The Memory Trap

ah, Sir Jack! Dr Audley — '

'Yes.' Butler's voice came from behind him.

'Hullo, Jack.' Audley glanced over his shoulder, but then returned to Mrs Harlin. 'Just one thing, Mrs Harlin. Would you phone my wife and tell her that I've had a talk with Matthew Fattorini, and that he's going to fix up a trip to America for Cathy.' He shook his head at her. 'She'll understand . . . We've got this problem of Cathy wanting to swan off to India for a year, to do her Christian duty. But she's still much too young for India.' He gave Butler half a shrug. 'And if this doesn't work I shall call on you, Jack. She's your god-daughter after all.'

Butler considered him dispassionately for a moment, as though weighing his anger with this flimsy alibi against other dummy1

more pressing matters. Then he looked down at his PA. 'And while you're about it, Mrs Harlin, you may reassure Mrs Audley that her husband has found time to attend to his duties. So she is not to worry about him.'

'Oh — ?' Audley decided to cut his losses also, for the same reason. 'We have company, I gather?'

Butler pointed towards the passage.

'Who — ' He found himself addressing Butler's back '—who have we got, Jack?'

'Henry Jaggard.' Butler stopped suddenly, indicating the door to a side-office. 'In there, David.'

The office was empty. 'Who else, Jack?'

'Your friend Renshaw, from the Cabinet Office. Leonard Aston. Commander Pitt.' Butler stared at him. 'And a woman named Franklin. You know her?'

'I've heard tell of her.' Jaggard evidently meant business.

'Isn't she Henry's new secret weapon?' He cocked his head at Butler. 'Is she targeted on us this morning —not the enemy?'

Another hard stare. 'Is there anything I should know before we go in, David?'

Not yet there wasn't. 'Have they seen Mitchell's report, on the Italian debacle?'

'Of course.'

Of course — yes! Because Kulik had been Henry Jaggard's business, and they had just been "helping out" —eh? 'Uh-dummy1

huh? So now I'm getting the blame for losing Peter Richardson — is that it?'

'You didn't lose him. He didn't turn up.' Butler's jaw set firm.

'And with the Russians there too, as well as those Arabs, that was just as well.'

Good old Jack! 'He's still loose, is he? Old Peter — ?' That was the real worry. 'The Italians were locking all the gates when I left.'

Butler drew a breath. "They think he's off their patch now.'

Audley relaxed. Richardson under Italian lock-and-key might have made things easier. But Richardson still free strengthened his own position right now. 'Why do you think that?'

'Someone answering his description chartered a plane at Rome late yesterday afternoon, just before they closed things up. An American businessman, with a good American passport. Name of Dalingridge.' Butler frowned slightly at him. "The Americans don't know anyone of that name . . . Do you?'

The name had caught him so much by surprise that he'd let his face show it. 'Where was he heading?'

'You know the name?'

It was too late to deny it. But, also, it was altogether too good to be true . . . unless Richardson had intended it to be exactly that. 'I might — yes.'

'From where?' Butler was past doubting that Mr Dalingridge dummy1

was Major Richardson. So now it was far too late to deny it.

'Christian name . . . "Richard", by any chance?' And it was fair enough, anyway: old Jack had given his orders and had taken all the responsibility for what he'd done (and not done), with no recriminations. So he deserved a bit of good news.

'"Richard Dalingridge", Jack?'

Butler nodded. "That's a name he would have used, is it?'

Then he nodded the question away as superfluous. 'And he'd expect you to know that, would he?'

Old Jack was smart, and quick with it, as well as loyal, the new question reminded Audley. But that, of course, was why he deserved to be where he was, as well as accounting for it.

'He would — yes. Where did he go?'

'Mmm . . .' Butler was doing his arithmetic. 'He went to Lyons. And that's all we've got so far.'

It was enough, anyway. By high-speed train "Mr Richard Dalingridge" could have been soon enough in Paris. And then it would have been time for another passport, from his professional smuggler's stock, prudently acquired for such a rainy day. And what would that name be? "Hugh Saxon", maybe . . . becaue "Hugh Dallingford" would sound a bit too much like "Dalingridge" — ? Or . . . maybe he'd reckon that one signal from Italy, where it would be sure to be picked up, would be enough.

He grinned at Butler. Once the shock of that retirement dummy1

criminality was assimilated, it came as no surprise that Peter hadn't forgotten any of his lessons — or anything else from the old days. Yes . . . Peter, of all people, by God!

But his grin wasn't being returned. 'Is there something I should know now, David?' Butler glanced towards the door.

'I can't keep them waiting much longer.'

Audley disciplined his face. There really wasn't any reason to keep grinning, anyway. Not in view of all he still didn't know . . . which, apart from Peter's most likely intention . . .

included almost everything else that mattered. 'Not really.'

He hardened his heart against Butler in his own interest.

'We've still got the inside track on Richardson . . . But then there's this terrorist business.' He looked at his feudal lord accusingly. 'You didn't exactly come clean about that yesterday.' But he mustn't know too much about that. And, anyway, it was more than likely that it had been Henry Jaggard who hadn't come clean wih Butler. 'Or didn't you know that, Jack?' Better to let old Jack off the hook altogether. So he shrugged. 'The Italians seemed to think there was a connection. Even after Comrade Zimin appeared on the scene. But they weren't very forthcoming after that.

They just wanted to get shot of me as quickly as possible after they'd decided that I wasn't going to be helpful.' He cocked his head at Butler. 'There is a connection, I take it?'

Butler's lips tightened. 'I think you'd better hear what Jaggard has to say. Then we can decide what to do.'

So that was the way the land lay. This was Jaggard's dummy1

business, not theirs — they had merely been "helping out".

And, whoever was to blame (or, as the case might be, whoever finally carried the can, justly or not) for Berlin and Capri, Butler wasn't going to be caught twice.

But that wouldn't do at all — not now! 'I don't see that we have any choice in the matter, Jack.' He took a step towards the door.

'Choice?' Butler didn't move. 'It isn't your job to run Henry Jaggard's errands. And it isn't my job to waste your time.'

In another moment Butler would be telling him he was also

"a bit long in the tooth". But it wouldn't do to get angry: if there was one thing he'd learnt during his long years with Fred Clinton it was that a good salesman tailored his sales pitch to the customer. 'No, of course. But. . . I'm the only person with whom Peter Richardson is likely to make contact.' He gave Butler a sly look.' "Mr Dalingridge" —

remember?'

'You're also a three-time loser.' Butler held his ground. 'You can be de-briefed this morning. And back in Washington this evening.'

He had to try another line. 'Richardson was our man, Jack —'

'He was Sir Frederick Clinton's man.' Butler cut him off brutally. 'And only briefly. And then he resigned.'

He could try "the National Interest". But, coming from him, that would be no more convincing than ancient departmental loyalty. So all that was left was for him to act in charcter. 'I'm dummy1

too far in to want to stop now, Jack. And, if anyone wants me dead, I'll be damned if I stop —I'll be damned if I'll leave what concerns me to Henry Jaggard. Apart from all of which . . . he'll fuck it up for sure.'

Butler winced at the obscenity, as he always did at Audley's deliberate lapses, in spite of all his army years. But then he drew a deep resigned breath. 'Very well. We'll wait and see.'

The woman Franklin would be the one to watch. So he mustn't look at her first —

'Ah, David!' Even on Sir Jack Butler's own ground, and in his own conference room, Henry Jaggard had to assert himself as though it all belonged to him. 'Good of you to join us.'

'Henry.' Audley ignored him, nodding first and second to Len Aston and Billy Pitt, then grinning at the Honourable Charles Renshaw. 'Hullo, Charlie. Sorry to get you out of bed so early.' Now the woman. 'Miss Franklin, I presume — ?' Well, well! She was damn-well worth looking at, never mind watching! 'Sorry I'm late, Henry. But . . . I gather you all know what's happened. And if you must give us the tricky jobs that your chaps aren't up to, then what can you expect?'

'That's unjust. The man Kulik asked for you, David.' Jaggard rolled easily with the punch.

'But, fortunately, he didn't get me.'

'You can say that again!' Charlie Renshaw made a face. 'You dummy1

go along with the perceived wisdom, do you, David —that they were gunning for you?'

'It certainly looks that way now, yes.'

'You were lucky.' Jaggard nodded.

'Not lucky. Jack just made the right decision, that's all. As usual.'

'And that was lucky.' Jaggard stuck to his guns. 'I would have sent you — to Berlin, anyway.'

'And I would have gone. I've always liked Berlin.' Audley nodded back. 'Maybe you're right at that — I'm lucky to have Jack to save me from myself. And from you, Henry.'

'On the other hand, you might not have conducted matters there quite as insouciantly as did Miss Loftus.' Jaggard pursed his lips. 'In which case we might not be in our present quandary.' He stared around before returning to Audley.

'Because Sir Jack has informed us that Kulik's confidence in you was misplaced — that you don't know what is going on?'

'I don't know what it is I'm supposed to know — not yet . . .

that's true.' Audley looked at each of them in turn, with the exception of Butler. 'I know a lot of things, about a lot of people —'

'Including Major Richardson?' Miss Franklin interrupted him more gently than he deserved, he thought. 'We were hoping he would narrow the field for us, Dr Audley.'

She had a pleasant voice, the thought expanded: received Queen's/BBC/Oxbridge accent, but with the merest hint of dummy1

Welsh somewhere in its background.

'Well . . . yes, he does ... or he may, Miss Franklin.' He must stop thinking how pretty she was, and remember only that she was reputed to be formidably intelligent. 'Although I'm afraid I didn't know him as well as everyone assumes, Kulik included. He was one of Sir Frederick Clinton's Queen's-shilling men . . . And old Fred always played his cards close to his chest.' He smiled at her. 'But Peter Richardson didn't turn out to be quite the trump he expected. However, given more time, I shall do better —' He completed the smile, and then erased it before catching Commander Pitt's eye ' —

although I could do the best of all if you could produce him, Commander.'

'Oh aye?' Pitt seemed ready for him. 'You think he's coming here, do you?'

'You think he's still alive?' Jaggard offered the alternative quickly.

'I think ... I think that if Fred Clinton fancied him, then he's a downy bird, Henry. So ... yes, I think he's still alive.' He nodded at Jaggard. 'He certainly wasn't on the Capri casualty list, anyway. And it looks as though he's heading for home now.'

'But his home is in Italy, Dr Audley.' Miss Franklin was just as quick. 'Isn't he half-Italian? And more than half-Italian in some respects?'

That was true. But it hadn't been in the file. So Miss Franklin dummy1

had done her homework. 'Yes. But his Italian home may not be too homely for him at the moment.' Now he included them all. 'It isn't just that all the various parties who are involved in this are after him now — not just the Italians and the Arabs and the Mafia, but also Colonel Zimin . . . It's that they knew where to look for him — both Zimin and the Arabs. Which means that his own organization has gone sour on him. So, as there's no one he can trust out there now, his best bet is to cut-and-run back.' He decided to reward Miss Franklin for doing her homework properly. 'That's what I'd do in his place, Miss Franklin. Because he'll have friends here still. And even some family, if I remember correctly.' Then he looked at Commander Pitt again. 'You're watching out for him, are you, Billy?'

Pitt grimaced. 'Yes — well, Dr Audley . . . we're doing our best. And, because we happen to have a SURE-exercise in place, our best isn't too bad.' But then one honesty collided with another. 'Only, if he used to work for Sir Frederick Clinton, then he'll know the ropes. So our best may still not be quite good enough, if he keeps his head.'

'But that doesn't matter.' Charlie Renshaw stirred again.

'Because once he's here he'll be a darn-sight safer. And we stand a darn-sight better chance of picking him up too, I should hope — once he's here, Commander?' Having delivered a Cabinet Office-eye-view of What Ought to Happen, Charlie dropped the unfortunate Commander in favour of Audley. 'You'll be advising how we should go about dummy1

that, I take it, David?'

'Uh-huh.' Audley temporized. 'I think my best advice is to let him come to us — whether he's here or not, Charlie.'

Charlie brightened. 'You think he will?'

'After Capri, I think he must — sooner or later.' It was always a pleasure to do business with the Honourable Charles Renshaw. 'If I'm even halfways right about what happened on Capri, then he'll be in even more of a — ah —a quandary than we are, I shouldn't wonder — '

'Scared shitless, you mean?' Charlie swung quickly towards Miss Franklin. 'I do beg your pardon, Miss Franklin — scared witless, I meant to say.'

'Please don't worry, Mr Renshaw. "Scared shitless" would seem to be an accurate description of everyone's condition at this moment — even Mr Aston's friends in the Russian Embassy, apparently — ' She drew the FCO man into the conversation ' — you were just saying, Leonard — ?'

Leonard Aston gave a dry little cough, and then touched his lips with a very white handkerchief. "There is a certain nervousness, it seems. And there have been comings and goings.'

'More comings than goings.' Charlie Renshaw nodded towards Audley. "They're exchanging old Brunovski for a hard-faced character named Voyshinski — Boris Voyshinski.

Do you know of him, David? Wasn't he on that list of yours?'

'Uh-huh.' No intelligence report ever passed Charlie unread.

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'One of the new promotions. Upped from colonel to general in the KGB in the spring.'

'With a St Mikhail label on his underpants?' Renshaw glanced at Jaggard. 'Told you so, Henry. That makes us the operational centre, eh?'

'And it also confirms what Dr Audley has just said about Major Richardson,' Miss Franklin added her nod to Renshaw's, but then turned to Audley. 'And . . . since you are the expert on the New Order, Dr Audley . . . isn't your old friend Colonel Zimin an associate of General Voyshinski? Or an old army comrade, anyway?'

'Yes, Miss Franklin.' She knew her stuff, quite evidently. But, more immediately, the appearance of Boris Voyshinski in London raised the stakes of whatever game the Russians were playing enormously — almost outrageously. 'Will someone kindly tell me what is happening?'

'We were rather hoping you were going to enlighten us there, David.' Henry Jaggard leaned forward slightly to emphasize the order beneath this superficially polite request. 'We have learnt the bare details of what appears to have occurred on Capri. But we have not yet had an account of your — ah —

your conversation with Colonel Zimin.'

Audley met Charlie Renshaw's eyes. 'Are you going to tell me, Charlie?'

'No.' But then Renshaw grinned. 'You tell him, Billy.'

That put the unfortunate Commander Pitt midway between dummy1

the Cabinet Office and its Intelligence Service, and in something of a quandary as to which of those two awkward masters to obey.

'Oh, for Christ's sake!' Renshaw produced one of his controlled explosions of irritation. 'It's exactly as Jack Butler's just been telling us: we drag David back from Washington when we don't know what's happening — and now, but for the grace of God, we might have been bringing him back from Berlin in a coffin, too . . . and then we throw him in the deep end in Italy, on the assumption that he'll pull our chestnuts out of the fire —eh?' he looked around the table.

Charlie had always been a great one for mixed metaphors, thought Audley. And they usually came in threes.

'But for once he hasn't — okay?' Renshaw fixed his eye on Jaggard. 'And now he objects to playing pig-in-the-middle, with himself always cast as the pig. And I don't blame him.'

He dropped Jaggard for Commander Pitt. 'Tell him, Billy.

And then we'll see what he can make of it. Which I bloody well hope is more than I can. Okay?'

'Of course — ' Jaggard moved smoothly into the fractional instant of silence before Commander Pitt caved in ' — you're quite right, Charles. And I had taken Sir Jack's point — ' The smoothness oozed over Butler and Audley as well' — when he defended your actions in Italy . . . not to say your courage, in going in like that by yourself, after what happened in Berlin.

You were, after all, only obeying orders —I do agree!'

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Nobody was better at putting the boot in than Jaggard. And now he had very skilfully left everyone with the impression that either Butler had given a defective order, which had then been incompetently obeyed, or (which they were more likely to be thinking) he had unwisely left the decision to Audley himself, who had then cocked things up. And there was just enough truth in each of those alternatives to render any explanations self-defeating.

'Yes — well, it never pays to keep people in ignorance, Henry.' Hugging Jake Shapiro's information to himself helped him to smile pleasantly. 'But ignorance is no excuse, you're also quite right . . . So, Billy, everywhere I go, there seem to be soldiers ... as well, presumably, as your well-armed heavies. And now I gather from the media that you are co-operating with our gallant Russian allies in some sort of anti-terrorist operations? Which I nevertheless assume is not quite the case, eh?'

'No, Dr Audley, it isn't.' Commander Pitt seemed almost relieved to be able to speak at last. 'We had an exercise planned — a short-notice SURE. But it wasn't actually scheduled until next month. But then the Americans tipped us off that something was up.'

Renshaw nodded. 'And they got it from the Israelis, David.

And then the plot really thickened — sorry, Billy!'

'Yes, sir.' Pitt had decided that, if it came to the crunch, it was Charlie who had the edge. 'First, it was the usual form: certain individuals we've been watching — or, other people dummy1

have been watching, anyway . . . dropping out of circulation.'

'Arabs?' Up to now the Arabs had been doing the dirty work.

'Or who else?'

Billy Pitt looked at Jaggard, and Jaggard nodded to Miss Franklin. 'Mary — ?'

"There's been a close-down in Eastern Europe, Dr Audley.' In turn, Miss Franklin also seemed relieved, to her credit. 'And in the Soviet Union.'

'When, Miss Franklin? In relation to Kulik's arrival in Berlin, I mean.'

'The same day. But perhaps a few hours afterwards.' She took the point. 'But Commander Pitt's information preceded our information by a full twenty-four hours.'

'I see.' At least events had been occurring in the right sequence, both to allow Kulik to get out and (though for reasons unknown) the Arabs to be ready for the Berlin ambush. 'And this was all to catch Kulik?'

'No.' Mary Franklin shifted to Jaggard doubtfully ' —Henry?'

All the while, Audley had been aware of Henry Jaggard more than anyone else, even though Mary Franklin was infinitely easier on the eye.

Jaggard drew a deep breath, to match his final decision.

(Which was, thought Audley cynically, that with General Voyshinski here, and Colonel Zimin somewhere, he needed Major Richardson more than ever. So, however unhappily, he also still needed Lieutenant (demobbed/ retired) Audley.) dummy1

'It seems that there were three of them, David: Kulik, Prusakov and Lukianov.' Having committed himself, he watched Audley like a hawk. 'Kulik, I gather, you don't know.

But what about the other two?'

Getting so much so quickly posed a pretty problem, in view of both Jake's information and his loss of face on Capri. So perhaps it would be advisable to compromise. 'Prusakov . . .

don't know.' Prusakov was a dead duck, anyway, according to Jake. 'But Lukianov . . .' He frowned, but encouragingly.

Names, after all, were supposed to be his stock-in-trade.

'Leonid S. Lukianov,' Charlie regarded him hopefully. 'Come on, David!'

He mustn't disappoint Charlie, who had supported him in his hour-of-need. 'Soldier. Originally soldier, anyway —

Spetsnaz, too. Maybe GRU once, but then KGB. Colonel . . .

but maybe General Lukianov now. Served in Afghanistan . . .

And — ' He frowned at Jaggard ' — wasn't he a friend of Brezhnev's son-in-law? The one they've just sent down the river, Henry?'

But Jaggard was frowning at Jack Butler.

'That's very good, Dr Audley,' said Mary Franklin, with a hint of misplaced admiration. 'Especially as he isn't in our records

— or yours.'

Ouch! 'Isn't he?' That would teach him to underrate her!

'Well. . . no, I suppose he wouldn't be, at that.' He looked into the space above her head for a moment, playing for time.

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'Or . . .' Lukianov had to be in the records, somewhere! '. . .

or, are you sure?' Neville Macready came to his rescue: dear old Neville was safely dead. 'It was Neville Macready who mentioned him to me, a couple of years back.' All he had to do was to imagine how Lukianov's career might have gone downhill since then. 'I think he'd just been posted out of Moscow to Kabul, or something like that.' He shrugged at her. 'But I'm only interested in the coming men, not the ones who backed the wrong horse, Miss Franklin.' That would do for the time being. So he could return to Jaggard. 'Where did you get these names, Henry?' (And at least Charlie looked satisfied.)

