'David was just explaining . . .' Sophie moved loyally to break the deadlock, and then faltered '. . .he was just telling me why he knew you'd be here, Peter . . .' She faltered again.
'Oh yes?' Richardson sank into one of the dog-battered armchairs.
'But I still don't see how — ?' She waited for him to take up the story. Then when he failed her, she turned back to Audley. 'Which of you won the champagne, David?'
Audley watched Richardson. 'Peter bought the champagne —
the extra crate.'
Sophie recognized the unstraightness of the answer, but couldn't make sense of it. 'So you lost, Peter — ?'
Richardson was watching Audley. 'Fred Clinton said I was going to lose.'
'He said the same to me,' murmured Audley deliberately.
But. . . typical Fred, to spur them each in the same way!
'He also told me that David Audley didn't like to lose.'
Richardson smiled at her suddenly. 'He omitted to tell me that David Audley was a dirty player.'
'I didn't play dirty.' Audley addressed Sophie. 'I simply let Peter see my version of the evening, that's all.'
'Not all. He advised me that it would be better if I conceded dummy1
defeat. So I did. But mine would have been the winning entry, if we'd played fair.'
Sophie frowned interrogatively at Audley. 'I don't understand.'
To his surprise he didn't want her to think ill of him. 'I did give him Fred's champagne. So the honours were equal in the end.'
'You had a bad conscience!' Richardson accused him. 'You lost.'
'Not at all, my dear fellow! I was your host that night. I couldn't let you be out of pocket.'
'I still don't understand —' Sophie accused them both.
They looked at each other, each waiting for the other to speak.
'It's really . . . quite simple.' Audley decided that he must break first. 'We didn't know about Fred Clinton's game, of course.'
'But we played a game of our own, that evening, Sophie. You see.' Richardson cut in. 'Or . . .it was that tame Member of Parliament of yours — the barrister? Sir Laurie Deacon — it was his idea.' He stared at Audley. 'But he called it the
"Kipling game". So it may have been yours originally, David
— was it?' He shook his head, as though to clear it. 'So—'
Candlelight.
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Faint smell of damp beneath the fading dinner smells.
(Those were the days when Faith hadn't quite defeated the rising damp; and, of course, the cellar-door had been opened, to bring up another bottle).
Laurie Deacon: ' That fellow you've all been looking for — the one who did a bunk . . . The word is that you've found him, David — right?'
'Not me, Laurie. Peter here did the finding.'
Peter Richardson: ' Not me, either. It was Sir Frederick who did the finding — like Sherlock Holmes. He said the chap hadn't really done a bunk — hadn't defected . . . He'd just had a bit of a breakdown. And he wanted to be found . . .
only by someone sympathetic, that's all. So it was just psychology.'
Laurie Deacon: ' Ah — yes! He'd be one of Fred's old mates, from the war, of course. So Fred knew all about him, I suppose. But he had a pretty good hidey-hole, all the same
— the Special Branch fellows were tearing their hair, I heard tell.'
Peter Richardson: ' He had ... a friend he could trust. That's all.'
Laurie Deacon: ' That's not all — that's everything, and a bit more, by God! It's just like in that book you gave my daughter, David — when she was little . . . and you ordered me to read it to her at bedtime. I've never forgotten it.
Because it could be any of us.'
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'What book was that, Laurie? Pippa's had so many birthdays — ?'
Laurie Deacon: ' That Kipling book, of course — your favourite, you said. . . And there was this story in it, about these three old Norman knights scheming to prevent another invasion of England. And one of the things they do is to plant a false message on the enemy, across the Channel . . . the sort of thing you chaps do all the time these days, I shouldn't wonder . . . telling 'em that all their plans had been betrayed — remember?'
'Yes. "Write to any man that all is betrayed, and even the Pope himself would sleep uneasily", Laurie. That's why you've got a numbered account in Zurich, eh?'
Laurie Deacon: ' Huh! Every sensible man takes precautions.
