Finally (or maybe craftily), she seemed to come to a decision. ‘David Audley, Tom—’
‘David Audley—yes?’ Better to assume that she was damn good. ‘David Longsdon Audley, CBE, Ph.D, MA—’ He parroted Harvey’s snide encapsulation of the old man’s official career ‘—sometime Second Lieutenant, temporary Captain, 2nd West Sussex Dragoons, latterly attached Intelligence Corps … Rylands College, Cambridge … the King’s College, Oxford … Civil Servant, Department of General Research and Development, 1957 to date.’ The rest had been out of Who’s Who, Harvey had admitted, including parentage, and publications and hobbies; but he couldn’t remember it all now. ‘David Audley—right?’
‘He’s here, with you, Tom—’
‘You’re damn right he’s here!’ Need and desire coincided: he had hit back and he wanted to. ‘But how, as a matter of academic interest, did you get here—into my bed?’
She squirmed slightly against her pillows, and that shoulder-strap slipped again. ‘I had help, Tom—’
‘Had—?’ It was hard to keep his mind on the job: the former Willy had been a wonderful companion, naked and unashamed; but this one, in courtesan’s frills and ashamed, was something else. ‘Or have?’
She swallowed. ‘He’s in big trouble, Tom.’
‘He’s in big trouble?’ Tom tore himself away from that alabaster curve. Tor Christ’s sake, Miss Groot—I think we’re all in big trouble, aren’t we?‘ The whole unacceptable truth opened up before him. ’Someone took a shot at David this afternoon—or yesterday afternoon, as it is now … And there’s a man dead now—have you heard about him, Miss Groot, eh?‘
‘Tom—’ She tried to sit up, with what would have been delectable consequences in another world, but not now.
‘So I’m in trouble too, Miss Groot.’ He hated her and himself equally. ‘And you are in trouble, right now … And, I shouldn’t wonder, Comrade Professor Nikolai Andrievich Panin, in Room Five in the annexe at the back—he’s also in trouble, I shouldn’t wonder, eh?’ On balance, even while trying to allow that she was a two-faced bitch, he felt himself weaken. So he hardened himself against his weakness. ‘But I’m sure you know all about that. So what’s new, then?’
She ran her hand nervously over the flowered sheet. And he had seen that same hand, mud-encrusted, hold his measuring rod only this morning. But now it was clean and treacherous, with pearly nails on long fingers. And he still had his freebie to come.
The thought of that brutalized him. ‘Just who the hell are you working for—tell me that’?‘
The hand grasped the sheet. ‘Who the hell do you think I’m working for—damn it! And damn you, Tom Arkenshaw!’
That was more like her! ‘You were an embassy secretary in Grosvenor Square when I last knew you, Miss Groot.’
She drew a deep breath, and drew herself up as she did so, regardless of what all that did to what was on view. ‘Tom … you call me Miss Groot just once more—just one more time … and you can all go screw yourselves—you, and Dr Audley, and Professor Panin—and Colonel Sheldon, too!’
Well, that was nailing the Old Glory to her mast, and no mistake, thought Tom. There had been a routine flimsy waiting for him on the subject of that certain Colonel Sheldon—Sheldon, Mosby Robert, Colonel USAF (ret)—just a few weeks back. So as befitted a blue-blooded All-American CIA girl, Miss Wilhemina Groot was starting her name-dropping at the top.
But now she was staring at him defiantly as the name dropped, and it was maybe time for a different approach to his problems.
‘I’m sorry, Willy darling.’ Perhaps, in fact, this was how he should have started. ‘The truth is … I’ve had one hell of a day since this morning.’ That was so much a genuine understatement of the truth, that it made him grin sadly at her. ‘And you did rather catch me by surprise.’
She continued to stare at him, but the defiance had been drained by his apology, it seemed. ‘I’m sorry too, Tom. And I haven’t had such a good day either—that’s the truth, too.’ She sighed. ‘Not that you’re ever going to believe it … oh—shit!’
He wished he could remember more about Sheldon, Mosby Robert, from the flimsy. But all he could recall was his thought that the personnel and hierarchy of the CIA’s London Station had had little relevance to his own line of business then. But Audley would know, anyway: Audley had always been very thick and buddy-buddy with the Americans, Harvey had said. And … and, come to that, maybe that just might account for the presence of Groot, Wilhemina Maryanne at Holcombe Bridge, if not in his bed.
‘Tom … ’ she trailed off uncertainly.
He realized belatedly that he’d been frowning at her, thinking of Sheldon and Audley. But she had related his face to her last statement. ‘Yes, Willy?’
She plucked ineffectually for a moment at her revealing neckline, then let go of it. ‘I haven’t been on your back, these last few weeks—can you believe that, Tom?’