Henry Jaggard slid a picture across the table for an answer.

'Have a look.'

'Is this him?' It was irritating that he'd missed Lukianov somehow. 'Good-looking chap. But I still don't know him.'

Another picture came across the table.

'Prusakov?' Less irritating. But still irritating. 'Ugly bugger.'

He shook his head. 'Don't know him either.' But now curiosity was in order. 'Where did you get these pictures?'

'Huh!' exclaimed Charlie. 'Where indeed! They've been hawked right across Europe, my dear chap — like "Most Wanted" posters, if not pop star pin-ups.' He twisted a ghost of his usual cheerful grin at Audley. "The Kulik one has now been withdrawn: he's no longer in the Top Ten ... or Top Three, in this instance.'

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So the Russians had been so shit-scared of these three defectors that they'd flooded the market, regardless of consequences, only interested in quick results. Just as, in another age and with the aid of better technology, the British would have transmitted mug-shots of Burgess and Maclean, among others, once upon a time.

'So what else is known about them — ?' He addressed Mary Franklin in order to stop her thinking more about his remarkable special knowledge of General Lukianov. 'Kulik was a military intelligence computer-man, I gather.' He made a face at her. 'According to Sir Jack, anyway.'

'He was only a technician, Dr Audley.' She accepted that, anyway. 'He was perhaps a whizz-kid, technically . . . we're not sure, though.'

'And Prusakov?' It was Lukianov, the action-man — Lucky Lukianov — who really mattered now. But he must be interested in Prusakov first. 'What was he?'

'He was also in computers. But he was much higher up, and into politics too.' But she seemed to be accepting this, also.

'Only ... he wasn't one of your "coming men" either, Dr Audley.' She didn't smile. 'He was a "going man".'

'And now he's gone,' murmured Charlie.

And gone in more ways than one, too. But Mary Franklin was watching him, and he had to keep Jake Shapiro under wraps for the time being still. So he pushed the photos back towards Jaggard and looked at Billy Pitt. 'And you haven't dummy1

had a sight of him?'

'We're on the look-out for him, as well as Major Richardson.

And Lukianov, of course.' Pitt nodded.

'And so is everyone else.' Renshaw also nodded. 'According to Henry these pictures have been scatterd around like confetti by every KGB station in Europe. So they'll know we've got them by now, David.'

'Yes.' Mary Franklin claimed his attention. 'What I was wondering, Dr Audley, was whether you'd had sight of either Prusakov or Lukianov in Italy. But obviously not.'

'Why should they be in Italy, Miss Franklin?' inquired Renshaw. 'Do you mean . . . one of them was going to be bait for Richardson, the way Kulik was the bait for David here?'

'Something like that, Mr Renshaw.' She still watched Audley.

'What do you think, Dr Audley?'

'I think . . . I'd like to know more about General Lukianov, Miss Franklin.' He was tempted to smile at her, but decided against it. 'Then I'll tell you what I think. For what it's worth.'

'Very well.' She accepted his serious face at face-value. 'But I'm afraid we don't know much more than you do. He was a Spetsnaz specialist, as you know. And the Americans say he was a European expert originally — they think he made a special study of our own Special Forces, too. But then he may have transferred to the GRU or the KGB, they're not sure.

But after that he did a tour in the Middle East, they believe, in the late 1970s.'

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That would be the Israelis feeding the Americans most likely.

'So he could have had contacts with the terrorist groups? As a trainer, maybe?'

'It's possible.' She was properly cautious of guesses tacked on to nebulous second-hand information. 'Then he was posted to Afghanistan. And he was with Spetsnaz there — that's certain, Dr Audley.'

Audley nodded. It was certain because the Americans had worked hard on analysing the Soviet Army's personnel, as well as its performance, in its first hot war since '45. But there was something more, he could see. 'Yes, Miss Franklin

— ?'

'There's a story about him.' She paused for a moment. 'He went on a raid into the mountains with one of his units — a unit he'd once served with. They were dropped by helicopter, to block a Mujahadeen escape route. But then the weather closed in, and the main attack was delayed. So they had to hold out for a week, instead of three days. There were only three survivors, all of them wounded. And two of them died afterwards. The youngest one died in his arms, apparently.'

"Lucky" Lukianov, indeed! But also a real front-line general, thought Audley.

' Beau Geste stuff!' Charlie Renshaw frowned at Jaggard suddenly. 'And this Lukianov is now a defector, you say, Henry? He doesn't damn-well sound like one — if that isn't just a propaganda story, anyway.' He took the frown to Audley. 'Eh, David?'

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Leonard Aston emitted one of his dry little coughs. 'Defeat, Charles, does strange things to heroes. Especially humiliating defeat.'

Audley saw Charlie's eyebrows lift, and realized that his own had also gone up. Coming from little Len, who was as dry as his cough, such an insight was surprising.

'I have had no first-hand experience, of course.' Aston touched his lips with his ever-ready handkerchief, aware of their astonishment but quite unembarrassed by it. 'I am not a military man, and never could be. But... I was in our embassy in Washington during the last days of Vietnam, and for two years afterwards.' He gazed from Renshaw to Audley and back like a tutor with two rather thick undergraduates. 'And during that period I observed some very strange behaviour among some senior officers, as well as a predictable disorientation among those beneath them.' Aston's voice became more pedantic as he spoke. 'It was no surprise. For a long time they believed they were invincible ... in the knowledge that they had never been defeated, or in any real danger of final defeat ... at least, not since 1814. But then, long before the final debacle, the senior officers knew better

— knew better that it was a matter of political will, anyway.

So then they knew that defeat was inevitable, and all their men had died for nothing.' He nodded at them. 'It was more a long corrosion of the spirit. And it happened among some of the very best and bravest of them, who had fought hardest.

One or two behaved quite irrationally, even though their dummy1

actual careers were still assured.' Now he dropped them both, turning to Henry Jaggard. 'And, in General Lukianov's case, I believe you indicated that his career-future is not assured, Henry?' Finally he embraced them all. 'We need to know a great deal more about him, I would think. Because while he may not have been the moving spirit behind whatever plot the three of them have hatched, he will be the action-man.' He even managed a thin smile for Mary Franklin. 'I do not know what the motto of the Russian Spetsnaz force is. But for our own SAS it is "Who dares, wins", I believe? And I would guess that General Lukianov is daring now. So it is up to us to see that he does not also win.'

He settled on Audley himself. 'Is it possible that, while he was working for you ... or, rather, for the late Sir Frederick Clinton . . . your Major Richardson may have encountered this man Lukianov?'

Butler cleared his throat. 'We have been through everything in the record, Mr Aston — several times. And there's nothing to indicate any connection between Richardson and any living Russian, or even any foreign or suspect contact, who isn't fully accounted for.'

'Apart from which, he wasn't with us very long.' Audley came in without hesitation. Because, when Jack Butler did a job, then it would be well done. 'And he was only a beginner.'

'All of which doesn't mean a thing nevertheless,' snapped Butler. 'It's the man himself we need. Nothing else will do.'

'But the man himself is missing,' Renshaw looked at Audley.

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'And you think he's coming home, David?'

He had to put his mouth where his money was. 'After Capri

— yes, Charlie.'

'Interpret Capri for us, Dr Audley.' Aston was also looking at him. They were all looking at him. 'We know only the bare details, remember.' The handkerchief came up again. 'Or, perhaps you may prefer to start in Berlin?'

'He wasn't there,' Jaggard put the boot in again neatly, like a Welsh forward in a loose scrum on his own line. 'More's the pity.'

'Fortunately, rather.' Aston was hiding that thin smile behind his handkerchief. 'But Berlin will have concentrated his mind, I would think.'

It was Leonard Aston who was concentrating his mind right now. With a little help from Colonel Zimin and General Voyshinski, among the others (four others: two down, but two missing — and the important two, by God!)

"Thank you for reminding me, Len.' He had made a balls-up of Capri. And he had underrated Mr Leonard Aston. So he had to get it right now. 'There are four sides to this triangle —

right, Len?'

Leonard Aston thought about his opening gambit. 'Creative geometry, would that be?'

'Us and the Russians.' Was it possible that Mr Aston was being measured for Mr Jaggard's job? 'We both want Lukianov — and Prusakov ... or, failing them, Peter dummy1

Richardson. Because he knows what Lukianov is up to — ' He had to be quick now ' — or, if what he knows is added to what I am supposed to know . . . and what the Russians already know . . . that's the jackpot.'

Charlie Renshaw grunted doubtfully. 'Are you saying the Russians don't know what he's up to, David? Lukianov, I mean — ?'

He could probably shrug to that. 'Zimin said he wanted Peter alive. And I don't think that was just window-dressing, Charlie.'

'Yes.' Aston nodded. 'With Gorbachev down to address the United Nations, and then to visit the Prime Minister . . . they don't want any scandals they can't handle, Mr Renshaw.' The handkerchief came up again. 'Remember Khrushchev and the Schwirkmann affair? If they start killing people, or trying to kill them . . . then she will have to react to that, just as Chancellor Erhard had to — remember?' He sniffed. 'It's a finely-balanced thing, I agree. And ... I don't doubt you know better than I do. But, if there's any sort of scandal, she'll be able to get much better terms on conventional arms, at the very least. And Gorbachev can't afford that yet — can he?'

'It's all bull-shit —' Charlie started to shrug high politics off.

But then pretended to be embarrassed ' — I do beg your pardon, Miss Franklin — again! But ... do go on, David: they want Major Richardson alive . . . because he will know what Lukianov and Co. are — are trading on the open market?'

Then he produced a typically silly-idiot Charlie Renshaw grin dummy1

to muddy the waters. 'Well . . . that's privatization for you: Lukianov plc are the third side — is that what you're saying, David? And they're offering shares to International Terrorism plc — in this case on the Arab splinter-groups?

Not the Mafia, anyway — ?'

The Honourable Charles Renshaw had assimilated those

"bare details" — and had quickly eliminated the accident of Peter Richardson's private life from them, quite rightly: the Mafia was prepared to tangle with anyone in the West, any time. But it wasn't prepared or willing to fight a war on two fronts when there was no profit in the East, as well as no comforting democratic legal process.

'The Mafia is irrelevant, Charlie.' Actually, the Mafia had been very useful, in frightening Peter into hiding, quite coincidentally. 'There's just Lukianov and his clients, for the other two sides.'

'So why did Kulik have to die?' Mary Franklin hit the Berlin problem on the nail. 'Are you suggesting that he was double-crossed? That he was just bait for you, D —Dr Audley?'

She'd almost said "David"! 'I don't know, Miss Franklin —

Mary?' He wasn't ashamed with himself for being pleased at attempting her Christian name. 'But Zimin didn't deny that Peter Richardson had been betrayed, before he had those two Arabs killed.' He blanked out the memory of Zimin's cold-hearted order before it could frighten him too much, with its implication of his own escape, which had been too narrow for easy recollection. 'Only he wasn't expecting two of them: he dummy1

was expecting just one, like in Berlin, not two. And that was why he lost one of his men, when things went wrong.' All the same, that might have saved the "celebrated" Dr Audley. 'At least, that's the way it looked — the way the Italians thought it was.' He shook his head honestly. 'And ... he said "Arab", in the singular — I know that.' This time he shook his head, just as honestly. 'I'm still guessing — or, as Len would put it more diplomatically, "interpreting" . . . But I think Peter Richardson agreed to see me because things were getting too hot for him, with the Italian authorities and the Mafia both on his tail. And, if the Italians had brought me into the business, he maybe thought he could make a deal with them, through me.' He shrugged. 'It could even be that Lukianov's Arab friends had also come looking for him. But he might well have mistaken them for Mafia-types, on contract —I don't know . . . Only, whatever he thought, the rendezvous was blown, both to the Arabs and — fortunately for me — to the Russians, too. It's even possible the Mafia helped out with that, with one or other of them.'

"The Mafia has links with Abu Nidal,' Mary Franklin nodded.

'The KGB isn't so keen on either of them these days, though.'

'But this was top-priority — ' Charlie Renshaw stopped himself. 'Go on, David.'

'The rest is factual. Zimin wanted Peter alive, to squeeze him.

Lukianov's Arabs wanted him dead, to make sure he couldn't be squeezed. And Zimin wasn't going to risk that happening.

My arrival put him off his stroke, but as soon as he knew I dummy1

was by myself he went ahead, and gave the order. But, of course, it wasn't neatly done, because of the second Arab, as I've said.' He gave Renshaw a rueful nod. 'I am guessing. But the undeniable fact is, Charlie, that everything went wrong for everyone — both in Berlin and Capri. And, in my experience, that's what usually happens when there are too many cooks mixing the broth.'

'Mmm . . .' That was Charlie Renshaw's experience too, obviously. 'I take it that Zimin has also disappeared from the scene now, like Major Richardson, Henry?'

Jaggard nodded. 'The Italians are almost certain that Richardson was the pseudo-American — "Dalingridge", Charles. So that puts him in France.'

'En route here.' Renshaw stroked his chin. 'But otherwise we're none the wiser as to what Lukianov is offering the Arabs. Except, if Len is right about General Voyshinski's unexpected arrival, here is also where Lukianov intends to transact his business.'

Jaggard sat back. 'Neutral ground, maybe? Apart from which, if David has interpreted Zimin's words and actions correctly, the Russians themselves don't know what's on offer. So they are in the dark also. But if David is right about Richardson coming home, then we may have the edge on them yet. Because, even if he doesn't contact us ... or, as the case may be, David himself ... we should be able to rely on Commander Pitt picking him up in due course. And then we'll know what it is that David has forgotten.'

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That was neat. Put like that, all they had to do was to wait, and if things went wrong either he or Billy Pitt could take the responsibility, for guessing wrong or incompetence respectively.

'No.' Butler grunted explosively.

'Jack — ?' Renshaw looked at Butler expectantly.

'"Due course" won't do.' Butler nodded to Billy Pitt. 'No disrespect to you or your men — or your organization —

Commander. But Major Richardson is a trained man.' And that was all Commander Pitt was getting. 'The Russians are treating this as an urgent matter — '

'The Russians —' began Jaggard.

'But it is not the Russians who particularly concern me first, Mr Renshaw.' Butler ignored Henry Jaggard. 'It is the man Lukianov and the Arabs. Because, if they frighten the Russians so much, then by God they also frighten me. And I have no reason to believe that I'm not the only one they are frightening.'

'What — ?' Renshaw frowned at Jaggard. 'Henry — ?'

'Colonel Jacob Shapiro is in London.' Butler got in first.

'Right, Mr Jaggard?'

The wily old bugger! thought Audley admiringly. 'Jake Shapiro — ?'

'Who is — ' Renshaw was torn between the three of them ' —

Colonel . . . Jake Shapiro?' He settled on Audley. 'David?'

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'Ex-Mossad.' Audley wondered how much Butler had guessed. But meanwhile he allowed himself a grin for Charlie Renshaw. 'An old mate of mine, from prehistoric times, Charlie. But . . . back in London?' He looked innocently to Jaggard. 'He was always a good friend of ours, Henry. When we gave him the chance to be, anyway.'

'Yes.' Jaggard had to swallow that. 'He is supposed to be on holiday, Charles. We know about him.'

'Holiday my foot!' Audley shook his head. 'He's someone we can do business with, Charlie. And, when it comes to Arab terrorism, the Israelis have forgotten more than we're ever likely to know. So ... if Jack's right, they could be waving old Jake like an olive branch, hoping that we'll accept him.'

'I see.' Renshaw shifted to Butler. 'Would you be prepared to release David for a few more days, to open negotiations with his "old mate", Sir Jack? Assisting Henry of course — ' He acknowledged Jaggard a little belatedly ' — Henry?'

'If Dr Audley is agreeable.' Again Butler got in first. When he wanted to be first, he usually was. 'I think we should regard the matter as urgent.'

'Hold on, there!' In this transformed situation Audley had to think quickly.

'You don't want to — ?' Renshaw frowned ' — what, David?'

'I'd like fine to meet Jake again, in — ah — in due course. But I'm not an expert on terrorism, Charlie.'

'What are you driving at?' Renshaw was surprised. In fact, dummy1

they were all surprised. And, additionally, Henry Jaggard was also consumed with suspicion.

'I think Peter Richardson is still my priority.' He could make contact with Jake any time. But he didn't want Jaggard breathing down his neck when he did. 'I want to have a look at the old files first. And then later today I think I'll saunter through some of Peter's old haunts in the country, just in case.' He gave Charlie his most serious face. 'It would be much better if Henry here and Commander Pitt asked for a meeting with Jake, at top level. To get whatever he's got on Comrades Lukianov and Prusakov, and their Arab associates.

And on Russian intentions in general too. And, meanwhile, if I can come up with anything, I'll let them know, of course.'

'That sounds eminently sensible.' Len Aston spoke out of nowhere, having effaced himself since his own surprising conribution to the conference. 'I would agree with Sir Jack that the matter is urgent. And also ... I am not convinced that we are "neutral ground".' He stared at Charlie Renshaw.

'And, finally, I would prefer someone of Mr Jaggard's seniority to negotiate with the Israelis. Because our present relations with them are . . . shall we say . . . cool, if not unfriendly?'

Nobody trusted him, when the Israelis were involved, thought Audley — even after all these years. But for once that was to his advantage. Because Henry Jaggard was now even more suspicious. But there wasn't one damn thing he could do about it.

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'Right.' Renshaw sat up very straight. 'Then I will inform my masters to that effect.' But once more he settled on Audley.

'What we want is no trouble, David. That may prove impossible in the case of Lukianov and his Arabs, I grant you.

But Henry and Commander Pitt will handle that. So, what I mean is, no trouble with the Russians, in view of the meeting scheduled between the PM and Gorbachev next month. Do you understand, David?'

'Yes, Charlie.' But it wasn't easy to keep a straight face, all the same, now that Jack was off the hook, and Henry Jaggard was in the barrel. And he himself was . . . a lot more free than he'd expected anyway. 'That suits me.'

3

As the car dropped down into the great motorway cutting through the Chilterns escarpment, and the panorama of the Oxfordshire plain below opened up in front of him, Audley debated with himself whether or not he ought to be frightened, and finally voted against it.

'Goodbye, Charlie.' Where the others only rated nods, Charlie had deserved more, for his help. 'Thanks for the support.'

'Oh yes? And you'll wear it always?' Renshaw had given him an old-fashioned look (as, also, had the flawless Mary Franklin from the doorway). 'Don't forget what I said, eh? No dummy1

trouble, David?'

'No trouble, Charlie.' He had lingered beside Mrs Harlin's desk. 'Did you get through to my wife, Mrs Harlin?' He had seen Butler hovering outside his own door, watching him almost as suspiciously as Jaggard had done.

'Yes, Dr Audley. She said for me to thank you. And she will phone Sir Matthew herself now.'

'That's fine.' Now for the Headmaster's study, Audley.

'Coming, Jack.' He'd have to get his act together now, too!

'Well . . . that's one worry off my mind . . . yes, Jack?'

'You knew Shapiro was here, didn't you?' Butler opened a file on his desk and extracted a print-out from it. 'And you've already talked to him.'

No matter how hard he tried not to underrate Jack Butler, he always failed. 'I didn't know he was here. But I have talked to him — yes, Jack.' But even this truth failed to set him free.

'When it comes to Arabs, they always know more than we do.

And . . . after losing Richardson I wanted to have something in the bag, just in case. And . . . well, they've never been unfriendly to me, have they? Because of the old times.' He still wasn't helping himself much. 'How did you know?'

Butler looked up from the print-out. 'What did he tell you?'

It must have been because he'd passed up the chance of meeting Jake with official blessing. 'He thinks Prusakov is dead, like Kulik. Something seems to have happened in Rome. Either the Russians spotted him, and he bit on his dummy1

happy pill. Or maybe his Arab minder made sure he wasn't taken prisoner — Jake wasn't too sure.'