In fact let's play a little game, then. If all was betrayed, have you got a bolt-hole? Is there anyone you'd trust absolutely, life-and-death? Will you play my "Kipling Game" — ?'
Peter Richardson: ' There's a girl, lives in the Cotswolds . . .
Sophie Kenyan. Married my best friend . . . should have married me. But she wouldn't give me up to anyone —'
'I'll never know why I said it. But I did,' Richardson gave Sophie an apologetic look. 'I could have bitten off my tongue . . . Too much of David's claret, maybe. And . . . I must have thought I was among friends.'
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'And so you were.' Audley fended off Buster irritably. 'I promised him his secret was safe with me, Sophie. And I told him that my word-of-honour was good for a thousand years
— like Sir Richard Dalyngridge's — "Dalyn-gridge" with a "y", actually — in the Kipling story. And I have kept my word.'
And now he really could smile genuinely at her at last: after this, so long as she was present, Richardson could deny him nothing. 'Only then, you see, Frederick Clinton challenged us to his little game. Or, his "experiment", as he called it ...
Memory versus memory, Old Dog versus Young Dog, Sophie.'
'Why did he do that?' She looked from one to the other.
'Huh!' Richardson got up to pour himself another drink. 'He could be a mischievous old sod when he wanted to be. He probably wanted to take David down a peg, at that!'
'Or teach you a thing or two, my lad.'
'He certainly did that, by God!' Richardson shook his head at Sophie. 'I was his very own new recruit, my love. And in one of their silly aptitude games — one of their less dirty games —
I'd scored rather high marks, for memory apparently. So he wanted to show me off, I reckon.' He drank. 'To show how smart he was by showing how smart I was, when it came to
"automatic recall" — "automatic recall"?' He cocked the jargon at Audley. 'But he waited two or three months before he hit us with his "experiment", didn't he? Yes — it was exactly six months before I went into the field for the first time, playing games for Jack Butler on Hadrian's Wall.
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Because that was on a — ' He bit the rest off with a scowl, and pushed the dog out of his way to regain his chair. 'Get over, you great lump!'
It was on a Monday? Or a Friday? Excitement slightly tinged with envy tightened Audley's chest as Richardson automatically displayed his special aptitude before realizing what he was doing.
He smiled at Sophie again. 'I had the pleasure of meeting you that time, because of that, anyway. I wanted to see Peter's paragon of secrecy!'
'And that was his first piece of blackmail.' Richardson nodded at his paragon. 'The second being that, after Fred Clinton had challenged us both, he — ' he pointed ' —
suggested that the crate of champagne was his. Because he was inhibited from providing a full account of the evening by his so-called word-of-honour . . . Otherwise, I would have won — in spite of his plying me with drink, Sophie.'
'No. I would have won.' He had plied Captain Peter Richardson, Fred's clever new boy, with drink, Audley remembered guiltily. 'Our separate reports are still in the files — do you know that, Peter?' He smiled at Sophie, who was regarding them both with a mixture of comprehension and absolute incredulity. 'But without your name, of course.'
The truth was ... it might have been smarter to let the clever new boy win, and give Fred his satisfaction. But he had never liked losing, either then or now. 'I know what you're thinking: childish
games ... all quite ridiculous, eh?'
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Half of her couldn't deny that. But the other half was frightened. So she still stared from one to the other of them.
'And you're right.' It was the frightened half he addressed.
'But that's what happened. And that's why I'm here, not . . .
somebody else.' He nodded to the frightened half. 'Because we both remembered. And Peter also gave me "Richard Dalingridge", just in case I'd forgotten.' Both halves of her were properly frightened now. But he had to be sure of her.
'Because we're not playing silly games now, my dear. We're not playing games at all, now.'
That very nearly substituted gravitas for ancient silliness.
But then a log tumbled on the fire. And the wretched Buster, who had settled into happy oblivion on the hearth, emitted a canine fart so loud that it woke him up, causing him to look round inquiringly.
'Oh, for God's sake, Buster!' Richardson fended the animal off. 'Where the hell did you get him, Sophie?'
