So not to worry, eh?" Aske checked his mirror. "Here he comes now, tucking himself nicely behind that Saab . . ."
Elizabeth fought the desire to look over her shoulder. "Who are they, Paul?"
"Ah . . . now that's the interesting question, Miss Loftus,"
said Aske. "But it can hardly be the French just watching over us, I'm afraid."
"Why not?"
"What have we done to annoy them?" Aske's shoulders lifted.
"Nothing, so far as I am aware—certainly nothing to justify this VIP treatment . . . even if our Dr Mitchell has something of a record . . . No—if they didn't like us they'd simply pick us up and boot us out, without much ceremony. That's more their style, you see."
"It could be the French, Elizabeth," said Paul.
Aske snuffled. "You're making pretty pictures, Mitchell.
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Pretty pictures to suit yourself—what they tell us never to do!"
"Pretty pictures, Mr Aske?"
"That's right." Aske nodded at the road. "To be spotted by the French—that's just bad luck . . . But to be picked up by the KGB . . ." He shook his head sadly ". . . that's both good and bad, I suppose."
Elizabeth couldn't for the life of her see how being pursued by the KGB could be good.
"Shut up, Aske!" snapped Paul.
"She has a right to know, old boy. It's bad, Miss Loftus, because it means our security is bad—or because theirs is too damn good, alternatively . . . But it's also good, because it means that we've got the swine worried enough to take all this trouble—which means that Audley knows what he's doing, however odd it may seem to us." He turned to Paul.
"So do tell us what happened next in 1812, Dr Mitchell—do tell us more about the old Vengeful and All That—"
XII
THE WEIGHT OF scholarship surrounding them in the ante-room to Professor Louis Belperron's study was at once reassuring and oppressive: the room was high-ceilinged, almost a square box, and every inch of it not taken by its two doors and single window consisted of shelving crammed with dummy3
old books. And from these, in the absence of the slightest breath of fresh air, there emanated a dry smell of old paper, ancient leather and glue, and of the dust of ages which had gathered on that combination.
"Well, if Professor Belperron doesn't know about Colonel Suchet, then no one does," concluded Paul from his reconnaissance of the shelves.
Elizabeth stared out of the window, down into the bustling avenue below. The contrast of that bustle, after their dodge'em car drive through the maelstrom of the peripheral motorway, and their final rush from the car into this old apartment building, with this sudden peace and quiet . . .
that contrast ought, she felt, to be calming, but somehow it wasn't—it was more like the uncalm stillness of an examination room before the exam.
"Can you see Aske?" asked Paul.
"No." It didn't seem likely to her that she would be able to spot Humphrey Aske in that throng, but the unlikely gave her the lie even as she spoke. "Yes."
"Where?" He craned his neck over her shoulder.
"Down by the corner of that side-street." Perhaps it was because, in all that movement, that one slender figure was unmoving at the apex of a corner-shop window—unmoving except for his head, as he switched his attention through the points of the compass.
"Well, at least he's keeping his wits about him," said Paul dummy3
ungraciously, turning away again.
Aske completed his survey, but instead of crossing towards the entrance into the building he then walked quickly a few yards up the street, to disappear under the awning of a cafe.
"He seems to do his job rather well," said Elizabeth.
"Adequately, yes." Paul was studying the shelves again.
"Even though you're horrible to him."
"Hmmm . . ." He seemed more interested in the books. "I cannot bring myself to love Mr Aske, certainly ... or trust him either, come to that." He lifted a volume out carefully, and blew the dust from it. "And the prospect of travelling with him to Alsace, which could have been a pleasure . . . that frankly appals me, Elizabeth. And not least because he brings out the worst in me . . ." He opened the book. "Which I would prefer you not to see."
This, Elizabeth realised suddenly, was the first time they had been completely alone since last night—since last night a thousand years ago. And Aske hadn't reappeared yet.
"You mean . . . going to Alsace with me ... you wouldn't have minded that?"
"Yes." He closed the book, put it back, and selected another, not looking at her. "I'd enjoy showing you the Lautenbourg.
And I'd show you the battlefield at Le Linge, that's fascinating . . . And we could come back via Verdun, and the ossuary at Douaumont, and the woods at Mort Homme . . .
and then I'd show you the Somme, and the canal at dummy3
Bellenglise, where my grandfather was killed in 1918, with the glorious 46th Division—he commanded his battalion that day, September 29th . . . and Vimy Ridge, and Loos . . . you'd enjoy all of that, Elizabeth."
Elizabeth looked at him in a state of emotion beyond surprise, almost into shock, at the prospect of being dragged from one hideous battlefield to the next—"ossuary", if she had it right, was only one degree short of "charnel house", or
"bone-yard" even . . . But he was quite oblivious of that; rather, he was probably doing her the greatest compliment he could think of in offering to share his obsession with her—
where my grandfather was killed in 1918 even . . . and Loos, so far as she could recall, was a miserable flat landscape of ugly mining villages pock-marked with old overgrown coal-tips, which he was offering to her like some fabulous beauty spot, the Lake District combined with Salzburg.
"I'd like that very much, Paul." As she pronounced the lie, another shock hit her, crumbling her preconceptions into rubble: that it wasn't a lie—that she would willingly and happily tag along in his wake, learning why the 46th Division was so glorious, and admiring the dreariness of Loos—that if that was what turned him on, then it would damn well turn her on too. "I'd like that."
"Yes . . . well—" He pushed the second book back in its slot "—
another time, maybe . . ." He selected another book.
"Yes—" She mustn't sound too eager—not even when her instinct was to grasp that offer before it could blow away.
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"Another time, of course." But her desperation increased as she felt another time, maybe already receding into forgettable platitude.
He looked up from his book. "But when David arrives maybe we can pack Aske back home . . . David is a different kettle of fish—he's even trickier, but he's family, in a way." He grinned at her, half shyly. "And. . . with David we wouldn't have to—"
he caught the next word before it could escape as one of the doors rattled and opened.
Aske's head came through the opening, followed by Aske himself. "Pooh!" He sniffed the air critically.
Now she'd never know what we wouldn't have to . . . what?
thought Elizabeth, swearing silent words she'd never spoken aloud. Explain? Worry about? Pretend? Sleep in separate rooms? It wasn't fair to blame Aske, but the not-knowing was painful.
"Where the hell have you been?" snapped Paul, as though he too had left out some unspoken oaths.
"I'm not late—it isn't eleven yet," protested Aske, looking from one to the other of them. "And, anyway . . . apart from tucking the car out of sight . . . I've been looking around, just in case. Watching your back, in fact."