The Memory Trap

by Anthony Price

  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.

  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?’

  ‘Why did I—?’ Richardson stared at him. ‘With half Europe after me … it seemed the sensible thing, David.’

  ‘No.’ There was no point in admitting his error. Rather, he must still pretend to have been clever. ‘We trained you. And, with what you’ve been up to all these years, you must have known your luck would run out eventually. So you would have been well-prepared for the day when “all was betrayed”.’

  ‘I was well-prepared for it.’ Richardson lifted his chin aggressively. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘No.’ He could hear distant kitchen sounds. And they confirmed his certainty. ‘You’d have had a better bolt-hole than this, a lot further away. And, with half Europe after you, you’d never have risked Sophie—even if you did trust my word-of-honour still. So that won’t do, Peter.’

  ‘No?’ Richardson returned to toying with his whisky. ‘Well … let’s say I was curious—‘ The look on Audley’s face stopped him. ‘No … and I don’t suppose Queen and Country will do any better, eh?’ He nodded. And then matched Audley’s expression. ‘I came back to help you, actually. Because that was what I wanted to do.’

  They were getting closer. ‘And what else do you want?’

  ‘Just that: to help you. And not to be tucked away in some damned safe-house in the back-of-beyond.’ Quite suddenly Richardson’s lips smiled unnaturally, with no support from his eyes. ‘But I also want to be in at the kill, with you. That is what I want.’

  Audley was conscious of the warmth of the fire on his face contrasting with what felt like a cold draught on his back. What he had just got from the man was everything and nothing, simultaneously. ‘Why?’

  Mercifully, the lips lost the Borgia smile. ‘Is your word-of-honour still good, David Audley? Will you take me with you?’

  It might be safer to have a man who could smile like that under his own eye than anyone else’s, the way things were. But if those terms had been waiting for him ever since Capri, he also had something with which to bargain now. ‘That’s not going to be easy, Peter. There are rules.’

  ‘Not for you, there aren’t. Or there never used to be … in the old days.’ A ghost of the old Richardson-smile returned. ‘And it’s the old days that you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not in the killing business.’ They were only haggling now. ‘I never was.’

  ‘No?’ It was the old days that the man was remembering—just as Charlie Renshaw had done when he had reiterated his final order. ‘Very well. I’ll settle for observer-status, to see how things turn out. Okay?’

  Buster began to bark somewhere beyond the door.

  Richardson nodded. ‘He’s getting his dinner. So we haven’t got long. And … I don’t want Sophie to know more than she already does.’ He nodded again. ‘You were quite right: I wouldn’t have come back here, and risked her … if it hadn’t been necessary.’

  ‘Necessary for what?’

  ‘Necessary for me.’ No sort of smile now, either twentieth-century English or sixteenth-century Italian. ‘Your word, David?’

  ‘All right. My word—if what you’ve got is worth it, Major Richardson.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s worth it. If it isn’t … I agree, Dr Audley.’

  Now Audley could nod. But there was still one thing he wanted to know first. ‘How long have you been aware of … whatever it is you are about to tell me? Why have you sat on it all these years?’

  ‘I haven’t sat on it. I haven’t even thought about it … “all these years”, as you say.’ Richardson’s lips curled, ‘But you’ve just reminded me of it, that’s all, David.’

  It had to be Lukianov. No matter that Prusakov had been the brains, or that he and Kulik between them had fixed their computers and set the whole plot in motion in the first place so recently. Because this was fifteen years ago, what Richardson was remembering. And fifteen years ago they would have been back-room beginners somewhere in the bowels of their respective KGB and GRU headquarters. Whereas a much-younger General Lukianov would have been in the field, at the sharp end.

  ‘You’ve remembered Lukianov?’

  ‘No. Or maybe.’ Richardson shrugged the name off disappointingly. ‘I don’t know. I don’t really know what’s happening now, do I? To me, anyway.’

  ‘So what do you know, then?’

