'But you'll be in the clear there, too. He "surprised an intruder" . . . going through the files in his office. Only I'll bet there aren't any files on all this, because you'd only just started, hadn't you? And our chaps will not want to make a fuss about us, I shouldn't think . . . And I expect he was into a lot of other things, in any case. So, although they'll maybe want to talk to you, I doubt whether they'll ask any difficult questions. In fact, I guarantee they won't.' He gave her a dummy2
dreadful reassuring smile.
All my own work! She looked down at the old-and-new battlefield for a moment, suddenly aghast. 'But why — ?'
'But what?' He was waiting for her as she turned back to him.
'You don't need to feel too guilty, Miss Fielding. You have to earn your living, and this time you were trying to settle an old score — weren't you? And who can resist business and pleasure?' He pointed again. ' He bloody-well couldn't, anyway — not even when he knew the risk ... In fact, we're all in your debt for him — even though he wasn't the one you wanted.' He looked away suddenly. 'But I can't stay here philosophizing about guilt — David!'
'No — ' She couldn't let him go ' — why — why — did he come after us? You must tell me, Dr Mitchell — you must!'
'No I mustn't — David!' He didn't even look at her. That answer's more than my job's worth. If you want to know, then you ask old David — he's the one you came to ask, isn't he? David— '
Audley loomed large. But where was Ian?
'My dear Paul!' Audley looked at her vaguely for an instant.
'You were right . . . but only just, by heaven! So . . . don't you ever do that to me again.' He focused on Jenny. 'I sent Mr Robinson to reassure my wife, Miss Fielding. And to make his peace with my daughter. He seemed . . . rather cut up about deceiving her — I don't quite know why, but he did.'
That sounded more like the old Ian, she thought. But dummy2
then . . . what had they talked about, these last out-of-time minutes — ?
'I'm sorry, David.' Mitchell shrugged insincerely. 'Being right never seems to do me any good . . . But I must go and make our peace with Aguirre now. And then I'll come back and put you fully in the picture — okay?'
'Yes — you do that.' Audley still stared at Jenny. Tell him that I'm booked into the Parador near Victoria tomorrow night.
Because I want Cathy to see the battlefield there. And then we'll be gone the day after that — Hotel des Basses Pyrenees in Bayonne, which is safely out of his jurisdiction. I want her to see the Vauban fortifications there.'
Mitchell's mouth twisted. 'I'll tell him that. But . . . you tell Miss Fielding — whom Mr Buller always calls "The Lady" ...
or sometimes "That Lady" ... or sometimes just "Lady" . . .
whatever you want to tell her, David. She's full of questions.'
'Yes?' Audley didn't even watch Mitchell tread through the crocuses, as she did: he still seemed fascinated by her. But, although when she faced him she couldn't read his expression or his thoughts, she had the disconcerting feeling that he had been reading hers. 'He gave you a bad time, did he?'
'Not really.' More than ever he reminded her of Philly: Philly, not really in face or size, or even voice, but nonetheless indefinably Philly. So now she must really beware him. 'His rifle didn't shoot straight, Dr Audley. That may have put him in a bad mood.'
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'I doubt that.' He regarded her steadily. 'Paul usually hits what he's aiming at. He has a natural talent that way. But he just doesn't like squeezing the trigger.'
'That's not what I've heard. But it's early days yet. So I suppose I could be wrong.' Philly, defending one of his friends, would have said exactly that.
'You could be. And you are.' He gave her a little sad smile. 'It was the mention of Frances that unsettled him. It always does. And I'm afraid it always will.'
'He loved her — didn't he?'
'Oh yes.' The smile twisted. 'But that's not his problem, my dear. His problem is that he knows she didn't love him.
And . . . but we're not really discussing Frances Fitzgibbon, are we?' The sad smile faded. 'It's vengeance we're discussing
— and publication?'
He couldn't have had more than five minutes with Ian — or had time tricked her? But even only five minutes would have been enough for the new Ian to put his question. And if Audley had demanded a price for the answering then the new Ian would have paid at once, without a second thought, even though he believed he already knew the answer to it.
