‘My shaving water will be getting cold, David.’ He steeled himself against the boy’s enmity with the promise of a future explanation – one day, if not today.
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And also, hadn’t Audley himself been playing games, with his story of those fly-blown nightmares? ‘And I’d also like my breakfast.’
‘Yes.’ Audley was himself again as he started to turn towards the door. ‘Well, I can recommend the breakfast here: it’s quite outrageously Old English, with mounds of bacon-and-eggs, and fried bread and bangers. And tomatoes and mushrooms too, if Otto’s obeyed the Alligator’s orders.’ He almost left, but then leaned back through the gap in the door. ‘But you’ll pardon me if I hope your shaving-water is stone-cold, eh?’
Fred stared at the finally closed door, in further agreement with the Brigadier: the boy had something about him, in spite of all his defects – in spite of his mixture of arrogance and uncertainty . . . the mixture which so outrageously loosened his tongue, leading him always to say too much. But what was it, exactly
– ?
He reached into his valise for the scuffed and worn toilet-bag which was the only thing he had left of those original gifts from his mother on the eve-of-the-war, so long ago, to reach this final eve-of-peace which was dawning amidst Japanese ruin far away: the writing-case had long gone, and those three slim volumes of Plato’s Apology, and Crito, and Phaedo with it –
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somewhere in Italy they were, with the Bible he’d always meant to read, but somehow never had –
What was it – ?
‘ Audley?’ the Brigadier had said. ‘ Yes, he is an exception, and not just in the matter of loyalty . . .
Because all the others were hand-picked by me. Just as you yourself have been hand-picked finally, major. And if you and I fail now . . . then it will be back to the beginning again. But much less confidently – ’
But, as he lifted the bag, he didn’t want to think about that now: he had thought of that long enough already, across the candlelight of those same plundered silver candle-sticks of the first night, which had reappeared on the table last night. And he had continued to think about it during the night, while sleep eluded him, and then again on waking, before Otto Schild had sung his song – ‘ Yet, in the Teutoburg Forest, cold blew the wind’ –
A cold wind also blew in the Brigadier’s list –
Colbourne,
de Souza,
The Crocodile,
The Alligator,
Carver-Hart,
Kenworthy –
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He didn’t want to think of any of them now, but they wouldn’t let him go – ‘ All the others have been eliminated. And, the very devil of it is, that I can’t believe that any of those men would betray me either.
But that only means that I’m making a mistake: that I’m making pictures which I want to see, Fattorini –
Fred . . . So now we have to play for high stakes.
Because I need all these men for the future, when the stakes may become even higher — because all of them are marked for promotion – ’
But not Audley, of course!
The bathroom was huge, and its plumbing was antediluvian as well as foreign: this wasn’t the servants’ floor, but it was obviously for the less important guests. (Although he wasn’t a less important guest in Schwartzenburg Castle; he was just a late-comer – later than Colbourne, de Souza, The Crocodile, The Alligator, Johnnie Carver-Hart, Professor Kenworthy and Uncle Tom Cobbley and all, right the way down to Lieutenant (temporary Captain) David Audley – )
Audley had been wrong about the water: Trooper Leighton had done his best with it, so that the shaving-water in its antique silver bucket was more than warm, and even the bath-water was tepid.
Audley —
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He stopped there, staring at himself in the mirror with the lather on his face and a new blade in his razor, as a new thought occurred to him –
‘But. . . Audley, yes: I took him on last year, in France.
And only temporarily, to repay a debt and because there was no one else I could get who spoke fluent French at short notice . . . which he does do, although with a perfectly execrable accent . . . It was his godfather who gave him to me, to save him getting killed, like all the other subalterns in his regiment were doing, in the bocage there . . . And I nearly got killed myself, actually — in a quite different operation from this, mark you . . . out of which I picked up several other useful men who are now obligated to me –
Sergeant Devenish and Driver Hewitt among them, as it happens. But that’s another story – the irony now is that Audley is the only one we can trust . . . because I didn’t pick him!’
