“You gave him something—?”
“That’s right.” Audley caught the expression on his face. “Nothing out of our files—nothing like that . . . Something of mine ... I have these private Israeli contacts, and they want the Americans to know something. But they don’t want it to come from them directly, for the record. Only . . . not everything they’ve given him is strictly kosher, so I’ve given him good value on my own account.”
Benedikt glanced round, but couldn’t see anyone answering to his imagination. “Value for what?” The front runner in the race was obvious. “Gunner Kelly?”
“Gunner Kelly.” Audley double-checked on his own account. “I’ve given you some of it, and you must have put more of it together by now ...”
“The bomb was for Kelly.” He studied a middle-aged man who was loitering near the panel bearing the Tiger’s biography. But then the man’s family joined him. “He knows who was responsible, and he has some way of communicating with him, to get him to try again. Only this time he’ll be ready for him.” Now there was another possibility: a good-looking young man in a beautifully-cut lightweight suit had joined the family group, but was not part of it.
“Correct.” Audley pointed suddenly towards the Tiger’s turret.
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“See that gouge on the trunnion there? That was made by an anti-tank shot . . . six-pounder AP, most likely . . .” He waited until the young man had sauntered past them, to disappear beyond a neighbouring Mark V Panther in the direction of the armoured car hall. “Go on.”
Benedikt stared at him. “Is it really vengeance that he wants? What does he really want?”
“Yes . . .” Audley met his gaze for a moment, then let his glance wander again. “That is the heart of the matter: what is he really up to?”
There was still no likely prospect in sight, only one harassed mother being dragged by one small boy while trying vainly to keep two others in view simultaneously.
“What did he tell the people in the Chase?” Benedikt fended off one of the small boys who was about to collide with him. “Miss Becky? And Blackie Nabb ... and Old Cecil?”
“And others. Wally Grant and Ron Turnbull, the two main tenant farmers. And Ken Tailor, who runs the shop. And Mike Kramer at the garage up on the road and Dave and Rachel in the Bells.”
Audley nodded. “He started with them ... the ones with the influence.”
“What did he say?”
Audley thought for a time without replying. “Yes ... I’ve told you how they all felt about the Old General—the Squire . . . their Squire.” He looked at Benedikt candidly. “I’ve never come across anything quite like it before. I’ve heard about it—I’ve read about dummy1
it ... but I didn’t think it still existed.” He half-smiled. “It’s like stumbling on a secret valley and finding an extinct animal grazing peacefully there ... Or a mythical beast, even—a unicorn, maybe?”
“But this unicorn has a sharp horn.”
“Oh yes! And sharp hoofs to kick with, and teeth to bite with.
Unicorns were only gentle with virgins.” The half-smile faded. “He told them at least some of the truth, it seems—perhaps he told them all of it that could be told. That’s what he says, anyway.”
Benedikt waited. There were two youths in jeans passing by, with two little painted girls, oblivious of everything but each other.
“He said it was all his fault—that the bomb was for him. He admitted that straight off. His fault. But not deliberately his fault—
not expected . . . and not deserved, either—”
“Not deserved?” Benedikt frowned.
Audley held up a finger. “I’ll come back to that. What he said was that there’d been someone hunting him for a long time, trying to get the crossed wires on him—that he’d been running for a long time before he’d come to Duntisbury Chase. And even then he hadn’t come for the job the Squire had advertised—‘ Man Friday wanted, ex-gunner preferred’—he’d simply remembered his officer from long ago, when killing was in fashion, and he’d only come for advice. ‘ In a tight corner, the Squire always knew what to do’, was what he remembered.”
So what followed had been inevitable, thought Benedikt. At least, inevitable, the Old General being the man he had been. “So he got the job instead?”
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“Not instead—because, more likely. The Chase was off the beaten track ... no one comes to Duntisbury Royal, it isn’t on the way to anywhere. And what the job entailed didn’t involve going anywhere, either. . . So four years, he’s been here . . .and the first three of them he didn’t step further than Kramer’s garage, to take the Old General’s car for its occasional service. It was only the last few months he’d driven the old boy to Salisbury and Bournemouth, to his tailor and his wine merchant, and such like . . . Between them, they reckoned the trail must have gone cold . . . Or, it wouldn’t likely be very hot in Salisbury or Bournemouth.”
Benedikt thought of the cathedral and its quiet close, with its old houses and cool green grass; and Bournemouth was the seaside town to which elderly English gentlefolk retired on their pensions and their dividends. Bombs and snipers belonged in neither of them.
“ ‘Sanctuary’—that was Kelly’s word for it: ‘He gave me sanctuary’, he told them—Becky and the rest. ‘And now I’ve killed him for it, as sure as if I’d set that bomb meself.’ ”
They should have known better, the Old General and Gunner Kelly between them, thought Benedikt—that there was no place safe from sudden death if defenders were not vigilant— not the bishop’s Salisbury, not the pensioners’ Bournemouth . . . and not peaceful Duntisbury Royal either—there was the Fighting Man to remind him of that.
No safe place . . . He looked round again, and saw that for the first time they were quite alone beside the Tiger. It must be getting near to the museum’s lunchtime closure.
