The Memory Trap

by Anthony Price

  ‘Some of whom he’s dealing with now?’

  ‘That’s certainly the way it looks, yes.’

  ‘He must have something pretty damn-good to offer them.’ Audley couldn’t help speaking aloud to himself, banal though the thought which everyone had been thinking for days undoubtedly was. But no wonder everyone was scared!

  ‘In answer to your question, old friend—‘ Jake didn’t bother to agree with him, he simply succumbed to temptation. But then Jake’s capacity for alcohol-without-impairment had always been enviable. ‘—no, not ultimately intellectual-bright … Crazy-bright, like a good soldier.’ He flipped the metal top off, ‘Or … tactical-bright, rather than strategic-bright … like a good Spetsnaz graduate—which he is—‘ He considered Audley across the top of his Cotswold bottle ‘—if he hadn’t ever got hooked into the Brezhnev nepotism malt-whisky-smoked-salmon-ballerina-girlfriend circuit he might never have got past field-rank. He’d have stayed at the sharp end, with his old Spetsnaz comrades, in Afghanistan.’ He poured slowly, until froth oozed just above the rim of the glass. ‘He’d have been like your Kipling-characters only on the other side, with his Cossacks instead of Gurkhas and all your other mercenaries … You and your “Great Games”! “A plague on both your houses” to that, now.’ He raised his glass mockingly. ‘But I do not think you can afford to play games now, great or otherwise.’

  ‘No.’ He could see that it was dark enough outside.

  ‘You want to go.’ Jake observed his glance. ‘And quite rightly, too. Because what you must bear in mind now is not what Lukianov was, or what he may have been, but what he is, old friend. Because, as an old Spetsnaz man he was trained for the big show-down—to fight and cause havoc far beyond his own lines, and single-handed if things went wrong. So now perhaps he has guessed that Berlin and Capri did not go quite as he planned. But that will not stop him going ahead, and doing what he planned to do. He will merely move that much quicker, by instinct: he will want to clinch his deal, and then fade away.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘It is like my old landlady in Crofton Park used to say, when I was a student here, and I stayed too long in bed. “You must bustle, Mr Shapiro,” she would say. “You must bustle!” So now you must bustle old friend. Or you will be too late—‘ But then he held up a calloused palm warningly ‘—except that, first, I will make sure that the coast is clear for you, eh?’ He put down his glass and picked up the phone beside the bed. ‘Can I have the bar, please?’ He nodded at Audley. ‘I have minders down there … and elsewhere outside, you see.’

  ‘Jake—‘

  ‘It’s all right … hullo? Please, you have a red-headed gentleman at the bar, drinking, I think? A Mr Pollard—yes?’ He grinned at Audley. ‘A red-headed Jew? Who would have thought it, eh?’ Then he concentrated on the phone again. ‘Hullo, Angus. Any visitors?’ He paused. ‘Indeed? Is that a fact? Thank you, Angus.’ He replaced the phone. ‘And a red-headed Jew named “Angus”, too! A Scottish Jew—such a clever boy.’ He nodded at Audley. ‘Your also-clever Dr Mitchell has a new girl-friend, he says. And Angus admires his taste, I think … Okay, David? The back entrance, is it?’

  ‘No.’ There was only one way they could have got here so quickly, on his heels. So there was no shaking them off, if the car was bugged (as, when he thought about it, he should have expected, anyway). Or … there were two ways, actually. Because Jake would provide a private car. But the other way was better. And, anyway, he wanted to know if there was anything new from London, which fitted in with that way. ‘No, Jake. I’ll go down and talk to them. Don’t worry yourself on my behalf.’

  ‘Very well. You know best.’ Jake went to the door, to unlock it. But then he touched Audley’s arm, hesitantly yet deliberately all the same. ‘But don’t forget what I said, David old friend—eh? Lukianov … I do not think, perhaps, that he is interested in you now … or your Major Richardson, for whom all your people are also looking, I hear—yes?’ But he didn’t wait for an answer to that. ‘However … he is a hard man. And his Arab clients—they do not care for anyone, even themselves … at least, those who do their bidding do not care, eh? Remember that the original “Assassins”—the Hashasheen … they were one-way ticket holders. You remember?’

