"Oh, I wouldn't say that." And yet there was a germ of truth in it, thought Elizabeth. "It was maybe . . . more conjectural than the others—"
"Conjectural? All right, I'll settle for that: conjectural, then?"
"There was a reason for that." He was smart, but not quite smart enough. "Everything about that last voyage came from the Court of Inquiry, after the Fortuné' was lost on the way home, on the Horse Sands off Portsmouth—in the same storm that drove the Vengeful ashore on the French coast ...
So it all comes from those four survivors' testimony, Paul."
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"Oh . . ." His face changed, almost comically. "Yes, of course
— I'm a bit slow, aren't I!" He hid his confusion in a further study of the type-script. "Four survivors . . . one carpenter's mate . . . and three illiterate able seamen—yes . . . and it was the carpenter's mate who let slip about how rotten the Vengeful's timbers were—how one of the French 24-lb cannon balls went right through her, from side to side, just about the water-line—"
"You don't need to look—I remember it all." She fired on the down-roll.
"You do?" He looked up, making no pretence of hiding his defeat. "Tell me then, Elizabeth dear—?"
It was impossible to resist that look. "I had to type that chapter out again because Father wasn't satisfied with the carbon copies, that's why I remember. . . When the French surrendered Captain Williams was dead, and his first and second lieutenants were both dying—the French captain was dead too ... and they had to put the prize crew on the Fortuné
—and they didn't really have enough men left for that—"
"They should have abandoned the Vengeful—that would be the third lieutenant who was in command—?"
"He couldn't do that. He'd never have got his wounded off, not in that weather and with darkness so close." Elizabeth shook her head. She could recall even now, from the typing and re-typing of that passage, how she had felt for poor young Lieutenant Chipperfield in the nightmare of his first command as Father had imagined it: the two battered dummy3
frigates, both holed below the water-line, the screaming wounded . . . nearly a third of his own crew and more than half the Frenchman's dead and injured . . . and the dismounted cannon rolling around the decks as the gale rose, and with night falling. "All he had time to do was to get the prize-crew across, Paul. It was the only thing he could do."
"It was still the wrong decision. He should have concentrated on saving one of them—instead of which he lost both." He stared at her for a moment, and then through her as his own imagination began to work. "But maybe you're right... It's all too bloody easy to sit here in quiet and comfort, sipping our sherry, and making all the right decisions—same with my war, the '14-'18 . . . all too bloody easy . . ."
It was very quiet on the terrace. Elizabeth felt the tranquillity of the evening all around her, not only in the silence itself but also in the peaceful protcctiveness of the old stone house and the great comforting curve of the downland ridge above them, in which the house nestled; and she could smell the evening smells, of honeysuckle and thyme and lavender.
But it was a false tranquillity—false both because their thoughts were concentrated on battle and sudden death, and pain and fear long ago . . . and because there were men on that hill, the child had said, and they recalled her mind to sudden death and fear and pain in the present.
She shivered, and found that he was looking at her again.
"Sorry—I was . . . thinking." He straightened up. "And for dummy3
thoughts there is drink! I'll have another—and will you change your mind?"
"I'll have a small sherry, Paul."
"Good! So ... next morning the Vengeful had disappeared, and the prize-crew reckoned she'd gone down in the night, and it was all they could do to stay afloat anyway . . . there—
one small sherry! So they beat it as best they could for Portsmouth, only to come to grief themselves on the Horse Sands, which would have been in sight of home if it hadn't been midnight in another howling gale, poor devils . . . poor brave devils! Hence . . . one carpenter's mate and three seamen left to tell the tale." He raised his glass in a silent toast. "But the Vengeful didn't go down that night, did she!
She lasted three whole days, before she piled up on—where was it?"
"Somewhere among the rocks of Les Echoux, Father thought.
From where the survivors finally came ashore on the coast near Coutances, he thought they might have been making for one of the Channel Islands."
"They had the damnedest luck too. If it hadn't been for the weather they might have made it. Instead of which . . . just another couple of forgotten epics. And two more for your statistics, Elizabeth—one French battle casualty and one English shipwreck. But two epics, nevertheless."
She was glad that he'd got the point, which Father himself had been at pains to make, that the saga of the Vengeful and the Fortuné deserved to be told for its own sake and not just dummy3
as the sad history of Number Seven.
"So that leaves us with another thirteen survivors to account for—the very last of the Vengefuls—right?"
"Yes. The crew of the jolly-boat," Elizabeth nodded.
"The jolly-boat—'a hack-boat for small work', the OED
says . . . which was presumably the only undamaged boat to get away from the wreck . . . and not a very jolly voyage, because two of them died soon after they came ashore, from injuries or exposure, or both. . . and they were all in a bad way, more or less." He nodded back, and then his eyes shifted to the Vengeful box. "And that came ashore off the Fortuné—the ship's doctor's box of tricks . . . presumably?"
She noticed that he was watching her intently. "Father thought so. It was rather surprising that Dr Pike left the Vengeful, but maybe the French ship didn't have a surgeon.
But that's the only way it could have been washed up on the English coast. And the carpenter's mate remembers him being on board the Fortuné."
