Harry danced in front of them. “One pint of draught Guinness—one pint of best bitter—one large Founder’s Port … and eight minutes to ‘Time’ gentlemen. Same again?”
“Same again,” agreed Howard Morris. Then he frowned at Mitchell. “Are we celebrating or drowning our sorrows?”
“Is Oliver St John Latimer alive and well? Or dead? Or in durance vile?” Audley’s spectacles had slipped again. “What tidings, Paul?”
“David, I told you—” The CIA man was hushed by Audley’s gesture.
So the Americans had got the news as well, thought Mitchell. And Morris had presumably been deputed to pass on some of it, and to find out how the British were reacting.
“He’s all right, David.”
Audley nodded. “So we are celebrating our sorrows. Oliver has been lucky—and it is always better to be lucky than beautiful.” He raised his glass. “I drink to our deputy-leader!”
Mitchell drank. “Jack wants you back, David.” Then he thought: we might as well hear what Morris chose to reveal. “But I could use a couple of pints first. So tell us about the bocage.”
Audley’s eyes narrowed slightly. “If you insist—”
“I don’t insist,” said Howard Morris.
“But you are now irrelevant, Colonel Morris … It was in ’44, as I say … And it befell this armoured regiment—”
“As it might be … the West Sussex Dragoons, for instance?” interrupted the American.
“As it might be any poor devils—the Northamptonshire Yeomanry, or the Bombay-Irish Lancers—” Audley waved him away “—taking a breather before next morning’s massacre … And they damn well knew there was a German 88 somewhere on the ridge ahead, waiting to take the first poor sod … But they didn’t know exactly where he was, you see?” He spoke to Mitchell only.
It was the same with all old wars—Troy and Waterloo and Normandy, thought Mitchell. Only those who could remember the minor details still cared about them.
“So … there was this road block, with a warning notice, to stop the unwary from going too far.” Audley took another sip. “And—would you believe it?—some careless fellow took it down, and forgot to put it back … so some other poor unsuspecting fellow from another unit swanned down the road in his armoured car and was brewed up … It was really quite scandalous.” He shook his head. “Quite scandalous.”
“Yeah,” agreed Howard Morris. “But you did find out where the Kraut gun was, I take it?”
“Right. We—the Bombay-Irish Lancers—they mortared the daylights out of that one next morning … Unfortunately, they had a couple more on the reverse slope, only that’s another story—which I shall not tell you.” Audley looked at Mitchell. “But I do think that Bill Macallan did plan to send me in where angels feared to tread, to … to find out if there was an 88-millimetre anti-tank gun in Sion Crossing—would that be about right?” He paused. “Who was he?”
Mitchell glanced at Howard Morris. But, if Audley was popping the question so openly, that must be the way he wanted it. “His name was Robinson, apparently, David.”
“Robinson?” Audley frowned. “Do we know him?”
“Not from Adam. He was on Macallan’s American Debreczen list from long ago, but nobody sussed him out after Macallan was sacked.”
“What did he do? This Robinson?”
Mitchell shrugged. “Nothing very much. He was a successful industrialist. Mostly chemicals, with some high tech later on … and some political clout—he had a finger in a lot of pies in the south … They’re checking up like mad now, apparently.”
“And how did he come to Sion Crossing?”
“He simply retired there.” Mitchell took another drink. “He was … he was a sort of recluse, with a private army hired to keep his property private. But also lots of money for local charities—he was very patriotic, and all that.”
“Yeah!” Howard Morris grimaced. “Like—the Star-Spangled Banner and the Bonnie Blue Flag, and not a whiff of the Red Flag, is what you mean.”
Audley cocked an eye. “What was it—an ultra-safe house? To co-ordinate the KGB coverage of the Atlantic coast?” The eye cocked at Morris as well as Mitchell. “Or maybe a communications centre?”
Mitchell tried Morris too. “We don’t know yet—?”
