"That's exactly what he's saying," said Stein. "But why, David, for God's sake? The sewage doesn't smell any sweeter these days—if anything it's dirtier, I should think."
"Dirtier for sure, old boy," agreed Audley. "Everything gets dummy5
grubbier with time, it's a natural process. No more worlds fit for heroes, no more capitalist heavens or socialist Utopias."
"And no more British Empire," said Stein. "You wouldn't be playing Kipling's 'Great Game' in the high passes any more—
no more Bengal Lancers, old boy. No more glamour."
"There never was any glamour."
"No money either. You said they were stingy before—they'll be even stingier now. You'll spend half your time trying to cook your expenses." Stein shook his head sadly.
"Oh . . . that wouldn't worry him, darling." Lexy surfaced again. "He's positively rolling in the stuff, you know that!"
"Maybe he doesn't like being on the losing side," said Bradford. "Losing isn't his style."
Roche knew he couldn't let that pass—not with what he still had to do. "We're not damn well losing."
Audley shook his head. "Oh—but we are, my dear chap.
We're losing very thoroughly and comprehensively—Mike's right." He nodded at the American. "Ever since we won we've been losing. Suez merely broadcast the message: no more
'Rule Britannia', no more Thin Red Line, no more Civis Britannicus Sum. The gateway in the wall has been bricked up, and John Foster Dulles has scratched 'Finish' on the plaster. You're just commanding the rearguard, Roche."
Roche scoured his wits for a reply. The trouble was that it was all true, and he was living proof of it, and all he wanted was to be on neither of these two sides, losing or winning—a dummy5
plague on them both. And a plague on rearguards too, for that matter!
"The rearguard usually gets cut to pieces," said Stein, smiling at him across the table. "It's the place of honour, but the honour's not quite your style either—now, is it?"
"Wrong again!" Audley revolved on his stool. "I told you—if Roche was recruiting, I'd be his man. Like that fellow Burton said— if it be a sin to covet honour I am the most offending soul alive."
"Hogwash!" said Bradford, the embers of his recent anger glowing through the word. "Not you, David. Mischief—
maybe. But not honour."
Stein chuckled. "I wouldn't put it as strong as that, Mike.
But . . . not honour, I agree."
Audley continued to revolve from side to side, as though he preferred to present a moving target. Yet he didn't seem to be offended by the insults. 'Well, maybe I was joking. But it's all academic anyway—thanks to dear Archie ... So let's get back to my barbarians. I particularly want to tell you about the Vandals, a people for whom I have great sympathy—a people much misunderstood, like myself ... In fact, when Izzy Collins and I started our rugger club, I wanted to call us the Vandals.
But Izzy wouldn't have it—he said we might as well call ourselves the Hooligans, and have done with it. So we settled for the Visigoths in the end, and—"
"No, David!" said Jilly. "We haven't finished with you yet."
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Good girl, thought Roche gratefully.
"With me, Jilly love?" Audley stopped rotating.
"That's right," said Lexy. "You still haven't told us why you want to serve Her Majesty again, darling."
"Won't 'Honour' do?" Audley cocked his head at her.
"No," said Stein.
"The Vandals are much more interesting. King Gaiseric is right up your street, Stein—"
"And it isn't the money," said Lexy. "We've established that—
it's poor, old Mike there who needs the cash, not David—"
Gaiseric," said Audley. "King of the Vandals—"
Oh, do shut up, David!" said Lexy. "We're on to something interesting now—really interesting. I've always wanted to know what makes you tick." She rested her elbow on the table, and then her chin on her fist, and gazed at Audley fixedly. " Not honour . . . and not money . . . and it isn't as if he'd get a pretty uniform to wear, like he used to in Daddy's old regiment... so why this sudden rush of patriotism to the head, then? That's what we have to find out."
"Not the power and the glory," said Stein drily.
"No?"
Lexy swivelled her chin on her fist. "Why not, Davey?"
“Precious little power. The Russians and the Yanks have all of that between them. The British are losers now—he said so himself." Stein folded his arms. "And no glory, because it dummy5
isn't that sort of game. Not like rugger."
"Not like rugger?"
Stein nodded. "You win in private, but you lose in public when things go wrong. And he doesn't like losing." He grinned wickedly at Audley. "Of course, you could try the KGB again, David. At least you'd have a better chance of winning with them."
"Gosh, no, Davey darling!" exclaimed Lexy. "He wouldn't like them— they wear frightful blue suits, all shapeless and bulgy, with brown shoes. Daddy pointed out two of them to me at a reception we were at. They were awful!"
"Okay . . ." The Israeli shrugged. "Maybe Mike can fix up an introduction to the CIA. They wear better suits . . . Mike?"
Bradford stirred uneasily.
"I knew a lovely boy in the CIA," said Lexy. "At least, I think he was in the CIA."
"I'm told they're always looking for volunteers in England,"
said Stein. "It's part of the 'special relationship', I suppose."
"He was in something incredibly secret, anyway," said Lexy dreamily. Then she sighed. "But Daddy didn't like him."
"Daddy didn't like his particular idea of the special relationship, you mean," murmured Stein. "Well, Mike?"
"Yeah." Bradford cleared his throat. "I know a couple of guys . . ." He eyed Audley for a moment. "I could give you names and addresses. You just give me Antonia Palfrey's name—real name—in return. And her address, huh?"
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"Oh, Mike!" Lexy rounded on the American. "Why must you keep harping on Antonia Palfrey? He's told you he doesn't know her."
"And I've told him I don't believe him."
"But why! Not just because of what ... of what Professor Archie Whatnot says, Mike?"
Bradford shook his head. "Forbes just pointed me at the facts."
"What facts?"
"Honey. . . " Bradford continued to stare at Audley ". . .that goddamn woman is an expert in a very small field. UCLA says so, and Forbes says so, and I know so—because I've checked the field out. And there's no one fills the bill, just no one."
"So what?"
"So ... so maybe she isn't an expert. Maybe she's gotten herself a tame expert—someone who knows the difference between an Ostrogoth and a Visigoth and a Vandal, all about 5th century Christians and heretics and pagans. And also someone who knows about fighting, the way Miss Antonia Palfrey seems to know about it—"
"That doesn't follow, Mike," said Jilly quickly. "Stephen Crane in The Red Badge of Courage—"
" Crap! She's picked somebody's brains, honey. Somebody who knows about being scared and about . . . barbarians."
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Bradford paused. "You know anyone here fills that bill, huh?"
Roche watched Audley, aware that everyone was doing the same.
"Fills the bill?" Audley sighted the American down his nose.
"Dr Bodger, of Rylands College, Cambridge, fills the bill, for a start, old boy."
"More crap. Bodger never fired a shot in his life, old buddy.
He worked for the Ministry of Information. He had rheumatic fever when he was a kid. I told you—I've checked out the field. He was never even called up for military service." Bradford shook his head again. "Also, he doesn't commute to Zurich regularly."
"Zurich?" Lexy looked from Audley to Bradford.