For the Good of the State

by Anthony Price

  There was something odd here. ‘Are you offering rne a job? Or merely bribing me, David?’

  ‘Do you need bribing? Didn’t your late father do rather well with his merchant banking? Wasn’t he in on the Great Singapore Miracle—and a good friend of Lee Kuan Yew?’ The old man’s inside information was offered sardonically. ‘Or has your dear mother got all the loot? But then … she sounded most affectionate. And you are the only son of your house—?’

  The old devil was laying it on a bit thick. ‘Money isn’t everything.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Now, that is a great untruth beloved of those who have never been short of a buck. Because there’s always a bill for what you want … always supposing you’re wise enough—or lucky enough—to know what’s good for you, apart from what you want … But there’s always a bill—like self-respect, or honour, or peace of mind, or some such little thing … or talent wasted, even … Believe me, I know, Tom. Because I have been poor—or briefly embarrassed, anyway. And I may well have lost something then, while I was busy disembarrassing myself … before I got lucky again—’ Audley caught himself quickly. ‘But that’s ancient history, before your time. So … no, I’m not bribing you. Because Jack Butler won’t make you rich. At least … not unless you would count plenty of spare time in which to study those exceedingly esoteric mottes and baileys of yours—huh!’ Audley chuckled throatily. ‘Now, if that isn’t scholarship … But have you published anything yet, Tom? Wasn’t there something just recently?’

  Christ! These weren’t defences! thought Torn. Somehow, Audley had reversed their roles, so that now he was the besieger, softening him up with mangonels and ballistas and trebuchets and belfreys—

  ‘I had an article in History Today not long ago—’ Short of a clever answer at short notice he was only able to defend himself conventionally and inadequately ‘—on Ranulf of Caen’s adulterine castle-building.’ He felt his defences weakening under Audley’s well-informed probing, much as Ranulf’s own had so quickly crumbled at Thackham under King Stephen’s lightning assault.

  ‘Ranulf of Caen?’ Audley pondered the name for a moment. ‘Now, Ranulf of Chester I know … Interesting man, that. But really rather before my own prime period, of course … But Ranulf of Caen … He wouldn’t by any remote chance be the double-agent in Stephen’s army at Oxford in ’42? The one who fixed it so that the Empress Matilda could escape—when the old harpy shinned down the castle walls in a white sheet in the snow, in ‘42?’

  Audley knew too damn much. ‘It could have been him, yes.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’ Audley pretended to be pleased. ‘You know, I’ve always had a weakness for King Stephen. A weak and foolish man, I know—always making the wrong decision if it was the easy one. And always good at starting things, but never finishing them properly. And he had a shifty streak, I know … But not really a bad chap—probably would have made a good fast wing three-quarter on a club rugby tour. And good value in the pub afterwards … although I certainly wouldn’t have let him organize the tour, I agree.’ Sniff. ‘But if that’s your period, Tom, the man you ought to study is John Marshall, the father of my great hero, William Marshall—John Marshall goes right the way through the whole Stephen-and-Matilda anarchy period. Right down into my period too, actually. Because he turns up at the Council of Northampton in his old age, as a back-room fixer in Henry II’s showdown with Thomas Becket. It’s a bloody marvel someone hadn’t topped him by then—he was a bad bugger—a real Norman … Whereas my William was the best knight in Christendom.’ Sniff. ‘An interesting thing is that our own dear Jack Butler is the living and actual reincarnation of my old William. Which is why I dedicated my little book on William to our Jack, of course.’

  Now that was curious—and in a much more real way. Because, according to Harvey, Colonel Butler had got the director’s job in Research and Development a few years back, when Audley himself had been in line for it. Yet Audley’s affection for his rival was evident.

  ‘Yes.’ Audley paused as the motorway warning signs flashed in the headlights, offering them London or The West, among closer and homelier advice, plus the mileage information that Bristol and Exeter, and therefore Nikolai Andrievich Panin, were still a long way away. ‘Yes, the great comfort of William Marshall—“the best knight that ever lived”, was what Archbishop Langton said of him after he died, Tom; and Langton knew him pretty damn well, too—the great comfort is that, quite contrary to the custom-and-practice of the age … the Norman Age, and our age too … William always played a straight bat—kept faith, was always loyal to his salt, and his King, and his God—but came out on top of the heap, nevertheless!’