“Nor do we.” The CIA man’s shoulders lifted. “They had a lot of sophisticated equipment scattered around … Sensors in the woods near the house. And Mulholland tripped a warning net in the river … In fact some of the stuff self-destructed before we could get to it, so we won’t know for sure till we’ve picked up the pieces … It all happened rather quickly—your Wing-Commander Roskill became somewhat insistent on the subject of Oliver Latimer’s survival, David. So the Sheriff and the Feds went in hard and fast.”
“Ah … but you were all ready to do it.” Audley looked down his nose at his friend. “You knew something was up—you were all set to go in, with the FBI-CIA liaison group, you tricky sod!”
“Not me, David—not me!” Morris shook his head. “I was just as much taken for a ride as you were … I only met the Cookridge woman—I never saw the false Cookridge … She got him into the embassy, into her step-father’s ante-room. I got the call from there, so I thought it was kosher—it was a con job, and I was conned … Remember The Sting?”
“Who was he?”
“The false Cookridge? We don’t know that yet, either. Probably a bit-part player off Broadway. Or a pro con-man … We’re still checking.” Another shrug. “The fact that she was genuine was good enough for me, anyway. And I guess I was good enough for Oliver.”
Now they were at one of Colonel Butler’s question marks. “What had she got to gain? Why did she do it?”
“She loved her father—her real father … And as he was dying he made a plan, to vindicate himself. All she did was to carry it out.”
Audley swayed forward. “And Winston Mulholland?”
“Macallan briefed Mulholland himself—and paid him. He knew Lucy couldn’t handle a job like this by herself.” Morris drank. “Not that she didn’t have the balls for it … I figured her for one tough lady when I met her, and by all accounts she’s her father’s daughter right enough.” He wiped his moustache. “But it seems she had second thoughts about your Mr Latimer, and paid Mulholland danger money to pull him out. Which I somehow don’t think she’d have done for you, old buddy, with what her daddy told her; you were scheduled for full repayment, with accumulated interest.” The white teeth showed. “I guess you could call that ‘capital punishment’. You were lucky, man!”
Audley’s face hardened. “She’s talking then?”
“Singing like a bird.” In spite of friendship, Morris didn’t seem too unhappy. “Unlike your esteemed colleague, who is maintaining a somewhat battered stiff upper lip, as you might put it. Which is perhaps just as well, because it seems there are a lot of dead bodies lying around out there—and floating in rivers—they’re all over the goddam’ place … And the local sheriff and the Feds, plus our liaison group and the State Troopers—they had a shoot-out on some bridge …” Morris rolled an eye at Mitchell. “I tell you, Captain, it sounds like a re-run of the War between the States. But old Hugh, your gimpy Wing-Commander—he’s blaming it all on Mulholland. He says that Mr Latimer wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“And what does Latimer say?”
“He maintains their joint innocence.” The eye rolled back to Audley. “It’s rather odd—he’s insisting that Mulholland acted under his orders … In fact, he refused to leave without a written undertaking that no charges will be made. He’s really been rather difficult.”
Mitchell gave Audley a quick look. “And what does Mulholland say?”
“He doesn’t say anything. He’s in intensive care, full of bullets.”
That was an odd sequence, thought Mitchell. “Oliver doesn’t know one end of a gun from the other, Colonel.”
Morris raised the hand which didn’t hold his glass. “I believe you, having met th
e gentleman in question. But the Sheriff thinks differently … Still, I’m sure we’ll go along with whatever Colonel Butler decides, in the circumstances. We don’t want any Anglo-American disagreements—okay?”
Morris was doing his duty, decided Mitchell. There was so much dirty linen here that all those still alive would be given a fresh set—and an airline ticket—even including Winston Spencer Mulholland, if he survived intensive care.
“What’s going to happen to the woman?” Audley was still hardfaced, almost vengeful.
Morris regarded him quizzically. “You tell me what she’s done, and I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to her.” He scratched his head. “She’s made fools of us—and you … But we’re not rushing to throw the book at her for that.” He finished scratching. “Even if we can find the right words in the book … which I doubt we can do … I think we’ll leave her well alone, David.”
