this side . . . and that's a reasonable assumption by now . . .
then the evidence starts to pile up."
She wanted to say What evidence? again, but instinct ruled against it.
"Contemporaneity, Elizabeth—that's the first piece: unconnected things which happen at the same time, and then influence each other. Your father died . . . and Lippy died
—and they were both old men, so that wasn't out of the ordinary . . . And Ray Tuck was in trouble, and Danny Kahn was greedy—that's nothing special, either. But all those were their contemporaneous events, not ours, do you see?"
Instinct still silenced her.
"Your Vengeful, let's say . . . But there was also our Vengeful
—or what David Audley made of our 'Vengeful'—really their
'Project Vengeful', which I'm inclined to think now has nothing to do with yours, Elizabeth. Nothing whatsoever."
Instinct snapped. "But, Paul, if—"
"He made a mistake—" he overrode her "—or, not quite a mistake ... He wanted this job for himself so badly ... or he didn't want someone else to get it ... that he used your Vengeful to get it." The silhouette nodded at her again. "And maybe it was that someone else who put out the word that the great David Audley was at work—" shrug"—or maybe I'm doing him an injustice . . . maybe the Russians spotted me sniffing about—that's probably more like it. Because if I've added up two and two correctly I'm the one who hasn't been dummy3
so clever. And that's what worries me, Elizabeth dear—if this is going wrong, then I'm to blame too. And I've got enough on my conscience already . . . like, sometimes I feel too much like the Angel of Death flying over the battlefield—"
" Paul!" His voice had become too elaborately casual for conviction when she could sense the mixture of fear and guilt emanating from him. "If what you say is true—what about that Russian who was watching me?"
"Novikov?" The voice cracked. "Elizabeth—Novikov is the best bit of evidence of all! Novikov is a pro—a top-flight pro!"
"Yes? So what, Paul? You spotted him—"
"I spotted him? Damn it, Elizabeth—even you spotted him!
Doesn't that tell you anything? Christ! Do you remember when that little bugger Aske said 'No one follows me when I don't want him to', or something like? Do you think anyone spots Aske on his tail when he doesn't want him to?" Paul momentarily lost his cool. "Christ, Elizabeth! Novikov's ten times the man Aske will ever be—if he didn't want to be seen, neither of us would have seen him, don't you understand?"
This time it was the mixture of his anger and his self-contempt which silenced her.
"He followed me, Elizabeth—and I didn't see him, because he's better than me. But then he let me see him—and from that moment the old Vengeful was afloat again, with a vengeance—can you at least understand that? David Audley may have baited the hook himself, but it was Novikov who dummy3
made the sinker bob up and down—and we all swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. And now it's stuck in my throat, and I can't bloody well dislodge it—that's what I'm saying!"
She could see most of it at last; part of it darkly, or indistinctly, because it was out of her experience; but she could see the loom of it through the half-light and the mist, like some great three-decker bearing down on her with its gun-ports open and its guns run out and double-shotted, ready to blow her out of the water with one broadside.
"But. . . But haven't you told David Audley all this, Paul?"
"Oh . . . I've told him, Elizabeth—I've told him!" He paused.
"I told him last night, when I was guessing—remember?—
and he told me to obey orders—remember?" Another pause.
"And I told him tonight, too . . . And he pulled rank on me—
he told me to do my fff ing duty—and David only swears like that when he intends to, when he doesn't want any argument, and there isn't going to be any argument. . . But what I ought to be doing is pulling you out of here tonight, and running like hell for safety—that's what I ought to be doing! Because there's been something wrong with this operation from the start. And I don't like it."
His vehemence frightened her into silence.
"Because if I'm right the Russians will be doing something pretty soon—something to make us believe we're on the right track, to confirm what Novikov did—anything to keep us from looking in the right direction . . . That's why you must keep your door locked, Elizabeth—do you see?"
dummy3
Now she wasn't merely warm, with that delicate trickle at her throat: she was clammy with his fear, which was more infectious than his unhappiness.
"Have you told this to Humphrey Aske, Paul?"
He drew in a breath. "I haven't told him that I think David Audley's making a fool of himself—and us ... if that's what you mean. But I've put him on second watch, keeping an eye on your door and mine from three-thirty onwards. And it's
'Stand-to' for both of us at seven—" his voice rearranged itself as he spoke, as though he had belatedly realised the effect he was having on her "—don't worry, dear—we'll watch over you between us. You can sleep soundly tonight."
That was one thing she wouldn't be doing. But now everything was unreal, and the prospect of what sleep might bring was as scary as not-sleeping.
"I'll go, then." The silhouette moved from the frame of the window into darkness.
"No!" The thought of being alone panicked her.
"You'll be quite safe. We'll be watching—I told you."
"No." She could see the outline of him clearly, dark against almost-dark, at the end of the bed. "Don't go."
Silence.
"Very well. I'll stay here . . . there's a chair here somewhere
—" the darker outline moved as he felt around blindly "—you go to sleep, Elizabeth."
dummy3
"No—I didn't mean that—" But what did she mean? And if he did stay she would snore, and he would hear her snore "—I mean . . . couldn't you be wrong, Paul?" But that wasn't what she meant, either: the truth was that she didn't know what she meant. "I mean . . . David Audley said there wouldn't be any danger—that we would be safe over here, in France—?"
"Yes." He bumped the end of the bed, and the tremor ran through her. "Yes, he said that, Elizabeth."
She simply didn't want him to go, that was it: she was lonely, more than afraid, and she didn't want to be alone, as she had always been. That was it.
"So you could be wrong." She didn't want him to go, and she didn't want him to sit down in the darkness in the corner of the room, and she didn't want him to stand up like Death at the end of her bed.
"Yes, I could be wrong." He sounded far away. "I've been wrong before—yes ..."
He had been wrong before—but that wasn't what he meant now, his voice said.
"I was wrong once before, Elizabeth." Just in time he saved her from saying something pointless. "There was this girl I knew— woman, rather . . . colleague, rather—Frances was her name, and she was damn good ... in fact, she was better than Novikov and Aske and me rolled into one—she was good . . . and pretty as a picture with it, and I adored her, Elizabeth."