“It was the CIA who identified him, when they squeezed their Debreczen graduate.” Audley’s eyes clouded. “Ours shot himself before we could get to him—he got wind that we were on his tail . . . But the Yanks got theirs—the one they managed to identify. He was an Irish-American, that’s probably why he remembered Aloysius particularly: there were no names in dummy1
Debreczen, only numbers and letters . . . The pupils never saw each other, only their teachers—it was a sort of Oxbridge tutorial system, very elitist and security-conscious. . . . Anyway, this Irish American made Aloysius sure enough—ex-Abraham Lincoln battalion in the International Brigade, ex-sidekick of Frank Ryan . . . But he had a low opinion of the IRA at that time, did Aloysius—it was the early fifties, and he said they weren’t worth a row of beans in Ireland then, but there was good anti-British work the American end could do, playing up British colonialism to weaken the Atlantic alliance, that sort of thing . . .” Audley paused.
“Unfortunately, the third day the Yanks had this chap—in a supposedly safe house outside Washington—somebody sniped him at about seven hundred yards while he was taking a breath of air.”
Audley’s shoulders lifted. “A real good shot. . . and I always wondered whether our chap really pulled his own trigger . . . But it goes to show how much they valued Debreczen, eh?”
Benedikt nodded, and thought of the wide-open view of Duntisbury Manor from the ridge, down across the lawn to the terrace . . . And was the fate of the Irish American—and possibly that unknown English traitor too—one of the things that Aloysius Kelly had passed on to Michael Kelly?
“So the Yanks never finished squeezing their man, anyway— who was the only one they got a line on. And they put Aloysius Kelly’s name on the red side of the tablets—” Audley looked at his watch suddenly “—and didn’t forget about him either.” He looked up at Benedikt equally suddenly. “You saw how our loyal ally perked up at the mention of him?”
dummy1
“Yes.” Benedikt’s mind was beginning to accelerate, moving from his own thought— one of the things that Aloysius had passed on to Michael—even before Audley had reminded him that the CIA was in the game now. “How much do you trust your American friend, David?”
“To leave the field to us?” Audley pursed his lip. “In theory quite a lot.” Then he frowned. “But Aloysius Kelly’s memoirs—or whatever he may have passed on to Michael to make a target of him . . . that’ll be a sore temptation to him, I fear. A sore temptation.”
“And he didn’t give his word to Mr Smith.”
“Nor he did! And he’s got Mr Smith, too.” Audley’s features contorted into ugliness. “And any lead to those Debreczen graduates . . . They were just the likely lads in the mid-fifties—
they’ll be the top dogs and the bosses now, the ones who’ve stayed the course.” He shook his head. “A sore temptation!”
Quite suddenly the only course of action open to him became clear to Benedikt: there would have been Germans among those Debreczen traitors— graduates was a weak euphemism for such swine—so his service had an equal interest now in what had started as a purely British affair.
“We cannot sit on this any longer, David.” He shook his head at the big Englishman. “Neither of us can. It is too big for us both.”
Yet he had to leave the man an honourable escape route. “The Americans know. But this is your territory.”
“Yes.” Audley faced reality with traditional British phlegm. Or dummy1
perhaps, thought Benedikt, he had recognised it at the first mention of Aloysius Kelly. “You’re quite right.”
“Who is your chief?” He hoped his expression was impassive.
“Colonel Butler?”
Audley smiled painfully. “Yes. Jack Butler.”
“He will be angry?” He pretended to think about Colonel Jack Butler. “But he is a good man, is he not?”
The smile twisted. “Yes—and yes.”
Benedikt searched for the right words. “We have no choice. But not much time, I think.”
Audley studied him. “Not much time is right. But I still have a choice.”
Benedikt frowned. “What choice?”
Audley continued to study him. “Duntisbury Chase should hold for a few more hours. But how far can I trust you, Captain Benedikt Schneider?”
“Me?” Had he betrayed something?
“Yes. I need to talk to Jack Butler face to face. But I need someone I can trust in the Chase—someone who won’t make Michael Kelly run. But can I trust you?”
He had betrayed something, but Audley didn’t know what it was.
And the only way the man’s dilemma could be resolved would complicate his loyalties even more, by adding Audley’s to them.
Yet there was no alternative. “Would my word-of-honour help you?” He managed to avoid sounding quite humourless. “My dummy1
father’s used to be good enough for your people in the war.”
For a moment Audley’s face recalled Mr Smith’s. Then, like Mr Smith, he relaxed. “Yes, of course.” The big man looked around.
“We need another car for you, so that you can get back with those boys ... No need to hurry back—take them to lunch somewhere, and then round about, to be in the Chase by tea-time—four or five . . . And tell Becky I phoned my wife and she called me home
—say my daughter’s sick, and they can get me at home—” Audley was leading him through the tanks towards the entrance “—I’ll be allegedly in the bath when she phones—if she checks up—and my wife will know where I really am, so that I can phone back . . .
Okay?”
They were passing through a line of modern giants, a British Chieftain and an early German Leopard among them. The entrance ahead of them was empty, except for one of the armoured corps NCOs standing guard in it.
“I want a car, Corporal.” Audley didn’t mince matters. “For the captain here—quick as you can. Hire it or borrow it, I don’t mind.
Major Kennedy will help you.”
“Yes, sir.” The Corporal rolled his eyes at Benedikt, but reacted like any intelligent NCO to a clear and concise order delivered by someone whom he recognised as being in a position to give such orders. “Right away, sir ... Quarter of an hour, sir?”
“That would do well. I shalln’t be here when you come back. The Captain will be in charge of the boys.”
“Right, sir.” The Corporal very nearly saluted, but restrained dummy1
himself with an effort before striding off.
Audley looked at Benedikt. “They could give you a hard time—or young Benjamin could, anyway . . . Darren should be full of tanks, but young Benjamin is a Kelly-admirer and will stick to his orders . . . Tell him more or less who you really are, and that you’ve agreed to help Miss Becky and Gunner Kelly and me—that should give him something to chew on ... And when you get back latch on to Kelly and try not to let him out of your sight—
interrogate him as much as you like, he’ll expect you to ... And if you’re sticking your neck out, you’ve got a right to, after all.”
“But you’re not expecting anything to happen ... for the next few hours?”
Audley nodded. “That’s right. They only acquired their walkie-talkie radios this morning, and they’re reckoning on a practice run tonight. Mrs Bradley’s boy, Peter, at the village shop, has been
‘larnin’ ‘em’, as Old Cecil puts it—he’s a CB radio enthusiast . . .
There’s a lot of quite unlooked-for expertise in Duntisbury Royal, and not just the ancient village skills . . . from Peter in the shop to Blackie Nabb, who was a Royal Marine Commando in Korea.”