'How did the Russians get on to Richardson? Did he know that?'

'He didn't know about Richardson. I don't know, Jack. The Russians may not know what it is that Lukianov is offering the Arabs, but they must know more than we do, for God's sake. Because we know fuck-all, it seems to me.'

"Fuck-all" closed Butler's face up again in momentary distaste, but then he came to terms with the truth of it. 'What else?'

'Nothing else, much. We were just sounding each other out, really. He'll give Jaggard enough to keep him busy. And then I'll see him again, pretty soon.' He wanted to get Butler off his back too, he realized. 'But we'd better get our skates on, Jack. Because the Israelis are scared.'

'Even though they don't know what Lukianov is up to?'

'They're scared because the Russians are scared — like us.

And for the same reason, too: knowing . . . not knowing anything isn't to their taste, much.' His best bet was to frighten Jack a bit too. 'If what Lukianov is offering is worth enough for Abu Nidal or whoever to lend him manpower —

two hit-squads, Jack — to slow us up ... I don't know . . . but it could be that he's afraid his former masters may even be preparing to make a deal with us, to pool what they may know with whatever it is Richardson and I know, between us.

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And then we'd be able to preempt his game, maybe. So he had to try to take us out, and he was ready to sacrifice Kulik and Prusakov to do it . . . It's possible that he didn't take them into his confidence about that, is the way it rather looks . . . But, I really don't know, Jack. So that's why "Mr Dalingridge" is my priority, anyway.' And, of course, he had one card Butler couldn't trump. 'And those are my orders now, in any case.'

Butler looked at the clock on the wall over the door. 'Mitchell will be back this afternoon. You can have him.'

What Butler was doing was assessing the risk now. 'I'll be leaving after lunch, Jack. He can catch me up — I'll phone in, don't worry!'

'Where are you going?'

'Oh ... I think I'll take a drive in the Cotswolds —'

The vote was against danger, by an easy majority. Because, after Berlin and Capri (and with Colonel Zimin loose and on his track), Lukianov and his Arabs wouldn't know where he was. And by now they must have other more important fish to fry, anyway.

And he knew Peter Richardson better than they did. And better even than what was on file and record: the bald facts of that damnable computer memory on which they all depended, and which Henry Jaggard shared at the touch of a few beastly little keys. Henry had access to everything that dummy1

was known to the computer as of right, with a Master Word probably possessed only by himself and God (or maybe not God), on which lesser breeds could only draw by arrangement and agreement, with every withdrawal recorded for posterity; so that now (for all the good it would do her!) the enchanting Mary Franklin was probably studying the same useless stuff he himself had dutifully skimmed through an hour ago —what a waste!

Where is he?

With the Chiltern Hills behind him and the featureless Oxfordshire plain sliding past all round he was able to think of Peter Richardson again, and the old times of fifteen years back, flexing his memory to double-check his reasoning —

Really, Peter wasn't the old times — the good old, bad old times of the Clinton heyday of the late fifties and swinging sixties, when the trick had been to try and hold things together when everything was coming apart at the seams, and the truth of Fred's two-hundred-year Rise and Fall of the British Empire thesis had been evident. No . . . Peter had been very much towards the end of that period, anyway . . .

when Fred had been beginning to lose his grip and flying more and more by the seat of his pants. In fact, in retrospect and with hindsight, Peter himself had been a sure sign of the Decline and Fall of Fred's own empire: a clever young barbarian foederatus who had grown up in those locust years and worshipped different gods from those of Fred, who had dummy1

recruited him in a vain attempt to keep up with the times —

was that it?

It was. But —

(Was there anything behind him? But then, if there was, it would be well behind, and quite out of his view; and anyway, having thought about it, he really didn't much care after all — )

It probably was right, that interpretation of Richardson's recruitment. But even if it wasn't. . . and though in the end Fred's seat-of-the-pants had turned out quite wrong, undeniably . . . the young man had still been quite something, in his way —

'Richardson, David — Peter Richardson. Hobson of King's put me on to him. You'll like him.' (That morning in Fred's office, it had been) 'Oh aye? Fresh from university, you mean?' (In peacetime, as Sir Frederick was often wont to complain, recruitment was a sore trial.)

'Yes and no. He's a soldier, actually.'

'Another damn redcoat?' (Not least of Fred's complaints was that even Solomon might have baulked at judging between the military misfits and the graduates still-wet-behind-the-ears who were offered him.) 'Well, at least Major Butler will approve of him, then.'

'I don't think he will. This is a new breed, David. They've let him take a degree and now regimental duty is no longer to dummy1

his taste. So they've let us have him on secondment for a year. With the usual mutual option after that. And, as I say, I think you'll like him. So will your wife.'

'Oh aye?' (That was when people behind his back had not yet given up referring to Faith as "a much younger woman".) 'What makes you think they'll ever meet?'

'I want you to have him to dinner — to one of your dinner-parties.'

'Why should I do that? Other than because it's an order, I mean?'

'A little experiment. You should enjoy it —'

Had he enjoyed it, though?

The westering sun was trying to get through the clouds ahead, but not quite succeeding. He had spent longer among the records than he had intended, he realized. But it had been necessary to make sure that neither Butler nor Jaggard had missed anything, for his own peace of mind . . . even though, of course, they hadn't. So ... whatever it was, whatever it had been, that he shared (or half-shared?) with Peter Richardson was off the record and unimportant (so it had seemed, anyway): some unconsidered trifle . . . like Fred's "little experiment" of long ago —

Had he enjoyed it, though?

But that didn't really matter: what mattered was that he remembered it. And — for sure, among so many dummy1

uncertainties — Peter Richardson had naturally remembered it too: that was one absolute certainty which Richardson himself had conveniently and deliberately established, taking the only chance he had with "Mr Dalingridge", after he had spotted both Audley and the Russians (if not the Arabs too) from some observation point along that long hot path up to the Villa Jovis —

Faith had probably enjoyed it (that was a near-certainty, although an unimportant one): she had admired both Richardson's car (long and low and sporty, Jaguar or Triumph or whatever was in vogue then) and Richardson himself (dark and handsome, like some Roman military tribune in one of the more fashionable Legions, far from home but good with senior officers' wives automatically, especially when their husbands were somewhat older?) —

Memory expanded under pressure. (He had driven along this very road ... or along the old A40 to Oxford and the West, which had preceded this motorway . . . except that he was off the motorway now, and back on the old A40 again, circling Oxford itself: but ... he had driven westwards with Peter Richardson himself that time, towards GCHQ at Cheltenham in its earlier days, anyway. But that was the key in the lock.

And he could feel it turning in his memory, between Fred's

"little experiment" and its unrecorded sequel. And the experiment and its sequel were so beautifully bridged now, dummy1

after all these years, by "Mr Dalingridge", that there could be no mistake: he could even remember Richardson himself directing him off the main road, up on the higher ground of the Cotswolds, into a maze of stone walls and sleeping villages untouched by time since the days of sheep which had built the tall churches and the manor house —

'Just a little detour, David. To meet a friend of mine for lunch . . . Someone only you know about, eh?'

It all came down to memory. And not to damned computer-memory, which was no better than common coinage in the pockets of anyone who had access to it, but to private memory, which he alone possessed now (although which Zimin had aspired to, in attempting to take Peter on Capri, by God! That was the memory which really counted now, by God — by God!) —

But Peter couldn't come first, now. (The digital clock on Jack Butler's "Buy British" Rover advised him that, as well as the setting sun, which had given up its attempt to shine before dark: he had delayed too long among those records to attempt Peter first: he had to keep another rendevous before that. And, because of Peter's importance rather than despite it, better so, perhaps?)

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There was still nothing behind him, when he took the Burford turn-off. But then, if there had been (as before), it would have been well-back, and he wouldn't have been able to spot it. And it didn't matter now, anyway.

And, also, it was late enough in the day, as well as out of the high tourist-season (as on Capri!) for there to be no crowds and plenty of room to park, right outside the appointed place.

'Do you have a Mr Lee staying with you?'

The girl in reception had evidently been warned that Mr Lee was expecting a visitor. 'Yes, sir. Number Three — just up the stairs there, and on your left.'

He knocked on Number Three. But then had to wait, because Mr Lee had locked his door.

'Hullo, old friend.' Jake locked the door again, leaving the key in the lock. 'You're early — or are you late? Your message was rather vague.' He wiped his moustache and grinned.

'Would you like a beer?'

There was an unopened suitcase on the bed and a very much opened crate of beer on the floor beside it: it had had twelve bottles, but there were fewer now — and another one fewer as Jake himself removed it.

'This is good beer, too.' Jake opened the bottle, then inverted dummy1

a glass on top of it, and handed both to Audley. 'We passed a local off-licence and they offered me a local brew. And it isn't half-bad, I tell you.'

"We" added itself to the emptiness of the crate. 'You're not by yourself then, Jake?'

'Lord, no!' Jake replenished his own glass. 'I'm much too old to be let out on my own in these dangerous times.' He glanced at Audley almost casually over the froth. 'What about you?'

'Just me.' He felt thirsty suddenly. 'So far as I know.'

Jake raised his glass in salute. 'Not to worry.' He drank deeply and appreciatively. 'My custodes will let me know who are custodieting you, old friend.' He smiled at Audley. 'Your Mr Jaggard said you were working for him. And ... I suspect he trusts you even less than I do.'

So Jake had been well-briefed, then. Or had drawn the right conclusions, anyway. 'You've met my Mr Jaggard, then?'

'I have indeed.' Another drink. Then another smile. 'A very cautious gentleman.' The smile was a smile-of-many-colours.

'And I have told him everything I know. Or ... some of everything I know, anyway. And he is very grateful. And . . . I am to see him again later tonight. Or, failing that, early tomorrow morning. And then he will be very grateful again.'

But no smile now. 'You look rather pleased with yourself, David. And that worries me.'

'I am pleased with myself.' He wasn't such an expert on dummy1

English beer as Jake had once been. But it tasted good because he was thirsty.

'I see.' Jake nodded over his glass. 'So that will be because you are hoping to meet your old colleague Major Richardson? For whom you people are all looking — as well as for General Lukianov?'

Everybody knew about everyone everybody was looking for now, evidently. 'I might be, Jake.' With everybody looking, that was hardly surprising: Jake had merely chosen the more likely of the two.

'But Mr Jaggard doesn't know this yet?'

Jake was another one like Paul Mitchell: he was too clever for his own good. 'What have you got for me that you haven't given Henry Jaggard? On Prusakov and Kulik, as well as Lukianov, Jake?' He looked at his watch ostentatiously, and then at the remaining daylight outside.

'You're in a hurry?'

'Not particularly — if you've got a lot to tell.'

'You ought to be in a hurry. And ... I do not have a great deal.

But what I have is good.' Jake paused. 'It is also sensitive, David.'

'Sensitive?'

Jake hid behind his glass for a moment. 'I must ask that it goes no further, from you, for the time being. It will surely come from other sources eventually.'

It was the source, not the information itself, which was dummy1

sensitive. 'Don't insult me, Jake. When have I ever blabbed?'

But he saw at once that injured reliability was not enough.

'Very well. You have my word.'

'Fine. Your word I will take.' Jake nodded. 'We have a Kremlin source, David. But we do not want it put at the slightest risk, you understand. Even for something which worries us as much as this.' He made a face suddenly.

'Also . . . there are those on my side who are not so convinced that we should be frank with you. They believe that terrorist operations always weaken the credibility of the PLO itself.

And that suits them — whatever the cost to others.'

Jake had always been a moderate. 'I understand.'

'Good. Well . . . Prusakov was the brains. Kulik was a useful idiot — a very necessary idiot. It is even possible that he thought he was about to make a genuine deal with you in Berlin, when actually he was setting you up. And himself, of course. At least, that is what the Russians believe now, anyway.'

'But Kulik was a computer expert. He can't have been that stupid.'

'He can. But . . . they were both computer scientists, he and Prusakov. And they were both in severe personal difficulties.

Sex and money in Kulik's case. Money and politics in Prusakov's. With Lukianov ... he is more complex.' Jake cocked an eye at him. 'You know about computers, David?'

'Not a lot.' Audley was only too-well-aware of his Luddite dummy1

tendencies where computers were concerned. But it wasn't just that they so easily could out-perform him in his own special field (though not, as it happened, in the case of Peter Richardson, by God!). It was that computers had passwords which could be broken, and no words-of-honour, he told himself. 'Try me.'

'Computer viruses? How about them?'

'No.' It was no good pretending, even though he rather liked the idea of computers catching the common cold. 'Make it simple, Jake.'

The Israeli nodded. 'What it looks like is that Prusakov found out about Kulik's problems. And that gave him an idea, which he sold to Kulik. And then they studied the form together, and came up with General Lukianov, who was angry and disaffected with life in general. And with the result of defective tactics in Afghanistan — defeat and the planned evacuation — in particular.' He nodded again. 'And who, additionally, was up for the chop, professionally if not personally . . . Only, with his Middle Eastern contacts from the old days, he then came up with a variation of Prusakov's idea, it seems.'

'Which was?'

Jake sighed. 'Well . . . that's what the Russians don't know, exactly. But it was selling something to Abu Nidal, we're pretty sure. Which, of course, isn't the same as doing business with you and the Americans, or anyone in the West

— that would have been treason, to Lukianov's way of dummy1

thinking.' He gazed at Audley in silence for a moment. 'But, unfortunately, they don't know what it is that he's selling.

Because Prusakov and Kulik between them have sabotaged the collective KGB/GRU memory bank, erasing whole sections of it — ' He shook his head quickly ' — don't ask me how. It wasn't supposed to be possible, with all the fail-safes and back-ups . . . And then there were the old-fashioned files

—'

'Files?' Audley knew about such old-fashioned things. Files were what he had once browsed through at leisure like a contented herbivore, and almost without let or hindrance in the days of Sir Frederick Clinton, who had come to take a relaxed view of his omnivorous habits. He had even done a bit of browsing that very morning, like in those halcyon days.

'They've gone, too. Shredded, presumably. And that was General Lukianov, for sure. Because Kulik and Prusakov wouldn't have had access rights to them.' Jake nodded again.

'Their job was to fix the computers, however that could be done . . . Which I frankly don't understand — whether they simply did some sort of demolition job, or left triggers behind to be activated by the right inquiry — I don't know.

Because all this new information technology is way over my head now.'

'I see.' It was Audley's turn to nod. The technology didn't matter: in this context computers were only glorified files.

But files were the beginning of everything — they were any organization's collective memory, and they were sacrosanct.

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'No wonder they're desperate — never mind what Lukianov himself is up to.'

'The Russians?' The Israeli grimaced at him. They've been running around in circles, trying to find what's been wiped out. Because they can't start trying to reconstruct what's gone until they find there's a gap. Then — in theory, anyway —

they can try to get on to the original sources of the information which might have been in it. But it's one hell of a job, even for the experts. And some of the stuff has probably gone forever — that's what our people reckon.' Jake's expression changed, becoming almost quizzical. The funny thing is ... or, "funny" isn't the right word . . . our whizz-kids aren't exactly rubbing their hands — they're as worried as everyone else is. Because they've now got to make damn sure that our secret information retrieval systems are as fail-safe as the missile systems have to be — safe from human mischief as well as human error. Which is near as damn-it impossible, I'd say.' He finished his beer, wiped his moustache, and set his glass down. 'But which is the least of our problems at the moment, David.'

'Yes.' It wasn't their problem at all, thought Audley dismissively. 'Jaggard doesn't know any of this, you say?'

'Not yet. But he will know soon enough.'

'How?'

'The Americans will tell him. We have ensured that one of their sources will pick it up. At ... his own risk, of course.'

Jake sighed. 'He would have got it soon enough, probably.

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Because it isn't the sort of thing that can be kept under wraps long — especially as Lukianov will certainly have taken out more than he needed, just to muddy the waters.' He spread his hands. 'We don't know how much they've managed to reconstruct as of now. But they'll have started with him. And, of course, they know that you and Richardson are involved.

So it would seem a reasonable guess that everything that was ever on file about Messrs Lukianov, Audley and Richardson has been consigned to oblivion, whatever else may have gone.' One bushy eyebrow lifted mockingly. 'You should perhaps thank him for that, even though he did not intend you to enjoy the benefits of it?'

'Uh-huh?' But there were people enough over there who could quickly fill most of that gap, Audley concluded dispassionately. In fact, old Nikolai Panin could probably do the job single-handed from his honourable and well-deserved retirement niche in Kiev University.

'Flattering, too . . . when you think about it.' Jake played idly with the bottle-opener, as though tempted again by his remaining stock of Cotswold bitter. 'That he wanted to erase you personally, as well as your record —don't you think?'

Audley looked at his watch, and then at the window. It was almost dark enough now — and he had no time to gratify Jake's curiosity about the truth of Berlin. 'How bright is General Lukianov, Jake?'

'Bright?'

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'I know he's a gambler. But he backed two favourites which didn't stay the course — Afghanistan and Brezhnev's son-in-law. And before that ... the Middle East? Your home ground.'

'That's right.' Jake could hardly deny that. 'We didn't really overlap, though. My field's Egypt — as you well know . . . Or, it was. But his was Syria and Lebanon. With side trips to Libya and the old Barbary Coast.'

'The terrorists' home ground. And he liaised with them?'

Jake thought for a moment. 'Nobody liaises with them — not in the way you're seeming to imply, anyway.' He shook his head sadly. 'You British do not understand the nature of terrorism — Ireland, the Middle East... the old Empire before that.'

This was dangerous ground, which must be skirted now just as it had to be in the old days. 'And neither do the Russians?'

'And neither do the Russians — no matter what they think —

' Jake also felt the ground quiver beneath him ' —

Lukianov . . . was perhaps marginally safer there than any of your people, or the Americans, might have been. But that was more because the Russians have a heavier-handed response; no publicity or public muscle-flexing, just an old-fashioned eye-for-an-eye operation, without fuss. So that protected him in his dealings with all sorts of people.'

'Some of whom he's dealing with now?'

'That's certainly the way it looks, yes.'

'He must have something pretty damn-good to offer them.'

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Audley couldn't help speaking aloud to himself, banal though the thought which everyone had been thinking for days undoubtedly was. But no wonder everyone was scared!

'In answer to your question, old friend — ' Jake didn't bother to agree with him, he simply succumbed to temptation. But then Jake's capacity for alcohol-without-impairment had always been enviable. ' — no, not ultimately intellectual-bright . . . Crazy-bright, like a good soldier.' He flipped the metal top off, 'Or . . . tactical- bright, rather than strategic-bright . . . like a good Spetsnaz graduate — which he is — '

He considered Audley across the top of his Cotswold bottle '

— if he hadn't ever got hooked into the Brezhnev nepotism malt-whisky-smoked-salmon-ballerina-girlfriend circuit he might never have got past field-rank. He'd have stayed at the sharp end, with his old Spetsnaz comrades, in Afghanistan.'

He poured slowly, until froth oozed just above the rim of the glass. 'He'd have been like your Kipling-characters only on the other side, with his Cossacks instead of Gurkhas and all your other mercenaries . . . You and your "Great Games"! "A plague on both your houses" to that, now.' He raised his glass mockingly. 'But I do not think you can afford to play games now, great or otherwise.'

'No.' He could see that it was dark enough outside.

'You want to go.' Jake observed his glance. 'And quite rightly, too. Because what you must bear in mind now is not what Lukianov was, or what he may have been, but what he is, old friend. Because, as an old Spetsnaz man he was trained for dummy1

the big show-down — to fight and cause havoc far beyond his own lines, and single-handed if things went wrong. So now perhaps he has guessed that Berlin and Capri did not go quite as he planned. But that will not stop him going ahead, and doing what he planned to do. He will merely move that much quicker, by instinct: he will want to clinch his deal, and then fade away.' He grinned suddenly. 'It is like my old landlady in Crofton Park used to say, when I was a student here, and I stayed too long in bed. "You must bustle, Mr Shapiro," she would say. "You must bustle!" So now you must bustle old friend. Or you will be too late —' But then he held up a calloused palm warningly ' — except that, first, I will make sure that the coast is clear for you, eh?' He put down his glass and picked up the phone beside the bed. 'Can I have the bar, please?' He nodded at Audley. 'I have minders down there . . . and elsewhere outside, you see.'

