For the Good of the State

by Anthony Price

  Tom rolled an eye at the Russian, as speechless as Panin himself was.

  ‘It’s still good work, for a rush job.’ Audley bent over the ditch, hands on knees. ‘But not a great work, is what I mean—not with this crumbly red sandstone … Is that what it is? Or is it—what the devil is it?’ He started to reach down below the lip of the ditch, but then abandoned the attempt.

  ‘They are going to kill him.’ Panin found his voice at last. ‘Zarubin, David.’

  Audley found a suitable tuft of grass on which to kneel. ‘Uh-huh? Who’s “they”?’ He reached over the edge. ‘In Zarubin’s case there must be a fairly long waiting-list for that honour—’ He wrenched at something out of Tom’s view ‘—but presumably these would be Poles, of course … eh?’ He gave the unseen bit of rock another wrench.

  ‘Terrorists,’ said Panin.

  ‘Terrorists—naturally … ’ Another wrench ‘ … freedom fighters, partisans, guerrillas … franc-tireurs, Robin Hood’s “Merry Men”, UNITA, IRA, ENOSIS, Weathermen, ETA—join the bloody club:

  “He crucified noble, he scarified mean,

  He filled old ladies with kerosene;

  While over the water the papers cried,

  ‘The patriot fights for his countryside!’ ”

  - it’s all old hat, Nikolai. We’re used to it, long before from our own late imperial past, even before these more indiscriminate times. And so were your Tsarist predecessors, actually—‘ He twisted towards Tom suddenly ’—it’s tougher than I thought, this rock—Poles is what he means, I suspect.‘

  ‘Poles, yes.’ Panin surrendered. “They call themselves ”The Sons of the Eagle“.‘

  ‘Do they now!’ Audley abandoned his efforts, straightening up and brushing the dirt from his hands, though still on his knees. ‘Boh Da Thone, in Burma in the ’80s—the 1880s—he killed under the Peacock Banner. At least, according to Kipling he did. But with the Poles the bird would have to be the good old-fashioned eagle, of course.‘ He stood up, shifting his attention from his grubby hands to the damp patches on each knee of his trousers. ’ “Sons of the Eagle”? Can’t say that I’ve ever heard of them, though. Have you, Tom?‘

  ‘No.’ It occurred to Tom that Audley hadn’t been indiscreet, he had deliberately set out to establish Sir Thomas as his Polish expert as part of his frontal attack on Panin. Indeed, he no doubt assumed that Tom was an expert, just as Jaggard had probably done. But there was nothing to be done about that now. ‘No, I haven’t.’ He looked at Panin questioningly.

  ‘They are the violent element in what remains of Solidarity, Sir Thomas.’ The Russian’s voice was flatly matter-of-fact. ‘They are terrorists.’

  Tom felt Audley’s eye on him. ‘Solidarity has no violent wing. It never has had. Neither Walesa nor the Church would allow it, David.’ He shook his head. ‘No way.’

  ‘I see.’ Audley pursed his lips. ‘So Marchik was an accident, then?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Tom wished he felt more confident. ‘I said that Solidarity is non-violent, that’s all,’

  Audley rubbed his chin thoughtfully, leaving a smear of dirt on his jaw-line. ‘Of course. But it’s all academic, really—’

  ‘Academic?’ Tom had to control his Polish half. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Where state violence is institutionalized there can be no distinction between violence and non-violence in anti-state activities: they are either treason or criminal lunacy—you either get the bullet, or regular injections down on the funny-farm.’ Audley returned to Panin. ‘But that’s in your backyard of course, Nikolai. So … academic, as I say. Whereas your present problem is here—and definitely not academic, obviously.’

  This time the Russian gave not the slightest hint that Audley’s latest insult had touched the wolf inside the sheep’s armour; if anything, he seemed more relaxed. ‘Your problem too, David.’

  ‘My problem?’ Audley feigned theatrical surprise. ‘My dear fellow, now that you have most economically explained to me what is about to happen, I can descry no very great problem. Your masters, in their wisdom, have posted the unspeakable Zarabin here—presumably because they regard London as a relatively safe billet. Or maybe it’s a genuine promotion—? As a reward for presiding over the elimination of that poor unpronounceable priest—“Father George”, shall I call him? Though, on second thoughts, it can hardly be that, for the work was not well-done—’ He pointed a dirty finger at the ditch ‘—not like that—that is a damn good ditch!’