  Richardson stared at him for a moment again. ‘You got quite a lot of it right. I was in trouble, when I got your message. I’d … had a long run. And I should have quit long ago, I suppose. But there it is—I didn’t … It gets to be a habit, you know.’

  ‘Making money? Taking risks? Having two separate lives, very different from each other? But that didn’t matter right now. The Mafia was after you.’

  ‘And the Guardia di Finanze … I was about to take a trip, anyway … when these people turned up, asking for me. Not the Guardia—and not the Mafia either, my people thought. Only, when they didn’t find me they left a message, with something they knew I couldn’t resist in it. But then … fortunately—very fortunately—I got your message.’ The stare became bleak. ‘And I don’t believe in coincidences, David. Not when they involve you.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I thought I’d put matters to the test. I have a good friend on Capri, with a house just near the Villa Jovis. So I invited you both up there, to see how coincidental you were.’

  God Almighty! ‘I see. And we weren’t.’ Audley cut his losses. ‘What was this thing you couldn’t resist, Peter?’

  ‘Does it matter? I decided you were my best bet. So I’m here—and you’re here. And we’ve made a deal. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No.’ He could never rest easy with that Borgia smile at his back.

  ‘It’s personal. It doesn’t concern you. And you wouldn’t understand, anyway. You of all people.’

  Given time he might be able to extrapolate from that insulting clue to the truth. But with Buster out there wolfing his dinner, time was what he didn’t have. “There’s no such thing as “personal”—you should know that from the old days. “Personal” is what causes avoidable accidents—‘

  ‘Accidents?’ Richardson cut him off, then stopped. And there was something about his mid-winter expression which warned Audley not to push into the man’s silence, but to let it work itself out.

  ‘I had an accident once.’ Richardson was as unmoving as a statue, and as cold. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Yes. But it was after … ‘ Suddenly, it was like being on a high place, from which he could see everything but had been looking in the wrong direction ‘ … it was after you left us.’

  ‘I was in a hospital bed, chatting up the nurses, when I got the telegram telling me my mother was dead.’ The statue swallowed, but still didn’t come to life. ‘I discharged myself.’ Another swallow, almost painful. ‘She took an overdose. By accident, they pretended. They were … very understanding, you might say. Did you know that?’

  Audley waited until the ensuing silence forced him to answer. ‘Not at the time, no.’ But he could see that wasn’t enough. ‘Not in that detail, I mean.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Something flickered in Richardson’s eyes. ‘I had left you by
then, of course. So it was only personal.’

  Audley realized why he, of all people, was not expected to understand any of this painful litany. Richardson had adored his legendary Principessa-mother, who had returned to her sunny palazzo after her husband’s death—that was common knowledge. Whereas he himself had no memory of his mother, only of a succession of his father’s colourful woman-friends. And, presumably, that bit of personal information had reached Peter Richardson somehow, never to be forgotten, like every other uncon-sidered trifle.

  But the hell with that! ‘Peter—‘

  ‘They calculated it exactly right, the Russians did: nobody was going to ask any questions, after that—not even me. Least of all me, the way things were. You’ve got to admire them for that.’ Richardson nodded at last, almost as though he was relieved. ‘But, anyway, the message was … that if I really wanted to know how my mother died, they were ready to meet me.’ Once he started to nod he couldn’t stop. ‘And then up you popped, David. Only then I didn’t need to know how. What I was interested in was who … and why. Which of course, is what you want. So you can have what I know for free.’ Now he actually almost smiled. ‘It’s only a spade, David. Just a spade.’

  The almost-smile had also been almost-Borgia. ‘A … spade?’

  ‘That’s right.’ The almost-smile was there again. ‘I have the spade. You have the grave-diggers. Between us we should be able to manage a grave or two to my satisfaction, I reckon. Eh?’

  PART THREE

  NO TROUBLE

  1

  IT WASN’T QUITE TRUE that Paul Mitchell had eyes only for Peter Richardson when they met at last: he had one eye for Richardson but the other for his Porsche. And, having more-or-less satisfied himself about the near side, he walked slightly sideways with a curious crab-like bias, so that he could also take in the back as well, to make sure that it—Que culo d’angelo!—was also undamaged.

