The Memory Trap

by Anthony Price

  Then the rearmost of the army vehicles disappeared from sight among the trees and hedgerows, and the countryside closed in again on them as they descended on to the valley floor.

  ‘Anyway, as long as we’re behind them—‘ An idea struck him, out of nowhere, as he broke the silence to reassure her, cutting him short.

  The idea blossomed, as he tested it—

  (They were slowing down now, because Mitchell had been again forced to slow down himself, at the tail-end of the convoy, which had itself telescoped into what must have been its original compactness before the traffic jams around Monmouth had opened it out. And, sooner or later on this twisty road, long before they reached the main road near Ewyas Harold, it would surely have to stop altogether. And that would be the moment—)

  ‘Mary … whatever they’re doing here—the military … ‘ He completed the test as he spoke: whether he was right or wrong—or half-right, half-wrong, or whatever … and even if these really were the last days of Audley, if he was wrong, it didn’t matter. Just as it didn’t matter whether this military presence was due to Henry Jaggard or pure fluke. ‘Most likely, if Jaggard hasn’t had them ordered in, then they’ll be on their way to an exercise in the Black Mountains.’ He stared at her. ‘So … why don’t we pull rank and cancel their exercise?’

  ‘What—?’

  ‘Cancel their exercise. Put ‘em into Maerdy Castle, as their headquarters. Patrols out—ten-mile radius.’ He nodded enthusiastically. ‘If Lukianov is still loose, there has to be some sort of emergency still in force. And if I’m right about Richardson and his spade, and a Spetsnaz arms dump … Charlie Renshaw said we weren’t to cause any trouble. So this way we’ll be preventing trouble—Lukianov trouble and Russian trouble, Mary.’

  She thought for a moment, ‘If you are right … But, if you aren’t?’

  ‘Then I shall have egg on my face.’ It would be Henry Jaggard who would have to accept the egg officially, that was what she was thinking. And while that only made the idea more attractive to him it would hardly further her career. ‘You can blame me.’

  ‘I’m not thinking about blame.’

  He kicked himself. ‘No—of course. You’re thinking about Lukianov—quite rightly.’ He nodded. ‘Just as I am thinking also of Berlin. And Capri, too.’ That was a better line. ‘And Peter Richardson, Miss Franklin.’

  She stared at the car in front, without answering.

  They slowed down to a snail’s-pace now, crawling past a derelict little cottage, boarded up and forlorn, but still with the last flowers of autumn colouring its overgrown garden.

  ‘No.’ Mary Franklin came to a decision. ‘If the Russians aren’t in any hurry … we can arrange matters better from Hereford, Dr Audley.’

  They stopped altogether.

  Audley also came to a decision. ‘Well, on my head be it, then.’

  It was just like with Elizabeth: when you were out of a car you were free. But he had to move quickly once again, before the convoy started up again. Even as it was, he could only see the two rearmost trucks, stationary on the bend ahead of the Porsche.

  Mitchell lowered his window. ‘What the hell are you doing, David?’

  The bend was a stroke of luck: there was no way Mitchell could overtake the army here. ‘You stay put, Paul.’

  He could feel the rain on his face as he approached the caped and goggled motor-cyclist at the side of the truck. ‘Where’s your officer?’

  The motor-cyclist pointed at the truck.

  Audley walked round the truck. If there was an officer in it, he wouldn’t be driving. Along the road now he could see several more vehicles, including a Jeep-like one with his hood up against the rain. It seemed more likely that the officer would be there, but he decided to start with the motor-cyclist’s silent directions.

  He banged the rain-smeared window. ‘Open up!’

  The window came down slowly, revealing a young fresh-faced soldier in a combat jacket and a beret with the Mercury-figure badge of the Royal Signals. ‘Yes, sir?’

  No indication of rank. But the voice was educated. ‘Are you an officer?’

  ‘No, sir. Corporal, sir.’ The good old army smells of oiled metal and wet clothes accompanied this information. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘What unit are you?’

