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'Not a sign of him, David.' Mitchell shook his head unhappily. 'Kulik and Prusakov were the whizz-kids, like Mary says. And they both had to get out. Although they both also probably wanted to play with more advanced computers as well — ours, but the Americans' even more. And . . .
especially Kulik, I'd guess. Prusakov was more into politics and the good life. And he was the older of the two, with a lot of Brezhnev-era friends who were also being weeded out.' He shook his head again. 'But it's Lukianov who frightens me, David. He sounds like a real tough egg, SAS-style. And I'd feel a lot happier if I knew what sort of deal he's made with the Ay-rabs.'
'Yes. So what about Peter Richardson, Dr Audley?' Having given something, Mary Franklin still wanted more in exchange. But then Peter was her priority, after alclass="underline" he was why she was here, inconveniently on his back.
Only, things had moved on since she had left London on his tail. Most notably, the CIA had moved like lightning after the Israelis' tip-off, evidently scared enough to hazard one of their Moscow insiders.
'"The Americans think" — "the Americans say"?' He ignored her question. 'What do the Israelis say?'
'They gave us the lead on Prusakov's disppearance from the
"Most Wanted" list, David,' said Mitchell. 'Jaggard's had a meeting with Freyer and Shapiro — a very friendly meeting, by all accounts. And the exchange is "ongoing", he told Jack.
So everybody's buddy-buddy for once.' A muscle in his cheek dummy1
twitched. 'They're all being especially nice to us — the CIA as well as Mossad. All of which is scaring the daylights out of poor old Henry. So, apart from putting Mary here on your tail, he's not yet muttering "What's that bastard Audley up to?" like he usually does, David. It's just like your favourite poet said it always is —
For it's David this, an' David that, an' "Chuck 'im out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot
— he knew a thing or two, you're quite right! So whatever you want . . . just say the word, and we're yours to command.
Isn't that right, Mary?'
Mary Franklin's face was a picture. But then, however much she might know about them both, she might not know that one of Dr Mitchell's favourite indoor sports was quoting passages from Dr Audley's beloved Kipling at him, preferably in public.
Only this time there was more to it than that, he realized: if Mary Franklin was Henry Jaggard's woman first and last, Paul Mitchell was his man still — with or without Jack Butler's full approvaclass="underline" the Kipling lines were also the wrapping for that final message.
'Miss Franklin — ' He caught her still in mid-gape at Mitchell dummy1
' — so . . . what are the Russians doing, then?'
"The Russians?' She frowned at him.
'Dr Mitchell says that everyone is — ah — "buddy-buddy".'
He pronounced the Americanism with pretended distaste.
'But I don't think he was including the KGB in that happy condition — were you, Dr Mitchell?'
'No.' Mitchell came in happily on cue. "There's been some interesting coming-and-going in the new trade mission, Len Aston reports. But that's all to do with some Anglo-Soviet wooden furniture factory project, allegedly. Which they're thinking of switching from the north-east to the Welsh valleys. Only they could be bringing in some reinforcements perhaps, he thinks. But no glasnost of the sort you're suggesting — if that's what you're suggesting?'
'Well, it's about bloody-time that there was, by God! Where are you parked?'
'Round the back.' Mitchell frowned. 'Why d'you want to know?'
'I want to borrow your car.'
'My car? Over my dead body! You've already got — ' Mitchell stopped abruptly.
'The new departmental Rover?' He could see that Mitchell understood. But so too, unfortunately, did Mary Franklin, judging by her obstinate expression. 'I don't want to be followed — "protected" — where I'm going. Either by you, Miss Franklin, or by Mossad.'
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She hadn't expected that. 'Mossad?'
'Colonel Shapiro is upstairs, my dear. I've just been talking to him. And the red-headed fellow at the bar belongs to him.
And they'll be watching my car, even if they haven't added one of their bugs to yours.' This wasn't betraying Jake: it was merely using him to get her off his back, he reassured himself Jesuitically. 'I believe I now know where I can find Peter Richardson — where he is waiting for me. But if I turn up anywhere near his safe-house with anyone on my tail he'll be off again, like on Capri. And I'm not having that.'
'David —'
'I shall be perfectly safe this time. Apart from which I have work for you both.'
They looked at each other.
'What work?' Mitchell sighed.
'What work, Dr Audley?'
'I want you, Paul, to make sure I'm not followed.' There wasn't the slightest likelihood that Jake would try anything so stupid. But it would keep Mitchell occupied. 'And I want you to contact Henry Jaggard, Miss Franklin. Because I've got work for him, too.'
Mary Franklin stared at him even more intently. 'What work, Dr Audley?'
'I want him to set up a meeting with the Russians as soon as possible.' He met the stare arrogantly. 'Because I don't think we've got much time.'
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'Much time . . . before what?'
'Either before Lukianov clinches his deal. Or before the Russians get him themselves, just as they got Prusakov.
Which may be preferable. But which isn't acceptable to me.'
She breathed out slowly. 'Is this because of what Shapiro has told you?'
'Partly. But partly also because, whatever Lukianov is engaged in, I'd guess that the Russians must be close to him by now, the way they've been pulling out all the stops.
Because they've always had the inner track — he was their man before he ran ... as well as a head start after Berlin, even though they were too late with Kulik.'
'But. . . they haven't got Richardson, Dr Audley.'
'That's exactly right, Miss Franklin: Richardson will be our strength. Because he was our man once . . . That is, if you don't frighten him off now.' He nodded at her. 'If I can bring him in, then Henry Jaggard will have something to bargain with tomorrow. You tell him that: tell him to tell General Voyshinski that Dr Audley and Major Richardson have been talking together about the old days. That might spark a bit of much-needed glasnost in him.'
4
Everything depended on memory now.
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First, there were the old precautions, even though he was tolerably certain that, of all cars, Mitchell's ridiculous pride-and-joy would not be bugged for easy following as the office Rover had been. But here, in the darkness and solitude of this deep Cotswold countryside of tiny roads and rolling hills, he had the advantage, anyway: no vehicle could move in it without lights, and from each crest the undisturbed night behind reassured him.
His only fear was that he wouldn't find the place again, after so many years: here, the darkness was not his friend, forcing him to drive by the map, squinting at every signpost, noting the mileages he had memorized, and finally counting off the side-roads in the maze until he found the track on its hillside at last.
But then, quite suddenly, he was sure, against all doubt.
There were dangers out there — all the old horrors, and the negotium perambulans in tenebris — the Foul Fiend himself, if not General Lukianov. But they were far away. And this was the place. Because, in a world of untruth and half-truth, Her Majesty's Ordnance Survey maps and his own memory never lied.
Even . . . although the track was narrower than he remembered, and the hedges higher ... he was prepared for the unavoidable potholes, including the boggy stretch where the spring on the hillside above oozed out of the bank and crossed the track without the luxury of a culvert.