  Tom was still thinking of Colonel Butler: to inspire this sort of affection in a devious old devil like Audley, he must be something special.

  ‘But I still have a sneaking admiration—or a sneaky admiration—for William’s father, who was generally thought to be a right blackguard: “a limb of hell and the root of all evil”, is how he’s described in Gesta Stephani. Do you recall that, Tom?’

  Tom was saved from having to reply by the problem of filtering off the almost-empty A34 on to the racing westwards traffic of the motorway, which was escaping from London all the faster because its drivers were already late for their weekends at this hour of the evening.

  ‘He was a good soldier—and a brave one … Left for dead, minus an eye from molten lead, covering Matilda’s retreat to Ludgershall … Maybe he did change sides a time or two—like your friend Ranulf of Caen … And he certainly wasn’t very fatherly to young William, at the siege of Newbury—Newbury, wasn’t it?’ Mercifully, Audley didn’t expect an answer now, but merely sniffed his characteristic sniff. ‘I reckon he knew Stephen was far too kind-hearted to execute his hostages … But then Stephen is a good example of your fundamentally decent chap who is also a fundamental idiot, when it comes to politics … So perhaps John Marshall wasn’t so unspeakable at Newbury, when Stephen threatened to hang little William before the castle wall—you remember? And John said he had hammers and anvils to forge a better son than William—? “Hammers and anvils”, indeed! Dirty devil!’

  Was that in Gesta Stephani! Tom put his foot down, irritated by his inadequacy. ‘I’m more into fortification than politics, David … actually.’

  ‘Ah … yes … “ Audley settled himself down. ’Now … that is a rather impressive motte at Oxford, isn’t it? Just opposite that architectural monstrosity of Nuffield College—”the spirit is willing, but the fleche is weak“, don’t they say? With Oxford Gaol in the bailey—and St George’s Tower at the back? Is that Matilda’s Castle?‘

  Was he being tested? ‘There were shell-walls in the Oxford motte. And Gesta Stephani says there was water all round, plus marshes—the Gesta says Stephen swam the river under fire, to take the city … Doesn’t it, David?’

  ‘Does it? But he didn’t take the castle … Would his siege-works have been roughly where Nuffield College is now?’ For a moment Audley sounded genuinely interested. ‘But then the water-table at Oxford must have been very different then—to get a wet-moat up round the mound, surely? Don’t you have to go uphill, towards the appalling Westgate shopping centre?’ Then his voice faded. ‘Not that it matters … since Matilda got away, down her rope, in the snow, to Wallingford Castle—didn’t she—?’

  Wallingford had been the key strong-point on the upper Thames, the great strategic medieval honour of the region—

  Damn! What the hell was Audley up to?

  ‘In the snow … ’ Audley murmured the words to himself, but with a different emphasis, as though they had reminded him of some other White Christmas in Oxford, long after the Empress Matilda had contested Oxford and England with Stephen of Blois ‘ … in the snow in Oxford? But now we have Russians, with snow on their boots, on Exmoor … But why on Exmoor, Tom?’

  Audley had got there simultaneously, though in a different way. ‘I don’t know, David. But that’s where he wants to meet you.’

  ‘I believe you. Bec
ause, for the time being … and maybe for your dear mother’s sake … I choose to believe you. But also because I don’t really have much choice, at this moment—do I?’

  They were settled in the fast lane now, with uneven lines of red rear-lights stretching far ahead of them, to be overtaken, while a matching line of yellow-white headlights whipped past them on the oncoming lanes to the right. So there was the twentieth century and sudden death a few yards away; but there was the twelfth century, with all its very different, yet nonetheless human, calculations of ends against middles, and loyalties and affections, still in the background of both their minds. And he had nothing to say about that.

  ‘Which leaves me with four questions, Tom.’ Unlike the Empress Matilda and King Stephen, and even unlike the Marshalls, John and William, and even Ranulf of Caen, poor old David Audley had no strong motte and bailey into which he could prudently withdraw: he was out in the open, committed to a parley with the enemy in unknown territory. But at least he knew it now.

  ‘Only four?’ Yet, as a good medievalist, the old man would have known better than to put his trust in stone and mortar, never mind an earthen rampart and a wooden palisade: there was no strong place couldn’t be taken, whether by force or guile or treachery: ‘the stronger the keep, the stronger the prison’, Stephen of Blois had once warned Ranulf of Caen.

