'No — he wasn't on their side, my dear.' Audley reassured her quickly. 'Your "Philly" was absolutely on ours, you have no need to worry.'
She wasn't worrying; it was insulting even to suggest that.
They simply didn't want him to see one of our most secret files — that's all, Miss Fielding.' He accepted her silence gently. 'And it took three of us — Mitchell and me, and someone I cordially detest — four months to find that file: three of us, and four months of hard labour ... So that I know all about you, and your father as well as Philip Masson — all about the Korean War, and how he won his Military Cross ...
I know all about that. . . And about his career, after that. And his hobbies — and his girl-friends . . . and the girls he took on that boat of his — the Jenny III was it? ... And when he took you for a holiday in France, that time — in that cottage in the Dordogne — ?' The next nod was expressionless. 'Because your father was worried about that: because you were only fifteen years old, and he thought his old friend might just fancy you — ? And his tax returns — everything, Miss Fielding.'
Jenny felt the sun burning her head, but a dreadful chill far dummy2
below, where it hurt. 'That's ridiculous — '
His mouth twisted again. 'That's what we thought at the time, Miss Fielding.'
God! They hadn't quite got it right, even though they were clever — and even though Daddy had appeared then, out of the blue! Because it had been her — almost-sixteen-year-old-Jenny — who had had hot-pants for him, without knowing how to take desire further, when he'd discouraged her —
God!
But she didn't even want to think about that now. 'Who killed him, Dr Audley?' She felt empty as she rammed the question at him. 'Who killed him?'
He relaxed. 'Oh, come on, Miss Fielding! You know I can't answer that!'
He was also like Mitchell: of course he was like Mitchell!
But . . . she would never have a better chance than now.
'Then I'll have to work harder, Dr Audley — to find out for myself. With or without Ian. And it may not be such a good book without him. But there are other writers who'll work for me.'
'Whatever the risk?'
She shrugged. 'Maybe I'll write it myself.' She put on her obstinate face. 'Someone had him killed. And I'm going to ruin the bastard — whoever he is.'
He nodded. 'You really did love him.' The nod continued.
'And not just like a good god-daughter, of course!' The dummy2
nodding stopped. 'Well, then I shall have to tell you the rest of the story, Miss Fielding.'
He was too sure of himself for comfort. 'I'm listening, Dr Audley.'
He stared at her in silence for a moment. 'It hasn't occurred to you that your revenge has already been accomplished?'
Somewhere in the stillness of the valley an engine started up.
Jenny was drawn towards the sound: the armoured personnel vehicle with the little turret-gun had started up; nearer to them, at the foot of the plateau in the gap in the fence beside the track, Paul Mitchell was in earnest conversation with one of the Spanish civilians; and the shapeless wreck of the little 2-CV was smoking now, rather than burning.
She felt quite empty. He hadn't mentioned a country, let alone a name. And of course he never would. And it didn't have to be a Russian name, or any one of half a dozen of their East European surrogates. Or it could be an Arab name. Or even an Israeli name. Or it could just conceivably be some clean-cut, crew-cut American. Or, as an ultimate possibility, a Savile-Row-suited Englishman.
'Are you saying that he's dead, Dr Audley?'
'No, Miss Fielding. That's a lie I'm not prepared to tell you.
Because we're not into that sort of vengeance: it's not what we're hired for.'
She remembered what Reg Buller had said. 'You don't do dummy2
wicked things like that — ?'
A curious expression passed across his face. 'No, Miss Fielding. We don't do wicked things like that. Killing is too simple for us: we want more than that. Killing wouldn't give us our proper satisfaction.'
'More?' She couldn't read his face at all. 'Proper — ?'
'Oh yes. When you've been deceived — as we were deceived . . . and for a long time before Philip Masson was killed — the trick is to continue the deception. But you turn it round the other way.' He smiled with his lips. 'It's like, if you find a traitor in the ranks, there's no point in arresting him.
He'll only get a successor — probably someone you don't know. So you leave him where he is.' The not-smile widened.