'You've been talking to my partner, Dr Audley.'
He nodded. 'I have had that opportunity — yes.' He stared at her in silence for a moment. 'And I must tell you that he no longer seems so keen on writing about me, Miss Fielding.'
Surprise, surprise! But . . . there were plenty more fish in the dummy2
sea, even if it would be hard to find one that swam so gracefully as Ian. 'I hope he didn't suggest that he was speaking for me?' It was the original Philly she must remember, not this equivocal copy.
'On the contrary. He made it abundantly plain that he was not speaking for you, Miss Fielding. And ... he explained your commitment.' Suddenly he looked away from her for an instant, down into the valley. But then came back to her.
'But, for his part . . . perhaps he remembers that old Chinese proverb about revenge?'
Jenny didn't look into the valley. If he thought he could weaken her so easily, then he was much mistaken. 'What proverb is that?'
'"He — or, in this instance, she, of course — she who embarks on revenge should first dig two graves", Miss Fielding.' He tried the valley again. 'The way you're going, it looks as though you'll need more than two, though.'
She summoned Philly to her aid. 'There was a grave dug before we started, Dr Audley. And we — I — didn't dig that one.'
No answer this time: he simply stared at her, testing her.
'You think we're digging our graves now?'
He tried once more, this time gesturing towards the new battlefield of Salamanca. 'Don't you think so, my dear?'
Now she had him. 'I don't quite know what to think yet.
Except ... at the moment the only people I know who might dummy2
want to stop us are yourself and Dr Mitchell.'
'And that man?' He repeated the gesture. (Big, blunt-fingered hand, quite unlike Philly's: she must hold on to that dissimilarity!) 'MacManus— ?'
She could shake her head honestly. 'I don't know who sent him. So ... it could have been you, Dr Audley.' Now she really had his attention. 'To frighten us off ... if Dr Mitchell doesn't like squeezing the trigger, as you say . . . Because you do seem to have succeeded in frightening my partner. And what happened to John Tully certainly frightened me.' The thought of John Tully came to her shamefully late. But, having come, it allied John to Philly and finally hardened her heart against Audley. 'John Tully was acting under my orders, Dr Audley. So what happened to him is my responsibility, St Matthew would say.' She clenched her teeth, knowing that she had almost betrayed Philly because of a freak imagined resemblance which had knotted her up.
But now that was in the past, and she was herself again. 'And Burdett versus Abbot also cuts two ways, Dr Audley: if you think I'm going to walk away and forget John Tully, then you have the wrong woman — ' Even, in fairness, she must make it stronger than that ' — and the wrong journalist.'
He looked at her for what seemed an age. But finally he nodded. 'Well . . . suppose I told you a story, then? How would that be?'
'A story?' Careful, now. 'Fact or fiction?'
'Just a, story, Miss Fielding. An old Chinese story— ?'
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'With nothing promised on either side?'
'With nothing promised on either side — of course!'
'Then I'd listen.' Suddenly she had to play fair with him: that much, from their first sight of each other, she owed him.
'With all my "rights and duties" relating to Philip Masson and John Tully protected, Dr
Audley?'
He nodded again, and the compact was made. 'There was this problem in this Intelligence department, nine years ago —
nine years, give or take a few months, either way-'
'Research and Development — '
' This department — ' He cut her off sharply — ' — because its director was retiring . . . and his deputy had just dropped dead in his tracks, of over-work and a dickey heart. So the question was . . . who was going to run the show?'
The compact had been made, so all she had to do was to nod.
'It was an important job. Because, whoever got it, it opened up a lot of secret — very secret — ultra secret files to him —
okay?'
Him wasn't okay. But she had to ride that, this time. So ...
another nod.
'So we had to get the best man for it — '
She didn't have to ride that. 'But there were two best men, weren't there?' And then she had to pin him down. 'Philip Masson and Jack Butler. And you wanted Jack Butler.'