It would be an agreeable belief, Tom realized: it would take the metallic taste of betrayal out of his mouth for a start. And it wouldn’t make him feel quite such a simpleton. But agreeable beliefs were always unwise and often dangerous. ‘Does it matter—now?’
She nodded. To me it does.‘ Another sigh. ’But I don’t blame you.‘
Either she was very sad or she was very good. But it was just remotely possible that she could be both. And, anyway, he owed these last few happy weeks a gesture. ‘It matters to me also, Willy.’ He shied away from the truth of his gesture. ‘Where will I ever find another girl to join me in muddy ditches?’
She looked as though she was about to burst into tears. ‘With stinging nettles and brambles? Don’t forget the stinging nettles and brambles.’
Or … not just very good. Better than that, even? ‘Stinging nettles and brambles—okay.’ It didn’t really matter what he believed or disbelieved. But this way he could at least apply mutual regret like a soothing ointment to his wounded self-esteem, half believing its efficacy. ‘But now you are on my back as well as your own—okay also?’
‘Not on your back, Tom.’ She shook her head. ‘They’re very worried for your Dr David Audley—that’s why I’m here.’
‘“They” again? ‘Colonel Sheldon, you mean?’ He accepted her nod. ‘Well, that makes two of us, my love. And I bet I’m more worried than he is!’
‘Don’t joke, Tom honey—’
‘I’m not bloody-joking. Someone took a shot at him this afternoon. And I’m supposed to be looking after him. And that isn’t a joke, by God!’ He stared at her. ‘You know about the shot?’
She plucked the sheet again. ‘Half London knows about it. The Russians have been quizzing all the Warsaw Pact embassies, like the wrath of God—’
‘The Russians—?’ It was no surprise to him that the Americans had picked up such panic-signals: it was common knowledge that they had contacts inside those unwilling allies’ intelligence-gathering operations. But … if this turn-up for the book wasn’t deliberate disinformation … then it complicated everything quite appallingly.
‘And they’ve been reading the riot act to their IRA liaison group—the Provisional and the INLA—’ Willy stopped suddenly. ‘What’s “the riot act”, Tom? Because that’s what Mosby Sheldon said: “the Riot Act”—?’
So Sheldon knew his nineteenth-century English history. ‘It means they’ve got to stop whatever they’re doing, and pack up their bags and go home. It’s … it’s what used to happen in the old days before plastic bullets and petrol bombs and policemen with riot shields and face-masks: after the Riot Act was read the military took over, with drawn swords and fixed bayonets.’ He frowned at her. Because, if Sheldon had it right, that meant the Russians really were on Audley’s side, even if somebody else wasn’t. But where did Basil Cole come into it?
‘Uh-huh?’ His frown stopped her for a second. ‘Well, they all say they’ve got nothing to do with it, the word is. And that’s the very latest information, of about an hour ago—not long after you’d arrived,
Tom honey.’ She regarded him questioningly for an instant. ‘But you said … you said someone was dead—dead?’
So the Americans didn’t know about Basil Cole. And maybe the Russians didn’t either … Or maybe one or other of them did know … or both knew? But the possibilities were infinite, so to hell with that, then! ‘So David Audley’s in trouble.’ He sank down along the foot of the bed. ‘If that’s all you’ve got to tell me, Willy darling, then it’s right neighbourly of Colonel Sheldon to want to tell him—“right neighbourly”?’ The damn bed was as soft as a wedding bed ought to be, but it only served to remind him of how tired he was, and of how quickly the remains of the night were draining away beneath him. ‘But we do already know that—all too well, we know that, actually.’
She pulled herself upright. ‘Who’s dead, Tom?’
He shook his head. ‘You ask Colonel Sheldon, my love—not me. I’m just a bodyguard—’ Quite dreadfully soft, the damn bed ‘—a “high-class minder”, as I have been reminded myself, more than once, today: mine “not to reason why”, in fact … Ask Colonel Sheldon, Willy love.’ The bed invited him backwards, and he found himself staring at the beamed ceiling suddenly, waiting for her to react to his refusal to tell all.
It was a beautifully beamed ceiling, with its eight radius-beams converging on a boss in the form of a carved wooden face in its centre.
God! It was The Green Man himself! He would have known that even without the knowledge in the back of his mind: the acanthus leaves grew out of the face quite naturally, from brow and nose, eyebrows and upper-lip and chin—acanthus leaves, not the vine-leaves he might have expected.
He felt her stir in the bed, under the covers beneath him.
The Green Man himself, indeed! And, although the face wasn’t quite directly above him, the deep-carved black holes of the Green Man’s eyes were not looking straight down, at nothing, but slightly obliquely, into his own eyes, and perhaps into his own soul, with ancient wisdom.
‘How much does Audley know about Professor Panin, Tom?’
Her voice came from nowhere, above him. Indeed, except that it was her voice, it might have come from that foliate mouth, with its classical leaves but northern-pagan imagery, which was neither cruel nor hostile, but knowing.