  ‘Four to start with, anyway.’ Sniff. ‘Like … why you, Tom Arkenshaw? for a start—eh?’

  ‘Me?’ Tom flashed the car in front out of his way. In the medieval analysis he represented Jaggard’s guile rather than the enemy’s treachery. But it might yet amount to the same thing, near enough. ‘I thought we’d dealt with me: I’m just a slightly superior minder, aren’t I?’

  ‘Are you?’ Audley waited until the car ahead had surrendered its illegal 90-mph to their dangerous 100. ‘Well … time will tell—eh?’ At last he found his handkerchief, and blew his nose comprehensively. ‘“Times levelled line shews man’s foul misdeeds”—Euripides?’

  Nasty! thought Tom. ‘Very true, David. And—“Somewhere behind Space and Time … Is wetter water, slimier slime”—Rupert Brooke?’ But as that didn’t really mean anything, better to press on before Audley came to that conclusion also. ‘And Question Two, David?’

  But Rupert Brooke stopped Audley in his tracks; and now there was a terrifying clot of heavy vehicles playing Grand Prix with an express coach making up lost time for Bristol, and shuddering the car with their slipstreams as he tried to reach the relative safety of open motorway beyond. ‘Question Two, David?’

  ‘Yes … “ Audley waited until they had broken through. ’Why me? is next. But I suppose I can’t expect you to attempt to answer, if you really don’t know the answer to Question One—or even if you do … or you think you do.‘ He sniffed again. But then he found his handkerchief and blew his nose at last. ’But maybe one answer to ”Why Audley?“ is quite simply ”Panin“. Only that rather begs the answer to the third and most important question. Which is Why Panin?‘ He tried for a moment to return his handkerchief to his pocket, but then gave up the struggle, against the:restriction of his seat-belt. ’But at least he gives us a clue, does old Nikolai: with him at least we know who we’re dealing with.‘

  Better just to drive (and hope that there weren’t any unmarked police speed-traps), and listen (and just listen). ‘But I thought you needed Basil Cole, to tell you about Panin?’

  ‘So I do—or, so I did … But I’ve got someone else looking into that now … How long have we got, before you get me to wherever it is?’

  Tom looked down at the little green numbers on the dashboard. ‘Not very long—unless we get stopped for speeding.’ The thought of a dilettante crew like Research and Development extending itself over the weekend was far from comforting. ‘You’ve got someone good on him, have you?’

  ‘Yes. I have.’ The old man became lofty. ‘How long?’

  Tom glanced at the time again, and estimated it against distance; and that was no problem for nine-tenths of the journey, for all great roads were the same at night, motorway or autobahn, autoroute or autostrada. It was only that last tenth, in the wilds of Exmoor somewhere beyond Tiverton, which was imponderable. ‘Maybe three hours.’ The darkness was a pity, as well as the lost time: no chance now of taking in Robert de Bampton’s great motte, which King Stephen had besieged in ‘35, just north of Tiverton. ’Who, David?‘

  ‘Who-what, Tom?’

  ‘Who have you got checking on Panin now?’

  ‘Ah … now, you tell me why you need to know. And then I’ll tell you … maybe.’

  ‘Too many people seem to know too much already. I’ve said it—you’ve agreed with it. But you’ve already told someone else. So I’d like to know who.’

  ‘Good try. But not good enough.’ Audley started fumbling with his seat-adjustment again. ‘At least I can get a good sleep for three hours.’

  ‘You really don’t trust me, do you?’

  ‘Don’t fret yourself. I don’t trust anyone. Except maybe old Nikolai Andrievich—him I can trust.’

  ‘I see. You can trust Panin … ’ He noted that Audley hadn’t sat back yet; so the old man was waiting for him to react ‘ … but not me?’

  ‘Exactly right. But I told you before: he gives us a clue, maybe—remember?’

  Gives—not will give, Tom remembered: he had dismissed the wrong tense too easily. So now he could only crawl. ‘What clue does he give us, David?’

