And her life too?
"If there was a Russian Audley running the operation I'd guess this is pure opportunism—that they didn't know about you, but you fitted the bill so perfectly that they dropped everything else in preference for you—in preference for the old Vengeful."
It was strange, but she wasn't cold any more. The thought of Father, and what he had done, had chilled her; but now she was aware of the warm darkness all around her, and of the slightest prickle of sweat at her throat.
The silhouette changed, and she was aware that he had turned back inwards, to face her. "Guessing isn't evidence—if that's what you are about to say—I'm aware of that. But I'm not guessing when I say they have Audley-watchers over there, on the other side. I could even give you a name—the name of one of them whom we know about, if it would mean anything to you. And he's a scholar, like Audley ... an archaeologist, not an historian, but a Russian Audley, all the same." He nodded at her. "He'd know very well how obsessed David is with the past. And if he knows Audley's in charge on dummy3
this side . . . and that's a reasonable assumption by now . . .
then the evidence starts to pile up."
She wanted to say What evidence? again, but instinct ruled against it.
"Contemporaneity, Elizabeth—that's the first piece: unconnected things which happen at the same time, and then influence each other. Your father died . . . and Lippy died
—and they were both old men, so that wasn't out of the ordinary . . . And Ray Tuck was in trouble, and Danny Kahn was greedy—that's nothing special, either. But all those were their contemporaneous events, not ours, do you see?"
Instinct still silenced her.
"Your Vengeful, let's say . . . But there was also our Vengeful
—or what David Audley made of our 'Vengeful'—really their
'Project Vengeful', which I'm inclined to think now has nothing to do with yours, Elizabeth. Nothing whatsoever."
Instinct snapped. "But, Paul, if—"
"He made a mistake—" he overrode her "—or, not quite a mistake ... He wanted this job for himself so badly ... or he didn't want someone else to get it ... that he used your Vengeful to get it." The silhouette nodded at her again. "And maybe it was that someone else who put out the word that the great David Audley was at work—" shrug"—or maybe I'm doing him an injustice . . . maybe the Russians spotted me sniffing about—that's probably more like it. Because if I've added up two and two correctly I'm the one who hasn't been dummy3
so clever. And that's what worries me, Elizabeth dear—if this is going wrong, then I'm to blame too. And I've got enough on my conscience already . . . like, sometimes I feel too much like the Angel of Death flying over the battlefield—"
" Paul!" His voice had become too elaborately casual for conviction when she could sense the mixture of fear and guilt emanating from him. "If what you say is true—what about that Russian who was watching me?"
"Novikov?" The voice cracked. "Elizabeth—Novikov is the best bit of evidence of all! Novikov is a pro—a top-flight pro!"
"Yes? So what, Paul? You spotted him—"
"I spotted him? Damn it, Elizabeth—even you spotted him!
Doesn't that tell you anything? Christ! Do you remember when that little bugger Aske said 'No one follows me when I don't want him to', or something like? Do you think anyone spots Aske on his tail when he doesn't want him to?" Paul momentarily lost his cool. "Christ, Elizabeth! Novikov's ten times the man Aske will ever be—if he didn't want to be seen, neither of us would have seen him, don't you understand?"
This time it was the mixture of his anger and his self-contempt which silenced her.
"He followed me, Elizabeth—and I didn't see him, because he's better than me. But then he let me see him—and from that moment the old Vengeful was afloat again, with a vengeance—can you at least understand that? David Audley may have baited the hook himself, but it was Novikov who dummy3
made the sinker bob up and down—and we all swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. And now it's stuck in my throat, and I can't bloody well dislodge it—that's what I'm saying!"
She could see most of it at last; part of it darkly, or indistinctly, because it was out of her experience; but she could see the loom of it through the half-light and the mist, like some great three-decker bearing down on her with its gun-ports open and its guns run out and double-shotted, ready to blow her out of the water with one broadside.
"But. . . But haven't you told David Audley all this, Paul?"
"Oh . . . I've told him, Elizabeth—I've told him!" He paused.
"I told him last night, when I was guessing—remember?—
and he told me to obey orders—remember?" Another pause.
"And I told him tonight, too . . . And he pulled rank on me—
he told me to do my fff ing duty—and David only swears like that when he intends to, when he doesn't want any argument, and there isn't going to be any argument. . . But what I ought to be doing is pulling you out of here tonight, and running like hell for safety—that's what I ought to be doing! Because there's been something wrong with this operation from the start. And I don't like it."
His vehemence frightened her into silence.
"Because if I'm right the Russians will be doing something pretty soon—something to make us believe we're on the right track, to confirm what Novikov did—anything to keep us from looking in the right direction . . . That's why you must keep your door locked, Elizabeth—do you see?"
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Now she wasn't merely warm, with that delicate trickle at her throat: she was clammy with his fear, which was more infectious than his unhappiness.
"Have you told this to Humphrey Aske, Paul?"
