Oh—shit! thought Tom, momentarily ignoring his master. Mother’s admirers had been legion, long before Father had cashed in his baronetcy for another set of wings but still within the scope of his own childish memory. So it ought not to be any surprise to him that there had been other and younger moths singeing their wings on her flame in her salad days—shit!
‘It was long before your time.’ Jaggard’s agreement with himself was no longer smug: it was insultingly apologetic. ‘I should have realized that.’ Then he recalled himself to his duty. ‘But he is an old friend, anyway.’
Tom was saved just in time by the same imperative from snapping back How the hell do you know? Because that was really only professionally interesting—because it was Jaggard’s business to know, was the immediate answer; and he could tax Mother with that question later, at his leisure, some other time. All that mattered now was that it was almost certainly true.
‘At Cambridge?’ He got his voice back to the level of professional interest. “That would be rather before my time.‘ But … Audley, of all people—the name hit him again: Audley was … a bête noire now, or at least an eminence grise, as well as an elder statesman and something of a legend, rather than a proxime accessit—so … trust Mother! But Jaggard was here, in the meantime. ’I’m afraid you’ve had a fruitless journey.’
Jaggard took another look at his surroundings, for all the world like one of King Henry II’s men come to make sure that Ranulf of Caen was no longer occupying his illegally-constructed strongpoint. ‘Not fruitless, Tom.’
No? ‘I mean, I can’t tell you anything about him … that I’m sure you don’t already know—’
‘About him—Audley?’ Incredulity. ‘My dear Tom, I know all I need to know about David Audley already. He’s a very old colleague—not to say old friend.’ Jaggard half-smiled. ‘David and I go back a long way, almost into prehistory.’ The half-smile evaporated. ‘Of course, it would have been a bonus if you had been acquainted with him. But only a small bonus—it’s of no great importance.’
‘Importance to what?’ Tom couldn’t keep the suspicion out of his voice.
‘To what I want you to do.’
A flap, Tom remembered. ‘I’m due in Athens on Friday.’
‘That’s all taken care of. Frobisher has agreed to lend you to me for the time being.’ The half-smile began to condense again. ‘He said you’d be pleased—that you don’t like dealing with the Greeks.’
‘I don’t.’ Frobisher himself would not have been pleased: Jaggard would have had to pull rank to obtain that ‘agreement’. ‘But we’re going to have a problem there—’
‘Then it will be someone else’s problem.’ Jaggard sliced through his half-heated protest abruptly. ‘As of this moment your problem is Audley.’
Being sliced like that irritated Tom. ‘But there’s no one else who can deal with it as I can. It isn’t a problem of protection—it won’t be a diplomatic hit next time, it’ll be a British tourist. And it’ll be a bomb. So someone’s got to galvanize the Greeks into pre-emptive action—’ The thought of Bill Bennett arguing with Colonel Stamatopoulos through an interpreter irritated him even more ‘—and I can do that. Because … ’ He caught his big mouth too late: he was not only kicking against the cut-and-dried inevitable, he was also devaluing Bill, who was not only better than he was in Africa and Central America, but a good bloke into the bargain. But that was too complicated to explain here on the edge of Ranulf’s ditch, with the first drops of today’s rain spotting his face.
‘Because you’re the best?’ Jaggard ignored the rain.
‘Because I speak Greek.’ Bill’s solution to Anglo-Greek relations would be to restore the Elgin Marbles, as though they were the same as General Wolseley’s Benin rubbish, from West Africa.
‘Because you’re the best, Tom.’ Jaggard ignored his answer. ‘But, as it happens, this isn’t so very different from what you’re accustomed to do. In fact, the only difference is that it should be easier—the protection I want.’
It was time to stop arguing—or pretending to argue, thought Tom: It was time to find out what Jaggard actually wanted. ‘But Audley’s not diplomatic—’ But there was a short answer to that, he realized ‘—not over here, in England—?’
‘I don’t want you just to protect Audley—’ Jaggard stopped suddenly, and stared at him for a moment, his spectacles rain-blurred. ‘Of course, I do want Audley protected—not just because he’s an old friend, either . Because what’s locked up inside his head is probably of more value to us than anything Jack Butler’s got in his computer records.’
