Roche saw, but still didn't see.
"The trouble was, I needed money," said Audley. "In fact, I dummy5
needed it rather badly at the time, for my house as well as my expensive Cambridge tastes . . . Only they wouldn't give me the Cambridge fellowship I wanted— Clinton said it wouldn't pay well enough, but I rather suspect they thought that once I'd got it I'd never come back into Intelligence ... So he had this American friend of his—ex-OSS—who was a literary agent, and who owed him a favour from'45 . . . and I'd written this joke novel, just for fun, about Galla Placidia. So Mickey Tempest made me take out the jokes, and tighten up the dirty bits—and then he sold it for a bomb .... It was a bit embarrassing, what he did with it, but it did solve my cash-flow problems." This time Audley wasn't pretending. And—
Lord God!—he didn't have to pretend, either: what had happened was something unfair, which neither Clinton nor the Comrades could have allowed for—the perfect cover of a runaway best-seller! That must surely have disconcerted Clinton almost as much as it had deceived the Comrades, to loosen his grip on Audley . . .
"I must admit I've enjoyed all the money," said Audley simply. "Because I've done all the things I ever wanted to do ... to my home, and all that . . ." He shied away from what all that implied, which Roche wasn't meant to know. "But I haven't enjoyed trying to avoid being that damned woman Mickey thought up—she's someone I'm really going to enjoy killing off, you know." He twisted a smile of pure mischief at Roche. "But not until The Winds of God are blowing in the bookshops next spring . . . because the more independent I dummy5
am from Colonel F. J. Clinton, the more I shall like it, to be honest."
Audley being honest was something beyond Roche's imagination. But he could remember how he had relished his brief freedom from Genghis Khan, and the sense of no longer depending on anyone else, and that gave him a hint of what Audley's bank balance could do for another soldier-no-more.
And Clinton wouldn't like that much. And Clinton, Clinton, Clinton was what it all came back to with Audley—not d'Auberon, or even Avery . . .
"Clinton?"
Another chilly smile. "Now you're beginning to put it all together the right way! It was foxy Fred who picked up the whisper about d'Auberon's inconvenient report from his German friends in Gehlen in the spring— because they really do have a man in Moscow . . . or they did have, because they must have pulled him out after they leaked the Stalin denunciation before the Twentieth Congress to the Americans ... So Fred had the details, but what he needed was the real thing, because he had to have tangible proof—"
"Why?"
"My dear fellow! Avery was just getting the job he wanted—
the job he deserved—with him as Number Two Dogsbody . . .
which was what he didn't want. But Avery was king after Suez, and Fred couldn't screw him without d'Auberon's report
—and d'Auberon wouldn't give it to him . . . and that was dummy5
when he remembered me—and...you!"
Clinton, Clinton— Clinton!
"I was just finishing The Winds—and my real book, on Charles Mattel— down near Carcassone. And that's where I got the call at last, after six fat years—to go and settle on the Dordogne and renew my old wartime antipathy with Etienne, when we were supposed to be on the same side, more or less ... by which time I was so bloody fed up with fucking around, if he'd asked me to escalade the Château du Cingle d'Enfer single-handed I'd have tried it ... Instead of which I chatted up Madame Peyrony again, and bought the Tower for twice what it's worth—not on expenses, either—"
Truth.
And lies and lies and lies—
"You never did have a copy of d'Auberon's report?" Audley had already told him that twice over, but he wanted to hear him say it aloud just once.
"Christ! D'you think Etienne would have given it to me, of all people? That'd be the day!" The question hurt Audley. "I didn't even want you to talk to him—I thought that was where it would all go wrong . . . But Fred Clinton reckoned the KGB would be so mad-keen to plant the stuff on Eustace Avery that they wouldn't risk involving Etienne—not if they could get you promoted at the same time . . . What he said was that they were bound to take the risk, for the profit, so we could take the risk too, and then Avery's goose would be dummy5
cooked." The accuracy of Clinton's forecast seemed to hurt him as much as the original question. "So he was right—and I was wrong—okay?" Avery's goose.
Clinton had known all along that the d'Auberon papers were useless— except for the damage they would do to Avery. But Avery himself hadn't known that—any more than he'd known that Audley was already Clinton's man . . . 'on a private feudal arrangement'! "So what's happened to Avery?"
He resigned four days ago," said Audley.
All along Clinton had been gunning for Avery, and the Comrades had supplied him with the ammunition he needed.
"Full of honours, and with several succulent jobs on well-paid boards in the City," continued Audley. "But just in time, before they sacked the bugger . . . What did you expect?"
Roche tried hard to look wiser than he was. But of course it wouldn't be a bullet-behind-the-ear for Sir Eustace Avery, whatever it might be for Genghis Khan. It was Captain Roche who had had all the luck, even though he still didn't quite know why. .
"So we're under new management now: F. J. Clinton, sole proprietor— and Sir Frederick in the next New Year's Honours, if I'm any judge of the government's well-placed gratitude for hushing things up."
A lot could happen between the Queen's birthday and the New Year— Bill Ballance always used to say that.
"Which, to do him justice—and the government justice—is dummy5
fair enough. Because he'll be a damn good sole proprietor, not like Useless Eustace . . . And also because the bloody Russians need taking down a peg—which you of all people ought to understand, Major Roche—eh?"
Roche thought of the Comrades as Russians—not for the first time, but more clearly: Russians, not Comrades . . . not with their union of socialist republics, but with their groaning colonies stretching from Hungary to the deserts of Asia and the Himalayas, where Kipling had played his game once upon a time, and Audley had learnt Kipling's rules.
And he also recalled Genghis Khan's confidence, at the prospect of fooling the stupid British again: as much as anything—as much as F. J. Clinton's clever plans—that over-confidence had confounded the Russians. "You do, don't you?" Audley read his expression. "They've done so bloody well of late that they're chancing their arm too far for comfort
— that's what Clinton relied on. But some of the things they've been doing have been positively dangerous, and that was my best argument for not using you to play games with them—better that we should call a halt, and shut them up for a bit, so we can both catch our breath. Better to clear the board and start again from scratch."
That put the record straight, but it hurt nevertheless. "And that's why I'm getting off the hook, is it?"
"With a medal—and a disability pension, Major?" Audley's lip curled. "Free and clear? Don't be ungrateful, Major!!"
The Major twisted in the wound, and so did free and clear, dummy5