The Memory Trap

Least of all me, the way things were. You've got to admire them for that.' Richardson nodded at last, almost as though he was relieved. 'But, anyway, the message was . . . that if I really wanted to know how my mother died, they were ready dummy1

to meet me.' Once he started to nod he couldn't stop. 'And then up you popped, David. Only then I didn't need to know how. What I was interested in was who . . . and why. Which of course, is what you want. So you can have what I know for free.' Now he actually almost smiled. 'It's only a spade, David. Just a spade.'

The almost-smile had also been almost-Borgia. 'A ... spade?'

'That's right.' The almost-smile was there again. 'I have the spade. You have the grave-diggers. Between us we should be able to manage a grave or two to my satisfaction, I reckon.

Eh?'

PART THREE

No Trouble

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It wasn't quite true that Paul Mitchell had eyes only for Peter Richardson when they met at last: he had one eye for Richardson but the other for his Porsche. And, having more-or-less satisfied himself about the near side, he walked slightly sideways with a curious crab-like bias, so that he could also take in the back as well, to make sure that it — Que culo d'angelo! — was also undamaged.

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'Huh!' And even now Mitchell wasn't altogether happy: he wanted to take in the other side and the front as well. 'Well, you've led us a pretty dance, David! To this godforsaken place!' But then he remembered his duty and his manners.

'Major Richardson, I presume?'

'Mr Mitchell?' Richardson was superficially much more relaxed. And, even though Mitchell wasn't even a name to him, his unfailing memory of what Audley had said the night before pinpointed the identification beyond doubt. 'It is a pleasant car to drive. But you should try a Ferrari. Or a Lamborghini, Mr Mitchell.'

'Oh yes?' Mitchell had decided to dislike Richardson on first sight even more than in absentia. 'It's "Dr Mitchell" actually, since we're into meaningless titles, Major.'

'Oh yes?' The wet wind ruffled Richardson's hair as he looked away, pretending to study the glorious wreck of Tintern Abbey across the road. 'Not a Doctor of Divinity, evidently.'

He nodded towards the ruins. 'Only godforsaken in godforsaking times, perhaps?' But then he couldn't resist looking directly at Mary Franklin beyond Mitchell's shoulder.

'Franklin, Major Richardson.' Mary Franklin wasn't impressed either. But she let Richardson take her hand nevertheless.

'Miss Franklin.' Richardson shook her hand like an Englishman, and then noted the absence of rings on its fingers, like an Italian. 'You are another of my successors in Research and Development, I take it?'

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'No, Major Richardson.' She studied the man coolly. 'But don't let it worry you.'

'I am not worried, Miss Franklin. I have nothing to be worried about — at least, not in England.' He glanced at the abbey ruins again. 'Or, is this Wales — on this side of the river?'

'Except illegal entry.'

'Travelling on a false passport.' Mitchell supplemented the charge.

'You might find that hard to prove, Mr Mitchell — Dr Mitchell . . . Miss Franklin.' Richardson studied them in turn.

'But does it matter, now that I'm on your team again? And by ... invitation, shall we call it?' He settled on Mitchell. 'It was you that David here phoned last night, wasn't it, Dr Mitchell? To give you your orders? Oughtn't you to be reporting to him now — rather than wasting time with me?'

Mitchell breathed in deeply. But then controlled himself.

'David —'

The rasp in Mitchell's voice had sounded too much like steel leaving its scabbard. 'All right, Paul.' But Audley knew he had to make allowances for what must have been a long night.

'Major Richardson will be with us, for the time being.'

'He still needs me, is what Dr Audley means.' Richardson had evidently recognized the sound too, but was making no such allowance. 'So you must make the best of it... for the time being. After that . . . we'll see, eh?'

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'Yes.' Mary Franklin took centre-stage diplomatically before Mitchell could accept that challenge. 'But, in that case, Major, why are we meeting here, and not in London? Is this

"the best of it"?'

'Good question, Miss Franklin. The best — and perhaps the worst.' The wind ruffled Richardson's hair again. 'This is fine country — the borders, the Welsh marches. My country, it used to be, I thought ... I used to come this way, up from the south, where my regiment was stationed after I left Sir Frederick Clinton's service — your service, Miss Franklin?

No?' He shook his head. 'Never mind! I used to come this way to visit friends at Pen-y-ffin up the road, en route to Hereford, when I was cultivating old SAS friends there, to get a transfer to them — ' he cocked his head at her this time ' —

SAS headquarters being at Hereford, you know? And all this being one of their stamping grounds, where the English and the Welsh used to raid each other in the olden times —

The mountain sheep are sweeter,

But the valley sheep are fatter;

We therefore deemed it meeter

To carry off the latter.

Do you know the poem, Miss Franklin? It gets very bloodthirsty after that. Did you bring General Lukianov's dummy1

picture with you, like Dr Audley asked?'

'Yes.' But she didn't move. 'What's he got to do with it?'

'This could be his country too. But I won't know for sure until I see his picture.' Richardson put out his hand. 'Please — ?'

She took a stiffened envelope from her shoulder-bag. 'This is a recent photograph, Major.'

'Of course.' The wind fluttered the photograph as he slid it out. 'I'll make the same allowances as I do for myself, when I look in the mirror.'

They all waited.

'Handsome fellow.' Richardson smoothed the print, holding it with both hands against its envelope. Typical Spetsnaz.'

'Yes?' Mary Franklin exchanged a glance with Mitchell.

'Yes. Anglo-Saxon type ... or, presumably, Scandinavian or Germanic, from the north-west. Could be one of ours, from much the same stock, way back ... the same as I can pass for a foreigner, coming home.' He held Lukianov at arm's length.

'Yes ... a much-favoured type for missions in the west, eh David?' He offered the picture to Audley. 'You've seen this?'

'Do you remember him, Major?' Mary intercepted the picture.

'No. But, then, I didn't expect to.' Richardson let go of it. 'It doesn't change anything.'

Mitchell sniffed. 'I didn't know you were a Spetsnaz expert.'

'No?' Richardson enjoyed Mitchell's not-knowing. 'Not in my dummy1

file, eh?'

'Not in your file, no.' But Mitchell had recovered his poise.

'Are you?'

'Not really. But I did do a bit of private study on them while I still had clearance — in the Barnet House records, as well as our own — like David's profile of General Kharchenko, from the late sixties . . .' Richardson smiled suddenly. 'It was when I started to plan for my SAS-transfer later on, Spetsnaz and the SAS being mirror-image organizations, in some respects

— ' The smile became lop-sided ' — except they are about a hundred-times bigger . . . But Kharchenko was a great SAS-admirer — ask David.' Then the smile vanished again. 'I just thought if I had a bit of inside-knowledge about them —

Spetsnaz ... it might have increased my suitability, that's all, Dr Mitchell. Because I was a bit long-in-the-tooth for a transfer, maybe. But I didn't much fancy regimental duty —

Salisbury Plain, Ireland, Germany . . . Salisbury Plain, Germany, Ireland. My time with Research and Development had spoilt my taste for playing that sort of soldier, what was left of it originally. Okay?' He took in Mitchell and Mary Franklin together again. 'Does that answer your question?'