  ‘Royal Signals—TA.’ As though to support the corporal, a radio in the cabin began to crackle. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Territorial Army—therefore not Henry Jaggard. But that accounted for both the educated voice and the politeness: the young man was probably a British Telecom engineer when he wasn’t playing soldiers. And since privatization they had all become gratifyingly polite. ‘Yes, you can, corporal.’ He pointed to the radio equipment. ‘Can you call up your officer on that.’

  The young man nodded. ‘I can, sir. But what is the trouble?’

  Audley could feel the rain running down his face. ‘Call him up. Tell him that there is an emergency.’ He felt trapped by this useless helpfulness as the corporal continued to look inquiringly at him.

  Then he heard the sound of footsteps on the road. Another TA man was striding towards him purposefully, heedless of the succession of muddy puddles beside the overgrown road-verge. And although he appeared less than overjoyed at Audley’s intrusion, his scowl bore the stamp of authority.

  But then the scowl vanished. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Lord, another telecom recruit—same words, same voice! ‘I hope you can. Are you in command here?’

  The soldier shifted position slightly, peering past Audley, first at the Porsche and then at the plebeian Vauxhall behind it. ‘No, sir.’ He came back to Audley, frowning slightly. ‘We are moving, sir. You will not be delayed on the road. We are moving.’ He started to turn away.

  ‘Wait!’ Audley heard his own long-disused army snap-of-command voice crack. But before he could start to feel foolish at the sound of it (as he had so often done all those years ago, when he had also played soldiers’ games, as a lamb in wolf’s clothing) he saw with relief that it still worked: the TA man stopped in mid-turn, stiffening automatically with the Pavlovian response of the regular soldier rather than a part-time amateur.

  ‘That’s better.’ The old army habit of bloody-mindedness-in-uncertainty came back to him as the soldier faced him again, expressionless now—still more like a regular. But that, perhaps, was what he had once been. ‘Now—I demand to see your officer. At once, man.’

  The soldier’s expression didn’t change, but the one hand which was visible beside his combat jacket clenched into a fist. ‘That is not possible.’

  ‘No?’ Audley was aware that he was wet, and getting wetter all the time. But he was also soaked in genuine bloody-mindedness now, as he reached inside his jacket for his identification warrant. ‘Well, you will damn-well make it possible.’ He thrust the card at the soldier’s face. ‘Right.’

  The soldier blinked at the thing for a moment. Then his lips began to spell out its contents, with word-by-word slowness until the sound of a car-door opening made him look up, past Audley.

  ‘David—‘ Mitchell came into view ‘—what the hell are you up to?’

  ‘I am enlisting the Army.’ He decided to enlist the ancient jargon as well. ‘It’s called “Aid to the Civil Power”, Dr Mitchell.’ The phrase curiously re-animated a memory from the most distant past, much more than half-a-lifetime away, of a boring lecture at OCTU on military law, in which the equally bored lecturer had merely repeated what Officer Cadet Audley had read in the relevant pamphlet; but which, he had to admit to himself, had mostly contemplated workers’ unrest, and nothing like the presence of General Lukianov and his Arab (or IRA) associates in a very different age of the world.

  ‘What for?’ Mitchell wiped the rain from his face.

  ‘To re-garrison Maerdy Castle and this area, pending an outbreak of glasnost and perestroika, Dr Mitchell—‘ As he spoke he threw the words at the British Telecom supervisor/ex-regular. And then, from the grat
ifying effect they had, decided to go further ‘—until the Russians help us in this matter … with Lukianov still at large, Dr Mitchell … we must help ourselves.’

  That stopped Mitchell in his tracks as effectively as it had done the TA man, who was still gaping at him in astonishment, with all the metal fillings in his teeth showing. And, in the poor devil’s defence, the only truly memorable thing that the OCTU lecturer had said (off the record) was that whenever the Civil Power turned to the Army for help the best place to be was somewhere else, preferably as far away as possible, because the Army always got the blame for the disaster which inevitably followed, as night follows day.

  But now he was Civil Power himself.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, man.’ He snapped the card away from in front of the unfortunate man’s nose. ‘You’ve read the words: I am authorized to call for assistance from members of Her Majesty’s Forces as well as the civil police. And that includes you. And that is what I am now doing. So … go and get your officer—on the double!’

