“Boy? At fifty-something?”
“Maybe he’s young for his age.” She turned back to the dressing table mirror. “If you’re a hundred I suppose fifty-something seems boyish, I don’t know… What other good news did Harry Finsterwald bring with him?”
Mosby looked up to the ceiling again. “He had one qufte interesting story about the nice boy—“
Picture.
“What was that?”
It was an airfield. Not the immense Americanised strip at Wodden, with its ever-increasing new runway extensions disappearing into the far distance, but Wodden as it must have been after the war: empty hangars and derelict huts with broken windows, and weeds spreading along the runway joints.
“What was that?” Shirley repeated.
Movement now: men wandering across the tarmac, scratching their heads over the patches of new oil and the bruise-marks in the grass…
“Bullitt had this long furlough coming to him in ‘48, after he came back from Greece and before he was posted to Malaya… Said he was going for a walking holiday in the Scottish Highlands. Only he didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Go walking… There was this film company planned to make a movie about the Battle of Britain. Got plenty of cash on hand, dollars and pounds and Swiss francs. Hired themselves an old RAF field up in the north somewhere… bought themselves some war surplus planes, Mosquitoes and Beau-fighters mostly. Which should have worried someone, but it didn’t…”
She turned. “Mose, you’re losing me.”
“Wrong planes. Battle of Britain was strictly Spitfires and Hurricanes. These were twin-engined jobs—long-range fighter-bombers, low-level strike, that sort of thing— Be like Hollywood making a picture about Pearl Harbour with P-38s and P-51s.”
“So they got the details wrong.”
“They had the details absolutely the way they wanted. Because when the film crew arrived on location to start shooting—no planes… They’d gone shooting somewhere else. Like, for instance, the Sinai Desert.”
“The Sinai?”
Mosby nodded. “1948, Shirl. Lots of Jewish money in motion pictures, always has been. But in 1948 they had other things to spend their money on—things money couldn’t buy so easily, though. Not with a world embargo on Middle East arms.”
She stared at him. “You don’t mean Bullitt flew for the Israelis?”
“Uh-huh. Beats walking in the Highlands by a mile, ferrying hot planes across Europe. Plus maybe a bit of combat at the other end.”
“What the hell did the RAF say to that?”
“They didn’t say anything—because they didn’t know. The British had to hush the thing up, because of the trouble it’d make for them in the Middle East, letting the Israelis pick up the planes under their noses. So they didn’t dare dig too deep. And the Israelis weren’t talking, naturally.”
“So how did we find out?”
“Oh, that’s just part of our good old double-crossing history, honey. Because we were slipping the Israelis the odd B-17— just like the Russians were shipping them old Me-109s crated in Czechoslovakia—so we had some of our boys out there to watch how they made out… And one of them spotted our Billy and his Mosquito.”
“But we didn’t snitch on him?”
“None of our business. Just filed it away for a rainy day, like now.” He smiled at the ceiling. “But he took one hell of a risk, that’s for sure.”
“Why?”
“That’s the big question. He had enough money, because his grandfather left him loaded in ‘45.”
“Any Jewish blood?”
“Not a drop—pure 100 per cent WASP right down the line. And up until that moment pure British patriot too.”
Shirley frowned. “I don’t see where patriotism comes in. The British weren’t fighting the Jews, not after they quit Palestine, anyway.”
“But they sure weren’t fighting for them, honey. In fact the Jewish terrorist groups—the Stern Gang and the Irgun—they were just like the IRA, sniping British soldiers in the back and blowing up hotels, and all that crap. I tell you, there was no love lost between the Israelis and the British in ‘48.”
“Maybe he just liked fighting.”
“So he risked getting kicked out of the RAF for one lousy flight and a week’s combat?” Mosby shook his head. “That horse won’t run, Shirl. If he liked fighting then he was set nicely to get all he wanted staying just where he was, the way things were shaping in ‘48. It has to be something else.”