'From the animal sanctuary. Here, Buster!' She snapped her fingers and the dog grinned at her. 'He was a stray. Like you, Peter.'
'Indeed? It's like that, is it?' He stared at her for a moment, then settled back in his armchair. 'Okay, Dr Audley! We've played one old game by the old rules —both of us cheating: you wanted to find me all by yourself, to get all the kudos.
And also because you think I can get you out of another of those awkward predicaments in which you specialize, dummy1
maybe?'
That was nasty. And nasty not least because it ignored the element of "keeping faith" which he had so carefully emphasized. But it did have certain other elements of truth, it had to be admitted.
'You were in a bit of a predicament yourself, Major Richardson.' If some elements had to be admitted, then so had others. But he would also pretend an element of decency, if only to keep Sophie on his side. 'But I don't need to go into that, I think.'
But Richardson shook his head. 'I have no secrets from Sophie.' All the same, he looked at her. 'I had debts of honour to settle — she knows that.' He came back to Audley. 'I used the skills I had. Only then I became greedy. But you wouldn't know what it's like to make a lot of money, David — after you've suddenly discovered that you're poor, when you thought you were rich. Because you've never had to worry about money — never mind the debts!'
Little he knew! But, then, the less he (and the rest of the world) knew, the better. 'So then you had the Mafia on your back?' It occurred to him belatedly that maybe Richardson hadn't been such an innocent smuggler after all, but had simply been a more successful one; that, certainly, would account for that hint of reserve in Captain Cuccaro's attitude, not to mention the Mafia's increased interest. 'So when strangers came looking for you just recently, you were already hard to find?'
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'Yes.' Richardson was oblivious to Sophie and the unfragrance of her dog equally: this was the hard side of him which Fred had identified, even before it had been tempted by adversity fifteen years ago. '"Strangers" is right, too: my people didn't know who they were, the other day. Except that they weren't local. But ... I thought maybe it was hired talent.
Only, they don't need to hire anyone.'
'And then someone dropped my name?'
'Yes.' The shutters came down. 'And then I didn't quite know what to expect. Except trouble.'
'And the KGB?'
'And the KGB?' The corner of the man's mouth twitched. 'For Christ's sake, David! What the hell have they got to do with me? After all these years — ?'
'You don't know?'
'The hell I don't!' Richardson's whole face surrounded his frown. 'Do you think I haven't been cudgelling my brains every spare minute, these last twenty-four hours?'
Suddenly, there was something not right. And although Audley didn't know what it was, it was like a knife at his back.
'But David says that you do know, Peter.' It was as though Sophie had picked up the same vibration.
'He does, does he?' Richardson started to reply almost savagely, but then also registered the doubt in her voice.
'Then perhaps he'd also be good enough to give me a clue to dummy1
what it is. Well, David?'
'Do the names Kulik, Prusakov and Lukianov mean anything to you?'
Richardson's face went blank again. 'They sound like a firm of Moscow solicitors.' It was almost as though there was a click as the three names went into that incomparable memory-bank for checking. 'Who have they been soliciting, then?'
'The first two were computer specialists, GRU and KGB
respectively —'
' Were — ?' Still blank. 'And . . . Lukianov?'
'General Lukianov. KGB, ex-GRU . . . ex-Red Army —ex-Spetsnaz.'
'"Was"? Or "is"?' Richardson looked at Sophie quickly.
'Should she be hearing all this?'
Good question! 'You've put her in the middle of it.'
'No I haven't. Go and look at my bolognese, Sophie.'
'No. What's "Spets . . . naz", David?' She folded her arms obstinately.
Sophie! thought Audley suddenly. 'They're the Russian version of our SAS.'
'And none of your business.' Richardson turned back to Audley. 'I've never heard of any of them. I never had anything to do with computers — ours or theirs. Or with anything that was going on over there, come to that. Christ!