'Ideally, of course, you turn him around — that's what Masterman did during the war, with his Germans . . . But that's very risky these days, when a man can be ideologically bent ... So you leave him. Or you promote him, even: you make him even more successful, even more valuable to them . . . But this wasn't quite like that — ' He raised his hand. ' — no, Miss Fielding! That's as far as I can go there. So don't ask.' The not-smile became even uglier. 'Our first problem was to make them think that we were still deceived, back in '78 — or '79, as it soon was ... So we put out rumours that the wicked Dr Audley had maybe had your godfather pushed off his little boat, suitably weighted. And had then stifled any sort of investigation by pretending to investigate the matter himself.' He nodded. 'All to ensure Jack Butler's dummy2
promotion, of course . . . And you, of course, duly came upon those rumours . . . nicely matured by the years?'
She nodded. But the devil in the back of her brain leered at her. 'But I mustn't believe them now — is that it? Because I must believe you now?'
'You must believe what convinces you, Miss Fielding.' His mouth set hard.
She had cut deep, justly or not. 'I believe that Philly — that my godfather was murdered nine years ago, Dr Audley. And I also believe that John Tully is dead. And I need a much better answer to John Tully.'
'Ah . . . that's fair enough.' He agreed readily, almost like a judge taking an objection. 'As to poor Mr Tully, I can't answer you with any certainty — I can only hazard a guess there, Miss Fielding.'
'A guess?' The devil shook his head warningly.
'Yes ... I think maybe we've not been as clever ... or as clever for as long ... as we thought, perhaps.' He made a face.
'Nothing lasts forever. And . . . we've been running our Masson deception for a long time, now.' One huge shoulder lifted philosophically. 'They may have tumbled to it . . .Or, they may suspect, honestly I don't know. But I rather fear I'll be working on that when I get back to London — while my dear wife and daughter are spending my money in Paris — ?'
The great once-upon-a-time rugger-playing shoulder rose again. 'Did they teach you seventeenth-century poetry at dummy2
Roedean, Miss Fielding?'
'Poetry — ?' The man was dangerous.
'No! It was biology, wasn't it!' Audley grinned. 'I remember ...
No — there was this seventeenth-century poet, writing his love-poem to chat this girl up — Andrew Marvell, it was . . .
And he said, when you can't delay things, then you ought to hurry them up: " Thus, though we cannot make our sun stand still . . . yet we will make him run" — or something like that — ?' He blinked disarmingly. 'It could be that they want to make a dirty great big scandal of it now, with questions in the House of Commons — ? Because we're not going to reveal what we've been doing — never in a month of Sundays! So ...
your Mr Tully was a paid-up member of the National Union of Journalists. And you can kill soldiers, or you can kill
"innocent bystanders" . . . But when you start to kill journalists — paid-up NUJ freelances, no less! That really puts the cat among the pigeons, Miss Fielding.' He raised an eyebrow. 'And your Ian would have been worse than Tully.
Because he's well-liked ... So "Heads, we don't win — tails we lose"?: the media will love another Intelligence scandal too, after Peter Wright and Spy-catcher. And the other side's disinformation-people know just how to feed in a tit-bit or two of genuine scandal. Plus our ori
ginal rumours, too. And, of course, the word will be out that Jennifer Fielding is preparing a shock-horror revelation — right? But not Ian Robinson — ?'
He was playing dirty. So she could play the same game.
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'Whereas in fact you were very clever? Is that what I'm supposed to say?'
He looked down at her, almost proudly. 'Not very clever, Miss Fielding. But we did take your revenge for you even if we didn't kill him. Because we made a fool of him for a few years. And when his masters found out about that — which they've either just done ... or maybe it was a year or two back . . . then he would have gone down a very long snake on the board, I rather think.' He shrugged. 'We can never do what we'd like to do. We have to settle for what we want. So our satisfaction is usually somewhat muted, you see. But we have assuredly ruined him, you can depend on that. And maybe worse.'
She saw. 'And I must believe all this — ?'