'Jake —'

'It's all right. . . hullo? Please, you have a red-headed gentleman at the bar, drinking, I think? A Mr Pollard —yes?'

He grinned at Audley. 'A red-headed Jew? Who would have thought it, eh?' Then he concentrated on the phone again.

'Hullo, Angus. Any visitors?' He paused. 'Indeed? Is that a fact? Thank you, Angus.' He replaced the phone. 'And a red-headed Jew named "Angus", too! A Scottish Jew — such a clever boy.' He nodded at Audley. 'Your also-clever Dr Mitchell has a new girl-friend, he says. And Angus admires his taste, I think . . . Okay, David? The back entrance, is it?'

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'No.' There was only one way they could have got here so quickly, on his heels. So there was no shaking them off, if the car was bugged (as, when he thought about it, he should have expected, anyway). Or ... there were two ways, actually.

Because Jake would provide a private car. But the other way was better. And, anyway, he wanted to know if there was anything new from London, which fitted in with that way.

'No, Jake. I'll go down and talk to them. Don't worry yourself on my behalf.'

'Very well. You know best.' Jake went to the door, to unlock it. But then he touched Audley's arm, hesitantly yet deliberately all the same. 'But don't forget what I said, David old friend — eh? Lukianov ... I do not think, perhaps, that he is interested in you now ... or your Major Richardson, for whom all your people are also looking, I hear — yes?' But he didn't wait for an answer to that. 'However ... he is a hard man. And his Arab clients — they do not care for anyone, even themselves ... at least, those who do their bidding do not care, eh? Remember that the original "Assassins" — the Hashasheen . . . they were one-way ticket holders. You remember?'

'How could I forget.' He couldn't bring himself to return the grin. 'Just like old times? Thanks, Jake.'

Jake patted his arm. 'Go with God then ... as they say.'

The blast of warmer air rising up the staircase, mixed with the early evening sounds and smells from the bars below, did dummy1

nothing to dispel the cold which had spread from that uncharacteristic touch. In all the years he could not ever remember Jake touching him deliberately like that — or even touching him at all, since that first original handshake so long ago. Jake wasn't a toucher, he was almost Anglo-Saxon in his fastidiousness. Even, when in the past he had wanted to push his "old friend" in one direction or another, towards a car or a taxi (or, more often, towards a pub and a bar), he had shepherded like a sheep-dog, blocking off every alternative route. But this time he had touched, and it had been fear, not any other virtue (and least of all affection) which had been transmitted through his finger-tips —

He saw them immediately he entered the bar. And a handsome couple they made too, he thought critically, as he passed the red-headed Angus by the door without a second glance. If he had had Faith with him, and they had been strangers, he would have envied their beauty and relative youthfulness while she would have moved on from their good looks to fantasize about their relationship and professions, to no possible purpose.

'Hullo, David.' Mitchell betrayed neither relief not surprise as he stood up. 'Can I get you a drink?'

'No.' For an instant he wondered what Faith would have made of this pair. Then he shook his head, and concentrated on Mary Franklin.

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'You know Miss Franklin, of course,' said Mitchell unnecessarily.

Audley sat down. 'I haven't got much time, Miss Franklin.

Have you any information for me?'

'Dr Audley — ' She had taken her cue from Mitchell, to match his neutral expression. ' — the Russians aren't looking for their man Prusakov anymore. But it looks as though they are definitely concentrating on General Lukianov here in England. The search elsewhere has been either scaled down, or called off altogether.'

'And the various terrorist groups — what about them?'

'They've all gone to ground,' said Mitchell. 'Elsewhere as well as here. But the Israelis have got a maximum alert going.

Also especially here.' He cocked his head at Audley. 'Here's what it's all at, evidently. But we should have guessed that the moment your old buddy Colonel Shapiro buckled on his guns again and rode into town. He used to be the numero uno expert on the KGB and the terrorists in Western Europe in the old days, didn't he? Before he switched back to their Egyptian bureau?'

Trust Mitchell to know it all — and to guess that it wasn't just the old Shapiro-Audley relationship which had brought Jake back to England.

'Have you got anything on Major Richardson?'

Mary Franklin didn't beat about the bush. 'Is he in this area?'

'He may be, Miss Franklin.' He smiled politely at her, but dummy1

then returned to Mitchell. 'What else have you got?'

'What else?' Mitchell gave Mary Franklin a hopeful look.

'You've got that CIA stuff on Kulik and Prusakov, Mary?'

So it was "Mary" already! But then it would be.

'Nothing very definite.' She wasn't quite ready to be "Mary".

'The Americans now think they were both vulnerable to pressure, their Moscow sources say. The sort of pressure General Lukianov may have been able to exert, perhaps —

with the access he had to personnel files.'

'What about the computer angle?' He had to keep faith with Jake. But, after Prusakov's demise, he needed to ginger up his own side.

'Yes.' Mary Franklin let herself be gingered. 'Prusakov was the senior. But Kulik was a real whizz-kid, Dr Audley. And he'd most likely met Prusakov at the joint KGB/GRU

computer seminars they've been having, with the improved systems they've been putting in.' She allowed herself the merest hint of an apologetic smile. Which might be because she incorrectly thought that she was teaching grandfather to suck eggs, but which only made her more beautiful.

'Indeed?' Grandfather nodded encouragingly. But that was as far as Grandfather's word-of-honour would let him go, even in a thousand years — even at the risk of appearing stupid.

'Well, I suppose they must have had plenty of access to information too, then.' He nodded again, including them both. 'And Lukianov?'

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'Not a sign of him, David.' Mitchell shook his head unhappily. 'Kulik and Prusakov were the whizz-kids, like Mary says. And they both had to get out. Although they both also probably wanted to play with more advanced computers as well — ours, but the Americans' even more. And . . .

especially Kulik, I'd guess. Prusakov was more into politics and the good life. And he was the older of the two, with a lot of Brezhnev-era friends who were also being weeded out.' He shook his head again. 'But it's Lukianov who frightens me, David. He sounds like a real tough egg, SAS-style. And I'd feel a lot happier if I knew what sort of deal he's made with the Ay-rabs.'

'Yes. So what about Peter Richardson, Dr Audley?' Having given something, Mary Franklin still wanted more in exchange. But then Peter was her priority, after all: he was why she was here, inconveniently on his back.

Only, things had moved on since she had left London on his tail. Most notably, the CIA had moved like lightning after the Israelis' tip-off, evidently scared enough to hazard one of their Moscow insiders.

'"The Americans think" — "the Americans say"?' He ignored her question. 'What do the Israelis say?'

'They gave us the lead on Prusakov's disppearance from the

"Most Wanted" list, David,' said Mitchell. 'Jaggard's had a meeting with Freyer and Shapiro — a very friendly meeting, by all accounts. And the exchange is "ongoing", he told Jack.

So everybody's buddy-buddy for once.' A muscle in his cheek dummy1

twitched. 'They're all being especially nice to us — the CIA as well as Mossad. All of which is scaring the daylights out of poor old Henry. So, apart from putting Mary here on your tail, he's not yet muttering "What's that bastard Audley up to?" like he usually does, David. It's just like your favourite poet said it always is —

For it's David this, an' David that, an' "Chuck 'im out, the brute!"

But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot

— he knew a thing or two, you're quite right! So whatever you want . . . just say the word, and we're yours to command.

Isn't that right, Mary?'

Mary Franklin's face was a picture. But then, however much she might know about them both, she might not know that one of Dr Mitchell's favourite indoor sports was quoting passages from Dr Audley's beloved Kipling at him, preferably in public.

Only this time there was more to it than that, he realized: if Mary Franklin was Henry Jaggard's woman first and last, Paul Mitchell was his man still — with or without Jack Butler's full approval: the Kipling lines were also the wrapping for that final message.

'Miss Franklin — ' He caught her still in mid-gape at Mitchell dummy1

' — so . . . what are the Russians doing, then?'

"The Russians?' She frowned at him.

'Dr Mitchell says that everyone is — ah — "buddy-buddy".'

He pronounced the Americanism with pretended distaste.

'But I don't think he was including the KGB in that happy condition — were you, Dr Mitchell?'

'No.' Mitchell came in happily on cue. "There's been some interesting coming-and-going in the new trade mission, Len Aston reports. But that's all to do with some Anglo-Soviet wooden furniture factory project, allegedly. Which they're thinking of switching from the north-east to the Welsh valleys. Only they could be bringing in some reinforcements perhaps, he thinks. But no glasnost of the sort you're suggesting — if that's what you're suggesting?'

'Well, it's about bloody-time that there was, by God! Where are you parked?'

'Round the back.' Mitchell frowned. 'Why d'you want to know?'

'I want to borrow your car.'

'My car? Over my dead body! You've already got — ' Mitchell stopped abruptly.

'The new departmental Rover?' He could see that Mitchell understood. But so too, unfortunately, did Mary Franklin, judging by her obstinate expression. 'I don't want to be followed — "protected" — where I'm going. Either by you, Miss Franklin, or by Mossad.'

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She hadn't expected that. 'Mossad?'

'Colonel Shapiro is upstairs, my dear. I've just been talking to him. And the red-headed fellow at the bar belongs to him.

And they'll be watching my car, even if they haven't added one of their bugs to yours.' This wasn't betraying Jake: it was merely using him to get her off his back, he reassured himself Jesuitically. 'I believe I now know where I can find Peter Richardson — where he is waiting for me. But if I turn up anywhere near his safe-house with anyone on my tail he'll be off again, like on Capri. And I'm not having that.'

'David —'

'I shall be perfectly safe this time. Apart from which I have work for you both.'

They looked at each other.

'What work?' Mitchell sighed.

'What work, Dr Audley?'

'I want you, Paul, to make sure I'm not followed.' There wasn't the slightest likelihood that Jake would try anything so stupid. But it would keep Mitchell occupied. 'And I want you to contact Henry Jaggard, Miss Franklin. Because I've got work for him, too.'

Mary Franklin stared at him even more intently. 'What work, Dr Audley?'

'I want him to set up a meeting with the Russians as soon as possible.' He met the stare arrogantly. 'Because I don't think we've got much time.'

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'Much time . . . before what?'

'Either before Lukianov clinches his deal. Or before the Russians get him themselves, just as they got Prusakov.

Which may be preferable. But which isn't acceptable to me.'

She breathed out slowly. 'Is this because of what Shapiro has told you?'

'Partly. But partly also because, whatever Lukianov is engaged in, I'd guess that the Russians must be close to him by now, the way they've been pulling out all the stops.

Because they've always had the inner track — he was their man before he ran ... as well as a head start after Berlin, even though they were too late with Kulik.'

'But. . . they haven't got Richardson, Dr Audley.'

'That's exactly right, Miss Franklin: Richardson will be our strength. Because he was our man once . . . That is, if you don't frighten him off now.' He nodded at her. 'If I can bring him in, then Henry Jaggard will have something to bargain with tomorrow. You tell him that: tell him to tell General Voyshinski that Dr Audley and Major Richardson have been talking together about the old days. That might spark a bit of much-needed glasnost in him.'

4

Everything depended on memory now.

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First, there were the old precautions, even though he was tolerably certain that, of all cars, Mitchell's ridiculous pride-and-joy would not be bugged for easy following as the office Rover had been. But here, in the darkness and solitude of this deep Cotswold countryside of tiny roads and rolling hills, he had the advantage, anyway: no vehicle could move in it without lights, and from each crest the undisturbed night behind reassured him.

His only fear was that he wouldn't find the place again, after so many years: here, the darkness was not his friend, forcing him to drive by the map, squinting at every signpost, noting the mileages he had memorized, and finally counting off the side-roads in the maze until he found the track on its hillside at last.

But then, quite suddenly, he was sure, against all doubt.

There were dangers out there — all the old horrors, and the negotium perambulans in tenebris — the Foul Fiend himself, if not General Lukianov. But they were far away. And this was the place. Because, in a world of untruth and half-truth, Her Majesty's Ordnance Survey maps and his own memory never lied.

Even . . . although the track was narrower than he remembered, and the hedges higher ... he was prepared for the unavoidable potholes, including the boggy stretch where the spring on the hillside above oozed out of the bank and crossed the track without the luxury of a culvert.

Everthing depended on memory —

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The cottage comforted him even more, it was so photographically exact. The years had added a few feet to the slow-growing holly-trees, and to the magnolia which had struggled bravely annually with the English winters and the late spring frosts, just as his own did at home. And the Porsche's fiercely-glaring headlights yellowed the Cotswold stonework and turned the moss black on the slates of the roof while taking out all the colour from the autumn flowers by the porch. Yet every difference served only to confirm his memory of the place.

For a moment after he extinguished the car's lights the darkness engulfed him again, and the newly-loosened knot in his stomach tightened again. Then the porch-light snapped on before he reached the door.

As he stepped into the circle of light he heard a chain jangle on the other side of the door, then the snap of a bolt. Then the door opened as far as the chain would allow.

'Can I help you?'

'I hope so, Mrs Kenyon.' She had spoken so softly that he didn't even try to recall the voice. And she was standing at such an angle to the porch-light that he couldn't see her face while she could see his. 'Is it Mrs Kenyon?'

'What d'you want?'

The relief which came after certainty was almost an anti-climax. 'You remember me, Mrs Kenyon. I came here once, with a friend of yours — one morning long ago. We stayed for dummy1

lunch. Your husband was in hospital at the time. You were busy planting the garden — begonias and petunias. It was in May . . . My name's Audley — David Audley. You remember me, don't you?'

She breathed out: it was as though she had held her breath as he had re-created his day in May long ago for her. 'I remember you, Dr Audley.'

'Then you know what I want, Mrs Kenyon. Can I come in?'

Sophie Kenyon chewed on that for a moment. 'I remember you. But I'd still like to see your identification.'

'Of course.' He waited patiently. 'Very sensible.'

'Thank you.' But she remained unmoving. 'Is there anyone with you?'

'No. I am quite alone, Mrs Kenyon. I have been very careful, I do assure you.' He smiled at her. 'Quite alone. Quite unarmed. And quite cold.'

She unchained the door. One step down, he remembered.

And then mind the beams (although that did not call for any special memory-trick: the old English had been a stunted race, and he had learnt to stoop automatically in parts of his own home from his fifteenth year onwards).

The smell of the house refined remembrance further. Every house had its smell, but old-house smells were more individual and distinctive, mostly derived from the working of damp on their building materials. And in this house the damp had been memorable; although now there were hints dummy1

of wood-smoke and hot cooking added to it, as one might expect in October. And also, just possibly, dog (he wrinkled his nose at that: dog he couldn't recall from that last time, as he surely ought to if there had been one: it would have barked its way into his memory then; and, as an after-dark visitor now, it ought to have barked even louder at his arrival this evening).

'You know where to go?' There was a curious intentness in the question.

'It's this door, isn't it?' There damn-well was a dog-paw scratch mark on the lowest corner of the door, all the same —

he caught himself staring at it.

'Yes. What's the matter?'

Warmth and more pronounced wood-smoke greeted him.

The curtains and the chair-covers and the carpet were different, but the room and the major things in it were the same.

'Have you got a dog?' In spite of himself, he couldn't resist the question.

'Yes.' She stared at him, for a fraction of a second incredulously, but then with a slow smile. 'So it is true, then.'

'What's true?'

'He said you'd come. Would you like a drink?'

What he would like, he thought, was to follow up that cooking smell: it promised something he hadn't had for more days than he cared to think about, never mind since the day dummy1

before yesterday: a good square English home-cooked dinner

— preferably with cabbage. 'Thank you. A very small scotch?'

In the full light of her sitting-room he could study her for the first — or, more accurately, the second time. 'What's true, Mrs Kenyon?'

She poured two very small scotches and handed one of them to him. The years, he thought, had been kind and not-kind to her: she still had her figure and the natural grace to go with it. But fifteen Cotswold winters, at least some of which must have been lavished on her dying husband (and the rest of which had presumably been wasted on loneliness and good works? But now he was making pictures!) . . . those fifteen winters had added Cotswold grey to her.

'He's not here at the moment, Dr Audley,' she said simply.

'No?' He took comfort from the lack of emphasis on "here".

'But not too far away, I hope?'

She considered him and his question together across her small untouched scotch. 'You really are alone, Dr Audley?'

'You called me "David" once — after Peter had introduced me, Mrs Kenyon. And I then called you "Sophie" over lunch, I remember.'

The smile, slow as before but gentler for the memory, returned. 'And what did we have for lunch . . . when we were

"David" and "Sophie" . . . David?'

'I don't remember. Salad, was it?'

'So you're not perfect!' She nodded, nevertheless.

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She was not an enemy. But she was something much more worrying than that to a man running out of time. 'Not quite perfect. But alone.' He felt time at his back. 'I do need to see him very badly, though. And the longer you delay our meeting, the less certain I can be that either of us will be able to stay out of trouble.'

She raised an eyebrow. 'What sort of trouble?'

It was always the same: to get more he had to give more. 'He told you what happened on Capri, did he?'

The eyebrow came down. 'Yes. But he doesn't know why it happened, he also told me.'

'He thinks he doesn't, perhaps.' He shook his head at her.

'But he does.'

She stared at him for another over-long moment. 'What he thinks ... is that you are a very dangerous man, David. You were in the old days. And you still are.'

Audley sighed. It was not unreasonable on Peter Richardson's part that he should think that — however unjustly. 'I don't know about dangerous. More like endangered, I would say.'

Another long stare. But for that ailing husband and her Catholic scruples she would have been Peter Richardson's woman long ago, not just his friend and his friend's wife. So now she was more than all of that.

'But you get people killed.' It was a statement, not an accusation.

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He had to correct it, nevertheless. 'When I make mistakes, people get killed sometimes. Peter was a soldier — he should understand that.' He felt the iron entering his soul. 'And now, if I don't get to talk to him very soon, more people are going to get killed.' He could almost taste the iron: it was because, if he let himself be, he was tired as well as hungry. 'Almost certainly, whatever we do, I think that more people are going to get killed. But it may be within our power . . . how many.

Or whether they're the innocent ones or the guilty.'

She didn't reply. But this time she nodded, and then reached down into the hearth. Audley watched her as she lit a candle with a thin wooden spill and placed the brass candlestick on the ledge of a tiny window to the right of the stone chimney-breast.

Then he met her eyes. 'Did he go out as soon as he heard the car?'

'No.' She shook her head. 'He's been indoors all day —ever since I collected him late last night, in fact.'

He must have got his skates on! Audley thought admiringly.

But then, in his line of retirement-business and with his training, Peter would have had his contingency plans worked out, right down to passports, spare cash and safe houses.

Which, of course, brought him to the old moment-of-truth, which they had rehearsed together on that unfor-gettable-unforgotten night, straight out of Kipling, on which they had both relied now: If one told thee that all had been betrayed, what wouldst thou do? — I would run away. It might be dummy1

true!

Now she smiled again at him. 'He wanted a breath of air, he said. But . . . he's been watching all day, through John's old field-glasses, out of the attic windows front and back.' The smile trembled slightly, and the corner of her unpainted lip turned down. 'He said that, if anyone came in daylight, it wouldn't be you. But he didn't think you'd be so quick — or so careless.' She looked down at his glass. 'Would you like another drink, David?'

He looked down at his glass, which had somehow emptied itself. 'Only if I'm not driving — and if you've got enough supper for three — ?'

'I always make too much.' The smile turned up again.

'Although Peter's done most of the cooking: we're having spaghetti bolognese. Only with a lot more meat than is proper, apparently. So there'll be enough, I'm sure.'