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“So now the Squire was dead, and he was still a target. Which meant it was time for him to start running again.”
“Why was he a target?”
“All in good time, my dear chap. I’m telling it to you how he told it to them. He could run again—nothing easier. He had his pension from the army, he could have that sent anywhere. And he had his savings, and four years’ wages that he’d hardly touched—he could run a long way on that, and maybe even far enough this time.”
Still no one. The American must be having difficulty persuading his contact that Audley could be trusted.
“But this time was different. He wasn’t going to run this time.
There was a score to settle this time.” Audley paused.
“He’d been lying low in the Chase, working that out. Those that were after him would reckon he’d run already, but when he was ready he had a way of letting them know where he was. And then when they came he was going to repay them in their own coin. He owed that for the Squire. What happened afterwards was no matter.
But, also because of the Squire, he owed them in the Chase the telling of what he was going to do. That was all.”
All? thought Benedikt, lining up what he had observed of the people of the Chase as well as what he had been told about them, and then adding Gunner Kelly to it. Because then, all was what it wasn’t: it wasn’t an end, it could only be—and had been—merely a beginning.
So he could jump the next question, having the answer to it, and go on to the more interesting one that followed it.
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“He knew they’d insist on helping him?” As he spoke he saw that Audley had been watching him. “He calculated it?”
The big Englishman relaxed slightly. “Right. No proof. . . but. . .
right.”
“Do they know?” He thought of Blackie Nabb handling the police at the ford. “They are not stupid, all of them.”
“You’re dead right they’re not stupid, all of them!” Audley spoke feelingly. “But Kelly is a remarkable man, you know.”
“A man of many vo
ices?” He remembered the previous night’s events.
Audley smiled. “You’ve encountered that, have you?”
“The question is ... how many of his tongues are forked . . .?” He did not find it easy to smile back. The roles Gunner Kelly was playing ranged too widely for that: he could be the ultimately loyal soldier, devoted to the avenging of his liege-lord’s murder at the risk of his own life, and therefore not too scrupulous about manipulating others who owed the same service. But he could also be a clever man planning to end a long pursuit by using others to destroy his pursuers.
“I agree.” Audley nodded. “The trouble is ... he is a great performer
—but is he really that good? Because they aren’t stupid—you’re right . . . but at the same time they’re not professionals.” He turned the nod into a slow shake. “In his place . . . he’s taking one hell of a risk . . . in his place I’d run, you know.”
But run from what? thought Benedikt: that was still the final question. “Who wants him dead?”
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“Yes. That’s where we have a problem, I’m afraid.” Audley rubbed his chin as though in doubt. “A real problem . . .”
“He is an Irishman.” That ought to simplify matters, and was surely not to be ignored when it came to killing. With an Englishman, or a German, the possibilities were too numerous to make mere nationality significant; with an Italian, even though the Red Brigades were as good as beaten, there was now the Bulgarian connection as well as the Mafia and the terrorists of the far right.
But with Irishmen, as with Basques and Corsicans and Palestinians, there was a single starting point nine times out of ten, no matter how it splintered afterwards.
“But only of a sort.” Audley studied him. “If I may say so without offence, you continental Europeans don’t understand the Irish at all, you know.”
“And you British do?” Even at the risk of offence, he couldn’t let that pass. “Forgive me for not being able to see the evidence for that.”
Audley smiled. “Oh . . . culturally, perhaps you have some inkling of them. I’m not decrying what the cultivated German tourist observes, even though he probably relishes romantic notions of the pre-urban society . . .just as you are inclined to see Britain in somewhat idyllic Dickensian terms—”
“Now you are patronising me, Dr Audley—”
“Then I’m sorry! But I don’t mean to, I assure you. Would it help if I admitted that the British have no worthwhile insights at all about foreigners? You at least see something—we see nothing at dummy1
all... It’s the curse of insularity . . . No matter how many millions of us go abroad, we’re still the most cretinously ignorant nation in Europe—I admit it.” He smiled again, disarmingly. “And I admit quoting your Nobel prize-winner Boll—Heinrich Boll—at you.
But at least I didn’t suggest he lived in Ireland for tax reasons—
you must admit that, Benedikt.”
How Father would love to cross swords with this man! thought Benedikt. At least it would be a fairer and more rewarding match than Audley’s Cromwell against Father’s deadly 88s.
“No . . . what I meant was that it’s Gunner Kelly we’re up against
—not Michael Kelly.” Audley shook his head. “He was a Royal Artilleryman longer than he was an Irishman in Ireland, you know.
And on a time-span, he’s twice as English as he is Irish.” Another shake. “Apart from which, what he did tell Becky was . . . that his problem was nothing directly to do with ‘the ould country’ . . .
whatever that means, and if we can believe it—”
The words stopped suddenly, and the open expression on Audley’s face closed in the same instant as he stared past Benedikt.
“My dear How—” Audley bit off the rest of the name as though it had burnt his tongue. “Hullo, there, cher cousin!”
“David.” The mid-Atlantic voice came from behind Benedikt, almost lazily, encouraging him to turn towards it without any indication of surprise.