He looked down on her, and his face became quite dummy2
beautifully ugly. 'It really is quite irrelevant now who wanted who, Miss Fielding. Or, anyway, quite unimportant in this context ... so please don't interrupt.' He set his jaw. 'There was of course the usual manoeuvring and lobbying and fixing that one expects on such occasions — ' Then his face broke up almost comically ' — actually, Fred and I both wanted Jack. And we underestimated the opposition, too. And perhaps that isn't irrelevant, I agree! Because they started testing poor old Jack, to see how he'd measure up. And neither Fred nor I expected that.' He paused. 'And then, so it seemed, Jack nearly got killed on the job — twice in the same week . . . And the second time was within a hair's breadth, so we thought.'
'But it was the other candidate who died, Dr Audley — '
He stared her down — just as Philly had used to do. 'That was an accident, we supposed. And it wasn't our business to inquire into it: that was a police job first, and then Special Branch, with MI5 in reserve.' He drew a breath. 'And they didn't find one thing out of place — anymore than we did, later on.' He let the breath out with the words. 'Everybody did his job properly, believe me.' Finally he nodded.
'Whoever did it was a real pro. And, as Paddy MacManus was O'Leary's side-kick and junior partner then, maybe it was him . . . But we don't know, now . . . And then, when they'd given it a clean bill-of-health, we were quite relieved. Because it took all the heat off Jack Butler, so he got the job. And because all we were concerned with was why they were dummy2
trying to kill him, you see — do you see?'
Jenny didn't see. What she saw, in the next second, was that the little car was still burning in the valley: as always, it was amazing how long a collection of bits of metal burned, once they took fire. 'Why — ?'
He shook his head at her. 'This isn't the Middle East, Miss Fielding: we don't go round killing their chaps. And they don't go round killing ours — it's bad for business.' His lip curled. 'You journalists steal stories from each other, and that's fair enough. But if you started killing each other every time, then you'd pretty soon have a recruitment problem —
especially if the editors started knocking each other off, as well, eh?' He shook his head again. 'No . . . putting O'Leary on to Jack Butler was too heavy to ignore: we had to sit down and find out why. Because Jack's a great chap. But he's not irreplaceable — even after your godfather's "accidental"
death there were other candidates — ' The lip curled once more ' — including me even, faute de mieux . . . Except that I wasn't willing. Because I don't like the paperwork — the managing, as they say? Because I'm not a civil servant at heart: I'm a leopard who's too old to change his spots, Miss Fielding.'
Arrogant bugger! But then Philly had been pretty arrogant, too! But . . . she mustn't interrupt —
'So there had to be a reason.' He repaid her restraint by continuing. 'And we very soon came up with one. Because Jack was promoted, then he had access to a lot of highly-dummy2
restricted files. So we thought . . . once he sees those files, then he'll see something no one else has, maybe? So ... they can't afford for him to see them . . . maybe?'
He looked at her, and she realized that he wanted her to react now, to prove that she understood. 'Like . . . there was a traitor somewhere? What Mr Le Carre calls "a mole" — ?'
He shrugged. 'Yes. Or ... it could be that they'd deceived us somehow, with a piece of disinformation. They're damn good at that — feeding us with a great big pack of lies ... or feeding the Yanks, or the Frogs, or the Krauts ... or Mossad, and then they feed us . . . and we all believe it, and act accordingly — ?'
He almost grinned at her, but didn't. 'If you start off from the wrong place, then you usually end up at the source of the Nile, and you think you've made a great discovery. So you don't notice the boat they've moored on the Thames, alongside Westminster . . .' He repeated the almost-but-not-grin. 'Don't ask me, Miss Fielding. Because I won't tell you.'
But he was self-satisfied. So he had come up with an answer.
And all he wanted to do was to wrap up the question in the Official Secrets Act, so that he could shrug off his answer, in turn. So she had to get the question right. 'But . . . you had Sir Jack Butler there, beside you, after that. So . . . if he did see those files — ?'
David Audley beamed at her. 'Absolutely right, Miss Fielding: we had him there beside us — ' Then the beam dulled.
'What's the matter, Dr Audley?'