Audley said nothing.
Morris nodded. “You ask me … I think Bill Macallan worked that out too. That’s why he hired Mulholland—to do the dirty work and to protect her, from us as well as the other side.”
Audley considered that reply for a long five seconds. Then he smiled his own peculiar Audley-smile, coldly disarming. “Yes … you’re probably right: The less said, the better, as my old Latin master used to say … yes.” Then he sat back, nursing his glass. “Yes. But then, perhaps you could answer one small question?”
“Fire away.” Morris composed himself seriously.
“I will.” Half a lifetime before, as a callow youth, Audley had commanded a tank in Normandy, Mitchell remembered. “Just when did you tumble to Miss Lucy Cookridge and Winston Mulholland, Howard?”
“When?” Morris’s frontal armour was thick enough, but only just.
“Yes.” Audley was flanking him now, looking for the fuel tank. “I know how Hugh Roskill got to Sion Crossing, because we sent him there. But how did the entire Union army get there so quickly?”
“Ah …” Morris nodded, as though a great truth hitherto hidden from him had been revealed.
“Amazing efficiency, would that be?” Audley was hull-down behind Morris now, with his gun-layer’s finger on the button. “Or miraculous quick-reaction? It does you credit, either way.”
Morris retreated into his almost-empty glass. “A bit of both.” He put the glass down empty, wiped his moustache, and signalled again to Harry. “But they did get a tip-off.”
“A tip-off?”
“Uh-huh. About you, old buddy.” Morris signalled again. “Not me, of course—I was as far up the creek as you were—out in the cold, and frozen in … I was conned, like you.” Morris nodded to Harry. “Same again, please.”
“And just in time, sir,” said Harry, unsurprised.
“Yes.” Morris came back to Audley. “The first word was that you were up to something on our patch, David—that you’d hired Mulholland to clear the way for you … And they thought your budget might just about run to him.”
“I hired Mulholland?”
“That was the tip. Meeting in London first. Then a rendezvous at Atlanta airport.” Morris nodded. “And we—they—do take you seriously … so they staked Atlanta to receive you.” With no glass, Morris was able to spread both hands. “You should be complimented. They wouldn’t do it for just anybody!”
A word formed on Audley’s lips, but Harry arrived with the drinks to forestall him.
“TIME, GENTLEMEN, PLEASE!” Harry winked at the American. “The clock’s five minutes fast, of course, sir. Take your time.”
“We are all drinking too much,” said Audley. “It may be good for the Chancellor of the Exchequer, but it’s bad for us. As of now—after this one—I shall go on the wagon for a week—or until next Friday, anyway … But Latimer turned up—right?”
The extra minutes had perked up Morris. “Same old firm—trusted colleague … senior colleague—it fitted, you see.”
That was nasty, thought Mitchell.
“And Mulholland turned up, too.” Morris nodded. “Having left a trail from London a mile wide, for any fool to follow. And that was enough for our man, with a Fed breathing down his neck … Because we’re not supposed to trespass on their patch—it was already getting sweaty under the armpits by then—”
The FBI and the CIA treading on each other’s feet: Mitchell translated that into British English, and took the point, having on occasion experienced his own problems with the Special Branch.
“So Mulholland met Latimer—” Audley had no time for union demarcation disputes, typically.
“With the Iron Lady Lucy in attendance.” Morris lowered his face and raised his glass. “And that really screwed them up—Miss Lucy Cookridge—she made it political—huh?”
“Your people identified her?”
“Jesus Christ—what do you think, David!” Morris slammed the glass down. “Mulholland and Senator Cookridge’s daughter! That really slowed our people up—the same way it slowed you.”
That was exactly right, thought Mitchell: the Senator’s respectability and their fear of offending him had inhibited their reactions. And that, presumably, had been the intention of the plotters.
Morris weakened. “And by then they’d had another tip-off anyway.”
“Oh yes?” Audley pretended to drink. “And where were all these useful intelligences coming from?”