He saw another story in the mirror suddenly, in his own eyes – ‘ Of course, afterwards I checked him all the way back – as I have checked you . . . And the others, so I thought. . . But no matter! He did well in France. So . . . I kept him on. Because he’s also going to be a useful man one day, when he matures – because inside that great hulking overgrown subaltern’s body there just may be that extra thing that we need, and which is going to be in short supply in our business dummy4
after the war, I fear – ’
There was also another story there, Fred saw much too late, but which Audley had seen before him, albeit only just: of two officers on a Greek hillside, the English one (or the Anglo-Scottish-Italian one!) innocently and accidentally, but the Greek-Cypriot bravely and deliberately in the execution of his duty – was that it?
And, if there was . . . then was there more than that, with no blind chance dictating events, all the way back to Frederick Clinton and Uncle Luke long ago? Was that it – ? Had Kyriakos deliberately tested him under stress, to bring him to Osios Konstandinos at Clinton’s bidding?
He rasped the razor across his cheek, suddenly certain that he was hungry for more than his Old English breakfast. But he wouldn’t think of that now: he would think of David Audley –
‘But he’s too young for this: it’s always a mistake to give a man’s work to boys – even lucky ones, like our young David. Because he lost several of his nine lives in Normandy, before I ever caught up with him. And then I took several more of them, through my own stupidity, I’m sorry to say. So, although you can use him now – and trust him . . . I’d be obliged if you could return him to me intact if you can, major!’
Fred examined his face carefully for missed stubble.
With his uniform so well-pressed, and everything else dummy4
so well-polished and blancoed, he needed to look his best this day.
‘But his survival isn’t tomorrow’s objective, major.
And neither is yours. Because what I now need above all else is a name —’
He made his way back to the room, blindly and automatically, and put on his wrist-watch first, while stark naked, as he always did when he had been able to wash properly first. And then put on the clean change-of-clothes which Trooper Leighton had brought with the same thought he also always had when that added luxury had been available: that, if possible, one should always go into action with clean underwear.
‘What I want is the name of the traitor in my camp, and nothing else. And then I want him alive. Because we’ve got work to do now – ’
In the final analysis, thought Fred as he turned his shoulder to the long mirror on the wall to admire his new badge of rank, if he failed, or if he found the work uncongenial, he could use that envelope with major’s crowns on his shoulders, anyway!
‘ Listen, Fred. Something happened yesterday a long way from here, in Japan –at a place called Hiroshima
– ’
2
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Audley looked round again, and he consulted his watch for the umpteenth time.
‘What are you looking for, David?’ Except for the People’s Car and the jeep containing Sergeant Devenish and Driver Hewitt, the courtyard of Schwartzenburg Castle was quite empty. ‘We’re late alr
eady.’
‘Only two minutes. And I know the way to the Exernsteine.’
‘Yes, so the adjutant said.’ Fred watched the boy curiously. ‘But we’re still late, according to his schedule. So what are you waiting for?’
‘I just thought our prisoner might turn up – “Corporal Keys” ... I haven’t laid eyes on him since we handed him over. But he must still be on the premises, damn it!’ Audley frowned up at the blank rows of windows above him. ‘Isn’t he the object of our peregrinations today?’
Peregrinations? And the boy was still fishing, too. But in his heart Fred couldn’t blame him. ‘The instrument, but not the object. Get in the car, David – that’s an order.’ He stretched his own orders slightly. ‘You’ll see him soon enough, now that he’s been promoted.’
‘What – ?’ Audley’s mouth opened comically.
‘Get in the car.’ Poor boy! How many lives have you got left, then? ‘Get in the car, and all shall be revealed, dummy4
David – ’ He had to stop there because Audley had closed his mouth quickly and was already folding himself up into the little car.