There was much more whisky in the glass this time. 'If I drink this I'll need a bed too, Sophie.'

She let him take the glass from her. 'There's a camp-bed ... if you have time — ? But you said — ?'

'I'll be leaving early.' He couldn't risk saying we, even now.

'But . . . I'm not as young as I was.' Let them all worry — the others! From Paul and Jake to General Lukianov and Others (always supposing they were still worrying, by God!) 'If I don't get a few hours . . . then I won't be able to think straight tomorrow.' He felt only slightly guilty at disturbing two dummy1

middle-aged love-birds (which, under pressure and without any sign or mention of poor old John, to whom they had once been so faithful, they probably were now, at last). 'Is it very inconvenient?'

'Not at all, David.' She sounded almost relieved. 'Peter didn't really expect you tonight. He thought it would be tomorrow night, more likely. If at all.' Her mouth tightened suddenly.

'No — he didn't say "if at all" — I did. He was almost certain that you'd come.' She touched her lips with her glass. 'But he was afraid someone else might come with you.'

'He thought I'd be careless.' That was disappointing.

'No.' She closed her eyes for an instant. 'He just wasn't quite sure that they'd let you come alone.' She sighed. 'After what had happened on Capri.'

'That's all in the past.' He shook his head reassuringly at her.

'How long will he be?'

She glanced at the candle. 'Not long, I shouldn't think. It all depends on whether he's on top or down below at the moment. He said he was just going to stretch his legs . . . and take Buster for a night-jaunt.' She came back to him. 'You're quite right: I didn't have a dog, that time you came. I only got one three years ago, when . . . after John died.'

The poor devil had lasted all those years! God — small wonder she was grey and stretched! And that, of course, accounted for Peter's own behaviour over the years, taken together with his own problems.

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But he had to think of Peter now — out there somewhere.

And not just "stretching his legs and the dog's", either: the dark would be his friend equally. And especially with a dog at his side, for "Buster" would be both a useful ally in casing the area for strangers and a splendid cover for such an enterprise: a dog was worth several men, day or night — and a man walking a dog at night would pass for a local man, not a stranger.

'Either way, he will have seen the car lights anyway, David.'

'Yes.' And then he'd be thinking hard, thought Audley. In fact, if he had known near-enough what had happened on Capri, but not why . . . and also with the name David Audley in the forefront of his mind . . . he'd be thinking very hard indeed —

But she was watching him intently again with that stretched look of hers. Only now that look must have more to do with her living Peter than her dead John. 'Don't worry, Sophie.

We're both being careful, that's all.'

She drew a long breath. 'It's easy to say that. But I don't know why you're being careful. And neither does Peter. Except he knows that someone wants him dead —and maybe you, too.'

'Uh-huh.' Knowing so much, yet so little, no wonder the poor woman was so frightened behind her brave front. 'Well, that's why I'm here, my dear: because I don't know either.

And that's why we're both in danger. It's like having poison in your bloodstream — not knowing enough, either of us. But together, you see, we may also have the antidote. That's what dummy1

I'm hoping, anyway.'

Another long, almost shuddering breath. 'It doesn't make sense.'

'Why not?' The heat of the fire and the whisky were getting to him. Only hunger kept him awake.

'It's just . . .' She gestured despairingly '. . . how did you know he'd be here, with me? How could you be so sure, I mean?'

'He was sure, wasn't he?'

'Yes. But —'

'Why was he sure?'

She pulled herself together. 'He said you'd remember. He said you never forget anything — that you've got a memory like an elephant.'

'And so has he. I knew he'd remember — he knew I'd remember. It's the gift the good fairy gave to each of us.

Sometimes it's a mixed blessing. But it gives us an advantage.'

'Like now.'

'Like now maybe. But maybe not. Because when we remember the past we recall the bad things just as vividly as the good ones. The saving grace of ordinary fallible memory is that old unhappiness blurs, and then it often becomes a joke before it's virtually forgotten. But the good times get rosier . . . like, my wife can never remember it raining when she was a child. And she's got crystal-clear recollection of her dummy1

father looking handsome in his uniform, and bringing her sweets and books and toys, even though she knows she was only a tiny tot, and he only saw her a few times . . . and he was a bit of a rascal — ' he caught himself too late, knowing he must go on ' —if not actually a villain.' He saw from her face that Peter Richardson had come clean with her. So in another moment she would conclude that his faux pas had been deliberate. 'I know that my temps perdu really are the lost good old days . . . But anyway, one reason why Peter and I were first recruited was that we didn't always have to be looking up the files: we remembered what was in them once we'd read them — ' Damn! She had made the connection, and was looking even more desolate at the thought of Richardson's rascality.

'How much trouble is Peter in? Apart from . . . this trouble of yours, David?'

'He isn't in any trouble in England, Sophie. Apart from my trouble, that is.' He half-smiled at her. 'What I was going to say was that he and I have a special reason for remembering each other. Or ... two special reasons, actually. Because he saved my bacon once, in Italy . . . But, before that, there was this little experiment our mutual boss set up, you see.'

'What. . . experiment?' She frowned at him.

It was working, his diversion. 'He ordered me to invite Peter to dinner — to a dinner-party in my home. He — our esteemed master ... he implied it was so we could get to know each other. But then, some time afterwards, he offered a dummy1

crate of champagne to whichever of us could more exactly remember everything that had been said that evening. And the loser was to match the crate with another one — '

Unbidden, the image of Sir Frederick Clinton superimposed itself on Sophie Kenyon ' — the wicked old devil! He said if I didn't want to take part the crate would be Peter's by default.

But he reckoned Peter would win it anyway.'

A dog barked joyously outside the house, at the back in the distance.

'Go on, David.' She swam back into focus, strangely relaxed now. 'Peter has a key — he can let himself in.'

The back had been a jumble of out-buildings and greenhouses full of carefully-wintered plants, he remembered, using the picture to obliterate Fred's obnoxious self-satisfaction. But could Peter ever exchange his exotic Amain coast for the rigours of even a south-facing Cotswold hillside?

'Go on, David.' She was almost serene now that her living man was back under her roof. 'But . . . how was it going to be judged, though?'

He could hear other noises now, so that it was hard to concentrate. 'He said he would leave us to judge ourselves.

But if we didn't agree then we could turn our entries over to the guests.'

The noises resolved themselves into a door clattering and the wretched dog scampering and sliding on the flagstones dummy1

outside before it started removing more paint from the sitting-room door.

And then the door opened and the creature hurtled through the gap, filling the room with furious uninhibited activity —

making for its mistress first, and then happily and incorrectly assuming that any friend of hers must be another friend.

'Down, Buster!' She attempted half-heartedly to restrain the animal's enthusiasm for his new pretended friend. 'Do you have a dog, David?'

'He hates dogs.' Peter Richardson spoke from the doorway.

'He has geese to protect him. Although he probably has electronic sensors now . . . Good to see you, David. I never thought I'd say that. But. . . autres temps, autres moeurs, eh?'

'I don't actually.' The years had greyed Richardson, too: he looked like a distinguished Italian nobleman fancy-dressed in someone's old clothes. (The dead husband's dothes, maybe?) 'I am relieved to see you, too, Mr Dalingridge.'

'Is that a fact?' The brown well-tanned face and the too-knowing smile on it hadn't changed. 'But ... as a matter of fact . . . you've just given me a nasty turn.' Richardson spread his hands out towards the fire. 'Brrr! I'd forgotten how chilly England can get . . .' He gave Audley a sidelong glance. 'The thing outside . . . You always used to drive a sedate Austin ...

not your thing at all, I thought.'

The thing was the Porsche, of course. 'No, Peter. Not my dummy1

thing at all — you're right.' He needed to assert himself. 'I borrowed it. Because it doesn't have a bug in it.' He managed to smile at Richardson at last. 'It belongs to one of your successors actually.'

'One of my successors?' Richardson turned to Sophie Kenyon at last, and his face softened. 'Give me a drink, Sophie . . .

And don't worry, dear: it's like I said, isn't it? It'll be David.

And that means someone else should be worrying a lot more than us.' He nodded at her, with a half-knowing, half-bitter little smile. Then glanced sidelong again at Audley over his outstretched arm. 'One of my successors, eh? Well, he never bought that on his pay — thanks, Sophie dear — but then, the Department of Intelligence Research and Development always favoured well-heeled young gentry, didn't it?' He sipped his drink. 'But it did give me a bit of a turn, I tell you.

I saw the lights from the copse by the road — that was fair enough, I just thought you'd been quick off the mark. But then I saw the back of the car . . . very nice, I'd have thought at any other time — like Cardinal Alberoni when he saw Philippe d'Orleans' backside: Que culo d'angelo . . . but not your sort of car, David. And that worried me for a bit . . .

Still, he must trust you, to lend you his Porsche. In fact, if he knows how you drive, he must be a friend indeed!'

There was an edge of bitterness there as well as strain, beneath the old banter: once upon a time Richardson had taken an equally ridiculous car of his own like that for granted. But Audley was not of a mind to soften the contrast dummy1

by recounting the tale of Mitchell's purchase of the thing second-hand, for cash, after last autumn's Stock Exchange debacle. Instead, he let the thump of Buster's over-worked tail fill the silence between them.

'David was just explaining . . .' Sophie moved loyally to break the deadlock, and then faltered '. . .he was just telling me why he knew you'd be here, Peter . . .' She faltered again.

'Oh yes?' Richardson sank into one of the dog-battered armchairs.

'But I still don't see how — ?' She waited for him to take up the story. Then when he failed her, she turned back to Audley. 'Which of you won the champagne, David?'

Audley watched Richardson. 'Peter bought the champagne —

the extra crate.'

Sophie recognized the unstraightness of the answer, but couldn't make sense of it. 'So you lost, Peter — ?'

Richardson was watching Audley. 'Fred Clinton said I was going to lose.'

'He said the same to me,' murmured Audley deliberately.

But. . . typical Fred, to spur them each in the same way!

'He also told me that David Audley didn't like to lose.'

Richardson smiled at her suddenly. 'He omitted to tell me that David Audley was a dirty player.'

'I didn't play dirty.' Audley addressed Sophie. 'I simply let Peter see my version of the evening, that's all.'

'Not all. He advised me that it would be better if I conceded dummy1

defeat. So I did. But mine would have been the winning entry, if we'd played fair.'

Sophie frowned interrogatively at Audley. 'I don't understand.'

To his surprise he didn't want her to think ill of him. 'I did give him Fred's champagne. So the honours were equal in the end.'

'You had a bad conscience!' Richardson accused him. 'You lost.'

'Not at all, my dear fellow! I was your host that night. I couldn't let you be out of pocket.'

'I still don't understand —' Sophie accused them both.

They looked at each other, each waiting for the other to speak.

'It's really . . . quite simple.' Audley decided that he must break first. 'We didn't know about Fred Clinton's game, of course.'

'But we played a game of our own, that evening, Sophie. You see.' Richardson cut in. 'Or . . .it was that tame Member of Parliament of yours — the barrister? Sir Laurie Deacon — it was his idea.' He stared at Audley. 'But he called it the

"Kipling game". So it may have been yours originally, David

— was it?' He shook his head, as though to clear it. 'So—'

Candlelight.

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Faint smell of damp beneath the fading dinner smells.

(Those were the days when Faith hadn't quite defeated the rising damp; and, of course, the cellar-door had been opened, to bring up another bottle).

Laurie Deacon: ' That fellow you've all been looking for — the one who did a bunk . . . The word is that you've found him, David — right?'

'Not me, Laurie. Peter here did the finding.'

Peter Richardson: ' Not me, either. It was Sir Frederick who did the finding — like Sherlock Holmes. He said the chap hadn't really done a bunk — hadn't defected . . . He'd just had a bit of a breakdown. And he wanted to be found . . .

only by someone sympathetic, that's all. So it was just psychology.'

Laurie Deacon: ' Ah — yes! He'd be one of Fred's old mates, from the war, of course. So Fred knew all about him, I suppose. But he had a pretty good hidey-hole, all the same

— the Special Branch fellows were tearing their hair, I heard tell.'

Peter Richardson: ' He had ... a friend he could trust. That's all.'

Laurie Deacon: ' That's not all — that's everything, and a bit more, by God! It's just like in that book you gave my daughter, David — when she was little . . . and you ordered me to read it to her at bedtime. I've never forgotten it.

Because it could be any of us.'

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'What book was that, Laurie? Pippa's had so many birthdays — ?'

Laurie Deacon: ' That Kipling book, of course — your favourite, you said. . . And there was this story in it, about these three old Norman knights scheming to prevent another invasion of England. And one of the things they do is to plant a false message on the enemy, across the Channel . . . the sort of thing you chaps do all the time these days, I shouldn't wonder . . . telling 'em that all their plans had been betrayed — remember?'

'Yes. "Write to any man that all is betrayed, and even the Pope himself would sleep uneasily", Laurie. That's why you've got a numbered account in Zurich, eh?'

Laurie Deacon: ' Huh! Every sensible man takes precautions.

In fact let's play a little game, then. If all was betrayed, have you got a bolt-hole? Is there anyone you'd trust absolutely, life-and-death? Will you play my "Kipling Game" — ?'

Peter Richardson: ' There's a girl, lives in the Cotswolds . . .

Sophie Kenyan. Married my best friend . . . should have married me. But she wouldn't give me up to anyone —'

'I'll never know why I said it. But I did,' Richardson gave Sophie an apologetic look. 'I could have bitten off my tongue . . . Too much of David's claret, maybe. And . . . I must have thought I was among friends.'

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'And so you were.' Audley fended off Buster irritably. 'I promised him his secret was safe with me, Sophie. And I told him that my word-of-honour was good for a thousand years

— like Sir Richard Dalyngridge's — "Dalyn-gridge" with a "y", actually — in the Kipling story. And I have kept my word.'

And now he really could smile genuinely at her at last: after this, so long as she was present, Richardson could deny him nothing. 'Only then, you see, Frederick Clinton challenged us to his little game. Or, his "experiment", as he called it ...

Memory versus memory, Old Dog versus Young Dog, Sophie.'

'Why did he do that?' She looked from one to the other.

'Huh!' Richardson got up to pour himself another drink. 'He could be a mischievous old sod when he wanted to be. He probably wanted to take David down a peg, at that!'

'Or teach you a thing or two, my lad.'

'He certainly did that, by God!' Richardson shook his head at Sophie. 'I was his very own new recruit, my love. And in one of their silly aptitude games — one of their less dirty games —

I'd scored rather high marks, for memory apparently. So he wanted to show me off, I reckon.' He drank. 'To show how smart he was by showing how smart I was, when it came to

"automatic recall" — "automatic recall"?' He cocked the jargon at Audley. 'But he waited two or three months before he hit us with his "experiment", didn't he? Yes — it was exactly six months before I went into the field for the first time, playing games for Jack Butler on Hadrian's Wall.

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Because that was on a — ' He bit the rest off with a scowl, and pushed the dog out of his way to regain his chair. 'Get over, you great lump!'

It was on a Monday? Or a Friday? Excitement slightly tinged with envy tightened Audley's chest as Richardson automatically displayed his special aptitude before realizing what he was doing.

He smiled at Sophie again. 'I had the pleasure of meeting you that time, because of that, anyway. I wanted to see Peter's paragon of secrecy!'

'And that was his first piece of blackmail.' Richardson nodded at his paragon. 'The second being that, after Fred Clinton had challenged us both, he — ' he pointed ' —

suggested that the crate of champagne was his. Because he was inhibited from providing a full account of the evening by his so-called word-of-honour . . . Otherwise, I would have won — in spite of his plying me with drink, Sophie.'

'No. I would have won.' He had plied Captain Peter Richardson, Fred's clever new boy, with drink, Audley remembered guiltily. 'Our separate reports are still in the files — do you know that, Peter?' He smiled at Sophie, who was regarding them both with a mixture of comprehension and absolute incredulity. 'But without your name, of course.'

The truth was ... it might have been smarter to let the clever new boy win, and give Fred his satisfaction. But he had never liked losing, either then or now. 'I know what you're thinking: childish games ... all quite ridiculous, eh?'

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Half of her couldn't deny that. But the other half was frightened. So she still stared from one to the other of them.

'And you're right.' It was the frightened half he addressed.

'But that's what happened. And that's why I'm here, not . . .

somebody else.' He nodded to the frightened half. 'Because we both remembered. And Peter also gave me "Richard Dalingridge", just in case I'd forgotten.' Both halves of her were properly frightened now. But he had to be sure of her.

'Because we're not playing silly games now, my dear. We're not playing games at all, now.'

That very nearly substituted gravitas for ancient silliness.

But then a log tumbled on the fire. And the wretched Buster, who had settled into happy oblivion on the hearth, emitted a canine fart so loud that it woke him up, causing him to look round inquiringly.

'Oh, for God's sake, Buster!' Richardson fended the animal off. 'Where the hell did you get him, Sophie?'

'From the animal sanctuary. Here, Buster!' She snapped her fingers and the dog grinned at her. 'He was a stray. Like you, Peter.'

'Indeed? It's like that, is it?' He stared at her for a moment, then settled back in his armchair. 'Okay, Dr Audley! We've played one old game by the old rules —both of us cheating: you wanted to find me all by yourself, to get all the kudos.

And also because you think I can get you out of another of those awkward predicaments in which you specialize, dummy1

maybe?'

That was nasty. And nasty not least because it ignored the element of "keeping faith" which he had so carefully emphasized. But it did have certain other elements of truth, it had to be admitted.

'You were in a bit of a predicament yourself, Major Richardson.' If some elements had to be admitted, then so had others. But he would also pretend an element of decency, if only to keep Sophie on his side. 'But I don't need to go into that, I think.'

But Richardson shook his head. 'I have no secrets from Sophie.' All the same, he looked at her. 'I had debts of honour to settle — she knows that.' He came back to Audley. 'I used the skills I had. Only then I became greedy. But you wouldn't know what it's like to make a lot of money, David — after you've suddenly discovered that you're poor, when you thought you were rich. Because you've never had to worry about money — never mind the debts!'

Little he knew! But, then, the less he (and the rest of the world) knew, the better. 'So then you had the Mafia on your back?' It occurred to him belatedly that maybe Richardson hadn't been such an innocent smuggler after all, but had simply been a more successful one; that, certainly, would account for that hint of reserve in Captain Cuccaro's attitude, not to mention the Mafia's increased interest. 'So when strangers came looking for you just recently, you were already hard to find?'

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'Yes.' Richardson was oblivious to Sophie and the unfragrance of her dog equally: this was the hard side of him which Fred had identified, even before it had been tempted by adversity fifteen years ago. '"Strangers" is right, too: my people didn't know who they were, the other day. Except that they weren't local. But ... I thought maybe it was hired talent.

Only, they don't need to hire anyone.'

'And then someone dropped my name?'

'Yes.' The shutters came down. 'And then I didn't quite know what to expect. Except trouble.'

'And the KGB?'

'And the KGB?' The corner of the man's mouth twitched. 'For Christ's sake, David! What the hell have they got to do with me? After all these years — ?'

'You don't know?'

'The hell I don't!' Richardson's whole face surrounded his frown. 'Do you think I haven't been cudgelling my brains every spare minute, these last twenty-four hours?'

Suddenly, there was something not right. And although Audley didn't know what it was, it was like a knife at his back.

'But David says that you do know, Peter.' It was as though Sophie had picked up the same vibration.

'He does, does he?' Richardson started to reply almost savagely, but then also registered the doubt in her voice.

'Then perhaps he'd also be good enough to give me a clue to dummy1

what it is. Well, David?'

'Do the names Kulik, Prusakov and Lukianov mean anything to you?'

Richardson's face went blank again. 'They sound like a firm of Moscow solicitors.' It was almost as though there was a click as the three names went into that incomparable memory-bank for checking. 'Who have they been soliciting, then?'

'The first two were computer specialists, GRU and KGB

respectively —'

' Were — ?' Still blank. 'And . . . Lukianov?'