That was Research and Development in a nutshell, thought Tom: the only reason it still existed was that it had its own top secrets, which it played like cards close to its chest in spite of all orders to the contrary.
‘It’s a Russian he’s meeting, Tom.’ Pause. ‘It’s a somewhat fluid situation at this moment. But you may be able to solidify it for us, is what I’m relying on.’
A Russian, thought Tom. And then … a Russian in the UK—Jaggard had implicitly said as much, in answer to his question about Audley, after suggesting that it wasn’t so very different from what he was accustomed to do. But what did he mean by ‘solidify’? ‘A Russian diplomat?’
‘A diplomat.’ But Jaggard’s face did not confirm his words. ‘Name of Panin—Nikolai Andrievich Panin.’ He met Tom’s questioning expression without any sign of surprise. ‘Professor of Scythian Studies—or maybe it’s of Scythian Archaeology, I don’t know … But for our purposes he has diplomatic status, as an umpteenth cultural attaché, to discuss the possibility of a Scythian exhibition at the British Museum the year after next.’
‘Uh-huh?’ Even without Jaggard’s deadpan expression Tom had his own experience of certain Russian cultural attachés in the Middle East, who had looked—and behaved—as though they could have set up prehistoric exhibitions from first-hand experience. ‘Which directorate would that make him? KGB Archaeology—is there one for that?’
Jaggard looked up at the rain-clouds above, which still couldn’t make up their minds whether to drop their full load here, where there was no shelter, or further east, where there were more people. ‘Actually, that wouldn’t be wholly inappropriate for Comrade Panin, you know.’ He took a handkerchief from his pocket and began to dry his spectacles. ‘He really was a professor once upon a time, and an archaeologist too.’ He held up the spectacles to the sky. ‘But he also goes back a very long way in State Security—pre-KGB, pre-MVD even … possibly NKVD, early 1940s, in the War of Liberation—God knows, perhaps even before that, for all we know.’ He settled the spectacles back on his nose and looked at Tom again. ‘That makes him even older than David Audley—his old friend David Audley.’
‘Old … friend?’ As Jaggard seemed to be waiting for him to register surprise, Tom obliged him dutifully.
‘Old acquaintance.’ Having published his libel Jaggard carefully retracted it. ‘Old adversary, of course.’ He smiled at Tom. ‘David will tell you a lot about Comrade Panin, if you ask him nicely. He’s by way of being an expert on the subject. And … ’ He trailed off deliberately.
Old, thought Tom. Old adversaries—old acquaintances … old friends—old family friends … even old admirers. Maybe not quite as old as old Ranulf and his adulterine earthworks, but old, old—
‘And?’ Jaggard hadn’t come to the point yet, but was waiting to be prompted.
‘Yes. I was just thinking … ’ Jaggard pretended to be just thinking a little longer ‘ … if you want to know about Audley, you could do worse—a lot worse—than ask Comrade Panin. It’s quite possible that he knows more about David than we do.’
That couldn’t be the point. ‘I’m going to meet him, am I?’
‘Panin?’ Jaggard wrinkled his nose as a large rain-drop spattered on his newly-polished spectacles. ‘Oh yes … In fact, you’re going to meet both of them—and very soon, too.’ He nodded. ‘This is a time for meetings, Tom: Comrade Panin is soon to me
et David Audley—by request, and with our agreement, naturally. And you are going to mind them both, when they meet. And then you are to stay with Audley, like a limpet. Because we don’t think Panin has come over here for old acquaintance’s sake. We think he wants more than that.’
Tom was aware that he’d got more than he’d bargained for in answer to a simple question, and reeled slightly under the pressure of the disorderly mob of questions which crowded his mind. But better to let another simple one through, while he imposed discipline on the big ugly ones. ‘What’s my authority for this, if Audley asks?’
Jaggard looked disappointed. ‘My dear Tom—aren’t you Diplomatic Protection? Panin has diplomatic status—’
‘But I only protect our own people overseas.’ Tom shook his head, even though he knew that he was nitpicking. ‘That’s bloody thin.’