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'Nothing — ' He was uneasy for a moment. Then he was himself again. ' — your Mr Ian Robinson is talking to my wife, with your Mr Buller . . . and to my daughter. And I was merely wondering what they were saying down there — ' He jerked his head ' — in the rocks down there — ?'
Jenny remembered the pointy-eared fox, which was also somewhere down there in the rocks. But it was beyond her imagination, what they were all up to now, down there: Ian and Reg and the pointy-eared fox, never mind Audley's wife and his daughter, after Paul Mitchell's two failed shots, and then that burst of gunfire, the turret-gun's concluding broadside.
But there was no one there in the rocks. 'What did you discover, Dr Audley?'
He made another ugly face. 'It took us a long time, Miss Fielding. And Paul Mitchell worked longer than I did.' He stared at her, and then nodded. 'Because your Mr Robinson is right — O'Leary wasn't enough for him: he wanted whoever was behind what happened at Thornervaulx.' Nod.
'And so did I, come to that.' Another nod. 'But for a quite different reason.'
'A quite different — ?'
He shook his head again. 'But we didn't find anything — not even with old Jack alongside us: we didn't find a damn thing: not a happening, not a policy, not a name, not even a smell —
nothing.'
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Jenny junked Paul Mitchell with Frances Fitzgibbon: they had been, respectively, infantryman and infantry-woman who had fought and died in the front line, and of no interest to the historian's deeper truth.
'Paul worked all hours God sent — 8 A.M. to midnight. Or later, sometimes, I suspect.' Audley tested her. 'I don't know ... I went home each night. But he was always there next morning, when I came in, Miss Fielding.'
As with Reg Buller, so with David Audley. And as with Reg Buller, so with Ian Robinson too: whatever spell she cast across the years from Thornervaulx, Frances Fitzgibbon really must have been quite a woman, to ensnare them all like this, in all their different ways, thought Jenny enviously.
Except that Frances- Marilyn Fitzgibbon- Francis was dead now: so sod her!
So she waited.
'One morning, I came in ... And Paul said "There's nothing here, David; the bastards have beaten us. Or Jack can't remember anything, anyway. So, even if O'Leary hadn't been so damned incompetent and done the job properly . . . either at the University, or at Thornervaulx ... it wouldn't have made any difference. Because there's nothing here."'
Jen
ny still waited.
'And then it was easy, of course.' Audley nodded.
'Easy?' He wasn't talking about the woman now.
'O'Leary was the best — the best, Miss Fielding.' He nodded.
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'Your Paddy MacManus wasn't in the same class: he was just a pale carbon-copy of the real thing.' He cocked his head dismissively towards the dispersing column of smoke in the plain between the Greater and Lesser Arapiles. 'O'Leary might have screwed up once, if he'd had very bad luck. And he did have very bad luck, when Frances Fitzgibbon turned up out of the blue, at Thornervaulx. But he didn't have any bad luck at the University. And he must have had Jack Butler right in his sights at Thornervaulx.' He stared at her. 'What my old Latin master used to say . . . God rest his lovely soul! . . . was that "nonsense must be wrong!", Miss Fielding.'
Still, he stared. 'What if O'Leary didn't screw up? What if he did exactly what they paid him to do — to make us concentrate on Jack Butler — and not on Philip Masson?'
'And then it was easy', just as he had said: it was like the scales falling from her eyes, in the Bible story she'd once had to learn by heart, to take her O-level Religious Studies exam.
He saw that she understood. 'The irony is that dear Frances deceived us both: because of her we both had blinkers on: we couldn't think of anything except her — and Jack Butler. And we weren't getting any answer because we were asking the wrong question. But we got there at last, anyway.' Audley nodded. 'Your "Philly" was a great guy, Miss Fielding: we did him over after that, right from his birth to what we no longer believed was his accidental death. Although we still believed that he'd been drowned, of course — we never expected him to turn up again. And it took us a long time, I can tell you . . .
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Because we couldn't ask any of our questions obviously — in case we alerted the Other Side.' Nod. 'Because, either way —
if he was theirs, or if he wasn't — we didn't want to let them know that we were on to them. Because that would have given the game away.'
Jenny felt her mouth fall open.
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