'You must believe what suits you. Or ... you can ask Mr Robinson what he believes, if you prefer?'
Jenny thought of Ian suddenly. 'Ian asked you a question, didn't he? About Mrs Fitzgibbon, was it — ?'
'Yes.' She was rewarded with another of his odd faces. 'I must say that you did very well there: I'm surprised — and a little disturbed — that you got so close to her, after all this time.
Because you wouldn't have got it from Paul ... of that, I'm sure.' He frowned. 'But . . . you're certainly in the right job, anyway.'
He was flattering the wrong partner, thought Jenny grimly.
'What was the question?'
dummy2
'The question?' He frowned again. 'Don't you — ' A slight sound, as of a stone dislodged somewhere behind her, cut him off. 'Ah! I think that's my wife coming — '
'What was the question, Dr Audley?'
Audley looked at her. 'He wanted to know who Frances Fitzgibbon shouted at, that day at Thornervaulx: whether it was at the man O'Leary, or at Paul Mitchell, Miss Fielding.'
'At — ?' The scene Reg Buller had described suddenly came back to her, and with all the more vividness for its contrast, here on the top of the Greater Arapile: not fierce Spanish sunlight, in the midst of a brown rocky wilderness only softened by autumn crocuses, but the pouring rain, and the sodden grass and fallen leaves, and the great grey ruins of Thornervaulx Abbey.
'Yes.' He misread her expression. 'He knew the answer, of course. But it was still a good question. With a rare answer.'
The two places had nothing in common.
'When she saw O'Leary at Thornervaulx that day, she must have thought he was going to kill one of them — Paul, or Jack Butler. . .And Jack Butler for choice, maybe. But, of course, we don't exactly know what she thought. Because she died in Paul's arms, without saying anything.'
Or, maybe, there was something: there was violent death —
here, today and long ago, and at Thornervaulx, nine years ago, on a wet November afternoon.
'But, even though she didn't have a gun, she was safe enough, dummy2
anyway — '
Philly was the link — Philly and Audley —
'Only, if she shouted at Paul, that would have alerted him too late — either for himself, or for Jack Butler. Because O'Leary had a clear view of them both, by then — '
Mrs David Audley was tall and blonde, and a lot younger than her husband: obviously, she liked older men too, even though she was smiling at Ian as he helped her up across the rocks from below —
'So she shouted at O'Leary, Miss Fielding. And she must have known that he'd think she had a gun.' Audley glanced towards his wife for a second, to make sure she was far enough away. 'I didn't actually see it happen. But I saw something like it happen in the war, once . . . It's not a thing you forget: one human being dying for another, in cold blood.' He nodded slowly at her. 'She was quite a woman, was Frances. But I think she'd prefer not to have any publicity now.'
' David!' Mrs Audley didn't sound too pleased.
'Hullo, love!' Audley looked at Jenny for one last fraction of a second after acknowledging his name. 'What you must decide, Miss Fielding, is what your godfather would have wanted you to do. That's all.' He turned back to his wife.
'Love — I don't think you've met Jenny Fielding — ? She's a friend of Willy Arkenshaw's, and she's dying to meet you.'
Jenny saw Ian behind Mrs David Audley. And, behind Ian, dummy2
Miss Cathy Audley, bright and pointy-eared as the fox in the rocks down below.
And Reg Buller, finally.
And Reg Buller, knowing everything and nothing, had eyes for her only. Because she would sign his account, and agree his expenses. And they were both still alive.
'Lady—?'
Tomorrow was another day, he was saying.
EPILOGUE
Another conversation which never took place
'I'm not at all pleased with the way this wretched affair finally turned out, Latimer.'
'Yes, I do agree. It was quite unnecessarily violent. But that's the Spaniards for you. And they are actually rather pleased with us: they've wanted to settle with that Irishman ever since the Basques hired him to blow up that general of theirs.'
'They left it damnably late, though. Aguirre could have taken the man long before. Straight off the plane, in fact —
with no shooting. And no risk to Audley's family — I really didn't like that at all, Latimer.'
