October Men

by Anthony Price

  “Not Little Bird, signore. This contact of his—the Russian chappie he wouldn’t tell you about. Didn’t he want anything? Did he spill the beans simply out of love for the West?”

  Narva stared at him, slowly subsiding. Then he shrugged. “There was no money in it, anyway, that I know. When I asked that same question at the beginning Hotzendorff said that no money was required. He said the deed was its own reward.”

  A political protester, thought Richardson. Or a disaffected technocrat. Or an admirer of some dead poet or persecuted novelist, or even a Russian Jew. If there was anything in this version of the impossible it could be any one of those.

  Audley murmured something unintelligible to himself. “We’re still straying from the point. You wanted facts and he didn’t give them to you—“

  “How do you know that?” interrupted Narva.

  “Because you’ve been saying it all along.” There was a sudden nuance of weariness in Audley’s voice. “’Nothing spectacular’—and the known facts were against him all the way. But you threw your money into the North Sea all the same.” Audley broke off for one moment. “And for that he had to give you proof—just one bit of total proof.”

  The two men stared at each other over the word like dogs over a buried bone. One dog knew the bone was there, because that was where he had buried it; the other dog also knew it was there because other dogs’ bones were what he lived on.

  “Yes, Professore Audley—he gave me proof.”

  “What proof?”

  “The best proof in the world: his death.”

  Not one bone, but two hundred and six of them. Tibias and fibias, big juicy thigh bones full of marrow and little crunchy finger bones. All the bones that went to make a man. So brittle that a chance blow might crack them, yet strong enough to lie in the earth for a million years.

  Narva sighed. “You are once more a good guesser, professore— I pushed him. … It happened that I needed a new field for investment. One inside Europe, politically stable—that was very attractive. And this was the time to start if what he was saying was the truth, before the bigger companies totally committed themselves … before the stampede…”

  Now he was explaining himself, almost justifying himself, in a way that was equally uncharacteristic. It was almost as though he regretted making good: Richardson began uncertainly to revise his earlier conclusion.

  “How did he die?” Audley’s harsh question interrupted the process of revision.

  “How?” Narva shook his head. “Officially—he had a heart attack. I have been able to find out no more than that.”

  “But unofficially?”

  “Unofficially? There is no unofficially. I do not have the resources to investigate a man’s death in Moscow. All I have is his last message, and there was no heart attack in that.”

  “What was there in it, then?”

  “I will tell you first how it came about, professore. In the first place I pressed him for proof that this was not a mere precautionary plan. And then I said it was not even enough to know that the Russians were convinced there was oil there, I had to know how they knew this. And above all I had to have the locations of the fields—whether these were in the British sector, or the Norwegian or the Dutch. I told him that without this certainty his information was without value. And I told him there was very little time left.

  “He replied that it would be dangerous to try to go too fast. I would have to be patient, but that he would do his best. In the meantime he asked me to get him a camera—something like the Exakta, which was the East German camera made for espionage work. He said that as a courier he had no such equipment, and couldn’t get any without drawing attention to himself—“

  Narva fell silent suddenly. Then he squared his shoulders. “I had a suitable camera sent to him. But—I told him that he had better use it quickly.”

  “You had begun to believe him?”

  Narva looked at Audley for a moment without replying. “I would like to think so, professore. But I think also I had become greedy. The new Xenophon rig was almost ready for sea, and I had the opportunity of buying a large block of their shares at a competitive price. If what Little Bird said was true I could make a killing. For me the time was exactly right.”

  “But not for Little Bird?”

  “The Little Bird sent me one more message,” said Narva. “It was very short, the shortest he ever sent. He said his contact had conclusive proofs—submarine survey methods, scientific data and locations in British and Norwegian areas. But there was a risk that someone was on their track, so they were both coming out at once. They would meet my representative in Helsinki in one week’s time. But in the meantime I must get his family out of East Germany as fast as possible. His wife would be ready with the children.”