‘But your section advises the Special Branch and the Anti-Terrorist Squad.’ Jaggard shrugged. ‘Use your wits—tell him whatever you think he’ll believe, for God’s sake!’
Actually, it wasn’t such a silly question, because a man like Audley wouldn’t believe any old rubbish. But that was his problem now. ‘Who can I call on for back-up?’
‘That depends on what Audley wants.’ Jaggard gave Tom a shrewd look, as though he’d seen more in the question than had been intended. ‘But if he wants anything, then you deal with Colonel Butler—you deal with him, but you report to me. And I don’t want my name mentioned. You just stay with Audley, and keep me informed as to what he’s up to. Right?’
It wasn’t at all right. ‘You want Audley watched—as well as protected?’
‘My dear Tom—not watched’ Jaggard registered mild outrage. ‘Of all people—not watched … if that’s what you’re suggesting—?’
It was beginning to rain: the clouds had come to a decision at last. But Jaggard seemed oblivious of it.
‘I’m not suggesting anything.’ To his annoyance Tom found himself thinking of Willy, out there in the rain behind him somewhere. ‘I just want to know what the hell you want me to do.’
‘Of course.’ All Jaggard saw was his annoyance, not the reason for it. ‘David is a difficult man … opinionated, arrogant—not to say eccentric. But his loyalty is above question—don’t even think about it … And quite outstanding in his field, Tom—quite outstanding.’ Jaggard nodded to emphasize the accolade. ‘We need him. And we need him now, with Panin on the premises.’
Tom could see the rain running down Jaggard’s face, and could feel it running down his own. And he thought if Jaggard’s a liar, then he’s a good liar. But then—
‘And we need him kept alive—alive, you understand?’
‘Yes.’ But then he would be a good liar, Tom’s train of thought reached its terminus. But he didn’t think the man was lying now. ‘Keeping people alive is my business.’ He nodded back at Jaggard. ‘So what?’
‘So … Research and Development undertakes field-work occasionally. And I think this will be one of those occasions. Because whatever Panin gives Audley, David won’t pass it on—he’ll do it himself.’ Another nod. ‘But … he’s old, Tom.’
Old—
‘He always cut corners, and took risks—even in the old days—’
The old days—
‘I don’t so much want him watched, as watched over. So I want to know what he’s doing—and preferably before he does it. And I want to know why he’s doing it, and how he proposes to do it—I want to know every last damn thing that’s happening. Do you receive me?’
Tom had seldom been given more equivocally unequivocal orders. ‘Loud and clear ’ All that remained was for Jaggard to explain what was actually happening, which required such precision. ‘And Panin?’
But Jaggard was looking past him, at whatever he could see through his rain-distorted lenses.
Tom turned, although he already knew what he would see.
‘Make your farewells to Miss Groot,’ said Jaggard. ‘There’s a car down the bottom of the lane with a man in it who’ll tell you about Panin—or why we think he’s here, anyway. His name is Harvey—Garrod Harvey.’
In this downpour it would have been unreasonable to expect the young policeman to keep Willy in polite conversation. Short of physical restraint he could hardly have restrained her, and even as it was her hair was plastered close to her head.
‘You can keep the man and the car for the time being. He’ll explain who he is, but he can pass as your driver. Miss Groot can take your car. I’ll give you time to collect your gear from the hotel.’ Jaggard’s voice came from behind him. ‘Go and say goodbye to her—now.’
Tom had already raised his hand. There were too many questions still unasked, but an order was an order. But —
‘Harvey will tell you what to do, in the car.’ Jaggard filled the essential gap in his knowledge. ‘Go on, man—’
Tom launched himself up the rampart, his feet slipping and sliding in the grass. Equivocally unequivocal orders was right! he thought.
It all depended on Harvey, whoever Harvey was—
‘Willy! I’m sorry, darling—’ She looked even wetter than he felt, with her shirt outlining her shape agonizingly ‘—I’m sorry!’
‘Duty calls—huh?’ Her lip drooped on one side.
Her understanding only made it worse. ‘It does. But I’ll call you myself as soon as I can. This may not take long.’