‘You don’t mind me driving – ?’ The engine whirred behind them reliably. ‘I’m actually not a very good driver – I think driving’s boring . . . But on this occasion ... I do know the car – and the way.’ Audley looked at him with eager expectation as the People’s Car shot through the castle gateway with half an inch to spare on its passenger’s side.
‘Yes – no!’ Fred shuddered as they barely missed the line of larger transport, which included Major Kenworthy’s monster, parked under the castle walls – a line complete with an armed sentry now, he noted.
‘You were saying – ?’ Audley couldn’t contain his curiosity. ‘Where’s the prisoner, then?’
‘Watch the road, David.’
‘Yes – damn it, I am watching it – ’ Audley peered into his mirror ‘ – it’s all right: our escort is right behind us.
You were saying – about Field-Marshal Keys?’
‘He’s done better for himself than that.’ Fred began to tire of the riddle-game. ‘As of last night he became a free man.’
‘ Ah . . .’ Audley swung the little car on to the main road. ‘Now ... I thought there weren’t many extra precautions last night, when I took my evening dummy4
constitutional and had a look round. Because I only got challenged on the horse-lines, by the transport – not anywhere in the castle at all!’ He nodded sagely at the road. ‘And that did strike me as ... rather odd, after our earlier failures.’
Clinton was right. ‘Did you meet anybody ... on your peregrinations?’
‘Meet anybody? They were all pissed, more or less, if you ask me – celebrating the end of the jolly old war!
And so was I, a bit ... No. Only Amos and Busy-Izzy doing their accustomed rounds, checking up on the wine-cellar, and such, of course – and the state of the duty officer’s liver, I shouldn’t wonder . . . But, he’s gone, you say? Our first real and undoubted success –
No 21 – “The-Key-of-the-Door” – ?’ He stopped suddenly, and then thumped the wheel, causing the little car to shake and swerve slightly. ‘But of course he’s gone! How stupid of me!’
‘Why?’ If the boy wanted to talk, who was he to stop him?
‘No 21! What does the key do?’ Audley accelerated.
‘Why – he opens the door to reveal No 16 – “Sweet-Sixteen-and-Never-Been-Kissed”!’ Then he looked at Fred quickly. ‘And Clinton trusted him – ? But obviously he did, the foxy old swine! And, of course, No 21 had a bloody convincing tale to tell, too: not just
“Come home, and all is forgiven”, but “Come home ...
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or someone will put a bullet through you, like they did to my ersatz self last night”!’ He thumped the wheel again, with the same disconcerting effect. ‘And, by God, that would certainly convince me! Because . . .
letting him go — after all the trouble we had taking him . . . Oh! He’s a lusty old blackbird is Our Freddie!’
Clinton was right – the boy was sharp.
‘God! I wish he’d let me go!’ Audley sighed. ‘Only then you wouldn’t see my tail for dust, though!’
‘Maybe he will, if you’re good, David.’
‘Some hope! It’s nineteen-bloody-forty-seven for me –
if I’m lucky – ’ Suddenly the car slowed, and so abruptly that Fred was instantly afraid that the jeep behind would collide with them. But when he looked over his shoulder he saw that Driver Hewitt was prudently keeping his distance.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing’s the matter. But I just remembered that you were going to reveal all. And you haven’t actually said very much – have you?’
Fred let the unspoilt German countryside slide past them for a few moments while he collected his thoughts.
But then, in spite of his orders, he was tempted to take another route to his own destination.
‘What do you think you’ve been doing?’ It would be dummy4
interesting to find out how much this clever boy had worked out. ‘Not just since I’ve been around – before that?’
‘What have I been doing – or we?’ Audley slowed even more, down almost to walking pace, craning his neck forward.
‘Why are you slowing down?’
‘There’s a checkpoint hereabouts. It won’t hold us up, because they know me perfectly well . . . That’s funny
–’
‘What’s funny?’