“Such as?”
“I’m not sure. It proves he’s not a Stephen Decatur patriot, anyway. No ‘My country, right or wrong’ nonsense.”
“Could be he just liked the idea of helping David against Goliath. The Jews had it pretty rough.”
“Could be he was living up to his name: William Lancelot Bullitt.”
“A one-off ride to the rescue and then back to the arms of good Queen Guinevere?” She shook her head in turn. “Uh-huh. If he was anyone at the court of King Arthur it’d be Sir Galahad, not Sir Lancelot—it was Galahad who went after the Holy Grail, wasn’t it?”
Mosby sat up. “It was. But how do you know?”
“Oh, I know my King Arthur, even if I never heard, of Bede.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean how d’you know Billy Bullitt is a Sir Galahad?”
“Well, he was once, according to old Dr Morton. Not only a nice boy, but also a very serious one. Much more serious than the usual run of pre-war students at Oxford. In fact he very nearly threw it all up—going to college—to fight in the Spanish Civil War.”
Mosby stared at her. “Now that’s very interesting. We never picked that up on him—Harry never mentioned it.”
“I guess we wouldn’t have. Because he went for a holiday in France in the summer of ‘38—he was going to Oxford in the fall of ‘38—and while he was there he just slipped across the border to Barcelona, where the Reds were holding out.”
“Hell—this is dynamite, honey.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“Why not? We never had one thing up to now connected him with the Communists. He’s always been on the other side.”
“That’s the point. Seems he didn’t like what he saw there. He didn’t like the Fascists and he didn’t like the Communists either, Dr Morton said… Like he’d looked for the Grail, and decided it wasn’t to be found in Spain any more. But when he came back he joined the University Air Squadron straight off—which is their version of AFROTC. And then when the war broke out in 1939 he went straight into the RAF.”
Mosby closed his eyes for a moment, adding these new facts to those in the dossier Harry Finsterwald had shown him in the car two hours earlier. He had thirty-seven years of William Lancelot Bullitt’s adult life spread out before him.
He remembered James Barkham’s thin, dry old voice: There’s European history for you—twelve hundred years of it. And now two American gentlemen want to find out about it.
And now the history of Billy Bullitt, the thirty-seven year saga not only of the man himself, but his times: the great war, Britain’s ‘Finest Hour’, the Anglo-American alliance, the hollow victory and the Cold War, the decline and fall of the British Empire, the decline of Britain herself…
And Badon Hill overshadowing the legendary King Arthur and the fabled towers of Camelot.
Plus somewhere, somehow, Comrade Professor Nikolai Andrievich Panin…
“This isn’t the time to go fast asleep, Mose,” said Shirley. “Any moment now you’re going to have to tell everyone how much you admired St Who’s-it’s Church.”
St Swithun’s Church.
St Swithun’s Churchyard.
“I’m not sleeping. I’m just trying to work out Billy Bullitt’s pattern.”
“How he ticks, you mean? Oh, that’s easy—every once in a while he breaks out and rocks the boat some just to satisfy his sense of honour.”
Mosby opened his eyes suddenly. Shirley had turned back to her mirror to ma
ke the final adjustments to her face.
Sexy back, thought Mosby. But sharp, sharp little mind.
Eighteen uneventful British schoolboy years, to be crowned with the accolade of Oxford.
Then a trip to Spain, and his whole career at risk for a moment.
Nine years of distinguished war service, Britain, North Africa, Europe, Greece—medals, promotion and a career.
Then a trip to Israel, and the whole career at risk again for a moment.
More distinguished years. Malaya, Korea, Malaya again, Aden and the Persian Gulf, Cyprus, Germany… and finally work on the guidance systems of the TSR-2, the wonder plane.
And then, when the politicians decided to scrap the wonder plane the old pattern re-asserting itself: the outspoken letter to The Times—and this time the career shattered. ‘A nine days’ wonder,’ Audley had said.