  ‘Clues., actually … or possibly, anyway.’ Audley’s voice was lazy on its surface. But Tom felt a prickle up his spine which he recognized suddenly as something he’d felt earlier, though without accepting it consciously, whenever Nikolai Andrievich Panin had been mentioned. That calm surface—even the deliberate cosy reduction of the KGB veteran to ‘Nikolai Andrievich’, or ‘Old Nikolai’, for all the world as though he was truly an old and trustworthy friend—that calm surface was a sham. The truth was that the old man was scared.

  ‘Clues, then?’ Now that he had recognized it, he understood it: the sea above the Great White Shark might be as calm; but the unseen horror beneath was such that it had to be belittled, otherwise it would be too frightening. And, after their bullet and Basil Cole, that was fair enough.

  ‘Possibly.’ Audley rocked slightly, from side to side. ‘You’re still rather an equivocal character, Tom—to me, anyway. Because I know that you’re on our side … but are you on my side? No … no, don’t answer!’ He waved a hand halfway across the car. ‘You are a minor equivocal consideration, compared with Nikolai Andrievich, who is a major unequivocal one—do you see?’

  He had done the old man wrong. Because being scared might be part of it, but it wasn’t all of it: the old war-horse was also champing at the bit at the prospect of meeting this Russian again, after all the years in-between since last time. ‘You mean … whatever side I’m on … at least you know for sure whose side Panin is on, David?’

  ‘Ah … ’ Audley breathed satisfaction, real or simulated, in the soporific warmth of the car-heater. ‘Perhaps that is what I do mean. Or … at least I mean that Nikolai Andrievich is a simple Russian—KGB, but Russian always … “KGB” is merely a set of initials: Holy Mother Russia, all the way from Stalingrad to Berlin long ago, was his education. So after that, no crime is any problem for him. Whereas I am a simple Englishman—good, solid Anglo-Saxon, with only a small tincture of Norman blood … So I have complicated hang-ups about killing people, which he wouldn’t even begin to understand. Even killing Germans, during the war … most of the ones I actually met seemed perfectly decent chaps—there were one or two exceptions of course … But there were exceptions on our side too. Notable exceptions, in fact: better dead than alive, certainly. Only that worried me, because we English haven’t suffered the way others have—like Panin. So we English are not good haters. Except perhaps of the French … but that’s really a sort of love-hate, flavoured with admiration … And there are some foolish middle-class children who try to hate the Ameri
cans, out of ignorance and frustrated envy … Not that I blame them, mind you: it must be hard to be one of a post-imperial generation—poor little things!’

  God! The old man was rambling! ‘And you’re not … “post-imperial”, David?’

  ‘Lord no! My eighth birthday cake had a model of HMS Hood on the top of it: the biggest warship afloat, in the biggest navy of the greatest empire the world had ever seen—all pink, the map of the world was. And I saw Portsmouth in ’44, before we went across the Narrow Sea— the English Channel—that last time, ignorant as I was—

  “Our King went forth to Normandy

  With Grace and Power and Chivalry.

  And there, for him, God wrought marvellously—”

  ‘Ignorant as I was … But I saw it all, the whole D-Day armada, from the crest of Portsdown Hill, on top of one of old Palmerston’s forts—the whole shebang, Tom: from Portsmouth to Gosport, with the barrage balloons overhead, in the same anchorage where:the Roman Classis Britannica rode off Portchester, and Henry V’s fleet before Agincourt, before he “went forth”—and Nelson’s, before Trafalgar, too. Though I can’t honestly say that God wrought marvellously for the West Sussex Dragoons in the Normandy bocage thereafter, because Jerry bloody massacred us … However, that’s another story.’ He stopped suddenly. ‘And you are also another story. Or the Polish half of you is, anyway.’

  That took Tom aback. The Polish half?‘

  ‘Yes.’ Audley shook himself. ‘We had a Polish armoured regiment near us in Normandy … 1st Polish Armoured Division, attached to the 1st Canadian Army— mad buggers, they were! We were psyched up to fight Jerry all the way to Berlin, but they weren’t stopping there … One of them said to me—and he said it in broad Yorkshire, or maybe Lancashire … Because he’d been stationed there, and he’d married a Lancashire girl— or maybe she was a Yorkshire girl, I don’t know … But he had a Yorkshire/Lancashire accent anyway. And he said to me: “We fook the fooking Germans first. And then we fook the fooking Russians—okay, English!” ’ Audley sighed. ‘Poor bugger!’