  ‘Huh!’ And even now Mitchell wasn’t altogether happy: he wanted to take in the other side and the front as well. ‘Well, you’ve led us a pretty dance, David! To this godforsaken place!’ But then he remembered his duty and his manners. ‘Major Richardson, I presume?’

  ‘Mr Mitchell?’ Richardson was superficially much more relaxed. And, even though Mitchell wasn’t even a name to him, his unfailing memory of what Audley had said the night before pinpointed the identification beyond doubt. ‘It is a pleasant car to drive. But you should try a Ferrari. Or a Lamborghini, Mr Mitchell.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Mitchell had decided to dislike Richardson on first sight even more than in absentia. ‘It’s “Dr Mitchell” actually, since we’re into meaningless titles, Major.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ The wet wind ruffled Richardson’s hair as he looked away, pretending to study the glorious wreck of Tintern Abbey across the road. ‘Not a Doctor of Divinity, evidently.’ He nodded towards the ruins. ‘Only godforsaken in god-forsaking times, perhaps?’ But then he couldn’t resist looking directly at Mary Franklin beyond Mitchell’s shoulder.

  ‘Franklin, Major Richardson.’ Mary Franklin wasn’t impressed either. But she let Richardson take her hand nevertheless.

  ‘Miss Franklin.’ Richardson shook her hand like an Englishman, and then noted the absence of rings on its fingers, like an Italian. ‘You are another of my successors in Research and Development, I take it?’

  ‘No, Major Richardson.’ She studied the man coolly. ‘But don’t let it worry you.’

  ‘I am not worried, Miss Franklin. I have nothing to be worried about—at least, not in England.’ He glanced at the abbey ruins again. ‘Or, is this Wales—on this side of the river?’

  ‘Except illegal entry.’

  ‘Travelling on a false passport.’ Mitchell supplemented the charge.

  ‘You might find that hard to prove, Mr Mitchell—Dr Mitchell … Miss Franklin.’ Richardson studied them in turn. ‘But does it matter, now that I’m on your team again? And by … invitation, shall we call it?’ He settled on Mitchell. ‘It was you that David here phoned last night, wasn’t it, Dr Mitchell? To give you your orders? Oughtn’t you to be reporting to him now—rather than wasting time with me?’

  Mitchell breathed in deeply. But then controlled himself. ‘David—‘

  The rasp in Mitchell’s voice had sounded too much like steel leaving its scabbard. ‘All right, Paul.’ But Audley knew he had to make allowances for what must have been a long night. ‘Major Richardson will be with us, for the time being.’

  ‘He still needs me, is what Dr Audley means.’ Richardson had evidently recognized the sound too, but was making no such allowance. ‘So you must make the best of it … for the time being. After that … we’ll see, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mary Franklin took centre-stage diplomatically before Mitchell could accept that challenge. ‘But, in that case, Major, why are we meeting here, and not in London? Is this “the best of it”?’

  ‘Good question, Miss Franklin. The best—and perhaps the worst.’ The wind ruffled Richardson’s hair again. ‘This is fine country—the borders, the Welsh marches. My country, it used to be, I thought … I used to come this way, up from the south, where my regiment was stationed after I left Sir Frederick Clinton’s service—your service, Miss Franklin? No?’ He shook his head. ‘Never mind! I used to come this way to visit friends at Pen-y-ffin up the road, en route to Hereford, when I was cultivating old SAS friends there, to get a transfer to them—‘ he cocked his head at her this time ‘—SAS headquarters being at Hereford, you know? And all this being one of their stamping grounds, where the English and the Welsh used to raid each other in the olden times—

  The mountain sheep are sweeter,

  But the valley sheep are fatter;

  We therefore deemed it meeter

  To carry off the latter.

  Do you know the poem, Miss Franklin? It gets very bloodthirsty after that. Did you bring General Lukianov’s picture with you, like Dr Audley asked?’