'General Lukianov. KGB, ex-GRU . . . ex-Red Army —ex-Spetsnaz.'

'"Was"? Or "is"?' Richardson looked at Sophie quickly.

'Should she be hearing all this?'

Good question! 'You've put her in the middle of it.'

'No I haven't. Go and look at my bolognese, Sophie.'

'No. What's "Spets . . . naz", David?' She folded her arms obstinately.

Sophie! thought Audley suddenly. 'They're the Russian version of our SAS.'

'And none of your business.' Richardson turned back to Audley. 'I've never heard of any of them. I never had anything to do with computers — ours or theirs. Or with anything that was going on over there, come to that. Christ!

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You should know — you must have been through my record enough times now! I never did anything — not as a principal operator, anyway — anything that amounted to a row of beans . . . anything that wasn't straightforward, and signed and sealed and closed, for God's sake!' He half directed the complaint at Sophie. 'Professionally speaking, I was still wet behind the ears — still training and learning. So there was always someone there to hold my hand, more or less.' Then he turned fully to her. 'And, I told you . . . what I learned wasn't always to my liking, as it turned out. And when Fred Clinton told me what he was really grooming me for — ' He shook his head at her ' — that just wasn't for me, I had to tell him. So that was when we agreed to cut our losses.' He swung back to Audley. 'Never heard of any of them. But I take your point, David —'

'What point?' Sophie refused to be dismissed. 'What do you mean?'

'It doesn't matter — to you, my darling. David —'

'He means that if someone wants him dead then it's because he knows something. So all we have to do is to run his memory back until we find it.' Audley smiled at her, and was almost certain — even though he no longer felt like smiling.

'And he's just volunteered to help me. Correct, Peter?'

'If I must.' Richardson half shrugged, and then made a comic face at Sophie. 'The sooner I get out of your hair, the better, Mrs Kenyon. Now that I've become so popular all of a sudden.'

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'Don't joke —'

'I'm not joking. Being so popular is no fun. Neither is being recalled to the colours, come to that. But David here will look after me — he'll keep tight hold of my hand, you can be sure of that! Won't you, David?'

And being so clever, but not clever enough, was no fun either, thought Audley grimly to himself. But he had to play Richardson's game now, as a penance for that. 'Yes. You are worth more alive than dead at this moment — just like me, Peter.' But he owed something to her, all the same. 'And of course . . . once we've got the answer between us, then we won't be in danger anymore, Mrs Kenyon — Sophie. It's really as simple as that.'

Richardson nodded in support. 'As simple as that! Shall I pack my bags now? "Waste not an hour" — Horatio Nelson?

Or, in your case, David . . . "Fill the unforgiving minute" —

Joseph Rudyard Kipling?' He stood up to suit his words, bringing the dog to its feet with him. 'No — not you, Buster!'

'David's staying the night,' said Sophie.

'Is he?' Richardson looked down at Audley. 'Is that wise?'

Then he acknowledged Sophie. 'Well, we'll have supper first.

And then we'll see, eh? So ... if you'll attend to my over-cooked bolognese, David and I will start unravelling old times — okay?'

Audley watched the man watch his woman obey him. Then waited for the dark eyes to come back to him.

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'Go with your mistress, Buster!' Richardson pushed at the animal's hind quarters. 'Because, if you break wind like that again, I swear I'll kill you ... O-U-T!' He thrust the dog out of the room. '"Out" and "run", are words he understands. But being just a rescued stray, like me, he hasn't learnt "kill" yet, evidently . . . Would you like another top-up, David?

Courtesy of Richard Dalingridge's duty-free allowance.'

'No. Thank you.' The man was too laid-back. Of course, he had always had style, in the old days: good school, plus Sandhurst and university, multiplied by that deceptively generous allowance from his doting (and doted-on) Italian mother. But those small injections of anger at his situation hadn't really carried conviction. 'You got in easily, did you?'

'No problem.' Richard topped up his own glass. 'Now, tell me more about this Russian triumvirate of yours. Why am I supposed to have known them? When I know that I may come up with an idea or two — you never know. Then we can get going.'

Not just too laid-back, but too unfrightened also.

'Kulik, Prusakov and . . . who was it? The Spetsnaz fellow?

Lukianov — yes!' Richardson swilled the whisky round in his glass without drinking it. 'Sounds like "Caesar, Pompey and Crassus" . . . and, as there's only one left now, you indicated, that makes Lukianov the Caesar of the three. Right?'

And, finally, too helpful, and altogether too willing. After having been so interested to meet him in the first place, and so concerned to be found so quickly and easily after that.

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It was humiliating, really. He had made a picture of Richardson, and on the record it would look as though he'd been exactly right in his prediction, and very clever as usual with it, whatever the outcome. But he hadn't been right at all.

And that made him angry.

'Why did you come back, Peter?'

'Why did I — ?' Richardson stared at him. 'With half Europe after me ... it seemed the sensible thing, David.'

'No.' There was no point in admitting his error. Rather, he must still pretend to have been clever. 'We trained you. And, with what you've been up to all these years, you must have known your luck would run out eventually. So you would have been well-prepared for the day when "all was betrayed".'

'I was well-prepared for it.' Richardson lifted his chin aggressively. 'That's why I'm here.'

'No.' He could hear distant kitchen sounds. And they confirmed his certainty. 'You'd have had a better bolt-hole than this, a lot further away. And, with half Europe after you, you'd never have risked Sophie — even if you did trust my word-of-honour still. So that won't do, Peter.'

'No?' Richardson returned to toying with his whisky. 'Well. . .

let's say I was curious — ' The look on Audley's face stopped him. 'No . . . and I don't suppose Queen and Country will do any better, eh?' He nodded. And then matched Audley's expression. 'I came back to help you, actually. Because that dummy1

was what I wanted to do.'

They were getting closer. 'And what else do you want?'

'Just that: to help you. And not to be tucked away in some damned safe-house in the back-of-beyond.' Quite suddenly Richardson's lips smiled unnaturally, with no support from his eyes. 'But I also want to be in at the kill, with you. That is what I want.'

Audley was conscious of the warmth of the fire on his face contrasting with what felt like a cold draught on his back.

What he had just got from the man was everything and nothing, simultaneously. 'Why?'

Mercifully, the lips lost the Borgia smile. 'Is your word-of-honour still good, David Audley? Will you take me with you?'

It might be safer to have a man who could smile like that under his own eye than anyone else's, the way things were.

But if those terms had been waiting for him ever since Capri, he also had something with which to bargain now. 'That's not going to be easy, Peter. There are rules.'

'Not for you, there aren't. Or there never used to be ... in the old days.' A ghost of the old Richardson-smile returned. 'And it's the old days that you want, isn't it?'

'I'm not in the killing business.' They were only haggling now. 'I never was.'

'No?' It was the old days that the man was remembering —

just as Charlie Renshaw had done when he had reiterated his final order. 'Very well. I'll settle for observer-status, to see dummy1

how things turn out. Okay?'

Buster began to bark somewhere beyond the door.

Richardson nodded. 'He's getting his dinner. So we haven't got long. And ... I don't want Sophie to know more than she already does.' He nodded again. 'You were quite right: I wouldn't have come back here, and risked her ... if it hadn't been necessary.'

'Necessary for what?'

'Necessary for me.' No sort of smile now, either twentieth-century English or sixteenth-century Italian. 'Your word, David?'

'All right. My word — if what you've got is worth it, Major Richardson.'

'Thank you. It's worth it. If it isn't ... I agree, Dr Audley.'

Now Audley could nod. But there was still one thing he wanted to know first. 'How long have you been aware of ...

whatever it is you are about to tell me? Why have you sat on it all these years?'

'I haven't sat on it. I haven't even thought about it... "all these years", as you say.' Richardson's lips curled, 'But you've just reminded me of it, that's all, David.'

It had to be Lukianov. No matter that Prusakov had been the brains, or that he and Kulik between them had fixed their computers and set the whole plot in motion in the first place so recently. Because this was fifteen years ago, what Richardson was remembering. And fifteen years ago they dummy1

would have been back-room beginners somewhere in the bowels of their respective KGB and GRU headquarters.

Whereas a much-younger General Lukianov would have been in the field, at the sharp end.

'You've remembered Lukianov?'

'No. Or maybe.' Richardson shrugged the name off disappointingly. 'I don't know. I don't really know what's happening now, do I? To me, anyway.'

'So what do you know, then?'

Richardson stared at him for a moment again. 'You got quite a lot of it right. I was in trouble, when I got your message.

I'd ... had a long run. And I should have quit long ago, I suppose. But there it is — I didn't ... It gets to be a habit, you know.'

'Making money? Taking risks? Having two separate lives, very different from each other? But that didn't matter right now. The Mafia was after you.'

'And the Guardia di Finanze ... I was about to take a trip, anyway . . . when these people turned up, asking for me. Not the Guardia — and not the Mafia either, my people thought.

Only, when they didn't find me they left a message, with something they knew I couldn't resist in it. But then . . .

fortunately — very fortunately — I got your message.' The stare became bleak. 'And I don't believe in coincidences, David. Not when they involve you.'

'So what did you do?'

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'I thought I'd put matters to the test. I have a good friend on Capri, with a house just near the Villa Jovis. So I invited you both up there, to see how coincidental you were.'

God Almighty! 'I see. And we weren't.' Audley cut his losses.

'What was this thing you couldn't resist, Peter?'

'Does it matter? I decided you were my best bet. So I'm here

— and you're here. And we've made a deal. Isn't that enough?'

'No.' He could never rest easy with that Borgia smile at his back.

'It's personal. It doesn't concern you. And you wouldn't understand, anyway. You of all people.'

Given time he might be able to extrapolate from that insulting clue to the truth. But with Buster out there wolfing his dinner, time was what he didn't have. "There's no such thing as "personal" — you should know that from the old days. "Personal" is what causes avoidable accidents —'

'Accidents?' Richardson cut him off, then stopped. And there was something about his mid-winter expression which warned Audley not to push into the man's silence, but to let it work itself out.

'I had an accident once.' Richardson was as unmoving as a statue, and as cold. 'Remember?'

'Yes. But it was after . . .' Suddenly, it was like being on a high place, from which he could see everything but had been looking in the wrong direction '. . .it was after you left us.'

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'I was in a hospital bed, chatting up the nurses, when I got the telegram telling me my mother was dead.' The statue swallowed, but still didn't come to life. 'I discharged myself.'

Another swallow, almost painful. 'She took an overdose. By accident, they pretended. They were . . . very understanding, you might say. Did you know that?'

Audley waited until the ensuing silence forced him to answer.

'Not at the time, no.' But he could see that wasn't enough.

'Not in that detail, I mean.'

'Yes. Of course.' Something flickered in Richardson's eyes. 'I had left you by then, of course. So it was only personal.'

Audley realized why he, of all people, was not expected to understand any of this painful litany. Richardson had adored his legendary Principessa-mother, who had returned to her sunny palazzo after her husband's death — that was common knowledge. Whereas he himself had no memory of his mother, only of a succession of his father's colourful woman-friends. And, presumably, that bit of personal information had reached Peter Richardson somehow, never to be forgotten, like every other uncon-sidered trifle.

But the hell with that! 'Peter —'

'They calculated it exactly right, the Russians did: nobody was going to ask any questions, after that — not even me.

Least of all me, the way things were. You've got to admire them for that.' Richardson nodded at last, almost as though he was relieved. 'But, anyway, the message was . . . that if I really wanted to know how my mother died, they were ready dummy1

to meet me.' Once he started to nod he couldn't stop. 'And then up you popped, David. Only then I didn't need to know how. What I was interested in was who . . . and why. Which of course, is what you want. So you can have what I know for free.' Now he actually almost smiled. 'It's only a spade, David. Just a spade.'

The almost-smile had also been almost-Borgia. 'A ... spade?'

'That's right.' The almost-smile was there again. 'I have the spade. You have the grave-diggers. Between us we should be able to manage a grave or two to my satisfaction, I reckon.

Eh?'

PART THREE

No Trouble

1

It wasn't quite true that Paul Mitchell had eyes only for Peter Richardson when they met at last: he had one eye for Richardson but the other for his Porsche. And, having more-or-less satisfied himself about the near side, he walked slightly sideways with a curious crab-like bias, so that he could also take in the back as well, to make sure that it — Que culo d'angelo! — was also undamaged.

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'Huh!' And even now Mitchell wasn't altogether happy: he wanted to take in the other side and the front as well. 'Well, you've led us a pretty dance, David! To this godforsaken place!' But then he remembered his duty and his manners.

'Major Richardson, I presume?'

'Mr Mitchell?' Richardson was superficially much more relaxed. And, even though Mitchell wasn't even a name to him, his unfailing memory of what Audley had said the night before pinpointed the identification beyond doubt. 'It is a pleasant car to drive. But you should try a Ferrari. Or a Lamborghini, Mr Mitchell.'

'Oh yes?' Mitchell had decided to dislike Richardson on first sight even more than in absentia. 'It's "Dr Mitchell" actually, since we're into meaningless titles, Major.'

'Oh yes?' The wet wind ruffled Richardson's hair as he looked away, pretending to study the glorious wreck of Tintern Abbey across the road. 'Not a Doctor of Divinity, evidently.'

He nodded towards the ruins. 'Only godforsaken in godforsaking times, perhaps?' But then he couldn't resist looking directly at Mary Franklin beyond Mitchell's shoulder.

'Franklin, Major Richardson.' Mary Franklin wasn't impressed either. But she let Richardson take her hand nevertheless.

'Miss Franklin.' Richardson shook her hand like an Englishman, and then noted the absence of rings on its fingers, like an Italian. 'You are another of my successors in Research and Development, I take it?'

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'No, Major Richardson.' She studied the man coolly. 'But don't let it worry you.'

'I am not worried, Miss Franklin. I have nothing to be worried about — at least, not in England.' He glanced at the abbey ruins again. 'Or, is this Wales — on this side of the river?'

'Except illegal entry.'

'Travelling on a false passport.' Mitchell supplemented the charge.

'You might find that hard to prove, Mr Mitchell — Dr Mitchell . . . Miss Franklin.' Richardson studied them in turn.

'But does it matter, now that I'm on your team again? And by ... invitation, shall we call it?' He settled on Mitchell. 'It was you that David here phoned last night, wasn't it, Dr Mitchell? To give you your orders? Oughtn't you to be reporting to him now — rather than wasting time with me?'

Mitchell breathed in deeply. But then controlled himself.

'David —'

The rasp in Mitchell's voice had sounded too much like steel leaving its scabbard. 'All right, Paul.' But Audley knew he had to make allowances for what must have been a long night.

'Major Richardson will be with us, for the time being.'

'He still needs me, is what Dr Audley means.' Richardson had evidently recognized the sound too, but was making no such allowance. 'So you must make the best of it... for the time being. After that . . . we'll see, eh?'

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'Yes.' Mary Franklin took centre-stage diplomatically before Mitchell could accept that challenge. 'But, in that case, Major, why are we meeting here, and not in London? Is this

"the best of it"?'

'Good question, Miss Franklin. The best — and perhaps the worst.' The wind ruffled Richardson's hair again. 'This is fine country — the borders, the Welsh marches. My country, it used to be, I thought ... I used to come this way, up from the south, where my regiment was stationed after I left Sir Frederick Clinton's service — your service, Miss Franklin?

No?' He shook his head. 'Never mind! I used to come this way to visit friends at Pen-y-ffin up the road, en route to Hereford, when I was cultivating old SAS friends there, to get a transfer to them — ' he cocked his head at her this time ' —

SAS headquarters being at Hereford, you know? And all this being one of their stamping grounds, where the English and the Welsh used to raid each other in the olden times —

The mountain sheep are sweeter,

But the valley sheep are fatter;

We therefore deemed it meeter

To carry off the latter.

Do you know the poem, Miss Franklin? It gets very bloodthirsty after that. Did you bring General Lukianov's dummy1

picture with you, like Dr Audley asked?'

'Yes.' But she didn't move. 'What's he got to do with it?'

'This could be his country too. But I won't know for sure until I see his picture.' Richardson put out his hand. 'Please — ?'

She took a stiffened envelope from her shoulder-bag. 'This is a recent photograph, Major.'

'Of course.' The wind fluttered the photograph as he slid it out. 'I'll make the same allowances as I do for myself, when I look in the mirror.'

They all waited.

'Handsome fellow.' Richardson smoothed the print, holding it with both hands against its envelope. Typical Spetsnaz.'

'Yes?' Mary Franklin exchanged a glance with Mitchell.

'Yes. Anglo-Saxon type ... or, presumably, Scandinavian or Germanic, from the north-west. Could be one of ours, from much the same stock, way back ... the same as I can pass for a foreigner, coming home.' He held Lukianov at arm's length.

'Yes ... a much-favoured type for missions in the west, eh David?' He offered the picture to Audley. 'You've seen this?'

'Do you remember him, Major?' Mary intercepted the picture.

'No. But, then, I didn't expect to.' Richardson let go of it. 'It doesn't change anything.'

Mitchell sniffed. 'I didn't know you were a Spetsnaz expert.'

'No?' Richardson enjoyed Mitchell's not-knowing. 'Not in my dummy1

file, eh?'

'Not in your file, no.' But Mitchell had recovered his poise.

'Are you?'

'Not really. But I did do a bit of private study on them while I still had clearance — in the Barnet House records, as well as our own — like David's profile of General Kharchenko, from the late sixties . . .' Richardson smiled suddenly. 'It was when I started to plan for my SAS-transfer later on, Spetsnaz and the SAS being mirror-image organizations, in some respects

— ' The smile became lop-sided ' — except they are about a hundred-times bigger . . . But Kharchenko was a great SAS-admirer — ask David.' Then the smile vanished again. 'I just thought if I had a bit of inside-knowledge about them —

Spetsnaz ... it might have increased my suitability, that's all, Dr Mitchell. Because I was a bit long-in-the-tooth for a transfer, maybe. But I didn't much fancy regimental duty —

Salisbury Plain, Ireland, Germany . . . Salisbury Plain, Germany, Ireland. My time with Research and Development had spoilt my taste for playing that sort of soldier, what was left of it originally. Okay?' He took in Mitchell and Mary Franklin together again. 'Does that answer your question?'

Then he nodded at Mary Franklin's handbag. 'Typical Spetsnaz, as I said. Turn his clock back fifteen years and you've got another of those clean-cut Russian boys in Afghanistan I've been seeing on Italian newsreels, is what I mean. Only he would have worn his hair longer. And no one from here to Hereford would have given him a second dummy1

glance . . . except maybe the girls.'

Neither Mitchell nor Mary Franklin looked at each other this time.

'Okay.' Richardson accepted their silence. 'So I've come clean on Spetsnaz. And I heard David on the 'phone to you last night, Dr Mitchell. So what have you got for me, then?'

Mitchell didn't fancy that final arrogant "me" any more than he fancied the man himself. And it was more than a simple chalk-and-cheese, like-but-unlike, post-Capri reaction, Audley realized. More simply still, because of his own past and background Mitchell disliked the sum of Peter Richardson, everything he stood for and everything about him, from his distinguished good-looks to the way in which he'd twice abandoned his military career (never mind an equally promising one in intelligence) when it didn't please him sufficiently: that last, for Paul Mitchell, would be a betrayal beside which the man's retirement activities were a mere aberration.

'For you?' Mitchell's lip twisted with distaste.

'For me.' Audley pushed the words between them before Mitchell's irritation got the better of him. 'Have you traced the policeman?'

'Yes.'

'Yes.' Richardson wasn't interested in Mitchell's likes and dislikes. 'Well, seeing as I supplied his name that can't have taxed you much.' He lifted his head slightly. 'He'd be retired dummy1

by now, of course — eh?'

Mitchell ignored him. 'Yes. We've traced the policeman, David.'

'He wouldn't be dead, by any chance?' Richardson refused to be ignored.

