The Memory Trap

Faith had probably enjoyed it (that was a near-certainty, although an unimportant one): she had admired both Richardson's car (long and low and sporty, Jaguar or Triumph or whatever was in vogue then) and Richardson himself (dark and handsome, like some Roman military tribune in one of the more fashionable Legions, far from home but good with senior officers' wives automatically, especially when their husbands were somewhat older?) —

Memory expanded under pressure. (He had driven along this very road ... or along the old A40 to Oxford and the West, which had preceded this motorway . . . except that he was off the motorway now, and back on the old A40 again, circling Oxford itself: but ... he had driven westwards with Peter Richardson himself that time, towards GCHQ at Cheltenham in its earlier days, anyway. But that was the key in the lock.

And he could feel it turning in his memory, between Fred's

"little experiment" and its unrecorded sequel. And the experiment and its sequel were so beautifully bridged now, dummy1

after all these years, by "Mr Dalingridge", that there could be no mistake: he could even remember Richardson himself directing him off the main road, up on the higher ground of the Cotswolds, into a maze of stone walls and sleeping villages untouched by time since the days of sheep which had built the tall churches and the manor house —

'Just a little detour, David. To meet a friend of mine for lunch . . . Someone only you know about, eh?'

It all came down to memory. And not to damned computer-memory, which was no better than common coinage in the pockets of anyone who had access to it, but to private memory, which he alone possessed now (although which Zimin had aspired to, in attempting to take Peter on Capri, by God! That was the memory which really counted now, by God — by God!) —

But Peter couldn't come first, now. (The digital clock on Jack Butler's "Buy British" Rover advised him that, as well as the setting sun, which had given up its attempt to shine before dark: he had delayed too long among those records to attempt Peter first: he had to keep another rendevous before that. And, because of Peter's importance rather than despite it, better so, perhaps?)

dummy1

There was still nothing behind him, when he took the Burford turn-off. But then, if there had been (as before), it would have been well-back, and he wouldn't have been able to spot it. And it didn't matter now, anyway.

And, also, it was late enough in the day, as well as out of the high tourist-season (as on Capri!) for there to be no crowds and plenty of room to park, right outside the appointed place.

'Do you have a Mr Lee staying with you?'

The girl in reception had evidently been warned that Mr Lee was expecting a visitor. 'Yes, sir. Number Three — just up the stairs there, and on your left.'

He knocked on Number Three. But then had to wait, because Mr Lee had locked his door.

'Hullo, old friend.' Jake locked the door again, leaving the key in the lock. 'You're early — or are you late? Your message was rather vague.' He wiped his moustache and grinned.

'Would you like a beer?'

There was an unopened suitcase on the bed and a very much opened crate of beer on the floor beside it: it had had twelve bottles, but there were fewer now — and another one fewer as Jake himself removed it.

'This is good beer, too.' Jake opened the bottle, then inverted dummy1

a glass on top of it, and handed both to Audley. 'We passed a local off-licence and they offered me a local brew. And it isn't half-bad, I tell you.'

"We" added itself to the emptiness of the crate. 'You're not by yourself then, Jake?'

'Lord, no!' Jake replenished his own glass. 'I'm much too old to be let out on my own in these dangerous times.' He glanced at Audley almost casually over the froth. 'What about you?'

'Just me.' He felt thirsty suddenly. 'So far as I know.'

Jake raised his glass in salute. 'Not to worry.' He drank deeply and appreciatively. 'My custodes will let me know who are custodieting you, old friend.' He smiled at Audley. 'Your Mr Jaggard said you were working for him. And ... I suspect he trusts you even less than I do.'

So Jake had been well-briefed, then. Or had drawn the right conclusions, anyway. 'You've met my Mr Jaggard, then?'

'I have indeed.' Another drink. Then another smile. 'A very cautious gentleman.' The smile was a smile-of-many-colours.

'And I have told him everything I know. Or ... some of everything I know, anyway. And he is very grateful. And . . . I am to see him again later tonight. Or, failing that, early tomorrow morning. And then he will be very grateful again.'

But no smile now. 'You look rather pleased with yourself, David. And that worries me.'

'I am pleased with myself.' He wasn't such an expert on dummy1

English beer as Jake had once been. But it tasted good because he was thirsty.

'I see.' Jake nodded over his glass. 'So that will be because you are hoping to meet your old colleague Major Richardson? For whom you people are all looking — as well as for General Lukianov?'

Everybody knew about everyone everybody was looking for now, evidently. 'I might be, Jake.' With everybody looking, that was hardly surprising: Jake had merely chosen the more likely of the two.

'But Mr Jaggard doesn't know this yet?'

Jake was another one like Paul Mitchelclass="underline" he was too clever for his own good. 'What have you got for me that you haven't given Henry Jaggard? On Prusakov and Kulik, as well as Lukianov, Jake?' He looked at his watch ostentatiously, and then at the remaining daylight outside.

'You're in a hurry?'

'Not particularly — if you've got a lot to tell.'

'You ought to be in a hurry. And ... I do not have a great deal.

But what I have is good.' Jake paused. 'It is also sensitive, David.'

'Sensitive?'

Jake hid behind his glass for a moment. 'I must ask that it goes no further, from you, for the time being. It will surely come from other sources eventually.'

It was the source, not the information itself, which was dummy1

sensitive. 'Don't insult me, Jake. When have I ever blabbed?'

But he saw at once that injured reliability was not enough.

'Very well. You have my word.'

'Fine. Your word I will take.' Jake nodded. 'We have a Kremlin source, David. But we do not want it put at the slightest risk, you understand. Even for something which worries us as much as this.' He made a face suddenly.

'Also . . . there are those on my side who are not so convinced that we should be frank with you. They believe that terrorist operations always weaken the credibility of the PLO itself.

And that suits them — whatever the cost to others.'

Jake had always been a moderate. 'I understand.'

'Good. Well . . . Prusakov was the brains. Kulik was a useful idiot — a very necessary idiot. It is even possible that he thought he was about to make a genuine deal with you in Berlin, when actually he was setting you up. And himself, of course. At least, that is what the Russians believe now, anyway.'

'But Kulik was a computer expert. He can't have been that stupid.'

'He can. But . . . they were both computer scientists, he and Prusakov. And they were both in severe personal difficulties.

Sex and money in Kulik's case. Money and politics in Prusakov's. With Lukianov ... he is more complex.' Jake cocked an eye at him. 'You know about computers, David?'

'Not a lot.' Audley was only too-well-aware of his Luddite dummy1

tendencies where computers were concerned. But it wasn't just that they so easily could out-perform him in his own special field (though not, as it happened, in the case of Peter Richardson, by God!). It was that computers had passwords which could be broken, and no words-of-honour, he told himself. 'Try me.'