"But he wasn't one of the survivors."
"I'm sorry?" Elizabeth's attention had strayed back to the box, with its inscription plates which it had been her duty to keep brightly polished, but which were sadly tarnished now.
"I said, he wasn't one of the survivors from the Fortuné. . .
And from the Vengeful there was the third lieutenant, Chipperfield, and the little midshipman, Paget . . . and the Gunner's Mate, Chard, and the Quartermaster's Mate, Timms dummy3
—"
" What?" exclaimed Elizabeth in astonishment.
"Timms. And the six seamen—eight originally—"
" But . . . but, Paul—" She was forced to curb her astonishment by the appearance of her hostess on the terrace.
Paul stood up, clasping the chapter to his chest. "Mrs Audley
—are you going to join us?"
"Of course not—not when you're talking business—and do make it 'Faith', Paul, please . . . Elizabeth, are you all right?
Are you absolutely famished?"
Faith Audley at the best of times, on neutral ground, would have demoralised Elizabeth. Maybe she was all Paul Mitchell had said— and, to be hatefully fair, from the gentle and sympathetic putting-at-ease with which she'd greeted her dishevelled guest, she probably was a nice woman. But that slender, elegant blondeness, and the equally stylish cut of the working-clothes, jeans-and-shirt, not to mention the expert make-up and hint of very expensive scent, was positively debilitating.
"No, I'm fine, Faith." She was, to be accurate, absolutely famished. But there was also another hunger inside her now, which required more urgent satisfaction. "Really I am."
"I'm sure you're not . . . I've had to feed Cathy to stop her falling apart . . . But it won't be long—" she switched her attention back to Paul "—the office phoned again, Paul, to say dummy3
they're en route . . . But meanwhile you are instructed to spill the beans to Elizabeth, David says—whatever the beans are . . . But I'm sure that means more to you than me—
<
br /> entendu?"
" Entendu, madame—Faith," Paul Mitchell bowed. " Bien entendu."
"Ye-ess." She gave him a slightly jaundiced look. "You and my David are two of a kind, I've always suspected. Which means . . . for Miss Loftus—for you, Elizabeth, beanz meanz troublez."
"Not at all!" Paul protested. "It means that your David reposes confidence in Elizabeth's superlative loyalty and common sense— beanz meanz secretz."
"Hmmm ..." Faith had the height to look down her nose at the world, and the right shape of nose for looking down. "It sounds very much like the same thing to me. As long as you don't repose the same confidence in them, Elizabeth, that's all."
Paul watched her depart, frowning slightly at that final, left-handed, half-affectionate insult.
None of that mattered, though—it was those names which mattered.
"One of them lived to tell the tale, Paul—you said that just as we arrived." And a very curious tale, too; and it was irritating also—it was more than that, it was infuriating—how the effect of arriving at the manor house, and being met by dummy3
Faith Audley immediately, had abated her curiosity until now.
"The tale?" His mind seemed to be elsewhere.
She pointed at the type-script. "In Father's chapter—except for Lieutenant Chipperfield he never had the names of any of the survivors. He only had what that one sailor who reached Verdun told the senior naval officer there—that Chipperfield's party had escaped the fortress at Lautenbourg, in Alsace—and the conflicting stories the French put out . . .
it's all in there, darn it, Paul—" the abstracted expression on his face irritated her further "—but he had nothing on the midshipman, and the gunner's mate or anyone else."
"Oh yes." He surfaced from his thoughts. "But I've got a much more curious tale for you now. And one that'll interest you much more, too . . . Number Thirteen, you might say."
"Number—Thirteen? But there wasn't a thirteenth Vengeful
—"
"Not a British one. But there is a Russian one." He studied her, no longer smiling, as though the thoughts from which he had surfaced had sobered him.
"A Russian ship, Paul?" For a moment the jolly boat's crew became insignificant.
"No, not exactly. Not a ship, that is." He stopped, and Elizabeth sensed an unwillingness in him which hadn't been there before.
"Not a ship? What's the matter, Paul?"
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"Nothing." He shook his head. "If David wants you to know, then I must assume it's all right. . . But it's a big secret, Elizabeth. And big secrets are heavy burdens to carry—and dangerous too."
"But not here, you said." The change in him made her feel uneasy.
"No—not here—of course!" He smiled suddenly, shrugging off his own doubts. " Not a ship . . . more like an idea. The Russians have these ideas, you know—bright ideas or nasty ideas, according to taste, and it's our job to see them off...
like in that verse of the National Anthem that we never sing:
'Frustrate their knavish tricks—Confound their po-li-tics'."
"The Russians, you mean?"
"The Russians among others. But them at this moment, for you and me, trying to do us down." The last of the momentary cloud had lifted from him. "It's too easy, really—
we're too easy—there are a million ways of taking us to the cleaners . . . even you can think of examples, Elizabeth—from Klaus Fuchs and the Burgess and Maclean lot—all the bad boys and poor fools from Cambridge . . . before my time, naturally . . . right down to the professionals of today, with all their gadgets—and the Judas goats leading what they call 'the useful fools' up the garden path to the knackers' yard—the brave sons of Ireland in the IRA and the honest pacifists in CND . . . Christ! I sometimes wish I was working for the KGB
—we make it so easy for them . . . But no matter! The point is that their knavish tricks don't happen by accident and dummy3
haphazardly—obviously. They're planned, you see.
