—never mind not helping the poor bastards themselves, the buggers. Because he was there, by God! Sitting on his arse on the other side of the river!‘
Panin spluttered slightly. ‘You dishonour me—!’
‘If I could—I would!’ Audley’s hand came up. But at least it was a finger now, not a fist. ‘You-were-there—’ He rounded on Tom without warning ‘—and you should know what happened there, of Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State all people, Tom!’
Panin looked at Tom, and Tom himself was astonished at Audley’s indiscretion—so astonished that for a moment all he could think of was the Russian’s description of Audley as ‘ amateur’. ‘I thought we were discussing Gennadiy Zarubin—? Not… not ancient East European military history, anyway—’ He looked from one to the other.
The Russian composed himself first; although that, thought Tom bitterly, was composure born of suddenly-renewed interest in Sir Thomas Arkenshaw, who could not only get his tongue round a Polish name but was also apparently an expert on the Warsaw Rising of ‘44, it seemed. ’That is true.‘ The momentary change in the man’s aura, which had somehow hinted at the presence of a ravening wolf within that elderly sheep, had already vanished so completely that memory queried its existence. ’You must forgive me, Sir Thomas. But I, also, had good comrades in ‘44. And before that, and after that. And also brothers. And I also remember them.’
He drew a slow breath. ‘But I should not. And you are right to draw us back to pressing matters.’ He considered Tom for another five slow seconds before returning to Audley. ‘Thank you, Sir Thomas.’
Audley shrugged, no longer truculent but quite unapologetic. ‘I was only doing my arithmetic. Two dead, four jailed, equals six.
Six from seven equals one. One equals Zarubin. That’s all.’ It was Audley who was battened down now. ‘But you were about to do the rest of the sum for me.’
This time Audley got the five seconds. ‘How much do you know, Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State David?’
‘Uh-uh.’ Audley shook his head. ‘Gennadiy Zarubin, you were saying—?’
‘You know that he’s here, of course.’ Panin waited in vain for Audley to answer. ‘Of course you do!’
Audley looked into the ditch. ‘It isn’t really very hard, the rock here
—is it, Tom?’ He looked up at Tom. ‘Not like the rock ditch on the Roman wall between Carrawburgh and Chesters, by Milecastle 30, where they had to bore holes and split the stuff with boiling water
—or vinegar, was it? And they never did finish the job, at that…
Jack Butler showed me the place, long ago—oh, it must be thirteen years ago, about.’ He nodded. ‘All of that, because I think Faith was pregnant at the time… But this doesn’t look nearly so bad.’
Tom rolled an eye at the Russian, as speechless as Panin himself was.
‘It’s still good work, for a rush job.’ Audley bent over the ditch, hands on knees. ‘But not a great work, is what I mean—not with this crumbly red sandstone… Is that what it is? Or is it—what the devil is it?’ He started to reach down below the lip of the ditch, but then abandoned the attempt.
‘They are going to kill him.’ Panin found his voice at last.
‘Zarubin, David.’
Audley found a suitable tuft of grass on which to kneel. ‘Uh-huh?
Who’s “they”?’ He reached over the edge. ‘In Zarubin’s case there must be a fairly long waiting-list for that honour—’ He wrenched at something out of Tom’s view ‘—but presumably these would be Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State Poles, of course… eh?’ He gave the unseen bit of rock another wrench.
‘Terrorists,’ said Panin.
‘Terrorists—naturally…’ Another wrench ‘… freedom fighters, partisans, guerrillas . . .franc-tireurs, Robin Hood’s “Merry Men”, UNITA, IRA, ENOSIS, Weathermen, ETA—join the bloody club:
“He crucified noble, he scarified mean, He filled old ladies with kerosene;
While over the water the papers cried,
‘The patriot fights for his countryside!’ ”
- it’s all old hat, Nikolai. We’re used to it, long before from our own late imperial past, even before these more indiscriminate times. And so were your Tsarist predecessors, actually—‘ He twisted towards Tom suddenly ’—it’s tougher than I thought, this rock— Poles is what he means, I suspect.‘
‘Poles, yes.’ Panin surrendered. “They call themselves ”The Sons of the Eagle“.‘
‘Do they now!’ Audley abandoned his efforts, straightening up and brushing the dirt from his hands, though still on his knees. ‘Boh Da Thone, in Burma in the ’80s—the 1880s— he killed under the Peacock Banner. At least, according to Kipling he did. But with the Poles the bird would have to be the good old-fashioned eagle, of Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State course.‘ He stood up, shifting his attention from his grubby hands to the damp patches on each knee of his trousers. ’ “Sons of the Eagle”? Can’t say that I’ve ever heard of them, though. Have you, Tom?‘
‘No.’ It occurred to Tom that Audley hadn’t been indiscreet, he had deliberately set out to establish Sir Thomas as his Polish expert as part of his frontal attack on Panin. Indeed, he no doubt assumed that Tom was an expert, just as Jaggard had probably done. But there was nothing to be done about that now. ‘No, I haven’t.’ He looked at Panin questioningly.
‘They are the violent element in what remains of Solidarity, Sir Thomas.’ The Russian’s voice was flatly matter-of-fact. ‘They are terrorists.’
Tom felt Audley’s eye on him. ‘Solidarity has no violent wing. It never has had. Neither Walesa nor the Church would allow it, David.’ He shook his head. ‘No way.’
‘I see.’ Audley pursed his lips. ‘So Marchik was an accident, then?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Tom wished he felt more confident. ‘I said that Solidarity is non-violent, that’s all,’
Audley rubbed his chin thoughtfully, leaving a smear of dirt on his jaw-line. ‘Of course. But it’s all academic, really—’
‘Academic?’ Tom had to control his Polish half. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Yes. Where state violence is institutionalized there can be no distinction between violence and non-violence in anti-state activities: they are either treason or criminal lunacy—you either Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State get the bullet, or regular injections down on the funny-farm.’
Audley returned to Panin. ‘But that’s in your backyard of course, Nikolai. So… academic, as I say. Whereas your present problem is here— and definitely not academic, obviously.’
This time the Russian gave not the slightest hint that Audley’s latest insult had touched the wolf inside the sheep’s armour; if anything, he seemed more relaxed. ‘Your problem too, David.’
‘My problem?’ Audley feigned theatrical surprise. ‘My dear fellow, now that you have most economically explained to me what is about to happen, I can descry no very great problem. Your masters, in their wisdom, have posted the unspeakable Zarabin here
—presumably because they regard London as a relatively safe billet. Or maybe it’s a genuine promotion—? As a reward for presiding over the elimination of that poor unpronounceable priest
—“Father George”, shall I call him? Though, on second thoughts, it can hardly be that, for the work was not well-done—’ He pointed a dirty finger at the ditch ‘—not like that— that is a damn good ditch!’
‘No—’