  The TA man had closed his mouth. But his jaw was set firm now and for a moment Audley was aware of a battle of wills being fought in silence. And he couldn’t let that continue.

  ‘Did you hear—‘

  ‘Yes.’ The man almost spat the word, without any polite “sir” accompanying it this time. So, for a guess, that anonymous combat jacket concealed sergeant’s stripes, if not actually the sacred insignia of the unit’s squadron sergeant-major, who was unaccustomed to such bullying, either military or civilian—and least of all in front of one of his junior NCOs whose pale face was a picture of astonishment framed in the window of the truck beside them.

  ‘David—‘ As the hypothetical sar’-major turned away, breaking into splashing double-time as ordered, Mitchell pulled him away towards the rear of the truck ‘—David, have you gone crazy?’

  Had he gone crazy? ‘No. I’m simply obeying Charlie Renshaw’s orders.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  In the end, it was Jake Shapiro’s advice he was taking, Audley realized. Henry Jaggard might be sitting on his hands, practising a wait-and-see policy; and even the Russians themselves, hampered presumably by a similar need to avoid embarrassing trouble in England, also appeared to be playing for time. But Jake had been scared, and it had been Jake’s fear which had disturbed his own sleep last night on the ancient and uncomfortable camp-bed in Sophie’s attic. And, apart from all of that—and even if Jake’s fear proved to be unfounded—what he was doing would irritate Jaggard most satisfyingly.

  ‘This is supposed to be a preventative operation.’ He turned on Mitchell haughtily. ‘”No trouble” is what everyone keeps telling me. But we’ve already lost three days saying “No trouble” to each other, it seems to me—three days since Berlin, and thirty-six hours or more since Capri, and we’re still saying “No trouble”, as though nothing happened there. And Lukianov’s still free as air.’ He observed a little red umbrella blossom beside the Vauxhall. ‘So, okay then! “No trouble”, is what I’m trying to ensure, by spreading these poor devils all around here as obviously as possible right now, in the rain, to slow Lukianov up if he’s here—‘ And now Richardson himself was coming to join them: and “No trouble” probably wouldn’t suit him at all. But the hell with Peter Richardson! ‘—or, if he isn’t—‘

  ‘If he isn’t, there’ll be hell to pay, David. Taking over the British Army, as though you’re God Almighty—‘ Mitchell shook his head helplessly ‘—that is, if they’re fools enough to be—‘ he stopped suddenly ‘—Christ!’

  ‘To be taken over?’ Audley swung towards another new sound, even though he recognized it instantly from his long-dead youth: the trucks were disgorging their unhappy occupants in the rain. He turned back to Mitchell and the others, who were staring wide-eyed past him at the explosion of military activity he had caused. ‘Well, it would seem that “Aid to the Civil Power” still works, anyway. Even if it is only the Territorial Army. But that’ll do for a start.’

  ‘The Territorial Army—?’ Words failed Mitchell.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Richardson looked from side to side as two pairs of stony-faced Territorials doubled past them down the road, old-fashioned FN rifles at the high port, equipment squeaking and clanking unmusically.

  ‘You may well ask, Peter.’ Mitchell paused as one of the soldiers stopped beside his car. ‘It would appear that we’re being protected from General Lukianov and his Ay-rab legions—presumably with empty rifles … Is that what they are supposed to be doing, Dr Audley?’

  That was actually somewhat embarrassing now, Audley decided as he watched the two men who weren’t guarding their cars disappear into the hedgerows on each side of the road. But it looked very much as though the sergeant-major had assumed that his order had involved an instant emergency, however incomprehensible, while they must still be a mile or two from the Maerdy Castle turning. ‘How near are we to where you found the crashed van—and the spade, Peter?’

  Richardson shrugged. ‘It’s just up the road from here, I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yeah. I think.’ Richardson gave him a disinheriting look. ‘I don’t expect they’ve erected a momument there, but I reckon I’ll know the place. It was on a blind corner near a farm track, where the road dips down. A damn dangerous place if you’re not careful. That was why I stopped originally, and hung on there. It was … this was my old shortcut from Hereford via Pen-y-ffin, to Monmouth and the Forest of Dean. I always liked to drive through the forest, to Gloucester, off the main road … if I’d had a few drinks with—with the person I used to visit.’ He looked around morosely, with the rain already plastering down his frosted black hair. ‘I used to admire the scenery. God only knows why!’