Obviously."
"Paul—"
"But bear with me, Elizabeth, because there's a point behind that point. . . Which is how they're planned—and I don't mean the routine stuff, like updating the NATO order-of-battle and so on, which has to go on all the time, but the really clever stuff—I mean the one-off high-grade operations." He paused. "Because they have these experts—
dozens of them—who make a special study of us, and receive all the intelligence digests appropriate to their specialisations. And they're expected to come up with ideas for development, most of which get turned down, but some of which go on to the expert-experts—top brass with brains and field experience. And they pick and choose from the short list, and run feasibility studies on their preferences.
And if an idea comes up alpha-plus in their book it gets what they call 'Project Status', and then it goes on up to the real top brass—the KGB politicals, who reckon to know which way the wind is blowing in the Kremlin as well as in the West. And they put a tick or a cross beside each project. . .
and the crosses are sent back down the line marked 'Must do better', or something . . . But the ticked ones—they cease to be projects and become operations. And once a project is given 'Operational Status' it gets a code-name and goes off to the operational planners—and finally to the poor bastards who have to do the work, like our friend Novikov. Are you dummy3
still with me so far, Elizabeth?"
"Yes."
"It isn't difficult, I agree. And I suppose we do much the same thing, only on a much smaller scale due to our poverty."
She frowned at him. "And this is what you do?"
"Lord, no! I'm in Crime Prevention, not Burglary—I'm in the Knavish Tricks Frustration Department, Elizabeth. It's their projects which are my operations."
Elizabeth realised that she had once more been slow on the uptake, like any tiro, and Paul Mitchell was treating her more gently than she deserved. "Yes . . . I'm sorry, Paul. . . And now what you're going to tell me is that there's a Russian operation which is codenamed 'Vengeful'—is that it?"
His face was a picture. "No . . . no, that's not quite it. Because if that was the case we wouldn't be interested in any Vengeful, from Number One to infinity—and you'd be sitting safe at home in front of the telly now, Elizabeth."
She had been slow again somehow—slow to the point of stupidity, although she couldn't see where this time. And he was smiling at her again too; but not his insincere smile, which always revealed a hint of teeth between his lips, but a genuine closed-mouth smile which creased his cheeks.
"This one's the pay-off, Elizabeth—the difference between Project Status and Operational Status . . . All you have to do is imagine Winston Churchill writing to Franklin Roosevelt dummy3
in 1942 or '43 . . . Dear FDR— About the invasion of Europe, we think the Normandy Project is the one we should go for, and henceforth we'll call it Operation Overlord. Yours ever, Winston . . . Don't look so sad just because you can't run before you can walk, dear Elizabeth—it's simply that operational code-names by definition don't mean a thing, it's only project names which spill the beans. Just think what Hitler would have done if he'd picked up 'Normandy' rather than 'Overlord'—okay?"
Elizabeth could only nod, still ashamed, because getting anywhere too late was still just as bad as not getting there at all, and not boring him with lack of intelligence was all she had to offer him.
"Getting a Project Name is a very rare occurrence, like winning the pools. What's much more usual—in fact, what I've been doing the last year or two in my own specialisation
—is trying to work out in advance what the most likely projects could be, so that we can set about frustrating them."
"How do you do that?"
He shrugged. "How indeed! It's a bit like forecasting the future from the entrails of a sheep ... we try to identify their project planners first, and then what they specialise in. And then we postulate the information they're likely to get, and so on."
helped you."
"What makes you think that, now?" He put the question casually, but she could sense the change from boredom to curiosity.
"Practically everything that's happened to me. Coming to see me was supposed to be just routine, for a start."
"Everything is routine to start with." He parried the truth neatly. "Ask any policeman."
"Researching single-ship actions of the Napoleonic War is routine? That's what policemen usually do?"
"I've done more unlikely things." This time the teeth showed in the smile.
"I've said something that amuses you?" She didn't like that smile.
"No. I was just remembering that I once said much the same thing to David Audley, years ago—that what I was doing was an unlikely thing to do."
"And how did he reply?"
"Oh ... he said that the past always lies in ambush for the present, waiting to get even." The smile vanished. "But you are right: I didn't think your Vengeful—or any of your Vengefuls—could possibly have anything to do with their
'Project Vengeful'."
"But you do now?"
He looked at her, but not quite inscrutably. "Now ... I also dummy3
think of everything that's happened—to both of us. And I think of Novikov . . . because Novikov is real—he's not a Napoleonic single-ship action, or a crew-member from a jolly boat—Novikov is KGB, and the KGB isn't a registered charity, or a funny set of initials to frighten the children with when they won't settle down, or any other sort of imaginary bugbear that doesn't really matter—" he caught himself as though he could hear the change in his own voice. "You have to understand what the KGB is, Elizabeth: it's the militant arm of the Soviet State outside Soviet territory—and inside it as well, but inside doesn't concern us— here concerns us ...
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