The General couldn't help it—he rarely even barked at Boselli. The trouble was, he didn't have to.
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"I don't know about him," said Villari offhandedly. "I know of him, of course."
"What do you know of him, boy?" the General snapped.
"Not much, to be honest," Villari gave the General a sidelong glance. "The British don't concern me directly—or do they?"
"Just answer the question," repeated the General with a small cutting edge in his voice now which warmed Boselli.
This was more like the real man he knew.
Villari sketched a shrug, unsnubbed, as though the matter was of little importance to him, ignoring or pretending to ignore the danger sign. "He's a university professor, or that's his cover anyway."
"He has been attached to a university, that's true. Go on."
But only partly true, Boselli thought gleefully. The Clotheshorse was already giving himself away.
"Go on," repeated the General.
"Well, he writes history books of some sort—about the Arabs, I seem to remember. Or something like that. And he's one of Sir Frederick—ah—Clinton's group—"
"And what do you know about that," the General pounced hard.
Villari grinned at him boyishly. "Frankly, damn all, General.
Am I supposed to? I didn't think the British were in my sphere of operations."
"Where did you hear about Audley?"
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"Hell, I don't know," Villari was something less sure of himself now, and something less than convincing. "I keep my ear to the ground—I hear all sorts of things."
Mostly bottles opening and bedroom doors closing, thought Boselli. That was the strength of it.
"You've never met Audley, then?"
"No, never." Villari used the certainty of his reply to cover the relief in his voice, without realising that he was thereby admitting that he knew what Audley looked like, Boselli thought with instant contempt. If this were the pride of the German section, then God help them: no wonder they gave him so much time off to ski. He gave himself away every time he opened his handsome mouth.
But the General was obviously not interested in pursuing Villari's incompetence any farther. He retired to the farther side of his desk and sat down heavily.
"Tell him, Boselli," he ordered dispassionately.
Boselli gave a guilty start. "Tell him what, sir? About Dr.
Audley?"
"The Clinton group first. And don't stand there sweating—sit down." The General waved a hand. "Sit down both of you.
And make it brief, Boselli. I haven't all the afternoon."
"Sir—" Boselli faced the General, then Villari. The punitive gleam in Villari's eye drove him back at once to the General.
"The origins of the group go back to the aftermath of the Suez failure—"
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"Not its history, man. Tell him what it does!"
"Yes, sir. Well—" Boselli began again nervously "—it doesn't exactly do anything. I mean—" Christ! He was getting himself as tangled as Villari had been, and with far less reason. He couldn't ski one metre, or hang expensive suits on himself, or fornicate with foreign women. But this one gift he had.
"It was formed as a passive intelligence group, not an active one," he said firmly, his voice gaining authority with each word. "The various labels it has used have been more for accounting convenience than a guide to its function—it goes under Research and Development at the moment, but its true relation with the conventional intelligence arms is broadly analogous with pure research departments in a university and the applied research departments in major commercial companies."
"What the Americans call a 'Think Tank'," observed the General helpfully, watching Villari.
"Broadly speaking, yes," Boselli nodded. "But there was a considerable spin-off in foreward intelligence."
"They forecasted international trends."
"And trouble spots, sir. And likely reactions. They appear to have done this rather well. The only drawback was that they couldn't do it to order. Clinton just let them follow their inclination, and then passed on what he thought might prove of value to the active departments and the appropriate ministries."
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He risked a surreptitious glance at Villari and was gratified to observe that the mask of aristocratic boredom had descended again. If the fool was stupid enough to show his disdain before the General— disdain of a briefing ordered by the General—then so much the better: the General always noticed things like that.
"Yes . . . that about sums it up. Sir Frederick Clinton is an uncommonly astute and persuasive man," the General murmured, the last words half to himself as though he fancied the idea of a private Think Tank at his own fingertips.
"Quite so, sir," said Boselli quickly, hastily evaluating the note of envy in his master's voice and thoroughly disapproving it. Such a group of intellectual outsiders would tend to devalue his own importance more likely than not.
"But there is a disadvantage in his system—a disadvantage and a temptation. And this man Audley exemplifies each of them."
"Indeed?"
"These men—" Boselli martialled his thoughts very carefully,
"—they are difficult to control. There is a—a rogue factor in them. They pursue truth rather than policy."
"I see . . ." The General nodded thoughtfully. "And if the truth gets out, you mean—?"
"Exactly, sir!" It was an addictive pleasure to talk to a man who always grasped the exact meaning of one's words. "This man Audley specialised in the Middle East. And he was good dummy2
—he was very good. He was too good."
"He was unpopular in some quarters, that's true."
Boselli nodded back. "He became committed to what he saw as the right course. Clinton had to get him out before there was a big scandal." He paused, seeing the pitfall ahead just in time: the General evidently knew all about the Arab-Israeli report, and he disliked being told what he already knew—and what the Clotheshorse did not need to know even if he could grasp its significance.
"And that exposed Clinton to the temptation to use him in a different way—to deal with specific assignments, the sort of awkward thing that would interest him."
The General started to speak and then cocked an eye at Villari, who seemed half-asleep now.
"Would you say that was a temptation, Armando?"
Villari stretched. "Hardly. I rather think—Signor Boselli is making something out of nothing. Clinton uses the fellow as a trouble-shooter, that's all. Nothing strange about that, nothing at all."
Boselli watched the General's almost imperceptible bob of agreement with dismay. He had failed to make his point, even though he felt in his bones he was right; it could only be that he had been a shade too quick to attack the Think Tank idea and the General had seen through him. He retired bitterly into his shell.
Villari seemed to sense that the initiative was going begging dummy2
again. He stirred languidly.
"And just what has this so very terrifying Englishman to do with me, General?"
The hatred inside Boselli was so absolute now that he could feel it as a lump in his chest, choking hum. That adjective had been as much an insult directed at him as would have been an actual blow on the face.
"He is here in Rome at this moment," said the General.
"Doing what?"
"Doing nothing—so far." The General paused. "He arrived on the night flight from London early this morning." He paused again. "With his wife, his child and his German au pair girl."
"His—?" Villari gave a short, incredulous laugh.
Boselli lifted his eyes to the General's face, the leaden lump of hatred instantly dispersed by his renewed interest.
"His wife, his child and his au pair?" Villari repeated the words as though he doubted his ears.
Fool, thought Boselli briefly. Fool not to wait for the additional facts which must lie beneath this one like vipers in a bed of flowers.