikt went to where the shot-gun blast had blown Kelly, on the opposite verge. Blackie must have been very quick to have got that shot in like that, against an expert; and, more than that, because with killing it needed will as well as reflexes. But the old soldier’s training must have reinforced the poacher’s instinct in that instant, so Kelly had been unlucky at the last when he was almost clear.

He knelt down beside the man. The blast had taken him midway, and not spread much, but there was a lot of blood. The unmarked face was grey-white, and old. He thought. . . old men shouldn ‘t die like this—

And then the eyes opened suddenly, and the chest moved, blowing a bubble of blood.

“Captain.” Kelly looked up at him, expressionless as Blackie.

“Ahh . . .”

With a wound like that ... it was hard to tell if there was nothing to lose—or anything to gain?

Nothing to gain of value now, he estimated coldly. Only curiosity was left now.

He bent a little closer. “Why did you kill them?”

Kelly gazed at him. “Told you. Personal matter.”

That wouldn’t do. “No . . . Alloysius.”

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Just as suddenly as they had opened, the eyes were no longer without expression. “Ahh . . . You knew?” Now they were sharing curiosity. “How long?” Almost a frown now.

Truth? “Minutes.” Truth. “The long gun—the 17-pounder . . . The Old General wasn’t there, he was away sick at the time. So you lied. But you had no reason to lie ... Or you weren’t there yourself, either . . . And that made me think of other things ...” Yet—what other things? wondered Benedikt. Because it still didn’t add up.

“Ahh . . .” The frown was smoothed away. “True story, though—

Michael’s story . . . Had to be Michael, for you . . . little mistake—

big mistake. Clever—too clever.” Almost imperceptible nod.

“Michael always said . . . Jerries clever.” Against the odds the voice was stronger. “Forgot that.”

And, even more strangely, the voice was no longer Irish, but had no country. “It was Michael who was killed?”

Another tiny movement of the head. “Bad luck. Both going . . .

running . . . Spotted one of them—can always tell . . . bastards . . .

Michael had talked of going to the Squire—safe with him ... I went instead.”

And that was where it didn’t make sense. “And he accepted you?

As Michael?”

“Michael?” Aloysius Kelly closed his eyes, and for a moment Benedikt thought he had lost him. “Ahh ... I was Michael—

Michael Kelly . . . 834 Gunner Kelly, sir!” Another frothy bubble expanded, bigger than the rest. “Best troop in the battery, best battery in the regiment, best regiment in the brigade, best brigade dummy1

in the division, best fucking division in the whole fucking army!

834 Gunner Kelly, Sir! ”

He still couldn’t believe it. “The Old General accepted you as Michael?”

The eyes opened. “What?”

“He-accepted-you-as-Michael?”

“Accept me? The Squire? Never!” There was blood at the corner of Kelly’s mouth. “Told you true . . . told him true . . . not all of it, of course—couldn’t do that. . . But told him I was done with it—their lies, my lies—over and done with for ever, and no going back in this world . . . Told him a lie—told him Michael had gone back to Ireland, where he’d be safe—not him they were after, only me—

couldn’t tell him about Michael . . . Asked him if I could lay up for a few days, till I got my breath back.”

More blood now. What had the newspapers said about Michael Kelly’s death? An accidental explosion of petrol in a garage? And nothing about a victim, of course ... all hushed up. . .

“He was a man, he was—the Squire. ‘If Gunner Kelly’s safe in Ireland,’ he said, ‘then you be Gunner Kelly safe in England—how about that, then?’ ” Impossibly, Aloysius Kelly was moving one hand, as though to touch Benedikt. “How about that, then—834

Gunner Kelly—the Squire and Gunner Kelly—the bastards’ll not forget them so quickly, not now—”

Then the blood came with a great rush, choking him.

How we put all that together is according to taste, I suppose, Jack!

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So far as Captain Benedikt Schneider is concerned, the fact that he knew every detail of the Old General’s military career only demonstrates once again how thoroughly the BND does its homework— thanks, presumably, to the Wiesbaden computer. But even so, his catching the one mistake Kelly made— that 17-pounder lie which the real Gunner Kelly wouldn’t have told—

marks him as someone special: young Schneider has that rare gift which is better than a good memory, the wild faculty of plucking truth from untruth.

For his part, he maintains that the lie sparked all his subconscious suspicions into consciousness. I had fed him my doubts about Aloysius

Kelly’s supposed death (though perhaps he already knew that); and all along he’d picked up contradictory vibrations from

‘Gunner Kelly’. The man was a cunning hunter, like Esau in the Bible, but that could have been the old soldier’s skills surfacing.

Yet he was also a smooth man, like Joseph in the Bible—

sometimes falsely wearing Esau’s hairy skin, but also Joseph’s coat-of-many-colours.

Of course, I’d picked up Kelly vibes too. But I was blinded by the Old General’s acceptance of him as ‘Gunner Kelly’: my experience of pure Christ-like goodness, which gives sanctuary to sinners without listening to the Devil’s Advocate, is sadly defective, I fear . . . Besides which I was too busy looking for danger from outside the Chase— perhaps that’s how that original Fighting Man came unstuck.

Excuses, excuses! Maybe if I’d known the Old General’s military dummy1

history I would have sussed out the real Kelly from the false one—

and maybe if Schneider hadn’t been his father’s son, come fresh from the tank museum, he wouldn’t have done. But the fact is that I didn’t and he did.

When it comes to Aloysius Kelly and his motivation, there is a difference of opinion between Schneider and myself. Of course, I watched the man over several days, but Schneider saw him die.

My somewhat unromantic Anglo-Saxon view, anyway, is that ihe leopard does not change his spots— that however much Kelly may have admired the Old General he always intended to survive. So his vengeance was intended to leave us believing that he was indeed Gunner Kelly, while the blood-bath in Duntisbury Chase—

the elimination of an entire hit-squad— was intended to dampen the KGB’s ardour for continued pursuit (plus, of course, the scandal of such a massacre on our territory). I believe he had another bolt-hole set up.

While he thinks differently, Schneider does agree that by the end Aloysius was running very scared— he had been using Becky Maxwell-Smith and her people in the Chase to give him early warning; because he never underrated the KGB, even though he was obviously pretty sure he could get them where he wanted, when he wanted (with a pretended IRA call? They wanted him dead too). Anyway, my arrival was bad enough, but Schneider’s positively stampeded him: it was that evening or never, he must have reckoned.

It’s on the ‘why’ that we diverge. For Schneider is romantically obsessed with the sanctity of the Old General, which he thinks dummy1

somehow transmuted ex-Comrade Kelly into ex-Gunner Kelly, like base metal into gold— or even made a single man out of them, with the ex-comrade’s brains and the ex-gunner’s loyalty: a sort of super Irishman, but without the luck of the Irish.

Maybe we’re both right— and it was Comrade Aloysius who shot Old Cecil like a dog, and died for it; but it was Gunner Kelly who left that letter on the mantelpiece of the Lodge, claiming his ancient right of vengeance and exculpating the Chase from blame.

You pays your money, and you takes your choice, Jack.

As for me— the same applies. Captain Schneider is a loyal ally, and as blameless as your Jane. But Old Cecil’s blood is on my hands and I’ve lost you whatever was in Kelly’s head, so my resignation is attached. Use that or give me Cheltenham and I’ll win for you there, I promise. Losing is not to my taste.

Yours,

David

The End

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