  ‘How could I forget.’ He couldn’t bring himself to return the grin. ‘Just like old times? Thanks, Jake.’

  Jake patted his arm. ‘Go with God then … as they say.’

  The blast of warmer air rising up the staircase, mixed with the early evening sounds and smells from the bars below, did nothing to dispel the cold which had spread from that uncharacteristic touch. In all the years he could not ever remember Jake touching him deliberately like that—or even touching him at all, since that first original handshake so long ago. Jake wasn’t a toucher, he was almost Anglo-Saxon in his fastidiousness. Even, when in the past he had wanted to push his “old friend” in one direction or another, towards a car or a taxi (or, more often, towards a pub and a bar), he had shepherded like a sheep-dog, blocking off every alternative route. But this time he had touched, and it had been fear, not any other virtue (and least of all affection) which had been transmitted through his finger-tips—

  He saw them immediately he entered the bar. And a handsome couple they made too, he thought critically, as he passed the red-headed Angus by the door without a second glance. If he had had Faith with him, and they had been strangers, he would have envied their beauty and relative youthfulness while she would have moved on from their good looks to fantasize about their relationship and professions, to no possible purpose.

  ‘Hullo, David.’ Mitchell betrayed neither relief not surprise as he stood up. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No.’ For an instant he wondered what Faith would have made of this pair. Then he shook his head, and concentrated on Mary Franklin.

  ‘You know Miss Franklin, of course,’ said Mitchell unnecessarily.

  Audley sat down. ‘I haven’t got much time, Miss Franklin. Have you any information for me?’

  ‘Dr Audley—‘ She had taken her cue from Mitchell, to match his neutral expression. ‘—the Russians aren’t looking for their man Prusakov anymore. But it looks as though they are definitely concentrating on General Lukianov here in England. The search elsewhere has been either scaled down, or called off altogether.’

  ‘And the various terrorist groups—what about them?’

  ‘They’ve all gone to ground,’ said Mitchell. ‘Elsewhere as well as here. But the Israelis have got a maximum alert going. Also especially here.’ He cocked his head at Audley. ‘Here’s what it’s all at, evidently. But we should have guessed that the moment your old buddy Colonel Shapiro buckled on his guns again and rode into town. He used to be the numero uno expert on the KGB and the terrorists in Western Europe in the old days, didn’t he? Before he switched back to their Egyptian bureau?’

  Trust Mitchell to know it all—and to guess that it wasn’t just the old Shapiro-Audley relationship which had brought Jake back to England.

  ‘Have you got anything on Major Richardson?’

  Mary Franklin didn’t beat about the bush. ‘Is he in this area?’

  ‘He may be, Miss Franklin.’ He smiled politely at her, but then returned to Mitchell. ‘What else have you got?’

  ‘What else?’ Mitchell gave Mary Franklin a hopeful look. ‘You’ve got that CIA stuff on Kulik and Prusakov, Mary?’

  So it was “Mary” already! But then it would be.

  ‘Nothing very definite.’ She wasn’t quite ready to be “Mary”. ‘The Americans now think they were both vulnerable to pressure, their Moscow sources say. The sort of pressure General Lukianov may have been able to exert, perhaps—with the access he had to personnel files.’

  ‘What about the computer angle?’ He had to keep faith with Jake. But, after Prusakov’s demise, he needed to ginger up his own side.

  ‘Yes.’ Mary Franklin let herself be gingered. ‘Prusakov was the senior. But Kulik was a real whizz-kid, Dr Audley. And he’d most likely
met Prusakov at the joint KGB/GRU computer seminars they’ve been having, with the improved systems they’ve been putting in.’ She allowed herself the merest hint of an apologetic smile. Which might be because she incorrectly thought that she was teaching grandfather to suck eggs, but which only made her more beautiful.

  ‘Indeed?’ Grandfather nodded encouragingly. But that was as far as Grandfather’s word-of-honour would let him go, even in a thousand years—even at the risk of appearing stupid. ‘Well, I suppose they must have had plenty of access to information too, then.’ He nodded again, including them both. ‘And Lukianov?’