So exile in Arabia, running a counter-insurgency squadron for an obscure sultan. But running it brilliantly and returning to Britain in 1971 in a small blaze of glory, and his famous red shirt, like a latter-day Lawrence of Arabia, with a new political career his for the taking—
‘He made the headlines,’ Audley had said.
Offered Parliamentary seats by three Constituency parties, two Conservative, one Liberal, the dossier had said.
Offers rejected. Instead, the pattern again in a bitter television interview in which he had slashed as fiercely at the political right as at the left, and at management as much as at the unions.
Four silent years in rural Wiltshire, in the midst of Grandfather Bullitt’s Arthurian library and ‘No known political affiliation’.
Then the Oxford riot-Pattern: first the activity, second the outburst. And each time the period of activity had been shorter and the outburst more violent.
“Are you ready, Mose honey.” Shirley was wriggling into her best and most spectacular afternoon dress.
Delectable.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
So Billy Bullitt was about to rock the boat again. Only this time it looked like various people hoped—and feared—that he was going to overturn it.
Audley was standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting for them with a shuttered look on his face and two strangers at his back.
“Hi, David,” said Shirley.
Audley stood to one side for her.
“Captain Sheldon?” One of the strangers took a pace towards him.
“That’s me.”
The stranger took a folder from his pocket.
“Special Branch, sir,” he said.
IX
THERE WERE TWO sorts of loneliness, thought Mosby: that of the forgotten man, the Robinson Crusoe loneliness; and that of the man in the condemned cell, solitary but unforgotten. And at this precise moment he would have given a great deal for the sound of the waves on Crusoe’s beach.
Instead he listened to the sound of the big power-mower on the lawn outside. Once upon a time, in another life, he had always liked that Saturday morning clatter, the noise of the beginning of the weekend. But it would never be like that again, just as little pale yellow butterflies would never be just butterflies again.
The bastards had done it smoothly, he had to give them that; they had even done it with a touch of old-fashioned good manners. There had been no uniforms, except that was to be expected of the British and it would probably have been much the same back home. What had bugged him had been the ‘pleases’ and the ‘thank-yous’, and the genteel opening of doors, all designed to create the fiction that there was no real compulsion yet at the same time establishing the hopelessness of any resistance beyond argument.
“Special Branch?” He had registered bewilderment rather than surprise.
“Special Branch?” Shirley echoed him. “What’s that?” “Police, honey—sort of FBI-type police.” He frowned at the first man. “What can I do for you? Has something happened on the base?”
“We have reason to believe that you may be able to help us with certain inquiries, sir.” The Special Branch man pronounced the formula without emphasising any single word in it.
“What inquiries?” asked Mosby.
“Police!” squeaked Shirley, as though Mosby’s explanation had been a delayed-action bomb.
“It’s all right, honey,” said Mosby reassuringly. “What inquiries?”
“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to say, sir. But if you and your wife would be so good as to come with us then I’m sure my superior will be able to tell you.”
“Me and my wife?” Mosby allowed the first hint of outrage to colour this bewilderment. He looked towards Audley. “What the hell is this, David?”
Shirley squared up in front of the SB. “For heaven’s sake, what is my husband supposed to have done?”
“I haven’t done anything, honey,” Mosby snapped irritably, picking up her line instinctively once more.
“Well, they obviously think you have.” She continued to stare up angrily at the SB. “Now, you—“ “Shut up, Shirley,” said Mosby.
“I will most certainly not shut up. Not until someone tells me what’s going on.”
The SB man weakened. “We’d like you to answer some questions, madam. That’s all.” “What questions? About what?”
“That I can’t say, madam. The questions will be put to you by a superior officer.”
“Honey—“ Mosby began desperately. “Don’t ‘honey’ me. Where’s this superior officer of yours, then?”