He wasn’t even asking what the tip-off was—because he knew that was coming: the truth was, drunk or sober, or midway between those extremes, they both knew their business and each other, these two.
“From a pay-phone—a call-box—” Morris corrected himself “—to the right number. Mulholland knew the form. That was what he was paid for.”
Audley waited.
“The word was that you were interested in Debreczen again, David. They couldn’t ignore that—not after they spotted Latimer in Atlanta.”
“So what did they do?”
“They started moving men in—by agreement with the Feds and the locals …” Morris pursed his lips. “It was getting kind of delicate, what with Mulholland and the Cookridge girl … and Latimer.”
“And Mr Robinson,” supplemented Audley mildly.
“And him, yeah.” Morris showed his teeth. “There was this Civil War parade going on in town. No one was quite sure what was happening, I guess.”
“Until Jack Butler told Hugh Roskill to start making waves?” Audley’s voice was still mild. “May one inquire further about Mr Robinson? Or are your lips sealed?”
Morris made a face. “Do you need me to put Robinson together?”
“I suppose not. He must have been a long-time traitor. Debreczen and before, even?”
“All the way back to the war, they reckon.” Morris nodded soberly. “He was OSS. Left the service and went into industry. Never touched politics until near the end of his career—a real deep-cover man … No one suspected a thing.”
“Except Bill Macallan,” murmured Audley.
“Except old Bill. But who was going to listen to him? In his day old Bill wasn’t even sure about the President of the United States—remember?”
“How could I forget?” A muscle twitched in Audley’s cheek. “Robinson’s going to be awkward for you—” He stopped suddenly. “Or is he?”
“Well …” Morris’s expression became bland. “It all depends on how things are at Sion Crossing right now. But there was this explosion in one of the out-buildings, like I told you … Sounds to me like that could have the makings of a tragic accident.” He shook his head. “When people get careless with explosives—say, when they’re experimenting … Lots of guys can get killed that way, David.”
For a moment Audley was silent again. “Yes … yes, I can see how that might happen, Howard.”
“Uh-huh. Seems there was a senior Russian official from the UN visiting him at the time, too. But he was lucky—like your Mr Latimer … They were probably walking in the grounds, admiring the magnolias or something.”
“Or somethin
g.” Audley nodded.
“Or something,” agreed Morris. “So they’ll both be going home very soon, I’d guess.”
“Like Coleridge’s wedding guest—sadder and wiser.” Audley looked round the empty bar suddenly. “I think it’s time for us to go—Jack will be worrying about us.”
Harry appeared magically, wiping a glass. “Will that be all, gentlemen?”
“Almost all, Harry.” Audley smiled at Morris. “We are going, but Colonel Morris will have one for the road on my slate—is that okay?”
“For you, sir—” Harry moved back towards the beer pumps.
“Just tell me one other thing, Howard.”
“If I can, old buddy.” Morris smiled back.
“Two things, actually … Bill Macallan must have kept up a lot of contacts—to suss out Robinson, and to know how to put his hand on Mulholland … It even looks as though he might have known about my little Debreczen tickle last year … He certainly knew a lot about me, it would seem—eh?”
Morris thought about the question seriously. “Certainly looks that way, I agree … He did have friends. Because there was always a school of thought said he’d been railroaded … And when he got really sick … people visited him. I guess maybe they talked too much.”
“Yes.” Audley nodded. “So just what is the official thinking—did he really get on to Robinson by chance, because of his Civil War studies? Or did he use his Civil War studies to cover his investigation? Which came first—the snake or the egg?”
Morris frowned. “Hell, David—that’s a hard one … And I’m not privy to official thinking—I’m pretty much in the doghouse.” He looked at Audley intently. “All I know is that he was a helluva smart guy. And he was bedridden. And he was dying.”
“Yes. And they do say that concentrates the mind wonderfully.” Audley nodded at Harry as the final pint appeared.
“It does, sir?” Harry cocked his head. “Would that be an income tax demand?”
“It would in your case, Harry.” Audley passed a twenty pound note across the bar. “Because you’re part of the black economy.”
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