  There was no longer any hint of feeling, of emotion, in the Italian’s voice, and by God there didn’t need to be, thought Richardson—because everyone in the room knew too well how to dress that last message in the widow’s weeds of reality.

  It was a dead man communicating, a man who already knew he was as good as dead when he transmitted it but was still reaching against hope for life. Even now, long after the thing was over and done, Little Bird’s despair was like a view of some distant star exploding—an event at once ancient history and immediate tragedy.

  “I had already approached Westphal and we had a contingency contract. He took thirty-six hours to get Frau Hotzendorff and the children out of East Germany into Czechoslovakia, and another thirty-six to get them into Austria. And I had the Xenophon stock within a fortnight. Six weeks later Phillips found their condensate field in the Norwegian sector, next to the British block 23/37.”

  “But you never saw the Exakta film?”

  “Since then Phillips has proved the Ekofisk field, and West Ekofisk and Eldfisk—“ Narva ignored Audley’s question “—Xenophon has Freya and Valkyrie, British Petroleum has Forties, Shell-Esso has proved Auk, Amoco has Montrose. And there will be more, Professore Audley, you can be sure of that… And I made my killing. Or killings, if I am to include those who enriched me.”

  Again, a rare bird—even rarer than he had seemed before: a tycoon with a sense of sin. And of one sin in particular, and that the occupational sin of tycoons—greed! Clearly, whatever turned Eugenic Narva on, it wasn’t the piling up of mere treasure on earth: he was driven by much more complex motives.

  “So you have no idea about the identity of his contact?”

  Richardson looked sidelong at Audley. Now, there was a man with no sense of sin at all … and a man now totally cured of that fourth sin of his which had set all the hungry cats among the pigeons again. The problem evidently absorbed him so much that it would never occur to him to be sorry for Narva’s good Catholic conscience, only to gamble on its existence. The only real sin David Audley might recognise now was failure.

  “No. I have told you so already.”

  “And the woman—the widow Hotzendorff?” Audley went on remorselessly.

  Narva looked at Audley coldly for a moment, then shook his head. “She knows nothing.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Narva was saved from replying by the click of the door behind him. Without turning away from them he inclined his head to listen to the white-coated doorman’s urgent whisper.

  Only in that concentrated silence the whisper was just that bit too loud for secrecy.

  This was the second of the day’s conversations which had been unexpectedly disturbed by General Raffaele Montuori, thought Richardson.

  Only this time he was doing it in person.

  XV

  WHAT IMPRESSED RICHARDSON most about General Raffaele Montuori was neither his rank and beautiful uniform nor the fact that his arrival scared little Rat face out of his cardboard shoes, but the simple white and blue of the British Military Cross embedded in his rainbow display of decorations. All the others might mean something or nothing, but the MC didn’t come up with the rations.


  That was what the book had said about Montuori, of course: he was an old timer close to retirement, but still a hard man, a throwback to days of the Roman legions whom even Sir Frederick had treated with a deference which wasn’t purely diplomatic. But it was still a good thing to be reminded of it by that ribbon.

  Not that Narva conceded him any special treatment.

  “General—this is an unexpected honour,” he said formally. “But you are welcome in my house.”

  “Signor Narva—“ Montuori bowed “—it grieves me that you have been disturbed in this way, at this hour.”

  “I understand the necessity for it, General.”

  “Nevertheless we are grateful for your co-operation.”

  Richardson had the feeling that the two men were communicating very different messages to each other than their apparent platitudes suggested.

  “It is freely given.”

  “That is understood.” The General paused. “Though I would expect no less in the circumstances.”

  So that was the way of it: Narva had served notice that he had talked because he chose to talk, and Montuori had indicated that he would have had to talk whether he liked it or not. But being practical men in temporary agreement neither was prepared to make an issue of the matter.

  “Signor Narva has been extremely helpful.” Boselli’s head bobbed. “He has been helpfulness itself.”