He drew in a breath. "I haven't told him that I think David Audley's making a fool of himself—and us ... if that's what you mean. But I've put him on second watch, keeping an eye on your door and mine from three-thirty onwards. And it's
'Stand-to' for both of us at seven—" his voice rearranged itself as he spoke, as though he had belatedly realised the effect he was having on her "—don't worry, dear—we'll watch over you between us. You can sleep soundly tonight."
That was one thing she wouldn't be doing. But now everything was unreal, and the prospect of what sleep might bring was as scary as not-sleeping.
"I'll go, then." The silhouette moved from the frame of the window into darkness.
"No!" The thought of being alone panicked her.
"You'll be quite safe. We'll be watching—I told you."
"No." She could see the outline of him clearly, dark against almost-dark, at the end of the bed. "Don't go."
Silence.
"Very well. I'll stay here . . . there's a chair here somewhere
—" the darker outline moved as he felt around blindly "—you go to sleep, Elizabeth."
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"No—I didn't mean that—" But what did she mean? And if he did stay she would snore, and he would hear her snore "—I mean . . . couldn't you be wrong, Paul?" But that wasn't what she meant, either: the truth was that she didn't know what she meant. "I mean . . . David Audley said there wouldn't be any danger—that we would be safe over here, in France—?"
"Yes." He bumped the end of the bed, and the tremor ran through her. "Yes, he said that, Elizabeth."
She simply didn't want him to go, that was it: she was lonely, more than afraid, and she didn't want to be alone, as she had always been. That was it.
"So you could be wrong." She didn't want him to go, and she didn't want him to sit down in the darkness in the corner of the room, and she didn't want him to stand up like Death at the end of her bed.
"Yes, I could be wrong." He sounded far away. "I've been wrong before—yes ..."
He had been wrong before—but that wasn't what he meant now, his voice said.
"I was wrong once before, Elizabeth." Just in time he saved her from saying something pointless. "There was this girl I knew— woman, rather . . . colleagu
e, rather—Frances was her name, and she was damn good ... in fact, she was better than Novikov and Aske and me rolled into one—she was good . . . and pretty as a picture with it, and I adored her, Elizabeth."
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The darkness shivered between them.
"Which is dead against the rules—and against all commonsense as well, which is what rules are all about:
'gladiator, make no friends of gladiators' is the rule—and it's a good rule."
She saw now why he had reacted against what she had said about David Audley's feeling for him.
"She didn't know, of course. Nobody knew . . . She didn't know, and they didn't know . . . because everything I ever said to her was the wrong thing to say—and it was . . . like, I was always trying to jump into bed with her . . . and I was, too—I couldn't think of anything cleverer to do, I suppose—
and she couldn't stand the sight of me."
Silence.
"But I could stand the sight of her—any time."
Silence.
"So one day I looked at her. It was raining—and I was glad to see her... So I looked at her, Elizabeth, when I should have been looking somewhere else."
Silence.
"And that was a mistake, Elizabeth. And she died of my mistake . . . in the rain, in my arms, Elizabeth."
It was very strange, but only for one fraction of a second was she sorry for poor dead Frances. Because poor dead pretty Frances was still her enemy, and if ever there was a moment for defeating her enemy it was now—when the dark was her dummy3
ally.
"Paul—please come in with me," she whispered. "I'm so frightened."
XI
EVERYTHING WAS JUST fine until Humphrey Aske turned on the car radio for no apparent reason, and then refused to turn it off, and finally started to talk nonsense. And—
"Yes," he said finally. "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 Humphrey Aske.
Actually everything hadn't been altogether fine even before, not really. But everything had been different; or, if not exactly recognisably different, at least not quite the same because she felt it had no right to be as it had been before.
Although actually . . . but then it might just have been the presence of Humphrey Aske at the breakfast table with them which had spoilt everything—and an unbearably bright and talkative Humphrey Aske, not in the least blear-eyed from night-watch—even, it was Aske who behaved as she so desperately wanted Paul to behave, noticing and complimenting her on the second of her elegant summer dummy3
travelling suits, which Paul had studiously ignored in preference for one quick glance, which had almost been a stranger's frown, at her face.
And there, she had had to admit to the mirror already, the wear and tear of the last almost-24-hours had done Monsieur Pierre's original work of art no good at all, which she had lacked the expertise to restore as it had been: what she had seen in the mirror was the truth of the fairy story, she had realised now—that Prince Charming simply hadn't recognised Cinderella the morning after, it had only been the size of her foot for the glass slipper which had identified that happy ending.
"Paris—no problem," said Aske to Mitchell. "There's hardly any mist this morning. I filled the car up last night, before I went to bed. Straight down the N2, through Soissons—the last bit's motorway, and we can whip round the peripherique and come off at the Pointe d'Asnieres for the Avenue de Wagram—no trouble at all." He smiled at Elizabeth. "Be there in time for coffee, then M'sieur Bourienne's professor . . . then a nice elongated lunch at a little place I wot of... then the airport and the great Dr Audley himself. . .
Then another motorway, with the foot down on the pedal, and supper in Alsace, Miss Loftus. No Problem! "
On Paul Mitchell's face, Elizabeth observed out of the most oblique corner of her eye, there was a look of the purest hatred.