'He lives with his widowed sister in a village near Hereford, David,' said Mitchell pointedly. 'We have arranged for you to talk to him this morning.'

Richardson leaned forward. 'Did you talk to him, Dr Mitchell

— last night?'

'Yes, Major.' Mitchell bowed to the urgency in Richardson's voice. 'We got him out of his bed at midnight. And we talked to him.'

'Did you ask him about the spade?'

Mitchell looked at his watch. 'We've got a good half-an-hour's drive, David. Shall we go?'

' Did you ask him about the spade?' Richardson refused to be gainsaid.

Audley nodded to Mitchell.

Mitchell stared at him for a moment, then turned to Richardson again. 'Yes, Major Richardson — we asked him about the spade.'

'And —?'

A stronger gust of wind swirled over and around them, carrying the word away up the valley.

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'We also checked up on your own little accident, in London.

And that was a lot easier. We only had to wake up a succession of irritable civil servants, as well as policemen, and pull rank on them. Plus the Defence of the Realm and the anti-terrorist regulations, and the Third World War.'

Mitchell took his revenge steadily. 'And we established that you'd had an accident which wasn't your fault. As a result of which an Irishman named Murphy was fined £15, with £25

costs, after pleading guilty to careless driving. Although his present whereabouts — and the whereabouts of a million other Murphies —'

'The devil with my accident, Mitchell!' At the third try, Richardson got his word in edgeways. 'What about the spade?'

'The spade?' Mitchell decided not to settle for one small victory, even for the time being. 'That was PC Jenkins, retired. And you know how many Jenkinses there are in Wales — retired and unretired? Even Policemen Jenkinses?

"Daft", they thought I was, at first. And then "bloody daft"

when I told them you'd lost a spade fifteen years ago, maybe.

But now you wanted it back, and —'

'Paul — ' Audley cut him off sharply ' — that's enough. Just tell us about the spade.'

Mitchell looked at him, not so much twitchingly now as tired.

And angry with it. 'Right, David. So ... I won't tell you the rest of it, then — not even when I had to get Henry Jaggard to phone up the Chief Constable? After the Duty Sergeant told dummy1

me to piss off — ?'

Just for a spade! thought Audley. With no poor crooked scythe to go with it — never mind any hammer-and-sickle.

But . . . six men, in two countries, had died because of that spade, maybe. And, but for Jack Butler's "error of judgement", and then Colonel Zimin's possible error, he himself might have been one of them, by God!

'No.' There might come a time to make a joke of this, if they outlived this day, and came safe home: Normandy had been like that. But this was neither the time nor the day. 'Just tell us about the spade.'

'Okay.' Mitchell shrugged at him, and then at Richardson.

'He didn't remember the bloody spade — not at first ... He didn't even remember you, Major — not at first, when we gave him your name, no matter that you remembered his: he thought we were "daft", too.' Against all the odds, Mitchell brightened slightly. 'But then, in the end, he did remember.

Only not because of you, Major. It was the owners of the spade he remembered. Because they were unfinished business — that's what he called them: "unfinished business"

— '

'What owners?' Richardson was calm now, almost ingratiatingly so.

'The owners.' Just as suddenly, Mitchell forgot to be angry.

'The owners of the crashed van you reported — ? It was their van . . . and they'd reclaimed it. And then they came back for their spade — ' Now he was calm too. 'Yes — ?'

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'Were they the drivers?' Richardson shook his head. 'When I came on that van, it was on its side, in the road, with no one in it. And the windscreen was broken — it had hit the bank, and turned over . . . And there was blood all over the front seats. And . . . there was the spade there — on the floor — ?'

'So you called the police, like a good citizen.' Mitchell nodded. 'But the owners said it was stolen. And the police never found the drivers. But that was what PC Jenkins remembered, eventually: he thought they'd be in the local hospital, cut-and-bruised ... or, preferably, worse. Like, detained for observation, with suspected fractures, to make it easy for him. But they weren't . . . which he thought was odd.

But. . . the spade wasn't odd, Major.'

Richardson frowned at him. 'But I told him to show it to his boss — to find out who it belonged to. I told him what he ought to do, in fact, damn it!'

'Well, he did find out that.' Mitchell stared back at him defiantly. "The owners came in to collect it. And he only remembered that because he already knew them: they were a couple of "general dealers" from Abergavenny. Two right old lags he'd known for years . . . receiving stolen property, plus a bit of sheep-stealing, and all that. And he'd reckoned at first, once he'd traced the ownership of the van, that they'd be the ones who'd turn up black-and-blue — that they'd both been pissed when they crashed the van, and had run off so that they could sober up and establish an alibi . . . Which they had, of course —had an alibi: they said the van had been dummy1

nicked from their yard, and they didn't even know it was gone until the police phoned them up.' He shrugged again.

'So there wasn't anything he could do then. Because they clearly hadn't been bashed-up in any accident — not on that occasion, anyway.'

'Not on ... that occasion?'

'Uh-huh.' Mitchell grinned. "The real reason why he remembers the pair of them was that he did get 'em in the end — for drunk-driving, that is.' He nodded. 'It was about eighteen months afterwards. Only this time they ran out of road in a more public place, not on a little back-road. And this time it wasn't a van they were in — it was a damn great three-year-old Jaguar. Which turned out to be theirs. And that also surprised him, because they had been near-bankrupt for years. But he reckoned they must have pulled off a big burglary somewhere off his patch, probably over in England, and got clean away with it. Which was another reason why he started to remember everything. Because it narked him that they were able to pay the drunk-driving fine so easily, after the magistrates threw the book at them. And not even the five-year driving disqualification hurt them, either. Because they then de-camped off to Spain after that, to the "Costa del Crime" where all the rich villains go. While the poor old honest PC Jenkins himself retired on his police pension to keep house with his sister — ' Mitchell broke off as he realized that Richardson was no longer listening to him, but was nodding to Audley.

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"That just about wraps it up — eh, David?'

'The spade — ' began Mitchell sharply. But then he broke off again as he began to interpret his own story.

'They were sent to collect it.' Richardson stared through Audley. "They must have spotted me — someone must have spotted me ... After all, I was hanging round for about an hour or more, that afternoon . . . late afternoon, early evening

— I was late for dinner with . . . my friends at Pen-y-ffin.' He focused on Audley again. 'Being a good citizen! This is what I get for being a good citizen, David!' But there was no amusement in the reflection, only bitterness. And then the glazed stare returned. "The Russians couldn't have known for sure that I'd spotted it. So they had nothing to lose, and maybe everything to gain, by sending their two locals to pick it up ... But they couldn't be sure — ' He stopped as abruptly as Mitchell had done. And then his face became stone as his teeth clamped together. 'So that wraps it up.'

It did just about wrap it up, thought Audley — and not "just about", either: the two venal "locals" (always go for professional petty criminals, that was what the book laid down: they were more easily scared into absolute obedience if you chose them carefully, balancing their relative lack of intelligence against their cost-effective greed and more limited ambition — and, most of all, the limits of their curiosity!); and, indeed, the proof-of-that-pudding was there in this whole sequence of dusty events from long ago, from a minor accident on the Welsh border, via another one in a dummy1

London street, to the presumed suicide of an elderly and impoverished Italian lady in her heavily-mortgaged palazzo on the Amalfi coast. Only, until now, it had been an unconnected sequence. And now that it was connected it looked quite different. 'Yes, I suppose it does, Peter. So far, anyway.'

'Wraps up what?' Mary Franklin looked from Richardson to Audley, understandably irritated by them both.

'I don't really need to see PC Plod — Constable Jenkins.'

Richardson ignored her. 'Like I said last night, David . . . our best bet is the SAS at Hereford. All this territory is theirs, pretty much — it used to be, anyway. From the Forest of Dean and the Black Mountains, northwards . . . And they'll have contingency plans, you can bet — for the IRA, if not the Russians. And — '

' Dr Audley!' Mary Franklin had graduated from annoyance to anger. 'What is all this about?'

'The spade, Mary.' It was Mitchell who spoke, nodding to her as he did so. 'Major Richardson's little all-purpose spade. That's what it's all about — eh, David?'

Little spade — Mitchell had got there, then!

Little all-purpose spade, from long ago, carelessly lost —

criminal carelessness, that would have been. But quickly recovered, nevertheless. And, meanwhile, that original mixture of bad-luck-accident and criminal carelessness had been attended to with the appropriate antidote of well-dummy1

calculated ruthlessness —

'Every Russian soldier has a spade.' Mitchell nodded to her agaon, almost dreamily. 'Eh, David?'

It wasn't really surprising that Mitchell had got there on his own, any more than Mary Franklin's present incredulity was unsurprising. Getting there was what they were both paid to do, but Mitchell's private obsession with all things military had given him the edge this time. Indeed, if he hadn't been so stretched by other events, and so plain dog-tired, he might have got there last night, when the little all-purpose spade had surfaced again, at last.

'It was a Russian spade?' Spades, evidently, were tools in garden-sheds to Mary Franklin, with which gardeners dug gardens. 'How do you know — ?' She spread the question among them. Only now she was less angry and surprised than frankly curious, to her credit.

'A Spetsnaz' spade?' This time, at last, Mitchell addressed Richardson. But it wasn't really a question: Mitchell was moving on already, to unwrap what had been wrapped up, with all the excitement of understanding animating him, after all his recent humiliations, through not-knowing what was happening down to having to ask for help from Henry Jaggard last night, when all else had failed.

'What's a Spetsnaz spade?' Mary Franklin was on the same road now, but still at its beginning.

'Same as a Russian army spade, Mary.' Mitchell still dummy1

concentrated on Richardson. 'Every Russian soldier's most important possession, after his Kalashnikov: the moment he stops shooting, he starts digging. Or paddling. Or cutting up his bread. Or ... he sharpens it up, just in case?' Now it was Richardson who got the nod. This one would have been Spetsnaz-sharp — right?' Then Mary Franklin got her nod again, at last. 'That's for throwing, Mary. Because it's so well balanced that it's also one hell-of-a-weapon, in its own right — ' Then Audley himself got the rest of the nod ' — the best entrenching tool since the Romans, David? Isn't there some ancient text about a Legion driving off the barbarians with their spades, when they were attacked while building one of their forts, eh? You're our resident Roman expert — ?'

'And you are our resident Spetsnaz expert, Dr Mitchell?'

Richardson's voice had lost all of its animosity. 'As my successor?' But then he smiled his old easy smile at Mary Franklin. 'Dr Mitchell is absolutely right, Miss Franklin: it was a razor-sharp little spade I found. And it was . . . really, quite distinctive. Because it's a ruler, to measure . . .

whatever needs to be measured — the length of the handle, and the length and breadth of the blade: 32 plus 18 equals 50, by 18 ... centimetres of course. And matt green, overall.'

The smile faded slowly. 'They've got one at Hereford, in their collection — ' He looked around suddenly, first at the ruins, and then at the wooded hillsides above them ' — I'd be delighted to show the Hereford one to you, if you still doubt me — and Dr Mitchell, Miss Franklin — ?' Having made his dummy1

point, he came back to Audley at last. 'So, now that I really am one of your team, Dr Audley . . . shall we go, then?'

Audley felt the first spots of rain in the wind spatter his face, out of the darker clouds which had been drifting like smoke among the topmost trees of the ridges.

'Ah — David . . . Dr Audley — ' Mary Franklin had assimilated everything she hadn't known before, both about Russian military entrenching-tools and about Major Peter Richardson. So now she was as sharp as a Spetsnaz spade turning over in the air before it struck ' — I must report in, to say where we're going.'

And she must do bloody-well more than that, now they had wrapped up fifteen-years-ago, to give Henry Jaggard all he needed for his horse-trading. 'Yes, Miss Franklin.' Apart from which, he badly needed to know what Henry Jaggard himself was doing, after his own advice from last evening, which not even Jaggard could safely have ignored; but which, equally, he couldn't ask for now, in front of Richardson, who wanted blood, not glasnost! 'And perhaps you can also ask Henry to alert Hereford —the SAS — to expect us, while you're about it.'

'And to get them off their arses, too.' Outwardly, Richardson nodded, prudent, one-of-the-team-again commonsense, in agreement. But Audley caught more than that in his enthusiasm. 'We need to seal off this whole area, if Lukianov is back in it. But not crudely, Miss Franklin: we've got to make sure he gets in first. Otherwise he'll back off — do you dummy1

see?'

'Yes.' For the first time Major Richardson got a Mary Franklin smile. 'I do take your point, believe me.' Then Audley received a Mary Franklin frown, which froze him with his mouth slightly open. 'We have a phone cleared here, Dr Audley. So ... if you would stay here — or, maybe get into my car, perhaps?' Mitchell received the rest of the frown. 'And, if you care to go with the Major, Dr Mitchell —

to Hereford? After I have reported in — ?' The frown reversed itself, quite dazzlingly, as the original smile hit Richardson between the eyes again. 'I'm sure Dr Mitchell knows the way, Major. And I will follow you, with Dr Audley.'

She might not know about spades. But she knew what she wanted — and how to get it exactly, with that movement order, which split them neatly, beyond argument.

No trouble, Charlie had said.

But . . . what a waste — that loyalty to Henry Jaggard!

Audley thought. 'Very well, Miss Franklin. Right, Peter —?'

2

'Damn this weather.' Mary Franklin squinted through the rain-blurred windscreen at the rear lights of the Porsche.

'And we shouldn't be doing this, anyway. It isn't necessary.'

'No.' Audley settled back comfortably for the first time in dummy1

days. And she smelt good, too. 'Is that what Henry Jaggard said?' He could imagine what Henry Jaggard had said: Don't let the bastards out of your sight, Miss Franklin.

'Don't worry, Paul will look after the Major. And I know the way, if we lose them. I know all this country quite well, as it happens. From my old days.'

'Yes?' In spite of what he'd said (but because of what the egregious Jaggard had said?), she was determined not to lose the Porsche. But she gave him a quick glance, nevertheless. 'How was that? You've never had anything much to do with the SAS, have you?'

It was hardly a question; she had his long professional curriculum vitae at her fingertips for sure, Jaggard would have seen to that too. 'No, not much — hardly anything, really. But I meant the old old days, Miss Franklin . . . may I call you "Mary", Miss Franklin?'

'Of course, Dr Audley.' She had the measure of the Porsche now: she was a good driver, predictably. And the Porsche was also slowing down somewhat — also predictably, as its occupants began to talk to each other, each having no doubt decided that there was more to be gained from the other by a temporary alliance than by chalk-and-cheese antagonism.

'What "old" old days?'

'When I was a student. And after.' The past pointed conveniently to the present. 'The Middle Ages was my special period. And the Welsh Marches are very . . .

medieval, Mary. Lots of big castles . . . Chepstow, Raglan up dummy1

ahead . . . Pembroke, to the west.'

'Yes?' She nodded politely into the murk. 'You wrote a book about the Earl of Pembroke, didn't you?'

'William Marshall — yes.' That would have been in the CV.

'And lots of smaller castles. And middling ones, like the

"quadrilateral" — Skenfrith, Grosmont, White and Maerdy, from Marshall's time. Although Hubert de Burgh held them then, of course.' He threw the names in deliberately. 'They control the Monow valley, which is the way into Wales from Hereford. And out of it, into England — Hereford-Worcester, Hereford-Gloucester . . . and Cheltenham.'

'Cheltenham?' Her interest stirred, as he intended it should.

'Indeed. And do you enjoy working for Henry Jaggard, Mary?'

The rain slashed down more heavily. 'I thought we were talking about medieval castles, Dr Audley?'

'You ought to work for Research and Development. You'd have much more fun . . . Did you do what I asked, last evening? Has Henry made contact with the Russians?'

She reached forward to increase the speed of the windscreen-wipers. 'A meeting has been arranged for this afternoon. At 4 P.M. — '

Audley frowned. 'As late as that?'

'Is that late?' She peered at a signpost. '"St Briavels Castle" ... Is that one of your "middling" castles, Dr Audley?'

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The Russians were in no hurry to talk. 'They're still looking for Lukianov, I take it?'

'Yes.' She shrugged. 'It seems so. But Mr Aston and Mr Renshaw are both insistent that we don't do anything without consulting them.' She glanced at him meaningfully.

'Nothing must be done to disturb Gorbachev's visit to London after he's spoken to the UN in New York.'

Bloody politicians. And also, perhaps, bloody Henry Jaggard, too. 'Did Mr Jaggard let slip that I was close to finding Major Richardson, as I suggested?' He could see the river through the bushes, close to the road. But it was muddy and fast-flowing after the night's rain, not at all the sylvan Wye of his memory and the poet's imagination. 'Did he?'

'I don't know, Dr Audley.' Her lips tightened.

It wasn't like working for Jack Butler. Although even Jack might have had scruples about rocking the boat, the way things were. And that left only Jake Shapiro. But it wasn't going to be so easy to get through to Jake with Mary Franklin on his own back again.

'So what do you know?' He heard the snap in his voice. 'Is there nothing new on Lukianov? Or the others — what they were up to, between them?'

She relaxed slightly. 'We've heard from Washington . . . they believe Prusakov and Kulik sabotaged their respective computers, to remove information from them. And either dummy1

they, or maybe General Lukianov shredded certain files in their Central Records. But that's all —except there's been a joint KGB/GRU committee set up, to try and reconstruct what's missing. And that's been working round the clock — '

she frowned at him suddenly ' — but you said — ?'

That about wraps it up? Or does it? Damn Henry Jaggard!

The brake-lights of the Porsche glowed ahead, almost as though its driver had heard his uneasy thoughts. But other brake-lights were also winking on and off: they were approaching the junction of the Monmouth-Gloucester (and Cheltenham!) road, with the old bridge and the fast road to Hereford just ahead. And this early, in this weather, both the junction and the old bridge could be jammed with traffic.

'You said — ' The movement of the Porsche once more cut her off. Keeping up with Major Richardson was still part of her priorities, until she'd got him safe under SAS lock-and-key. Or, him and that other bastard, Audley, for an informed guess.

'Yes.' There was a jam of vehicles ahead of them. And one element of it, on the main road which they were trying to join, was a tail-back of military vehicles which was not giving way, complete with a goggled motor-cyclist who was holding back the traffic on the side road in his unit's favour.

'Castles, I was saying: how the "quadrilateral" group controls the road into England, to Hereford and Cheltenham — yes? Very interesting, they are, too. Skenfrith dummy1

and Grosmont are in the middle of villages. But White and Maerdy are in the middle of nowhere, pretty much.

Particularly Maerdy, up beyond Monmouth a few miles.'

'Dr Audley —' Mary Franklin's fingers drummed on the steering-wheel impatiently ' — you said —'

'To Hereford and Cheltenham, Miss Franklin — Mary. A few days' march, in the old days. But only half-an-hour's drive to Hereford now. And little more than an hour to GCHQ

Cheltenham, using the motorways. Right?'

'What?' The last of the military convoy was passing. And maybe ... it was at least just possible that he had done Henry Jaggard an injustice, at that. Or even that Henry Jaggard knew more than he'd let on, and was actually hedging his bets — ?

'What are you saying, Dr Audley?' She was torn down the middle by his sudden shift from ancient to disturbingly modern, and the crawl of the Porsche ahead.

He smiled at her. 'Up ahead, north beyond Monmouth, on the Maerdy road, Mary — that's where Major Richardson chanced upon that crashed van, with the Spetsnaz spade in it. So it was somewhere up there where they must have planted one of their arms dumps, back in the eary 1970s, it looks like.'

The Porsche was moving and they were moving with it, as though at the end of an invisible tow-rope.

'The old days, Miss Franklin.' He spoke into her ear. She had dummy1

a beautiful little shell-like ear, which didn't need an earring.

'You won't remember them. And they probably wouldn't have been your concern, anyway. Just as they weren't mine ... or Peter Richardson's as it happens. But everyone knew the theory of it, of course — it was a theoretical near-certainty that they had to be establishing such dumps, little by little.'