  ‘Not a sign of him, David.’ Mitchell shook his head unhappily. ‘Kulik and Prusakov were the whizz-kids, like Mary says. And they both had to get out. Although they both also probably wanted to play with more advanced computers as well—ours, but the Americans’ even more. And … especially Kulik, I’d guess. Prusakov was more into politics and the good life. And he was the older of the two, with a lot of Brezhnev-era friends who were also being weeded out.’ He shook his head again. ‘But it’s Lukianov who frightens me, David. He sounds like a real tough egg, SAS-style. And I’d feel a lot happier if I knew what sort of deal he’s made with the Ay-rabs.’

  ‘Yes. So what about Peter Richardson, Dr Audley?’ Having given something, Mary Franklin still wanted more in exchange. But then Peter was her priority, after all: he was why she was here, inconveniently on his back.

  Only, things had moved on since she had left London on his tail. Most notably, the CIA had moved like lightning after the Israelis’ tip-off, evidently scared enough to hazard one of their Moscow insiders.

  ‘”The Americans think”—“the Americans say”?’ He ignored her question. ‘What do the Israelis say?’

  ‘They gave us the lead on Prusakov’s disppearance from the “Most Wanted” list, David,’ said Mitchell. ‘Jaggard’s had a meeting with Freyer and Shapiro—a very friendly meeting, by all accounts. And the exchange is “ongoing”, he told Jack. So everybody’s buddy-buddy for once.’ A muscle in his cheek twitched. ‘They’re all being especially nice to us—the CIA as well as Mossad. All of which is scaring the daylights out of poor old Henry. So, apart from putting Mary here on your tail, he’s not yet muttering “What’s that bastard Audley up to?” like he usually does, David. It’s just like your favourite poet said it always is—

  For it’s David this, an’ David that, an’ “Chuck ‘im out, the brute!”

  But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country” when the guns begin to shoot

  —he knew a thing or two, you’re quite right! So whatever you want … just say the word, and we’re yours to command. Isn’t that right, Mary?’

  Mary Franklin’s face was a picture. But then, however much she might know about them both, she might not know that one of Dr Mitchell’s favourite indoor sports was quoting passages from Dr Audley’s beloved Kipling at him, preferably in public.

  Only this time there was more to it than that, he realized: if Mary Franklin was Henry Jaggard’s woman first and last, Paul Mitchell was his man still—with or without Jack Butler’s full approval: the Kipling lines were also the wrapping for that final message.

  ‘Miss Franklin—‘ He caught her still in mid-gape at Mitchell ‘—so … what are the Russians doing, then?’

  ‘The Russians?’ She frowned at him.

  ‘Dr Mitchell says that everyone is—ah—“buddy-buddy”.’ He pronounced the Americanism with pretended distaste. ‘But I don’t think he was including the KGB in that happy condition—were you, Dr Mitchell?’

  ‘No.’ Mitchell came in happily on cue. “There’s been some interesting coming-and-going in the new trade mission, Len Aston reports. But that’s all to do with some Anglo-Soviet wooden furniture factory project, allegedly. Which they’re thinking of switching from the north-east to the Welsh valleys. Only they could be bringing in some reinforcements perhaps, he thinks. But no glasnost of the sort you’re suggesting—if that’s what you’re suggesting?’

  ‘Well, it’s about bloody-time that there was, by God! Where are you parked?’

  ‘Round the back.’ Mitchell frowned. ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘I want to borrow your car.’

  ‘My car? Over my dead body! You’ve already got—‘ Mitchell stopped abruptly.

  ‘The new departmental Rover?’ He could see that Mitchell understood. But so too, unfortunately, did Mary Franklin, judging by her obstinate expression. ‘I don’t want to be followed—“protected”—where I’m going. Either by you, Miss Franklin, or by Mossad.’

  She hadn’t expected that. ‘Mossad?’

  ‘Colonel Shapiro is upstairs, my dear. I’ve just been talking to him. And the red-headed fellow at the bar belongs to him. And they’ll be watching my car, even if they haven’t added one of their bugs to yours.’ This wasn’t betraying Jake: it was merely using him to get her off his back, he reassured himself Jesuitically. ‘I believe I now know where I can find Peter Richardson—where he is waiting for me. But if I turn up anywhere near his safe-house with anyone on my tail he’ll be off again, like on Capri. And I’m not having that.’