It was the good-looking young man in the well-cut suit who stood at the CIA man’s shoulder. Only, close-up the suit was even better-cut, as only the finest English tailor could mould a suit, and the dummy1
man inside it wasn’t quite so young, with crow’s-feet corrugating the corners of the eyes which were as dark brown and as wary as had ever focussed on him.
“Dr Audley.” The eyes flicked to the Englishman, and then came back to Benedikt. “Captain Schneider.” God in heaven, thought Benedikt. Another Irishman!
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Audley studied the Irishman for a long moment. “You have the advantage of us ... Mr—?”
“Smith.” The Irishness of the voice was there, but it was unobtrusive, only just across the median line between the two countries. “But I doubt that, Dr Audley. For I have heard tell of you.”
“Indeed?” Audley’s eyes moved to the American.
“I have asked my friend to stay,” said the Irishman. “For the record.”
Audley came back to him. “But there is no record.”
“There’s always a record.” Under its softness the voice was hard.
“But. . . shall we say . . . you have a friend with you, who wasn’t in the small print. So now I have a friend, too.” The man’s expression concealed the same contradiction as his voice, decided Benedikt: beneath its superficial amiability there lay distrust as well as apprehension.
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The American’s shoulder lifted slightly in apology: those, plainly, were the Irishman’s terms, and they could take it or leave it.
“I see.” Just as plainly, the terms were not to Audley’s liking, even though he could hardly refuse them.
“Do you, Dr Audley?” One corner of the Irishman’s mouth lifted.
“You know . . . they say you have no liking for my country—and its inhabitants. And is that the truth, would you say?”
Benedikt was torn by the need to watch the Irishman while checking on Audley’s reaction to such baiting.
“ ‘They say’?” Suddenly Audley’s voice was as soft as the Irishman’s. “I would say . . . that if you paid a ha’penny for that information you were shamefully overcharged, Mr Smith.”
“Is that so?” The man seemed perversely pleased by the denial.
“And yet, is it not a fact that you’ll take no job across the water?”
He cocked his head knowingly at the Englishman. “That when they put you down for Dublin once, it was a letter of resignation that they got back? What would you say to that, now?”
Audley looked at his watch. “I would say that I am at last beginning to get an inkling of why they beatified Pope Innocent XI in 1956, Mr Smith. And I’m grateful to you for that, because it’s rather been preying on my mind.”
“What?” Mr Smith frowned.
“It simply has to be because he rang the bells of Rome to celebrate Protestant King Billy’s victory over Catholic King James—1688
and all that.” Audley turned towards Benedikt. “Do you spend a lot of time discussing the relative merits and demerits of North dummy1
Germans and South Germans, Captain Schneider? Let’s see now . . . the North Germans are like the Southern English, aren’t they? Rather more anonymous than the ... it would be the Bavarians, wouldn’t it be? And the Bavarians are the Yorkshiremen of Germany? Or the Lancashiremen? And then there are the Prussians—I presume they rather frighten you, the way the Scots frighten the English . . . But the Ulstermen, who are really only transplanted Scots, frighten us even more—damn good assault troops, I’m told, but dirty in the trenches . . . And then there are the Welsh—far too clever . . . not intelligent, mind you—it’s the Scots who are intelligent—but clever. Good rugger players, though. And I always think a man can’t be all bad, who plays rugby, so there must be some good in the Argentinians . . . And the Rumanians—
and the Fijians . . . It’s not the colour of a man’s skin—it’s whether he plays rugger, that’s what counts, in my view. Blac
k, white or khaki. Jehovah’s Witnesses, Freemasons, Frenchmen—you can always tell—tell at a glance.” He turned back suddenly. “Now, I don’t care whether you like the English or you remember Drogheda and Wexford every time you see one, and spit. You can have any prejudice you like—and if you want to believe that I think the moon is made of green cheese, you’re welcome. All I want to know is who wants Michael Kelly dead, and why. Nothing more, and nothing less.”
The Irishman had a curious expression on his face now, which seemed to Benedikt to be compounded of conflicting emotions, and was altogether incomprehensible to him. But his mouth stayed closed and the silence between them lengthened.
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The American stirred. “You could try giving him your word, David. That you’ll play straight.”
“Word of an Englishman?”
“Just your word. No generalisations—you’ve made your point there, I guess.” The American drew a slow breath. “Hell, man—he may have something which you can play your ‘Great Game’ with.
But it’s his skin that could end up nailed to the wall.”
Audley looked down his nose at the American. “I said there was no record. He said there was, not I.”
“So he doesn’t know you. Him and two billion others.”
Audley thought for a moment. “Very well . . . For what it’s worth, Mr Smith ... I haven’t met you today. I have no memory of you.
Your name— your face—will never be identified by me. You do not exist . . . You have my word on that.” He looked to Benedikt.
“Captain Schneider?”
Benedikt stiffened. “My word is as Dr Audley’s.”
The American looked at Mr Smith. “If the Captain’s word is good enough for David, it’s good enough for me, Jim.” Then he smiled.
“So who the hell is Michael Kelly, then?”
The Irishman looked at all of them in turn. “Who is Michael Kelly?
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