‘And then more mottes and more baileys?’ She adjusted her unhappiness with an effort. ‘I can’t wait—’ The effort produced a grin ‘—at least it probably won’t be raining on you back in the Lebanon, I guess.’
Tom blinked the rain out of his eyes. ‘I should be so lucky!’ In front of Jaggard all he could do was touch her wet shoulder. ‘Take the car—I’ll call you soon as possible. Maybe this evening, maybe not. Okay?’ The thought of this evening without her was loss and desolation. ‘Goodbye, my love—’
‘Goodbye, my love—’ She echoed him ‘—take good care, Tom.’
He slipped and slid back, down past Jaggard and through the open gateway. There was a car far down the lane, already facing outwards, on to the main road. But, of course, they always turned round for a quick getaway, like adulterers parked in secluded driveways. That was the rule.
So it all depended on Harvey now—
Before the high hedge cut him off he turned back towards her: she was standing just as he had left her, on the edge of old Ranulf’s rampart, like a statue.
Take good care, Tom, he thought.
2
THE JOURNEY’S last hour, after he had divested himself of Harvey at a convenient railway station, was curiously disquieting, even a little frightening.
If there was one thing Tom prided himself on, it was the ability to concentrate his mind on what was important, to the exclusion of all minor matters, however gratifying and pleasurable. But now, when … after all Henry Jaggard had said (and not said), and with what Garrod Harvey had added … when that concentration should have been on Panin, Nikolai Andrievich and Audley, David Longsdon, and the web of circumstances which hypothetically bound them together … but now—now—he was faced with a damned, bloody mutiny of his thoughts against the direct and legitimate orders of his mind.
It wasn’t even as if they were merely wandering away into the countryside on either side of them, alerted by sign-posts which pointed towards early Norman castles known to him, or even to places adjacent to such castles— Aldingboume, Arundel, Bramber, Cadburn … Ashley, Barley Pound, Basing, Bishops’ Waltham, Castle Redvers— the counties’ roll-call came to him automatically and geographically as he drove westwards, as it did all the time, wherever he was, whatever he was doing elsewhere— Alton Charley, Eccleshall, Litchfield … Ascot Doilly, Ascot Earl, Bampton, Banbury—it would have been the same in Staffordshire or Oxfordshire; and he had walked them all anyway, or nearly; and even if an odd name had registered it would still only have been in passing and a minor matter; because (as he had already thought about old Ranulf’s al
most forgotten motte only this morning) what had outlasted eight or nine centuries’ decay would still be there waiting for him another day, another time.
But Willy wouldn ‘t—
He shook his head at another approaching sign-post—Branding 4—he didn’t want to go to Branding—
Or Willy might not be, anyway—
Then he caught sight of the place-names on the other arm of the sign-post: Upper Horley 5 … Steeple Horley 6½!
And, by God, Steeple Horley was Audley, David Longsdon—and he’d hardly even thought of Audley since he’d deposited the wretched Harvey on that damp station forecourt, protesting only half-heartedly that this wasn’t what Mr Jaggard had intended. But at that moment it had been exactly what Sir Thomas Arkenshaw had intended, Tom had thought with obstinate satisfaction at the time. Because he wasn’t going to turn up at Steeple Horley, to beard Audley in his den, with a driver who quite obviously wasn’t a driver (in both conversation and driving-ability) because the man drove like a spavined cart-horse but talked too casually about old treacheries, and dropped old names with them, as though he knew it all, had seen and met them all.
But that was where it had all gone wrong nevertheless, as he’d parked on the forecourt, with Garrod Harvey still talking—
There had been a girl—a very pretty girl, with a tip-tilted nose and breasts to match, such as he loved, and all the confidence of all three—there had been this girl about to cross the station forecourt entrance—God damn! he had stopped the car automatically, just to look at her … but, when he had looked at her, he had thought of Willy instead!
Only six-and-a-half miles—and he was still thinking of Willy. And, what was worse—what was much, much worse—he wasn’t thinking about the next time, if there was a next time: he was cursing Jaggard—Jaggard, and Ganod Harvey, and Audley, and bloody Panin—and wondering what Willy would do now, with the rest of her weekend—now this evening, now tonight and now tomorrow —
For the Good of the State Page 4