  Momentarily the General’s eyes left Narva’s face. But they settled not on Boselli, but on Audley.

  “In that case it would be unreasonable to take more of your valuable time, signore,” said the General. “But if I might be permitted to speak privately with these gentlemen we may then be able to leave you in peace—“

  Any similarity between Superintendent Cox’s retreat from Sir Frederick’s room and Narva’s retirement was purely accidental, Richardson decided as he watched the General pour himself a generous glass of Caprese. Anyway, what mattered now was the man who remained, not the one who had gone.

  The General turned towards them.

  “More wine, Dr. Audley?” he said in almost unaccented English.

  “Thank you.” Audley held out his glass.

  “Captain Richardson?”

  “Thanks, General. But I don’t use the rank now.”

  “Indeed? Why not?”

  “I don’t wear the uniform.”

  “Your mother must be disappointed.”

  Richardson held his glass steady. “What makes you think so?”

  “She always intended you to follow in your father’s footsteps. Assault Engineers—is that not so?”

  “You know my mother, sir?”

  “My dear boy—there was a time after the war when I might have become your stepfather.” Montuori smiled. “You will be so good as to remember me to her, perhaps?”

  “Of course.” Richardson nodded. “It’s a small world.”

  “Yes, I have always found it so. And never more so than now… Would you not agree, Dr. Audley?”

  “I think the probabilities usually even out the improbabilities in the end, actually.”

  “A somewhat unromantic view. But you may be right—I gather you usually are—stop hovering, Pietro!”

  Boselli blinked nervously. “Sir—I—I was wondering about Villari—“

  “And I am wondering about Ruelle. Did Signor Narva’s helpfulness extend in that direction?”

  Boselli shook his head. “No, sir. But we did not expect him to know anything—in that direction.”

  Richardson looked at the little Italian with renewed interest. He had kept as quiet as a church mouse during Audley’s duel with Narva, almost as though he wanted no part of it. And his present nervousness was obvious. But they knew better now—that the quietness was a deceptive front and the nerves were those of the hunter at the smell of his quarry, Ruelle.

  “That is true,” admitted the General, eyeing Audley speculatively. “One of your probabilities, Dr. Audley.”

  “And Signor Villari?” Boselli’s voice sounded stretched and thin.

  The General turned slowly towards him. “Armando didn’t make it, I’m afraid.”

  Boselli drew a long breath.

  “I—am sorry, General.”

  “Yes, so am I.” The General straightened up. “The bullet was touching the heart. It was just too close, that’s all—too close.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Yes. But it was not your fault, Pietro.” The General nodded. “Tell me, Dr. Audley—how is your wife?”

  Richardson looked at the General in surprise which was instantly transformed to dismay as it dawned on him that this was no social inquiry—the unexpected question was delivered with a cold precision which altogether precluded that. So it could only mean that the Italians’ patience was exhausted and that they were prepared to turn the screws as ruthlessly on Audley as he had done on Narva only a few minutes before.

  “For God’s sake!” Richardson snapped. “Mrs. Audley’s got nothing to do with this, General Montuori.”

  “Indeed?” The General kept his eyes on Audley. “I’d like to hear you say as much, Dr. Audley.”

  “She’s—“

  “Shut up, Peter,” said Audley quietly.

  “Damn it, David—“

  “Shut up!” Audley raised his hand. “You tell me, General—how is my wife?”

  “I wish I knew.” The General nodded slowly at Audley. “And I think you wish you knew too—eh?”

  Richardson stared at them. “What the hell—?”

  “Calm yourself, Captain.” At last the General turned back to him. “I think perhaps you have misunderstood me, boy.”

  “I don’t understand you, if that’s what you mean—either of you.”

  “No, I believe you don’t—I really believe you don’t!” The General looked at him quizzically. “Where do you think Mrs. Audley is at this moment?”

  “In Rome. With her baby.”