'Yes. But we couldn't tell Aguirre what to do, Jack — could we? And, of course, I suppose he wanted as many of MacManus's ETA contacts as possible: it was obvious that dummy2
the man would call in their help to trace Audley once he knew where Fielding and Robinson were going.'
'And how the devil did he know that?'
'We're not quite sure, as yet. But he did have the Romanians to help him, of course. And they could have leaned on one of Buller's friends just as we did. But Aguirre assured me there'd be no risk to Audley.'
'There's always a risk . . . And there's also the death of that fellow Tully. The Special Branch has already been on to me about that. They seem to think MacManus was responsible.'
'Yes . . . well, that was a little rumour I let slip on the grapevine, Jack. So now that he's dead they'll most likely settle for "person or persons unknown", I shouldn't wonder.'
'But Mitchell says it wasn't MacManus.'
'No, I agree. It was most likely one of the Romanians — the Departamentul de Informatii Externe doing its stuff . . .
Mitchell's pretty sure that MacManus's minder was one of their officers. And it seems they're missing one of their trade attachés, so that fits. Plus Masson was their murder-victim originally, of course: the whole thing was their project, ab initio . . . '
'And they've caused all the trouble now. Damned Romanians! I'd almost rather deal with the Russians, I sometimes think.'
'Yes . . . well, I rather hope we can leave it to the Russians to sort out now, Jack. Because they're not at all pleased with the dummy2
Departamentul as of now. In fact, there are going to be some heads rolling before very long. We may even pick up a defector or two — I have had a word with Jaggard about that, actually.'
'Well, just make sure it doesn't get into the newspapers.
Otherwise it'll only stir up that damn Fielding woman even more.'
'She doesn't know anything about the Romanian connection, Jack.'
'But she can put two-and-two together. And Audley's already told her far too much for my liking. I don't know what he was playing at, frankly.'
'Oh . . . David was taking a calculated risk. And for once I must support him, Jack. Because we really cannot afford the publication of another book. And particularly a book about R
& D ... So he really had to stop her somehow.'
'By telling her everything?'
'He didn't tell her everything, exactly . . . But, look at it this way, Jack: the Russians will rein in the Romanians now —
they know that no one will believe the DIE wasn't acting on
their orders. And they certainly wouldn't like everyone to know that the Romanians have been feeding our disinformation to Moscow all these years — '
'I'm not worried about them. It's the woman Fielding I'm concerned with: she's well-connected. And she's tricky, like all journalists. And the man Robinson, who writes her books dummy2
— he can't be trusted, either.'
'Oh, I don't think he'll write this one, Jack.'
'No? Why not?'
'He doesn't want to, apparently. And . . . he's about to get the offer of a rather nice research fellowship at Rylands College in Cambridge, I happen to know.'
'How do you know?'
'I have a friend there who is an admirer of his work. We've had a little talk, and we both think Mr Robinson will be happier in the groves of academe. And he has rather gone off Miss Fielding-ffulke, Mitchell says.'
I see. But that still leaves her, Latimer.'
'Yes. But . . . well, I think we can leave her to David now, Jack.'
'To Audley?But—'
'They've rather taken to each other. And David says that she could be very useful to us, in the right place and handled properly. And . . .'
'And?'
'And David also particularly wants to know who put her on to him in the first place. He says that Masson turning up like that again . . . that was pure accident. But the Honourable Jennifer Fielding-ffulke overhearing one particular piece of gossip about her beloved godfather . . . that was too much of a coincidence. And David doesn't like coincidences. And nor, dummy2
I must say, do I.'
'You mean . . . it wasn't the Romanians?'
'We're not sure. But we do have other enemies. And it's as well to know who they are, don't you think?'
'Very well. But only on the strict understanding that no positive action is to be taken — is that understood, Latimer?
Not by you — and not by Audley: no settling of scores —
understood? We've had quite enough of that in this affair already.'
'Understood, Jack. "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord". I'll tell David that.'
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A Prospect of Vengeance dda-18 Page 30