  ‘No—’

  ‘No—I agree! But, nevertheless, we shall bend every thew and sinew to save Zarubin’s unworthy hide, now that you’ve warned us. And, in my case, all the more so because of yesterday’s traumas—or should it be “trau-mae”—?’ Audley switched to Tom without warning, and caught him in the midst of another bout of incredulity.

  ‘ “Traumata”,’ he answered automatically. What this last mock-flippancy reminded him was that Audley hadn’t forgotten Basil Cole, as for a moment he appeared to have done. But the old man was still set on goading Panin, of course. ‘ “Traumata”, David.’

  ‘Ah! From the Greek, of course!’ Audley fielded the word happily. ‘To my shame I only did Latin, so I’m really only half-educated. Or altogether uneducated, as my old classics master always maintained.’ Back to Panin. ‘But yes … we shall of course do our best. So when your “Sons of the Eagle” liquidate Zarubin, we shall catch them, and put them away for life.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, you will get some damn bad publicity, during the trial, when all the dirty laundry about Father George comes out … The newspapers will have a ball with that, tut-tutting hypocritically about wickedness begetting wickedness. But it’ll only be a nine-days’ wonder, and everyone will soon forget again.’ He cocked a shrewd eye at Panin. ‘And, anyway, a mad dog like Zarubin is probably best put down—won’t your masters be secretly quite relieved to be disembarrassed of him? Won’t it actually make things easier in Poland, in the end—?’

  Audley’s mouth twisted, in support of his eye. ‘Not your cup-of-tea, Nikolai? Better heroically-dead in foreign parts, with two columns of lies in Pravda?’

  Panin’s face was a picture of nothing. ‘I am here to prevent that thing, David.’

  ‘Right.’ Audley’s hand came up. ‘So we’ll both do our best. And you can always blame me afterwards. But I can live with that.’

  ‘No.’ Far beneath Panin’s picture of nothing there was another picture, but Tom couldn’t read it. ‘It will not be enough for me to do that—I cannot afford to do that. And neither can you, David, I think.’ The Russian shook his head slowly. ‘Because I am already living on what you call “borrowed time”, David—that I know.’ The head stopped shaking. ‘And … with all due respect … I believe you are in the same position. Which is why I asked for you, David.’ This time it was the Russian’s hand which came up, and Tom noticed for the first time that there was a thick gold ring on one of the fingers. ‘No, do not interrupt me—’

  ‘I wasn’t going to—’ There was a ring on Audley’s finger, too.

  ‘General Zarubin is not here for his own safety. He is here to arrange an important visit, David. Because, if the Geneva talks fail, we shall be appealing directly to Europe, David.’ Panin lowered his hand. ‘And that is what Basil Cole would have told you, I think. So perhaps that is why he died, David.’ Another slow shake. ‘Not merely to discredit me.’

  That sent Audley back on his heels, Tom sensed. Or at least it stopped his mouth for once, anyway.

  ‘We have to stop this thing. It will not be good enough—not safe enough, for either of us—to catch the assassins afterwards. Because if all that happens, and then there is no meeting because of it … then my head will roll. And yours too … and even perhaps Colonel Butler’s, David. Although your heads are of no concern to me—I will admit that, if nothing else.’ Something almost changed in the Russian’s face. ‘I might even enjoy that thought … if we were not in the same cart—cart?’ Something did change: th
e depth of the deep creases on each side of the mouth deepened slightly. ‘Or should it be “tumbril”, since we are talking of heads dropping into the basket?’

  Tom had to watch Audley’s reaction now. And, as he watched, it came to him perversely again that everything Audley had done so far—all the insults, and the pretence to greater knowledge than he actually possessed—had been geared not only, or not so much, to avenging Basil Cole as to deriving this profit (indeed, his own words, ‘doing business’, had suggested that, exactly, from recent memory). But now the Russian had turned the tables, and almost contemptuously so, by combining mutual survival with co-operation—even, he had twisted the knife, by putting Colonel Butler in the same cart with them both.

  And he could see, at a glance, that Audley didn’t like what had been done to him, because the big old man’s ugly face wasn’t sheep-inscrutable: it might be beast-like, but it was rarely expressionless, and it was prey to an alphabet of emotions now.

