He poured slowly, until froth oozed just above the rim of the glass. 'He'd have been like your Kipling-characters only on the other side, with his Cossacks instead of Gurkhas and all your other mercenaries . . . You and your "Great Games"! "A plague on both your houses" to that, now.' He raised his glass mockingly. 'But I do not think you can afford to play games now, great or otherwise.'
'No.' He could see that it was dark enough outside.
'You want to go.' Jake observed his glance. 'And quite rightly, too. Because what you must bear in mind now is not what Lukianov was, or what he may have been, but what he is, old friend. Because, as an old Spetsnaz man he was trained for dummy1
the big show-down — to fight and cause havoc far beyond his own lines, and single-handed if things went wrong. So now perhaps he has guessed that Berlin and Capri did not go quite as he planned. But that will not stop him going ahead, and doing what he planned to do. He will merely move that much quicker, by instinct: he will want to clinch his deal, and then fade away.' He grinned suddenly. 'It is like my old landlady in Crofton Park used to say, when I was a student here, and I stayed too long in bed. "You must bustle, Mr Shapiro," she would say. "You must bustle!" So now you must bustle old friend. Or you will be too late —' But then he held up a calloused palm warningly ' — except that, first, I will make sure that the coast is clear for you, eh?' He put down his glass and picked up the phone beside the bed. 'Can I have the bar, please?' He nodded at Audley. 'I have minders down there . . . and elsewhere outside, you see.'
'Jake —'
'It's all right. . . hullo? Please, you have a red-headed gentleman at the bar, drinking, I think? A Mr Pollard —yes?'
He grinned at Audley. 'A red-headed Jew? Who would have thought it, eh?' Then he concentrated on the phone again.
'Hullo, Angus. Any visitors?' He paused. 'Indeed? Is that a fact? Thank you, Angus.' He replaced the phone. 'And a red-headed Jew named "Angus", too! A Scottish Jew — such a clever boy.' He nodded at Audley. 'Your also-clever Dr Mitchell has a new girl-friend, he says. And Angus admires his taste, I think . . . Okay, David? The back entrance, is it?'
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'No.' There was only one way they could have got here so quickly, on his heels. So there was no shaking them off, if the car was bugged (as, when he thought about it, he should have expected, anyway). Or ... there were two ways, actually.
Because Jake would provide a private car. But the other way was better. And, anyway, he wanted to know if there was anything new from London, which fitted in with that way.
'No, Jake. I'll go down and talk to them. Don't worry yourself on my behalf.'
'Very well. You know best.' Jake went to the door, to unlock it. But then he touched Audley's arm, hesitantly yet deliberately all the same. 'But don't forget what I said, David old friend — eh? Lukianov ... I do not think, perhaps, that he is interested in you now ... or your Major Richardson, for whom all your people are also looking, I hear — yes?' But he didn't wait for an answer to that. 'However ... he is a hard man. And his Arab clients — they do not care for anyone, even themselves ... at least, those who do their bidding do not care, eh? Remember that the original "Assassins" — the Hashasheen . . . they were one-way ticket holders. You remember?'
'How could I forget.' He couldn't bring himself to return the grin. 'Just like old times? Thanks, Jake.'
Jake patted his arm. 'Go with God then ... as they say.'
The blast of warmer air rising up the staircase, mixed with the early evening sounds and smells from the bars below, did dummy1
nothing to dispel the cold which had spread from that uncharacteristic touch. In all the years he could not ever remember Jake touching him deliberately like that — or even touching him at all, since that first original handshake so long ago. Jake wasn't a toucher, he was almost Anglo-Saxon in his fastidiousness. Even, when in the past he had wanted to push his "old friend" in one direction or another, towards a car or a taxi (or, more often, towards a pub and a bar), he had shepherded like a sheep-dog, blocking off every alternative route. But this time he had touched, and it had been fear, not any other virtue (and least of all affection) which had been transmitted through his finger-tips —
He saw them immediately he entered the bar. And a handsome couple they made too, he thought critically, as he passed the red-headed Angus by the door without a second glance. If he had had Faith with him, and they had been strangers, he would have envied their beauty and relative youthfulness while she would have moved on from their good looks to fantasize about their relationship and professions, to no possible purpose.
'Hullo, David.' Mitchell betrayed neither relief not surprise as he stood up. 'Can I get you a drink?'
'No.' For an instant he wondered what Faith would have made of this pair. Then he shook his head, and concentrated on Mary Franklin.
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'You know Miss Franklin, of course,' said Mitchell unnecessarily.
Audley sat down. 'I haven't got much time, Miss Franklin.
Have you any information for me?'
'Dr Audley — ' She had taken her cue from Mitchell, to match his neutral expression. ' — the Russians aren't looking for their man Prusakov anymore. But it looks as though they are definitely concentrating on General Lukianov here in England. The search elsewhere has been either scaled down, or called off altogether.'
'And the various terrorist groups — what about them?'
'They've all gone to ground,' said Mitchell. 'Elsewhere as well as here. But the Israelis have got a maximum alert going.
Also especially here.' He cocked his head at Audley. 'Here's what it's all at, evidently. But we should have guessed that the moment your old buddy Colonel Shapiro buckled on his guns again and rode into town. He used to be the numero uno expert on the KGB and the terrorists in Western Europe in the old days, didn't he? Before he switched back to their Egyptian bureau?'
Trust Mitchell to know it all — and to guess that it wasn't just the old Shapiro-Audley relationship which had brought Jake back to England.
'Have you got anything on Major Richardson?'
Mary Franklin didn't beat about the bush. 'Is he in this area?'
'He may be, Miss Franklin.' He smiled politely at her, but dummy1
then returned to Mitchell. 'What else have you got?'
'What else?' Mitchell gave Mary Franklin a hopeful look.
'You've got that CIA stuff on Kulik and Prusakov, Mary?'
So it was "Mary" already! But then it would be.
'Nothing very definite.' She wasn't quite ready to be "Mary".
'The Americans now think they were both vulnerable to pressure, their Moscow sources say. The sort of pressure General Lukianov may have been able to exert, perhaps —
with the access he had to personnel files.'
'What about the computer angle?' He had to keep faith with Jake. But, after Prusakov's demise, he needed to ginger up his own side.
'Yes.' Mary Franklin let herself be gingered. 'Prusakov was the senior. But Kulik was a real whizz-kid, Dr Audley. And he'd most likely met Prusakov at the joint KGB/GRU
computer seminars they've been having, with the improved systems they've been putting in.' She allowed herself the merest hint of an apologetic smile. Which might be because she incorrectly thought that she was teaching grandfather to suck eggs, but which only made her more beautiful.
'Indeed?' Grandfather nodded encouragingly. But that was as far as Grandfather's word-of-honour would let him go, even in a thousand years — even at the risk of appearing stupid.
'Well, I suppose they must have had plenty of access to information too, then.' He nodded again, including them both. 'And Lukianov?'