“hung”, should it be, in this context?—but… strung up, anyway.
And there’d be some jostling in the queue to pull on his rope too, by God!’ He nodded. ‘Gennadiy Ivanovich Zarubin—’ He stopped suddenly, frowning at Tom as though he’d remembered something.
‘Yes, David?’
‘Mmmm…’ The frown was edged with calculations. ‘But you said names, didn’t you, Tom? So ring another bell then—eh?’
It was no good: he’d been too slow. ‘Marchuk. Leonid Marchuk.’
No surprise. Rather… satisfaction? ‘Yes.’ Nod. “That’s a good name.‘
‘Good?’ The old bastard had remembered something.
‘Yes.’ Audley showed the edges of ivory-yellow teeth, which were damn good imitations if they weren’t his own. ‘“Good” in the General Phil Sheridan sense, of the-only-good-Indian being a dead one.’ He stopped again, but this time raised an eyebrow. ‘But you didn’t know that—?’
‘He’s dead is he?’ Tom relaxed slightly. Because if Audley knew…
then that was really rather reassuring, on balance. ‘Marchuk’s dead?’
The eyebrow lifted again, but disbelievingly now. ‘On the Czestochowa road, to Katowice, was it?’ Audley murdered the Polish place-names, as every good Englishman always did.
‘Another tragic accident—like Basil Cole’s? Except that poor old Basil fell out of his tree, and poor Leonid lost control of his KGB-issue Mercedes—?’ Audley tut-tutted insincerely. ‘All these tragic Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State accidents! “In the midst of life we are in death…” It makes me quite grateful that I didn’t take my own car out this morning—or climb one of the trees in my garden… One can be so accidental, can’t one?’
On the Czestochowa road? Willy hadn’t known that detail, so Audley knew more than the CIA did about Marchuk’s death.
‘Perhaps he didn’t have a minder, David. Or maybe he didn’t do what his minder told him?’
Audley acknowledged the message with the very slightest of bows.
‘Perhaps.’ Then he dropped the shutters on casual pretence. ‘Three names. So give me the Third Man, and stop pissing me around, Tom—right?’ He turned, to take another look at what lay beyond, and then came back to Tom. ‘Right?’
Not right. Because (as always), the more he let himself be bullied, the more he would be bullied: but the lesson of King Stephen was that when one was in the weaker position it might be safer to let oneself be bullied than to antagonize someone who was not yet an enemy. ‘You tell me, David.’ Instinct strengthened him. ‘You tell me who your Third Man is—after Zarubin and Marchuk—’
Instinct pushed him further ‘—after them, but before Panin, David?
You tell me—right?’
Audley smiled, and Tom hated the thought that he might be remembering Danny Dzieliwski as he cocked his head. ‘Fair enough!’ Shrug. ‘And we’re short of time, anyway.’ Another shrug. ‘So, for size, let’s say… Piotrowski, Tom?’
Wrong—but close enough! ‘Or Pietruszka—’
Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State Audley gestured dismissively. ‘Same thing. Does it matter?’
‘To me it does.’ A knot of anger twisted in Tom’s guts. But then the dominant Arkenshaw half of him, descended from a long line of cold-blooded Englishmen, warned him that that particular length of gut was unreliably Polish. ‘What same thing, David?’
The old man watched him thoughtfully. “They’re both doing time in some Polish jail, aren’t they? Officially, anyway, if not actually.
And… twenty-five years each, wasn’t it?‘ Sniff. ’Isn’t there a typical Polish joke about that—about Piotrowski and Pietruszka getting twenty-five-year sentences for murdering Father Jerzy Popieluszko? One year for the murder—and twenty-four for getting caught?‘
The knot twisted again, even though it was a typical Polish joke. ‘I didn’t know you were an expert on Polish affairs, David.’
‘I’m not. Although I did learn quite a lot of Polish history when I was pursuing your dear mother so unavailingly long ago, when I cherished the foolish belief that the way to her heart might be through a profound knowledge of the Jagiello dynasty, and Sobieski’s ride to the relief of Vienna, and Pilsudski’s tactics against Trotsky.’ Audley smiled disarmingly again for a second.
Then his face blanked over again. ‘But the murder of Father Popieluszko did rather interest me for historical reasons as well as professional ones, you see, Tom. Historical analogies always interest me, particularly as they bear on the conflict between the
“Accident” and “Conspiracy” theories.’
Tom’s Arkenshaw 51 per cent restrained his Dzieliwski 49 per cent. ‘What historical analogy?’
Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State
‘My dear boy!’ Audley seemed genuinely surprised. ‘ You, with your special hobby, shouldn’t ask that! Don’t you remember when Henry Plantagenet cried “Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?”, or words to that effect?
So Fitz-Urse and the other three knights instantly caught the next cross-Channel ferry and murdered Thomas Becket in his own cathedral just as messily and incompetently as the Poles and the KGB murdered your Father Jerzy. And Henry threw up his hands in horror, and promptly disowned them?‘ Audley’s lip curled cynically. ’And he did penance for it. And his Thomas—your patron saint maybe, Tom?— he got his sainthood wings… But then Henry Plantagenet of England didn’t have to worry about his turbulent priest any more, did he? And your General Jaruzelski—‘
‘Not my General Jaruzelski, damn you!’ snapped Tom.
‘I do beg your pardon, Tom!’ The old man raised his palm. ‘I mean, of course, their General Jaruzelski— agent for Messrs Comrades Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernenko, Gorbachev and Company Limited, registered in Moscow and Warsaw and other places too numerous to mention— their good General… he didn’t have to worry about his turbulent priest again, either. And neither did they, eh?’
‘You’re wrong.’ In spite of his Arkenshaw self, Tom couldn’t leave it at that. ‘People come from all over Poland to pray at his grave, David. And there’s always a mound of flowers on it. And men from his Warsaw steel plant stand guard there, night and day.’
‘Oh yes!’ Audley cut through his words. ‘And, in God’s good time, Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State as interpreted by the Vatican, he’ll be Saint George Popieluszko, just like our Saint Thomas Becket—you can bet on it! And they’ll go on coming to—where is it, Tom—?’
‘St Stanislaw Kostka, in Zoliborz.’ The words came out stiffly.
‘St Stanislaw Kostka, in Zoliborz.’ Audley just about managed to parrot the pronunciation. ‘Just like Thomas Becket’s shrine in Canterbury, only without so much gold and precious stones—
‘ “Thenne longen folk to go on pilgrimages—”