  ‘You are a perfect shit, Nikolai—aren’t you!’ Audley sniffed, and then wiped his big nose on the back of his dirty hand. ‘You never were going to make a deal, were you!’

  ‘Not with you, David—no.’ Panin nodded. ‘We happen to have drawn the same card from the pack, this time.’ The creases deepened. ‘Not like last time.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’ Audley was already adjusting to defeat, and putting it down to experience. ‘You’ve got a long memory.’

  ‘I think we both have.’ Panin shrugged off the past, wisely adjusting to victory. ‘But the important thing is that I have a deal for the enemy this time, David. But I need you for that. And that is why I am here.’

  Here suddenly registered with Tom. Because they had all used the word, or accepted it in its widest sense; but it had always had another and a more exact and geographical meaning—they had even left a precise question about that here behind them, unanswered and mysterious: ‘Down here, up here, out here—the West Country, Nikolai’—

  ‘Here?’ The same word had registered with Audley, simultaneously.

  ‘Yes.’ Panin looked from one to the other of them. ‘“This is not your country”, you said?’

  ‘Yes.’ Audley was instantly as battened down on Exmoor as he had ever been in his Normandy bocage. ‘And you agreed that it wasn’t—?’

  The Russian cased Gilbert de Merville’s long-overgrown fortress for an answer—the whole open space of the bailey, from left to right, and then finally the mound of the motte, alongside which they stood, on the edge of the ditch, before coming back to Audley. ‘How far are we from the sea here?’

  ‘Not far.’ Audley admitted the truth cautiously. ‘No place on Exmoor is far from the sea. No place in Devon is far … ’ Even that wasn’t cautious enough, but geography was against him ‘ … from the sea. So what?’ He tossed his head arrogantly. ‘But you wouldn’t understand that, of course, would you! All you’ve got is a sea of grass, or snow and frozen pack-ice, eh?’ Only then he seemed to understand that he could no longer sting an answer, and didn’t even need to do so. ‘He’s coming here, is he? Zarubin—General Zarubin?’

  ‘Yes. He’s coming here.’ Nod. ‘Here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because this is his country, David. His father was an “AB”—is that right? An “Able Seaman”?’

  ‘A what?’ Audley’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Yes. With “Dunsterforce”, David. Before either of us were born, but I think you’ll remember “Dunsterforce”, nevertheless?’ Panin nodded. ‘He “jumped ship”—“ran”, is perhaps the correct term? Or maybe he fell … fell, or jumped or ran, anyway … to us. So this is his son’s country, and he wants to see it before he dies.’

  Audley had tightened his jaw, but it had fallen again. ‘“Dunsterforce”—? You’re joking!’

  ‘Before he dies.’ Panin nodded. ‘But our job is to see that he doesn’t die, David.’

  9

  AUDLEY DIDN’T say a word as they trudged back the way they had come, until they reached the top of the descending fold from which they’d first spotted Russian-occupied Mountsorrel Castle. Then he turned and waved across at Panin, who was already halfway up the main ridge, and murmured darkly to himself.

  Tom watched the Russian acknowledge the wave. ‘What was that, David?’

  Audley lowered his arm. ‘I said “You crafty son-of-a-bitch”.’ He turned away and started walking again without another word.

  Tom accelerated after him. ‘Can it be true?’ he shouted at the big man’s back.

  ‘Can what be true?’ Audley returned the question over his shoulder while lengthening his downhill stride.

  ‘About Zarubin—’ Tom broke into a trot ‘—Zarubin’s father—?’

  ‘Oh yes … huh.’ Audley was already on the edge of the boggy ground again, and as regardless of it as before. ‘Anything can be true of that swine Zarubin. He’s ex-Special Division, Second Directorate, from way back—’ He sneezed suddenly, but didn’t miss a splashing step ‘—from way back—’ Another sneeze ‘—COMECON-Warsaw Pact expert … I first caught a whiff of Zarubin in ’68, in Czechoslovakia, but he dates back to Budapest in ‘56, when he commanded a snatch-and-exterminate squad as a young captain … So he must be a man who loves his work … Could be anything from forty-five to fifty-five, I suppose … But a natural for post-Solidarity Poland, anyway—got exactly the pedigree for that sort of dirty work. No bloody surprise there, by God!’