  ‘David—‘

  ‘I shall be perfectly safe this time. Apart from which I have work for you both.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘What work?’ Mitchell sighed.

  ‘What work, Dr Audley?’

  ‘I want you, Paul, to make sure I’m not followed.’ There wasn’t the slightest likelihood that Jake would try anything so stupid. But it would keep Mitchell occupied. ‘And I want you to contact Henry Jaggard, Miss Franklin. Because I’ve got work for him, too.’

  Mary Franklin stared at him even more intently. ‘What work, Dr Audley?’

  ‘I want him to set up a meeting with the Russians as soon as possible.’ He met the stare arrogantly. ‘Because I don’t think we’ve got much time.’

  ‘Much time … before what?’

  ‘Either before Lukianov clinches his deal. Or before the Russians get him themselves, just as they got Prusakov. Which may be preferable. But which isn’t acceptable to me.’

  She breathed out slowly. ‘Is this because of what Shapiro has told you?’

  ‘Partly. But partly also because, whatever Lukianov is engaged in, I’d guess that the Russians must be close to him by now, the way they’ve been pulling out all the stops. Because they’ve always had the inner track—he was their man before he ran … as well as a head start after Berlin, even though they were too late with Kulik.’

  ‘But … they haven’t got Richardson, Dr Audley.’

  ‘That’s exactly right, Miss Franklin: Richardson will be our strength. Because he was our man once … That is, if you don’t frighten him off now.’ He nodded at her. ‘If I can bring him in, then Henry Jaggard will have something to bargain with tomorrow. You tell him that: tell him to tell General Voyshinski that Dr Audley and Major Richardson have been talking together about the old days. That might spark a bit of much-needed glasnost in him.’

  4

  EVERYTHING depended on memory now.

  First, there were the old precautions, even though he was tolerably certain that, of all cars, Mitchell’s ridiculous pride-and-joy would not be bugged for easy following as the office Rover had been. But here, in the darkness and solitude of this deep Cotswold countryside of tiny roads and rolling hills, he had the advantage, anyway: no vehicle could move in it without lights, and from each crest the undisturbed night behind reassured him.

  His only fear was that he wouldn’t find the place again, after so many years: here, the darkness was not his friend, forcing him to drive by the map, squinting at every signpost, noting the mileages he had memorized, and finally counting off the side-roads in the maze until he found the track on its hillside at last.

  But then, quite suddenly, he was sure, against all doubt. There were dangers out there—all the old horrors, and the negotium perambulans in tenebris—the Foul Fiend himself, if not General Lukianov. B
ut they were far away. And this was the place. Because, in a world of untruth and half-truth, Her Majesty’s Ordnance Survey maps and his own memory never lied.

  Even … although the track was narrower than he remembered, and the hedges higher … he was prepared for the unavoidable potholes, including the boggy stretch where the spring on the hillside above oozed out of the bank and crossed the track without the luxury of a culvert.

  Everthing depended on memory—

  The cottage comforted him even more, it was so photographically exact. The years had added a few feet to the slow-growing holly-trees, and to the magnolia which had struggled bravely annually with the English winters and the late spring frosts, just as his own did at home. And the Porsche’s fiercely-glaring headlights yellowed the Cotswold stonework and turned the moss black on the slates of the roof while taking out all the colour from the autumn flowers by the porch. Yet every difference served only to confirm his memory of the place.

  For a moment after he extinguished the car’s lights the darkness engulfed him again, and the newly-loosened knot in his stomach tightened again. Then the porch-light snapped on before he reached the door.

  As he stepped into the circle of light he heard a chain jangle on the other side of the door, then the snap of a bolt. Then the door opened as far as the chain would allow.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I hope so, Mrs Kenyon.’ She had spoken so softly that he didn’t even try to recall the voice. And she was standing at such an angle to the porch-light that he couldn’t see her face while she could see his. ‘Is it Mrs Kenyon?’

  ‘What d’you want?’