"Just damned bad luck, that's how, Elizabeth." His pleasure turned instantly to Chipperfield—identifying regret. "The dummy3
cart broke down at Coucy, and they tried to repair it with what they could scrounge. But while they were working on it there was an accident of some kind . . . Tom Chard's a bit vague about what actually happened, but it looks as though something gave way, and Chipperfield was crushed underneath . . ." he trailed off for a moment ". . . not killed, but very badly injured. Fatally injured, as it turned out . . .
which is ... rather sad, when you think about it."
He was no longer looking at her, but just staring into space as though he could see pictures inside his head.
And that, thought Elizabeth, was what he was seeing: rather sad concealed the same insight which had informed his account of the last efforts of the British and German soldiers locked in mud and exhaustion on the muddy slopes above the Aisne—he had been there with them in their embryonic trenches, just as he was there now, dying by inches under the cart at Coucy-le-Château.
All those years ago, and long forgotten, it had been first relegated to one old man's memories, and to a few pages in a commonplace book which had become an old lady's family heirloom until Father's letter in The Times had re-animated it. But once it had been a Great Adventure until rather sad—
she could almost love Paul for that understatement of the unendurable truth it concealed: that this almost anonymous third lieutenant of the Vengeful had brought his comrades so far, in safety against all the odds, with pursuit long out-distanced, only to die slowly and painfully by cruel accident dummy3
almost within sight of home.
"So what did Chard actually say, then?" Aske was quite oblivious to rather sad.
"Oh ... he was still angry after all those years about the cart breaking down that second time." Paul snapped himself back to reality. "He said, if they'd used seasoned ash instead of green elm it would have been okay, and Abraham Timms said that in his country there'd have been plenty of hickory-wood for the taking, which would have been even better—
that was what Chard thought was interesting, because that was what he remembered all those years after." He looked at Elizabeth, seeing her again. "Which was all quite meaningless until your father saw it, and after 'fire-weed', hickory was the clincher—and our experts zeroed in on it too . . . because hickory is the American equivalent for ash
—' Carya ovata, or Carya cordiformis, which is frequently confused with walnut, was rare in Europe in the early nineteenth century, but common in North America, from New York State to Florida'." He smiled lop-sidedly at her.
"When you spend most of your time interpreting security tip-offs and Russian tit-bits a query about the origin of hickory-wood is like a breath of fresh air... But that's where your father picked up his final American clue—and why he went off at half-cock, following Abraham Timms for so long, instead of Colonel Suchet . . . not that Timms isn't a fascinating character, as I said."
"What's so fascinating about him?" inquired Aske.
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Paul shook his head. "He doesn't really matter. It's Suchet who matters ... all that matters about Timms—and Tom Chard—is that they had to bodge up the cart with inferior material, and it broke again while Chipperfield was underneath. And that was still bugging Tom Chard twenty-five years after—I think he felt that somehow he'd been responsible for his officer's death. He was a good man, was Tom Chard."
"But not quite good enough," murmured Aske, reaching down towards the dashboard. “Let's have some music."
Elizabeth had just started to think but what happened next?
Because if Tom Chard came safe home, what happened to—
and then a sudden burst of pop music drowned her thoughts.
"For God's sake, man—" Mitchell leaned forward towards the radio.
"No!" Aske restrained him. "Leave it on, Mitchell—not quite good enough—and we're not quite good enough either, it seems, old boy. Because we've got a tail."
"What—"
"Don't turn round! Yes ... I think the great Dr Audley may have been careless somewhere along the line."
"What do you mean, Mr Aske?" asked Elizabeth.
"I mean, Miss Loftus, that we're being followed," said Aske calmly. "And don't you look round, either—and don't shout—
I can see behind us perfectly well, and I can hear you well enough . . . The music's just in case they've got us bugged as dummy3
well as bracketed . . . and there is still just a chance, with that and all the rigmarole I've been through, that they may not be quite sure I'm on to them—just a chance." He looked at Paul.
"Well, Mitchell? What is your pleasure, then?"
Paul thought for a moment. "What sort of a tail?"
"Ah . . . now as to origin, I cannot tell you, except that it is undoubtedly professional, as one would expect—never right behind us, in clear view . . . But as to content, that's easier, because they had to turn off after passing us when I stopped, and pick us up again when we continued . . . and then one had to overtake us—he's in front now—just to make sure we hadn't switched cars, or anything tricky like that." He paused, and then half-turned towards Elizabeth. "I had this feeling, you see, Miss Loftus, not long after we left Laon . . .
this pricking in the back of the neck . . . that we were not altogether alone. But I couldn't be sure, not until now."
"What sort of tail?" repeated Paul. "What vehicles?"
"One Renault 20 saloon, blue, with driver and passenger.
And one unmarked Citroen van, grey, with driver only.
Though what's behind the driver—what wealth of ingenious gadgetry—I also cannot tell, of course . . . Hence the disgusting French equivalent of the Top of the Pops, Miss Loftus—just in case."
Paul leaned closer to Elizabeth. "He means we could be bugged— with a voice pick-up as well as a directional indicator . . . Damn!" He turned back to Aske. "Didn't you check out the bloody car?"
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Aske sighed. "Don't be silly, old boy. If these are pros I could strip it down, and still not find anything—you know that."
"Damn!" murmured Paul. "Damn, damn, damn!"
"I admit I maybe didn't take things quite seriously enough,"
conceded Aske. ''But then we haven't been doing anything terribly serious, have we?"
"Damn!" said Paul again.
"Don't fret, old boy. This is what I'm here for—to keep you safe and sound. So long as they don't try anything crude we're in no danger . . . and with all this traffic around us I can't think that they have that in mind. And I'm sure I'm a much better driver than either of them . . . There's a passenger seat-belt in the back, Miss Loftus—put it on, please . . . Just in case . . . though one should always wear one's belt, in any case, of course."
"Can you lose them?" asked Paul.
"Yes." Askc leaned forward again. "I think we'll have a leetle more background noise . . . Yes . . . But not here."
"Where then?"
"Oh, Paris is the place. Lots of nice fast traffic, lots of different lanes . . . They have us boxed in, so I shall lose them on the périphérique—the one in front at the Saint Ouen intersection, or at Clignancourt. . . and then I'll get the one behind into the wrong lane just before Clichy, and I'll slip out there. We'll need a little luck, but not a lot."
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Elizabeth began to feel almost reassured.
"I can only give you a few minutes, though," went on Aske smoothly. "Because if they know their business—if there's a directional bug on this car, which I assume there is—they'll be on to us again quick enough . . . and if they've got more back-up waiting for us, that could be awkward . . . You can never be absolutely sure of losing a well-organised tail—I know, because I've outsmarted my Bulgarian friends more than once . . . But I can put you down round a corner near the Avenue de Wagram, and then I can ditch the car further on ...