  There was water in Tom’s shoes, he could feel it squelch between his toes as he tried to catch up with Audley beyond the bog. ‘But, David—’

  ‘Surprising over here, though—at least, to me.’ Audley stopped with so little warning that Tom overshot him, and had to turn to face him. ‘What about these “Sons of the Eagle”, so-called? Who the hell are they, Tom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It was useless to pretend. ‘I’ve never heard of them.’

  Audley frowned. ‘But you’re the bloody expert—’ The frown deepened ‘—aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m not an expert on Polish affairs, David.’

  For an instant Audley stared him out of countenance. “Then why the hell did they give you to me?‘

  Only the obvious answer presented itself. ‘To guard your back.’

  ‘That won’t do. Any plug-ugly could do that.‘ Audley shook his head. ’You’re still too much of a coincidence, Tom—that’s what you are!‘

  The obvious and official answer lay between them like a dead fish on the deck, past its last gasp. ‘Then I honestly don’t know, David. You can believe me or not—’ An alternative answer came to him ‘ — but if you thought I was an expert … just because of my mother … then you’re wrong. So maybe someone else made the same mistaken assumption—?’

  ‘Hmm … ’ Audley’s mouth twitched. ‘That, at least, has the ring of incompetence! But it also means that someone on our side is engaged in some convoluted nonsense—’ Another twitch ‘—which also rings a bell, eh?’

  Tom felt his brain race even as he put his face into neutral and let his mouth lie. ‘I don’t know about that either, David. But my job is to look after you, as best I can.’ Yet the trouble was, while he could remember exactly what Jaggard had said, there was that part of him which was asking again, and more insistently, whose side are you on, Tom Arkenshaw?

  Audley found a grin somewhere. ‘Well, if you do that I guess I can’t grumble. And if Panin’s telling the truth, then you don’t have too much to worry about.’

  But that only reminded Tom of his own unanswered question. ‘I mean, is he telling the truth—about Zarubin’s father, David?’

  ‘Hah!’ Audley wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Well, at least that could be true—yes!’ Audley started to swing away from him again. ‘Let’s go! He’s going to get to the next rendezvous before us as it is, damn it! How far is it—to this place of his, where the Eagles have landed—?’

  ‘I don’t know—’ Audley was past him already ‘—until I see the map in the car … But, David
—“Dunsterforce”—what was that?’

  ‘Huh! You may well ask, boy!’ Audley half-chuckled, half-growled over his shoulder. ‘That’s a thing of beauty, that is—fact improving on fiction, and heaping irony on the top of it: the only reason no one remembers Dunsterforce today is because no one combines all the talents of Kipling and Buchan and Le Carre … God! But I’d have loved to be there!’ Sniff. ‘Or probably I wouldn’t, with the way the Cabinet chickened out—chickened out after Wilson chickened out, admittedly, in spite of Cabot Lodge doing his best … ’

  ‘Wilson?’ Tom was half-breathless again. ‘Harold Wilson—?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, no!’ Audley’s stride lengthened again. ‘President Wilson, I’m talking about—1919, 1920ish … 1920, it would have been. The idea was to get the Americans into the Black Sea, after the Russian Revolution, rather as we got them into Greece after the last war … Bryce—Lord Bryce—put it to Cabot Lodge, and Cabot Lodge swung the Senate. But Wilson wouldn’t play. So poor old General Dunsterville was left out on a limb down in the back of beyond, on the Caspian Sea. Which, of course, he’d always expected to be—lovely man, Lionel Dunsterville! Spoke even more languages than you do, Tom … But I suppose I can hardly expect you to know anything about his romantic little fiasco—not while your Polish ancestors were beating the daylights out of Trotsky outside Warsaw, anyway.’

  Tom’s confusion increased. Panin’s parting aside about ‘Dunsterforce’ had gone over his head, and now Audley’s ‘Dunsterville’ merely followed it.

  And he was falling behind again—

  ‘David—’

  ‘It’s all true, though—“Dunsterforce”—’ It was as though the old man had five-league boots ‘—however unlikely it sounds. In fact, that’s almost certainly where the Navy story comes from, which sounds apocryphal but is probably just as true—about the fish jam … long before my time, or yours … Long before my father’s time—more like my grandfather’s time!’