“If you would be so good as to come with us, madam, please, then we’ll take you to him.” “Why can’t he come to us? We haven’t done anything.” The SB shook his head. “I’m sorry, madam.” “Oh, great! You’re sorry. You want us to help you with— inquiries of some sort. But you don’t know what. And you want us to answer questions. But you don’t know the questions. So you just go on back to your superior and tell him to send someone who does know. Or better still, he can darn well come himself.” She folded her arms defiantly.
Audley cleared his throat. “I think you’d better go with them, Mrs Sheldon.” He looked meaningfully at Mosby.
Shirley goggled incredulously at Audley. “What d’you mean ‘go with them’, David? Whose side are you on?”
“No side. Apparently they only want you to help them with their inquiries—“
“But we all know what that means,” cut in Shirley scornfully. “We’ve heard that on your TV dozens of times—and read it in the papers: ‘A man is helping the police with their inquiries’—‘helping’, huh? Why, they’re arresting us, that’s what they’re doing, David.”
“That’s not correct, madam,” protested the SB man, deadpan.
“Then we have a choice? We can say ‘Go fly your kite—we don’t want to help you with your inquiries?’” said Shirley quickly. “We can say that, huh?”
The second SB man stirred. “We very much hope you won’t say that, madam. We have a car here and we’d be obliged if you came with us. If you refuse to come, then we have a new situation, of course… and that might require us to act in a different way. But if you haven’t done anything, then obviously you haven’t anything to fear—right?” He looked to Mosby for support.
“Well…” Shirley allowed doubt to weaken her obstinacy, “… I don’t like it at all.”
Mosby turned back to Audley. “You think we should go along with them, David—you really think that?”
Audley shrugged. “I don’t really think you’ve got much choice, Sheldon. There’s probably been some sort of misunderstanding—if there has been then they’ll apologise and bring you back.”
“If—?” Mosby decided it was time to let a small light of suspicion shine through. “What d’you mean ‘if’?”
“I think you had better wait and see.”
Mosby gave Audley a hard look. “You sound like you know what’s going on.”
Audley regarded him with dull eyes, as though they were strangers playing in a boring charade. “Let’s just say I can’t help what’s going on.
”
Shirley stared at Mosby, wide-eyed. “I don’t like it. I don’t understand what’s happening, but I don’t like it. And I think maybe we should phone the embassy.”
“That won’t be necessary, madam,” said the second SB man smoothly. “Not at this stage.”
“Uh-huh? Well, maybe this stage is the stage to phone before there’s another stage.” She nodded to Mosby. “I think you better go phone, honey—just in case.”
It was perfectly obvious that they weren’t going to be allowed to phone anyone, and Shirley knew it, Mosby realised. But she was playing the innocent game because it was the only game there was to play, at least until they knew better what had gone wrong. And probably even after that, right to the bitter end. But the immediate problem was whether—or how far—to call the Special Branch’s polite bluff.
He scratched his head doubtfully. “I don’t know… If this is just some sort of foul-up, then we’re going to look pretty damn silly… And it has to be a foul-up, because we haven’t done anything.”
She looked at him pityingly. “Mose, this is a foreign country. We don’t know what they may do to us.”
“But it isn’t a police state,” said Audley.
Mosby stared at him. What was also perfectly obvious was that Audley didn’t want any trouble that would make the situation irrevocable. Something had gone wrong somewhere, and badly wrong, but if Schreiner’s confidence in their cover wasn’t misplaced they still had a fighting chance. Even the fact that these were Special Branch agents was a comfort, because it ruled out what had happened in St Swithun’s Churchyard as the source of the trouble: if anyone had witnessed that, then it would have been the local police here now, not the executive arm of British counter-intelligence.
“I’ll see you get to a phone when you want to,” said Audley.
“You will?” Mosby mixed relief and gratitude with doubt. “But if we go with them you’re not going to know what happens to us, David.”
For a moment earlier on it had looked as though Audley had been ready to take the wraps off himself, but now he seemed content to play along again. It was almost as if he wasn’t really sure yet what to believe.
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