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You should know — you must have been through my record enough times now! I never did anything — not as a principal operator, anyway — anything that amounted to a row of beans . . . anything that wasn't straightforward, and signed and sealed and closed, for God's sake!' He half directed the complaint at Sophie. 'Professionally speaking, I was still wet behind the ears — still training and learning. So there was always someone there to hold my hand, more or less.' Then he turned fully to her. 'And, I told you . . . what I learned wasn't always to my liking, as it turned out. And when Fred Clinton told me what he was really grooming me for — ' He shook his head at her ' — that just wasn't for me, I had to tell him. So that was when we agreed to cut our losses.' He swung back to Audley. 'Never heard of any of them. But I take your point, David —'
'What point?' Sophie refused to be dismissed. 'What do you mean?'
'It doesn't matter — to you, my darling. David —'
'He means that if someone wants him dead then it's because he knows something. So all we have to do is to run his memory back until we find it.' Audley smiled at her, and was almost certain — even though he no longer felt like smiling.
'And he's just volunteered to help me. Correct, Peter?'
'If I must.' Richardson half shrugged, and then made a comic face at Sophie. 'The sooner I get out of your hair, the better, Mrs Kenyon. Now that I've become so popular all of a sudden.'
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'Don't joke —'
'I'm not joking. Being so popular is no fun. Neither is being recalled to the colours, come to that. But David here will look after me — he'll keep tight hold of my hand, you can be sure of that! Won't you, David?'
And being so clever, but not clever enough, was no fun either, thought Audley grimly to himself. But he had to play Richardson's game now, as a penance for that. 'Yes. You are worth more alive than dead at this moment — just like me, Peter.' But he owed something to her, all the same. 'And of course . . . once we've got the answer between us, then we won't be in danger anymore, Mrs Kenyon — Sophie. It's really as simple as that.'
Richardson nodded in support. 'As simple as that! Shall I pack my bags now? "Waste not an hour" — Horatio Nelson?
Or, in your case, David . . . "Fill the unforgiving minute" —
Joseph Rudyard Kipling?' He stood up to suit his words, bringing the dog to its feet with him. 'No — not you, Buster!'
'David's staying the night,' said Sophie.
'Is he?' Richardson looked down at Audley. 'Is that wise?'
Then he acknowledged Sophie. 'Well,
we'll have supper first.
And then we'll see, eh? So ... if you'll attend to my over-cooked bolognese, David and I will start unravelling old times — okay?'
Audley watched the man watch his woman obey him. Then waited for the dark eyes to come back to him.
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'Go with your mistress, Buster!' Richardson pushed at the animal's hind quarters. 'Because, if you break wind like that again, I swear I'll kill you ... O-U-T!' He thrust the dog out of the room. '"Out" and "run", are words he understands. But being just a rescued stray, like me, he hasn't learnt "kill" yet, evidently . . . Would you like another top-up, David?
Courtesy of Richard Dalingridge's duty-free allowance.'
'No. Thank you.' The man was too laid-back. Of course, he had always had style, in the old days: good school, plus Sandhurst and university, multiplied by that deceptively generous allowance from his doting (and doted-on) Italian mother. But those small injections of anger at his situation hadn't really carried conviction. 'You got in easily, did you?'
'No problem.' Richard topped up his own glass. 'Now, tell me more about this Russian triumvirate of yours. Why am I supposed to have known them? When I know that I may come up with an idea or two — you never know. Then we can get going.'
Not just too laid-back, but too unfrightened also.
'Kulik, Prusakov and . . . who was it? The Spetsnaz fellow?
Lukianov — yes!' Richardson swilled the whisky round in his glass without drinking it. 'Sounds like "Caesar, Pompey and Crassus" . . . and, as there's only one left now, you indicated, that makes Lukianov the Caesar of the three. Right?'
And, finally, too helpful, and altogether too willing. After having been so interested to meet him in the first place, and so concerned to be found so quickly and easily after that.
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It was humiliating, really. He had made a picture of Richardson, and on the record it would look as though he'd been exactly right in his prediction, and very clever as usual with it, whatever the outcome. But he hadn't been right at all.
And that made him angry.
'Why did you come back, Peter?'
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