  The motor-cyclist’s engine roared into life, re-directing Audley’s attention up the road, towards the sergeant-major, who was returning with his officer at last.

  He squared his shoulders and moved to meet them.

  ‘What the hell!’ exclaimed Mitchell loudly behind him. ‘Get away from my car, damn you—!’

  Mitchell’s explosive anger spun him round on his heel, so that he caught the whole sequence of movement together: the TA man opening the driver’s door of the Porsche—and, another soldier appearing round the back of the truck—the fresh-faced corporal who had been so uselessly polite—

  Only now he wasn’t being polite.

  ‘Halt!’ The corporal’s sub-machine-gun, as well as the corporal himself, barred Mitchell’s way. And there was something about both of them that backed the command brutally, turning the world upside down as it stopped Mitchell in his tracks.

  ‘You will come now.’ The voice of the hypothetical sar’-major/British Telecom supervisor was like that of the polite corporal who had stopped being afraid as well as polite—no longer polite.

  Audley turned slowly towards the voice, trying to steady himself as he met disaster face-to-face as he wiped the rain from his face.

  ‘Ah! Colonel Zimin.’ That steadying slowness helped him to discipline his own voice. ‘I was hoping that it would be you—‘ But, critically, he could still hear the slur of fear in his words. So he must do something about that instantly ‘—but … I was afraid for a moment that your men might be trigger-happy, so far from home. I’m glad to find them as well-disciplined as this.’ If he could have smiled then, he would have done. But his mouth was still under orders from his guts. ‘I must congratulate you on them. In other circumstances they might have fooled me, even.’

  Zimin shook his head. ‘Dr Audley … ‘ But then he stopped. Audley caught the faint echo of his own words in the silence between them.

  So far from home!

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’ This wasn’t Capri. And, also, he wasn’t alone this time: whatever Zimin might suspect, he couldn’t be sure. Or, even if his suspicions were close to certainty, his guts ought to be twisting just as much, by God! ‘But, I don’t think you’ve met my colleagues—or have you?’ He turned to Mit
chell and Mary Franklin. ‘Mary—?’ He decided to omit Richardson from the introduction. ‘Paul—?’ Now back to Zimin, who must be expecting a third name. ‘Miss Franklin is representing Mr Henry Jaggard, of course. And Dr Mitchell is Sir Jack Butler’s representative, as you must be well aware.’ Now for Peter Richardson! ‘And Major Richardson is why we’re here—eh?’ He nodded everything after Capri into the balance finally. ‘The Major and I are old comrades, you understand?’

  ‘Colonel Zimin.’ Mary Franklin held her umbrella with both hands.

  ‘Yes.’ A bead of rain ran down Mitchell’s cheek as he looked down his nose at the Russian. ‘I hope that man of yours who’s playing with my car also knows how to drive it, Colonel. Does he?’

  Richardson, who was to blame for everything, said nothing.

  Zimin assimilated those three different contributions to his problems without acknowledging any of them. ‘If you and your colleagues will come with me, please—?’

  ‘With pleasure.’ Audley hastened to accept the invitation on everyone’s behalf. With that morning rush-hour in Monmouth behind them they had still been lucky that there had been so little traffic on the side-road, to complicate this meeting further. But even with that motor-cyclist behind them (and maybe another one ahead of him, speaking just as good Queen’s/British Telecom English politely, to delay any late travellers-to-work), it would be advisable to co-operate. ‘Shall we go, then—?’

  He moved to follow Zimin down the line of vehicles, conscious not so much of the others behind him as of the ersatz Royal Signals sar’-major in the rear, with the corporal appearing in each gap, until the Russian stopped beside a truck with its canvas hood open for them. Then he stood aside.

  Zimin assisted Mary Franklin into the truck, but then also stood aside.

  ‘Spetsnaz.’ Richardson scowled the statement at him.

  Paul Mitchell, for his part, looked as though he was still thinking more about his Porsche than his skin. ‘”No trouble”, David—?’