‘The MPs are there – but they’re not checking – see?’
Audley followed his own curiosity for a moment.
‘There’s a DP camp nearby they keep watch on ... But it looks like anyone can use this road today –’ He sniffed and shrugged. ‘Oh well... I told you, anyway: officially ... we hunt for items of interest. Though, as far as I’m concerned, it’s a bit bloody late to find out just how good old Jerry’s tanks were. But I go through the motions, as my old troop-sergeant used to say. . .’
He accelerated ‘. . . God rest his black and shrivelled soul – like his black and shrivelled body – ’ He gave Fred a sidelong look ‘ – you know how you come out of a brewed-up Cromwell – ? About the size of a bloody chimpanzee, actually –’
‘But what have you actually been doing?’
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‘Ah . . . well, among other things, I’ve done a bit of scouting round the Teutoburg Forest, to see if any Roman artefacts have turned up here and there in the last few years, with the bombing and all that, as per my orders.’ Audley sat back as comfortably as he could in the confined space. ‘Not that there is anything here.
Because the Romans never settled here – or hereabouts: they just got massacred. And the local lads . . . alias the Cherusci, and the Chauci, and the Chattii, who were the German equivalent of the Sioux and the Black Feet and the other Red Indians . . . they all carried off the loot, rejoicing, just like the Indians did after General Custer had stood his Last Stand. So there wouldn’t be anything, would there?’ Another shrug. ‘All the good Roman stuff will have surfaced over on the other side of the Rhine – ’
‘Don’t play games with me, David.’
‘I’m not playing games. It’s the truth, Fred.’ Knowing at last that he was playing some sort of game, Audley played it innocently and well. ‘Those Germans in the picture I showed you – the picture I showed you when I thought you didn’t know what was happening . . .
they operated in Roman Germany, not here. But when we arrived back there in March, after we were pulled out of that Greek raid of ours, we did fuck-all most of the time. At least, I did. Because I was on transport.
And every time I got hold of a decent car, some senior dummy4
bastard took it off me. Like the egregious Crocodile did with my French car, for example. Which is why I ended up with this little dodge-’em – ‘ he caught his tongue quickly as he felt Major Fattorini stiffen beside him. ’All-right-all-right- all-right! So ...
we were after the Jerries in the picture: is that what you want me to say?‘
‘You could start in Greece, David.’
‘ In Greece? God – that was the scene of our first debacle – ’ Audley swung the wheel to avoid an old woman in black who was pulling a cart round a heap of rubble regardless of him: they were on the edge of a ruined town now. ‘But you were there yourself, damn it!’
‘But what were we after?’ The lying ‘we’ had a distinctly bitter taste. But he had to keep the upper hand.
Audley took a breath. ‘I don’t see why I should tell you what you already know – and better than I do, too.’
‘Tell me, all the same. If you want the rest of it, David.’
‘Oh . . . shit!’ But the boy craned his neck again as they turned out of the ruins. ‘That’s another one – ? I think the MPs are all on strike today –’
‘ Tell me!’
‘Okay, okay! Clinton was trying to bring out one of his own men, is what I think now. Although all I knew dummy4
then was that we had to get him alive – and we didn’t.’
He looked at Fred. ‘Is that it?’
‘It is.’ After the stick, it was time for a carrot. ‘And that put him back almost three months, David.’
‘It did?’ Audley seized on the information eagerly.
‘We first got that picture in ... May, yes – ? That would be about three months.’
‘And what do the people in it have in common?’ He couldn’t resist the extra question.
‘Oh . . . that’s easy.’ The prospect of more answers dissolved Audley’s caution.
‘Yes?’
‘Not bloody Roman remains, for a start!’ Audley crashed the gears down joyfully as the car began to climb.
‘No?’
‘No!’ Audley tossed his head. ‘Colonel “Caesar Augustus” Colbourne may be a looney. But our Freddie isn’t into Roman history – no!’
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