  ‘Yes.’ But she didn’t move. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘This could be his country too. But I won’t know for sure until I see his picture.’ Richardson put out his hand. ‘Please—?’

  She took a stiffened envelope from her shoulder-bag. ‘This is a recent photograph, Major.’

  ‘Of course.’ The wind fluttered the photograph as he slid it out. ‘I’ll make the same allowances as I do for myself, when I look in the mirror.’

  They all waited.

  ‘Handsome fellow.’ Richardson smoothed the print, holding it with both hands against its envelope. Typical Spetsnaz.’

  ‘Yes?’ Mary Franklin exchanged a glance with Mitchell.

  ‘Yes. Anglo-Saxon type … or, presumably, Scandinavian or Germanic, from the north-west. Could be one of ours, from much the same stock, way back … the same as I can pass for a foreigner, coming home.’ He held Lukianov at arm’s length. ‘Yes … a much-favoured type for missions in the west, eh David?’ He offered the picture to Audley. ‘You’ve seen this?’

  ‘Do you remember him, Major?’ Mary intercepted the picture.

  ‘No. But, then, I didn’t expect to.’ Richardson let go of it. ‘It doesn’t change anything.’

  Mitchell sniffed. ‘I didn’t know you were a Spetsnaz expert.’

  ‘No?’ Richardson enjoyed Mitchell’s not-knowing. ‘Not in my file, eh?’

  ‘Not in your file, no.’ But Mitchell had recovered his poise. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Not really. But I did do a bit of private study on them while I still had clearance—in the Barnet House records, as well as our own—like David’s profile of General Kharchenko, from the late sixties … ‘

  Richardson smiled suddenly.

  ‘It was when I started to plan for my SAS-transfer later on, Spetsnaz and the SAS being mirror-image organizations, in some respects—‘ The smile became lop-sided ‘—except they are about a hundred-times bigger … But Kharchenko was a great SAS-admirer—ask David.’

  Then the smile vanished again.


  ‘I just thought if I had a bit of inside-knowledge about them—Spetsnaz … it might have increased my suitability, that’s all, Dr Mitchell. Because I was a bit long-in-the-tooth for a transfer, maybe. But I didn’t much fancy regimental duty—Salisbury Plain, Ireland, Germany … Salisbury Plain, Germany, Ireland. My time with Research and Development had spoilt my taste for playing that sort of soldier, what was left of it originally. Okay?’

  He took in Mitchell and Mary Franklin together again.

  ‘Does that answer your question?’ Then he nodded at Mary Franklin’s handbag. ‘Typical Spetsnaz, as I said. Turn his clock back fifteen years and you’ve got another of those clean-cut Russian boys in Afghanistan I’ve been seeing on Italian newsreels, is what I mean. Only he would have worn his hair longer. And no one from here to Hereford would have given him a second glance … except maybe the girls.’

  Neither Mitchell nor Mary Franklin looked at each other this time.

  ‘Okay.’ Richardson accepted their silence. ‘So I’ve come clean on Spetsnaz. And I heard David on the ‘phone to you last night, Dr Mitchell. So what have you got for me, then?’

  Mitchell didn’t fancy that final arrogant “me” any more than he fancied the man himself. And it was more than a simple chalk-and-cheese, like-but-unlike, post-Capri reaction, Audley realized. More simply still, because of his own past and background Mitchell disliked the sum of Peter Richardson, everything he stood for and everything about him, from his distinguished good-looks to the way in which he’d twice abandoned his military career (never mind an equally promising one in intelligence) when it didn’t please him sufficiently: that last, for Paul Mitchell, would be a betrayal beside which the man’s retirement activities were a mere aberration.

  ‘For you?’ Mitchell’s lip twisted with distaste.

  ‘For me.’ Audley pushed the words between them before Mitchell’s irritation got the better of him. ‘Have you traced the policeman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes.’ Richardson wasn’t interested in Mitchell’s likes and dislikes. ‘Well, seeing as I supplied his name that can’t have taxed you much.’ He lifted his head slightly. ‘He’d be retired by now, of course—eh?’