They were on the bridge now, although still moving only yard-by-yard with the town beyond shrouded in rain-mist.

So this would have been dangerous weather in the very old days, when the war-beacons, burning in the Black Mountains ahead to warn that the Welsh raiders were coming, would have been blotted out.

'Those were the Brezhnev days, Miss Franklin — post-Vietnam, early Brezhnev ... the deep Cold War days.' The days of Audley, he thought: the years of endurance! Not like now — eh, Audley? 'The targets were obvious. Like, the early warning stations. And the communications centres.

And, of course, SAS headquarters and GCHQ Cheltenham —

those were both prime targets, inevitably, for Spetsnaz assault groups. But their problem wasn't getting the men in, ahead of D-Day: there are a thousand ways of getting in good-looking fellows like General Lukianov — or Captain Lukianov, he would have been then . . . Lorry-drivers, tourists, mock-Irishmen to Milford Haven and Holyhead and Liverpool. . . sailors with a bit of shore-leave, with friendly passports.' He paused. 'The problem was their dummy1

weapons and equipment —machine-guns and mortars, rocket-launchers and the rest. And plenty of Semtex, naturally.'

The traffic had clogged up completely, so that she was able to face him again at last.

'A complete do-it-yourself arsenal, Miss Franklin. All neatly packed and ready to use — worth a fortune to any terrorist group.' He could see from her lack of colour that every word had entered that pretty ear. 'Arabs — why the PFLP, or Abu Nidal, you're going to ask? Or maybe it would suit the Arabs to make a deal with the IRA, on the side. Or they've got an export-cover of some sort — who knows? And they want to queer Yasser Arafat's pitch, if he gets too close to making a deal with Israel.'

She drew a breath. 'How do you know this?'

'I don't know it — any of it. But Lukianov was Spetsnaz. And no Spetsnaz arms dumps have ever been found. Only a couple of communications outfits, in North Wales and Yorkshire. And then only by pure accident.' He shook his head. 'I'm simply trying to string all that together, with what we've got, to make some sort of sense of it — ' He frowned ahead. 'What the hell's happening here, in the meantime — ?'

'I think the traffic-lights have broken down.' She shook her head helplessly at him. 'But ... the spade, David — ?'

'Ah! That was the start of it, yes.' He could see Mitchell dummy1

nodding at Richardson through the rear-window of the Porsche. 'What I think is, one of Lukianov's pals — or his men, rather — ran out of road one day, purely by accident.

Because some of those little back-roads are tricky, believe me ... But he'd maybe been making a delivery. And he was hurt, but he didn't want to hang around.' He turned back to her. 'He shouldn't have had his spade with him, that's for sure. But he did have it. And he was sufficiently knocked-about to forget it. And then he remembered too late.

Because the police were there. And Peter Richardson.'

The car jerked forward this time, reminding Audley of Mitchell at Naples. But then it stopped again. 'Wasn't that a remarkable coincidence, Dr Audley?'

'If you like to call it that.' She had been taught to mistrust coincidences. 'I'd prefer to call it carelessness, plus accident, plus bad luck. Richardson was visiting one of his girlfriends, at Pen-y-ffin, just up the valley, on the way back from one of his trips to Hereford. Coincidence or not, that's what happened.' But that, of course, had been the whole point: they had been taught the same thing — the Russians too.

'When they sent someone back, the police were there. And so was Richardson. And once they'd picked up his name — or maybe even someone identified him, for all I know . . .

Because they'd sure as hell be on the look-out for anyone who wasn't local, sniffing around the Maerdy area: you can be damn sure of that, anyway . . . But, when they picked up his name or his face they'd have checked up, one way or dummy1

another . . . then they'd ask exactly the same questions, Miss Franklin: "who's this Major Richardson?". And then they'd start to wonder about coincidences, too. Just like you.'

They were up to the far side of the bridge at last, and the cause of the confusion was instantly apparent.

'How's that for coincidence?' He craned his neck to emphasize what she could hardly miss. The traffic-lights had failed, and there were two angry drivers blaming each other for their recent collision, while a rain-soaked policeman attempted to sort out the doubled traffic jam.

'You were right about the lights. So what does that make this? It looks more like carelessness, plus bad luck and accident to me.'

'Yes . . .' But for a moment she was more concerned to remain behind the Porsche '. . . maybe.'

'No "maybe" about it after that. They'd have had Peter Richardson on file. And me with him — because, we were at the sharp end in Italy the year before, Mary. And they certainly knew all about me. So when Lukianov decided to use his special knowledge, we were part of all the information which had to be erased from the record, just in case. Along with everything else from this other little episode.'

'Erased — ?' Mitchell was accelerating. But there looked like another related traffic jam ahead. 'But ... if they thought Richardson was on to them — ' She slammed her brakes on, slithering to within an inch of Mitchell's pride-and-joy ' —

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sorry! But... his accident, what about that?' She shook her head at him. 'Why didn't they kill him?'

'Maybe they bodged it. Or "Murphy" did ... Or maybe they were smart.'

'Smart?'

"They weren't sure about him. He'd resigned from R and D . . . And they'd got their little spade back. And killing him wouldn't have seemed so "accidental", they might have reckoned — not if he was still working for us ... It all depends how much they'd got in their dump, too: if they'd only just started they might have been able to re-locate. And then all they really needed was a little time — just to slow him up, and take his mind off his work.' He nodded, as much to himself as to her. 'Because that's what they damn-well did, anyway: they took his mind off everything, Mary, is the way it looks.' The second traffic jam was moving again. 'The proof of the pudding is always in the eating, don't you think?'

'Until now.' She put her foot down. 'But I still don't see why Lukianov was so worried about you and Richardson —

after he'd removed you from the record.'

'Yes. But now we're talking about Lukianov. And the other two . . . And that's quite different.' They were almost free now, on the approach to a big new roundabout. 'I don't know . . . It's possible that Lukianov wanted to get rid of his partners, as well as Peter and me. And that would have dummy1

been a neat way of doing it. Or he may have been afraid that there was still someone alive who could fill in enough of the blanks in the record to point the Russians back to the Richardson episode, if not to the location of his arms dump.

In which case they might even try to make a deal of some sort with us — the sort of deal I've suggested to Henry Jaggard.' He shook his head sadly. 'Isn't that par for the course now?'

'What d'you mean?'

'What do I mean?' What he really meant was the old Audley days were very different from the new Renshaw-Jaggard-Gorbachev ones. But he could never explain that. 'I suppose . . . they don't want trouble here, any more than we do. So ... I was rather hoping they might just come clean and apologize. And then pool resources, for the good of glasnost and perestroika.' He studied her beautiful pink ear again. "They must have some sort of idea what Lukianov is up to by now. And . . . Henry Jaggard would love that sort of deal — wouldn't he?'

But she wasn't listening to him: she was swinging the wheel furiously —

'What the hell — ?' The car swerved violently, and the driver behind hooted at them.

'What — ?' He had been momentarily distracted by the extension of his own innermost thought, which had filled him with sudden bitterness: that these were the days of Henry Jaggard most of all, and that the days of Audley, dummy1

when everything had been so black and white, were passing

— if not already past? 'What?'

'He's not going to Hereford — Mitchell.' She hung on to the Porsche's tail grimly. 'He's going back into the town.'

Audley looked around. They had been on a new dual-carriageway before the roundabout, neither of which had been there in the old days, any more than this maelstrom of modern traffic.

'No. It's all right, Mary.' Memory came to his aid. 'That must be the new route to Hereford. He's just taking the old one.'

His own reassuring words relaxed her. But they turned him inwards on himself again, with their unintentional double-meaning.

The old roads he had travelled, in the days of Audley —of Audley and Sir Frederick Clinton — had been tortuous, and very dangerous sometimes too, at their black spots. But at least they had been mostly clear and well-signposted, and he had always known where he was going. Whereas on Henry Jaggard's congested multi-lane political motorways

—

'No he's not,' snapped Mary sharply.

No, he wasn't! They had twisted and turned. And now they were undeniably on a side-road . . . going where — ?

Then he saw the little river beside him, and the question was instantly answered. And another one, as yet unasked, with dummy1

it!

'This is the beginning of the Monow valley, Mary. We cross the river over a little bridge just ahead, to the left.' Such a little river, to have so many castles: that was what he remembered. 'Skenfrith and Grosmont are up ahead, then.

With Maerdy and White to the west.' And no prizes for guessing which, now. 'But Maerdy's the nearest. And that's where they're going — Richardson's going to show Paul where he found the spade.'

Mary slapped the driving-wheel angrily. 'That's ridiculous!'

She reached forward to flash the car-lights just as the Porsche disappeared round a corner ahead. 'Damn them!'

'Yes.' She wanted Richardson safely-confined. She wanted them all safely-confined.

'I said we'd be at Hereford by ten.' This time she caught the Porsche. But Mitchell too turned his blind eye to the angry flash in his "mirror, just as Audley had expected him to do.

'Damn! How far is this village — Maerdy?'

'Not very far... at this speed.' With Richardson beside him, Mitchell was demonstrating his car's performance, it looked like. 'It's not a village. It's just a ruined castle, Mary. With ...

I think there's a farm nearby, if I remember correctly . . . All private, not National Trust. Or it was — ' How many years ago? God! Too many! ' —or it was when I was last there, anyway.' He could almost sympathize with her. But he had to remember also that she was Henry Jaggard's woman, not his. 'We shouldn't be too late. Because it's only a few dummy1

miles on to the Abergavenny-Hereford main road, near Ewyas Harold. And that's an interesting place, too: a pre-Conquest castle site, Mary. Before 1066 and All That. Very rare indeed. In fact —'

'Spare me the castles, Dr Audley.'

'Very well.' He had never subscribed to the theory that angry women became more beautiful until now. But he saw also that she was not just angry. 'What I should have said is ... from Ewyas Harold to Hereford can't be more than ten or twelve miles, Miss Franklin. It's just. . . some people measure distance from one public house to the next. But my knowledge of the Welsh borders happens to be historical. So I measure from castle to castle, I'm afraid —'

'You should be afraid of more than that, Dr Audley — '

She was too busy matching Mitchell's fierce decelerations and accelerations to look at him, but her voice was as tightly-controlled as her driving ' — you should be afraid because we don't know where General Lukianov is right now — damn them!'

'Lukianov?' As Audley peered ahead the brake-lights of the Porsche glared at him suddenly, and he caught a glimpse of the vehicle beyond which had forced Mitchell to slow down.

'Yes . . . well I don't think you should worry too much there.

Not any more.'

'Why not?' They were suddenly on all of two hundred yards of straight road, down into a dip and then uphill towards a dummy1

crest. So she could actually frown at him.

He mustn't smile. 'Because he's finally caught up with that military convoy we tangled with near Monmouth.' He pointed ahead. 'See that truck just disappearing over the top

— and the motor-cyclist? He overtook us a few miles back.'

'Yes — ' She had switched back quickly to the road ahead

'but — ?'

'Nobody's going to try anything with the British Army leading the way — Lukianov or any of his clients. General Lukianov will be lying very low right now if he's anywhere on this road. Having the army ahead is providential, don't you think?' He paused deliberately. 'Or maybe it isn't.'

The army disappeared over the brow of the hill as he spoke, its place being taken an instant later by the Porsche. 'What d'you mean?'

'I mean — ' he hated the next bit ' — maybe your Mr Jaggard hasn't been so slow off the mark after all. If he had any sort of informal contact with their new man in the embassy, and they have any sort of idea what Lukianov might be up to ... They might have suggested that a military presence in this general area would be prudent, even if they don't know the exact map reference. Just vehicles and men swanning around would be enough . . . Not that it matters, either way — whether it's just our good luck or Henry being smart. It amounts to the same thing, because Lukianov won't know which. But he'll have to assume the worst — at least for the time being.'

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They breasted the hilltop in turn, and for a moment the countryside was spread out below them: a rich landscape fading into the rain-mist, as deceptively peaceful now as it would have seemed in those other treacherous times when the quadrilateral castles had been garrisoned to protect it from the Welsh — when Moscow had been no more than a muddy provincial town and the Middle East "the Holy Land" of exotic crusading legend.

Then the rearmost of the army vehicles disappeared from sight among the trees and hedgerows, and the countryside closed in again on them as they descended on to the valley floor.

'Anyway, as long as we're behind them — ' An idea struck him, out of nowhere, as he broke the silence to reassure her, cutting him short.

The idea blossomed, as he tested it —

(They were slowing down now, because Mitchell had been again forced to slow down himself, at the tail-end of the convoy, which had itself telescoped into what must have been its original compactness before the traffic jams around Monmouth had opened it out. And, sooner or later on this twisty road, long before they reached the main road near Ewyas Harold, it would surely have to stop altogether. And that would be the moment —)

'Mary . . . whatever they're doing here — the military . . .'

He completed the test as he spoke: whether he was right or dummy1

wrong — or half-right, half-wrong, or whatever . . . and even if these really were the last days of Audley, if he was wrong, it didn't matter. Just as it didn't matter whether this military presence was due to Henry Jaggard or pure fluke.

'Most likely, if Jaggard hasn't had them ordered in, then they'll be on their way to an exercise in the Black Mountains.' He stared at her. 'So ... why don't we pull rank and cancel their exercise?'

'What —?'

'Cancel their exercise. Put 'em into Maerdy Castle, as their headquarters. Patrols out — ten-mile radius.' He nodded enthusiastically. 'If Lukianov is still loose, there has to be some sort of emergency still in force. And if I'm right about Richardson and his spade, and a Spetsnaz arms dump . . .

Charlie Renshaw said we weren't to cause any trouble. So this way we'll be preventing trouble —Lukianov trouble and Russian trouble, Mary.'

She thought for a moment, 'If you are right. . . But, if you aren't?'

'Then I shall have egg on my face.' It would be Henry Jaggard who would have to accept the egg officially, that was what she was thinking. And while that only made the idea more attractive to him it would hardly further her career. 'You can blame me.'

'I'm not thinking about blame.'

He kicked himself. 'No — of course. You're thinking about dummy1

Lukianov — quite rightly.' He nodded. 'Just as I am thinking also of Berlin. And Capri, too.' That was a better line. 'And Peter Richardson, Miss Franklin.'

She stared at the car in front, without answering.

They slowed down to a snail's-pace now, crawling past a derelict little cottage, boarded up and forlorn, but still with the last flowers of autumn colouring its overgrown garden.

'No.' Mary Franklin came to a decision. 'If the Russians aren't in any hurry ... we can arrange matters better from Hereford, Dr Audley.'

They stopped altogether.

Audley also came to a decision. 'Well, on my head be it, then.'

It was just like with Elizabeth: when you were out of a car you were free. But he had to move quickly once again, before the convoy started up again. Even as it was, he could only see the two rearmost trucks, stationary on the bend ahead of the Porsche.

Mitchell lowered his window. 'What the hell are you doing, David?'

The bend was a stroke of luck: there was no way Mitchell could overtake the army here. 'You stay put, Paul.'

He could feel the rain on his face as he approached the caped and goggled motor-cyclist at the side of the truck.

'Where's your officer?'

The motor-cyclist pointed at the truck.

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Audley walked round the truck. If there was an officer in it, he wouldn't be driving. Along the road now he could see several more vehicles, including a Jeep-like one with his hood up against the rain. It seemed more likely that the officer would be there, but he decided to start with the motor-cyclist's silent directions.

He banged the rain-smeared window. 'Open up!'

The window came down slowly, revealing a young fresh-faced soldier in a combat jacket and a beret with the Mercury-figure badge of the Royal Signals. 'Yes, sir?'

No indication of rank. But the voice was educated. 'Are you an officer?'

'No, sir. Corporal, sir.' The good old army smells of oiled metal and wet clothes accompanied this information. 'Can I help you?'

'What unit are you?'

'Royal Signals — TA.' As though to support the corporal, a radio in the cabin began to crackle. 'Can I help you, sir?'

Territorial Army — therefore not Henry Jaggard. But that accounted for both the educated voice and the politeness: the young man was probably a British Telecom engineer when he wasn't playing soldiers. And since privatization they had all become gratifyingly polite. 'Yes, you can, corporal.' He pointed to the radio equipment. 'Can you call up your officer on that.'

The young man nodded. 'I can, sir. But what is the trouble?'

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Audley could feel the rain running down his face. 'Call him up. Tell him that there is an emergency.' He felt trapped by this useless helpfulness as the corporal continued to look inquiringly at him.

Then he heard the sound of footsteps on the road. Another TA man was striding towards him purposefully, heedless of the succession of muddy puddles beside the overgrown road-verge. And although he appeared less than overjoyed at Audley's intrusion, his scowl bore the stamp of authority.

But then the scowl vanished. 'Can I help you, sir?'

Lord, another telecom recruit — same words, same voice! 'I hope you can. Are you in command here?'

The soldier shifted position slightly, peering past Audley, first at the Porsche and then at the plebeian Vauxhall behind it. 'No, sir.' He came back to Audley, frowning slightly. 'We are moving, sir. You will not be delayed on the road. We are moving.' He started to turn away.

'Wait!' Audley heard his own long-disused army snap-of-command voice crack. But before he could start to feel foolish at the sound of it (as he had so often done all those years ago, when he had also played soldiers' games, as a lamb in wolf's clothing) he saw with relief that it still worked: the TA man stopped in mid-turn, stiffening automatically with the Pavlovian response of the regular soldier rather than a part-time amateur.

'That's better.' The old army habit of bloody-mindedness-in-dummy1

uncertainty came back to him as the soldier faced him again, expressionless now — still more like a regular. But that, perhaps, was what he had once been. 'Now — I demand to see your officer. At once, man.'

The soldier's expression didn't change, but the one hand which was visible beside his combat jacket clenched into a fist. 'That is not possible.'

'No?' Audley was aware that he was wet, and getting wetter all the time. But he was also soaked in genuine bloody-mindedness now, as he reached inside his jacket for his identification warrant. 'Well, you will damn-well make it possible.' He thrust the card at the soldier's face. 'Right.'

The soldier blinked at the thing for a moment. Then his lips began to spell out its contents, with word-by-word slowness until the sound of a car-door opening made him look up, past Audley.

'David — ' Mitchell came into view ' — what the hell are you up to?'

'I am enlisting the Army.' He decided to enlist the ancient jargon as well. 'It's called "Aid to the Civil Power", Dr Mitchell.' The phrase curiously re-animated a memory from the most distant past, much more than half-a-lifetime away, of a boring lecture at OCTU on military law, in which the equally bored lecturer had merely repeated what Officer Cadet Audley had read in the relevant pamphlet; but which, he had to admit to himself, had mostly contemplated workers' unrest, and nothing like the presence of General dummy1

Lukianov and his Arab (or IRA) associates in a very different age of the world.

'What for?' Mitchell wiped the rain from his face.

'To re-garrison Maerdy Castle and this area, pending an outbreak of glasnost and perestroika, Dr Mitchell — ' As he spoke he threw the words at the British Telecom supervisor/

ex-regular. And then, from the gratifying effect they had, decided to go further ' — until the Russians help us in this matter . . . with Lukianov still at large, Dr Mitchell... we must help ourselves.'

That stopped Mitchell in his tracks as effectively as it had done the TA man, who was still gaping at him in astonishment, with all the metal fillings in his teeth showing. And, in the poor devil's defence, the only truly memorable thing that the OCTU lecturer had said (off the record) was that whenever the Civil Power turned to the Army for help the best place to be was somewhere else, preferably as far away as possible, because the Army always got the blame for the disaster which inevitably followed, as night follows day.

But now he was Civil Power himself.

'Don't just stand there, man.' He snapped the card away from in front of the unfortunate man's nose. 'You've read the words: I am authorized to call for assistance from members of Her Majesty's Forces as well as the civil police. And that includes you. And that is what I am now doing. So ... go and dummy1

get your officer — on the double!'

The TA man had closed his mouth. But his jaw was set firm now and for a moment Audley was aware of a battle of wills being fought in silence. And he couldn't let that continue.