"What one would like to know—" either Aske couldn't or dummy3
wouldn't observe the same storm warning "— is ... if the great Dr Audley is coming to take the reins from your capable hands, Mitchell... which means that we are on to something highly promising . . . is—what is it? Isn't it time now that one was told why one may be required to do and die?"
It occurred to Elizabeth that, after the events of the last three days since the church fête, and more particularly after the events of last night which were already beginning to become unreal, she had some rights. So, just as Paul's mouth opened in a snarl, she kicked him hard on the ankle.
"Fff-aargh!" exclaimed Paul.
Aske looked at him curiously. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'm not sure that Dr Mitchell knows any more than we do, Mr Aske," said Elizabeth.
Humphrey Aske transferred his curiosity to her. "Ah . . . now that hadn't occurred to me, you know—"
Paul grunted explosively. "The fact is, Aske . . . I'm not permitted to tell either you or Miss Loftus everything that's going on—for obvious reasons, which you should understand better than she does."
What Miss Loftus understood, thought Elizabeth, was that Paul Mitchell was never going to admit to Humphrey Aske that he didn't know what he was really doing, and didn't like it either.
"But if David Audley wants you to do and die . . ." Paul reached down to rub his ankle ". . . I'm sure he'll tell you." He dummy3
straightened up. "If it suits him."
"Which it probably won't—I know!" Aske shook his head ruefully at Elizabeth. "The occupational temptation of our profession, Miss Loftus, is to confuse essential secrecy with inessential secretiveness . . . with the predictable result that the left hand rarely knows what the right hand is doing. But a trip to Paris is better than nothing, I suppose." He smiled suddenly and disarmingly at her again. "We must just hope that the great Dr Audley is right, and we aren't simply wasting our time, however agreeably!"
She couldn't kick Paul again—she had kicked him a bit too hard the first time. All she could do was smile and nod, and hope for the best.
And the best was that Paul drank his coffee, and pushed back from the table. "If you're packed up, Elizabeth, then let's go,"
he said. "Get the car, Aske."
But Aske, once he had manoeuvred them through the narrow streets of the old city, and round its descending hairpin bends, was still hell-bent oh needling Paul into talking, even if his undeterred approach to the problem was as tortuous as their departure from Laon—
"I'll book the hotel when we get to Paris," he began innocently.
Paul grunted.
"In Lautenbourg? Or will nearby do?"
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"Suit yourself."
"There's a place about ten kilometres away that does glâce au miel de sapin, according to the Michelin."
No reply.
"How many rooms shall I reserve?"
"What?" The question caught Paul unguarded. "What the hell d'you mean—how many rooms?"
"Don't take on so! Is Audley coming alone?"
Paul subsided. "Yes . . . alone."
"Four rooms then. And for how long?" Aske probed gently.
"And where after that?"
Again Paul didn't reply, and Elizabeth knew that this approach wasn't going to work either. All it would produce was another explosion.
"We are retracing the escape route between Lautenbourg and Coucy-le-Château, I take it?" persisted Aske.
There was only one way to defuse Paul, and she had to risk it.
"We do actually know the route then, Paul? Would that be from Father's notes or from Tom Chard's story?"
He drew a breath. "A bit of both, actually. We've traced three places where he stayed, and they fit in well enough with Chard's account."
"Yes, but—" began Aske.
"Father got it right, did he?" Elizabeth blotted out Aske deliberately.
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"Oh yes . . ." P
aul gave her an uncharacteristically shy look
". . . he got it right. He was slow . . . and he let himself be side-tracked into investigating Abraham Timms, the quartermaster's mate, when he should have been concentrating on Colonel Suchet. But he was right." He paused. "And, to be fair, Abraham Timms sounds an interesting character."
"Yes?" She didn't want Aske to break in.
"But then they were all interesting characters—"
"Hold on a moment," said Aske. "I want to pull in here."
The signs of a garage came into view suddenly.
"You said you'd filled up last night," accused Paul.
"Yes." Aske unstrapped himself. "Won't be a moment."
The bonnet went up, and Paul fumed silently until Aske came back.
"All interesting characters, you were saying?" Elizabeth stepped between them again as the car pulled on to the road.
"Chipperfield was a natural born escaper—he thought one jump ahead all the time, it looks like, reading between the lines."
"How—one jump ahead?"
"Well . . . first, he reckoned there'd be a big search, with all the stops pulled out—this is drawing conclusions from what Tom Chard remembered. And he did exactly the right thing, so our experts say."
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"What was that?"
"He had four or five hours' start, until daylight. They could have made five or ten miles before they had to go to ground.
So if Suchet knew his business, he'd draw a ring round the fortress, maybe ten to fifteen miles out, and move in from there. Can't you go faster than this, Aske?"
"This is fast enough. So what did Chipperfield do?"
Paul sniffed. "He went to ground in a vineyard half a mile from the fortress. They had scraps of food they'd hoarded, and four bottles of water, and they stayed put there for three days and two nights, not moving."
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