  “No, not in Rome, Captain. And not with her baby.” The General paused. “We made an error, you see. After Ostia, we looked for Dr. Audley and we forgot to look for his wife. But we took it for granted that she was with him. Fortunately Boselli here had the wit to suggest that she might be engaged on some enterprise of her own when he found that she was not with him.”

  “Faith—?” Richardson made no attempt to hide his disbelief. The idea of David sending Faith on any dangerous enterprise—and of Faith agreeing to go—was plain ridiculous. “You must be joking!”

  “No, Captain Richardson. I am not joking—even though Boselli was quite wrong, of course.”

  “Quite—wrong?” Richardson stared at Boselli, whose surprise now clearly equalled his own. “Wrong?”

  “Our second mistake. No—I should say my mistake. And Dr. Audley’s in the first place, I’m afraid. To underrate the nature of the beast—“

  “I made no mistake,” said Audley sharply. “Except to assume the security of my own department—that was a mistake, I agree. But I didn’t even know the beast was loose, as it happens.”

  “Good God Almighty!” exclaimed Richardson as the jigsaw pieces in his mind shook out of the old ill-fitting pattern into a new and hideously better-fitting one.

  David’s extraordinary nervousness—his lies and his inconsistency. Even his urgent appeal Get me out of here … and Richardson had let friendship and bitter embarrassment confuse him, stopping his suspicions from crystallising.

  “They’ve taken Faith!”

  Audley gave no sign that he had even heard: it was Montuori who nodded.

  Richardson’s brain accelerated: a kidnapping … the oldest and crudest trick there was, although in high fashion now. And still the cruellest and most effective trick too—in the right circumstances.

  Yet although the KGB was capable of it, the more so with someone like Ruelle at the helm of the operation, that still didn’t make this thing explicable, pattern or no pattern.

  “But—for God’s sake, David—why? What have they got to gain?”


  “I would have thought that was obvious, Captain,” said Montuori. “Since they have not stopped Dr. Audley from taking action, then they must want him to do some of their work for them.”

  “But they don’t need him, sir. If they already know about Little Bird—“

  “But they don’t,” Audley cut in.

  “What do you mean?”

  Audley sighed. “I mean the Russians know nothing about Little Bird—or about Faith.”

  “But Ruelle—and Korbel—?”

  “Ruelle and Korbel—yes, they know… But tell me, Peter, what do you know about Ruelle and Korbel?”

  “They work for the KGB, damn it.”

  “Ruelle did once maybe, but a long time ago—and Korbel won’t for much longer. They are two old men, Peter. Two failures who have outlived their usefulness, and they know it. And for that reason they have become very dangerous.”

  Where do flies go in the wintertime? Nobody knows—they just disappear—

  “You think Ruelle is acting independently?” said the General. “Without official sanction?”

  “I don’t think, I know.”

  “How?”

  “Because he told me so, General Montuori. When he abducted my wife at Ostia he made it very clear to me that he was answerable to nobody, and that I was to deal only with him.”

  “And what does he want of you, Dr. Audley?”

  “He wants the name of the high-ranking official who leaked the North Sea oil strike to Richard von Hotzendorff in 1968. He also wants—or Peter Korbel wants—the details of the report Hotzendorff made.”

  “And just what does he propose to do with those items?”

  “That he didn’t say. I can only guess that Korbel believes the report is worth a fortune still. But as for Ruelle—“ Audley shook his head “—perhaps he thinks he can use that name to restore his own. I don’t know whether it’s power or mischief that he’s after— maybe both.”

  So that was it, thought Richardson: not a deep-laid Russian plot after all, but a stratagem by two twisted, embittered old men!

  They had known each other once and had maybe met again to curse the ill-fortune which had betrayed them, and the years which had left them high and dry, and which were now fast running out on them. So naturally they had jumped at the last unexpected chance which Hemingway the librarian had dumped in their laps.