Fred stared for a moment at the oiled metal-grey sheen on the water of the lake, on which the brooding sky and the grey rocks were reflected. Then he shook his head.
‘Tell me about Professor Schmidt’s rules, David.’
‘Yes.’ Audley roused himself too. ‘Old Schmidt was dummy4
my main job, you see.’
‘Because he was a historian?’
‘That’s right, I guess. But I don’t really know whether he had any rules. Only ... he got these chaps together, all nice and safely, before the war. And the proper scientists among them all had something to contribute to his archaeology, it seems. Like, new methods of dating materials, and soil analysis, and suchlike –
“scientific archaeology” was what he called it – some long German words. And they kept their heads down and did their work, and minded their own business –
always very busy, they were. Like, they were good Germans. But they were always safely in the remote past.
‘But then Enno von Mitzlaff turned up in ’42, invalided out of the Wehrmacht, and looking for work – see?‘
‘Because he was an archaeologist?’
‘He was. And also he was old Schmidt’s godson. So maybe the old man just wanted to save him, too. Only, unfortunately, he wouldn’t stay saved – he probably knew more of what was going on elsewhere.’
So the boy didn’t know everything, then. ‘And he got involved in the plot against Hitler, of course – you said
– ?’
‘Yes. And then the fat was in the fire.’ Audley nodded.
‘Maybe Schmidt or one of the others was also in on it.
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I don’t somehow think so, but I don’t know yet for sure. Only, it didn’t matter anyway, because the Gestapo was in a vengeful mood by then – I got this from a fairly senior policeman in Bonn, whom we haven’t quite got round to sacking yet . . . But he says that old Schmidt put the police and the Gestapo off as long as he could.’ There was a bleak look in Audley’s eyes. ‘Schmidt was too old and fat to run himself. But he did his best for the others –which is really what has made our job so difficult, I suppose . . . But he was a brave man too, like his godson . . . One of the Crocodile’s “guid decent men”, I’d say.’
It was like receiving a delayed message of a friend’s death in Burma: it had all happened months ago, while he’d still been trudging through Italian mud, so it was too late for tears. ‘And then?’
‘There was a big fire in Schmidt’s office, in which all his records were conveniently destroyed – all the names of personnel, as well as the marvellous new scientific techniques they’d pioneered. Which, from an archaeological point of view, was a great tragedy. So Schmidt added a convenient heart attack to it. Not a fatal one, but enough to delay the investigation somewhat. So, by the time this smart Gestapo obergruppenführer finally tumbled to the fact that the fire hadn’t been caused by a British incendiary bomb, and the heart attack wasn’t genuine, all the other birds dummy4
had flown.’
And I was probably on the beach at Vouliagmeni, thought Fred. ‘And Schmidt – ?’
‘He knew the form, when the game was up and the savages were closing in – just like old Varus did. Only swords are out of fashion now, so he shot himself with an old Webley revolver he’d taken off a British officer in his war, in 1917. So no piano wire for him, just like no wicker basket or high rocks for Varus.’ Audley looked at his watch again. ‘But the policeman did also give me more than he gave the obergruppenführer, whom he insists he didn’t like.’ Another shrug. ‘Or maybe he just saw which way the wind was blowing by then ... Or it could even be the Gestapo was too busy shooting ordinary defeatists by then – I don’t know.
But that wasn’t what was really important.’
‘What was that?’
‘He gave us a cross-bearing on where Zeitzler might be holed up – Ernst Zeitzler, alias “Corporal Keys” . . .
Because Zeitzler was another genuine archaeologist.
And his particular specialization was – guess what? –
the study of the Roman frontier . . . which was why we moved down to the unspeakable Kaiserburg, of course . . . Although it was Amos who finally tracked him down, I must admit. So I can’t claim all the credit, even though I deserve most of it.’
Typical Audley! ‘And Zeitzler is Number 16’s best dummy4
friend?’ Now they were very close to the bone, as well as the appointed hour. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this the night before last?’
‘The night before last?’ Audley’s memory seemed momentarily to desert him.
‘Yes.’ There was only one thing remaining. ‘You had your orders, David. You were supposed to tell me what was happening.’
Audley made one of his ugliest faces. ‘I get so many orders. And . . . hell! First, you were late – and then we were pretty damn busy, blundering around in the dark . . . then superintending the death of some poor-bloody- totally-inoffensive German – or Pole, or Ukrainian DP –I don’t know, damn it!’ The boy’s square chin lifted, and he looked down on Fred from the height of his extra inches, and then looked around as though he really didn’t give a damn.
Good boy! But that didn’t change anything. ‘And – ?’
The chin came down slowly, and Audley relaxed slightly, as though he was reassured by what he had seen. ‘And I didn’t enjoy that very much, actually.’
That wouldn’t do. ‘And I asked you a question, David.
So answer it, please.’
The sharpness of his tone reclaimed Audley’s attention.
And his face did the rest. ‘Christ, Fred! I know we met in Greece that time – and I know old Matthew – ’ The dummy4
wide mouth opened and shut on Matthew, like some great ugly deep-sea fish’s jaws trawling the sea-bed.
And then it opened again and closed obstinately. ‘But we’ve had a lot of bad luck, you know. And I don’t really know you –now do I?’
Good boy! Because that was as eloquent as anything else Audley might have said to prove that his mouth wasn’t always too big. ‘And who the hell was I? When you’ve had all the bad luck you’ve had – all the way from Greece, even?’
Still nothing. So more than that: so Clinton was right about Audley being old for his years when it came to the crunch. So now was the moment for truth.
‘Yes, David – you are quite right.’ He nodded without disengaging Audley’s eyes. ‘There is a traitor in the camp. And if you didn’t know it for sure before, then you know it now.’
Audley studied him for a moment. Then he slowly nodded his acceptance of all those words implied. ‘So you really are the Brigadier’s inside man?’
‘Yes.’ More than Audley’s acceptance, this was his own acceptance of that loyalty for the working day, whatever came after. ‘I am Clinton’s man. And so are you, David –no matter what. Because we have to know who the traitor is. Nothing less will do. So this is a trap, today.’
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Audley continued to stare at him. And it was also slightly comical to see the boy’s hand move up uncertainly to his webbing holster, and then drop down to wipe the palm on his leg beside it.
‘Oh . . . shit!’ Then Audley looked quickly across the meadow, and finally towards the vehicles up the track, where Sergeant Devenish had been walking up and down and Driver Hewitt had been leaning on the jeep, smoking one of his inexhaustible supply of dog-ends, neither able to communicate with the other. ‘What about them?’
He had got it all, in that one brief exchange: all Clinton’s logic about the sufficiency of the bait, all his certainty about the traitor’s hard-driven determination to take Number 16 from them now, at the last, with all his murderous delaying tactics finally stretched beyond safety, and Major Fattorini here to make the final contact. So perhaps it wasn’t unreasonable that his trust, even in his own men, should weaken with these final certainties.