‘How much should he know?’ Green Man, or Jack o‘ the Green, or Green Knight from Sir Gawaine, or Wodwo, Wild Man—if I knew what you know I wouldn’t need to ask! Because you know it all!
‘He’s in bigger trouble than Audley is—you’re right, Tom.’ She waited for only half a second, as though she didn’t expect him to react. ‘Do you know? Or were you just guessing?’
That had been why Basil Cole had died, the Green Man told him. ‘I was guessing.’ But not guessing, all the same. Because Basil Cole’s death hadn’t really been silent. ‘Just guessing, Willy.’
She didn’t reply to that, and he guessed also that it annoyed her, that he was lying on his back, staring up at the Green Man. But then the Green Man hadn’t been a woman’s god in any of his incarnations, either before or after the coming of the White Christ.
He rolled sideways, on to his elbow, and raised himself to look at her. ‘I was just guessing, Willy darling. But I think he wouldn’t come here if he didn’t have to, so far from his home ground—eh?’
Still she said nothing, and he saw too late—much too late—that the Green Man had betrayed him, coming after his refusal to tell her about Basil Cole. So he must exert himself now.
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ (She hadn’t told him anything yet; but no matter!) ‘Why don’t you tell Audley himself?’ He nodded past her bare pale pink-white-gold shoulder at the brocaded headboard of the great wedding bed. ‘He’s in Room Two, just a yard away.’ (He could imagine Audley snoring now, in his own esoteric dreams.)
Still not good enough. ‘Or why isn’t Sheldon telling me this, anyway?’ Should he make it nastier? ‘Or are you expendable—like me?’ (She must answer that, out of loyalty, if for no other reason!)
A shadow crossed her face, but he couldn’t read her expression: either she hadn’t wanted to see him again, or she had—it was one or other of those two extremes. ‘Dr Audley doesn’t know me. But you do.’
Very true! thought Tom. I know you from that first English-Speaking Union meeting—from that first traditional kindred-spirit eye-contact across a crowded room, like in “South Pacific”; and later in bed, and in many a motte-and-bailey afterwards: I know you socially, Willy—and biblically, and in every other way except one … which in our business is the only one that counts, eh?
‘Yes.’ ‘Wilt thou have this woman—?’ ‘I do.’
‘And I’m not official—’ She shook her head against the pillow ‘—my darling Tom … if things go wrong … and I think they think things are going to go wrong, I’m afraid … then I’m just a junior cypher clerk, working in low-grade traffic, who shacked up out-of-school with a middle-grade FCO Brit—’ She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again they were dead ‘—a Brit who happened to have a handle to his name. Which they reckon puts me safely in a fine old American tradition, from Consuelo Vanderbilt onwards.’ She paused for a moment, watching him. ‘They know all about you, of course. And more than I ever told them.’
‘Of course.’ As an embassy employee — even as a secretary, never mind an intelligence cypher clerk — she had had to put her private life on the record. But he’d taken that for granted, because he had done the same.
‘Of course.’ The mouth twisted. ‘So … I’ve got the right clearance for running errands. But if things go wrong I’m not Company talent—I’m just your “bit of crumpet” … “Bit of crumpet”—okay?’ The twist became more pronounced. ‘That seems to be the British term for me.’
The room was hot, he could feel its warmth on his face. But there was a cold area spreading up his back which came from inside him. Because, if Audley’s friends in Grosvenor Square were concerned to keep this sort of distance from Holcombe Bridge, then Holcombe Bridge was no place to be.
‘What sort of trouble is Audley in then, Willy?’
She relaxed slightly. In the ruins of their relationship, coming back to Company business took her mind off personal desolation. ‘His own side’s gunning for him, Tom.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s been playing politics. Political politics—with politicians.’
‘Audley?’ Audley had never been political—even Harvey had said that the old man disliked all politicians equally. ‘Never!’
‘You’re wrong, honey. There’s this guy he doesn’t like—who is a top politician.’
‘He doesn’t like any of them, Willy.’
‘He doesn’t? Well, I don’t know about that … but he seems to have set this guy up, by leaking some dirt about the insecurity of his department. And that seems to have been a big mistake.’
He wanted to ask Why? again, but then he decided to limit his interruptions. If she was just passing on Sheldon’s message without understanding it, questions would only confuse her.
‘The guy’s very close with their intelligence brass—your brass, I mean, Tom honey … There’s a man named Jaggard, who’s very smart—and who’s on our side, pretty much—our side including the US of A … But he owes this politician some favours. And he wants to owe him some more favours—’
Sweet Jesus Christ! thought Tom. Now he really was in the middle of it!
‘So he’s ready to throw Audley to the wolves—even to Russian wolves, maybe.’ She blinked at him. ‘Are you with me still, Tom honey?’
Nod. He was with her, all too well. Nod again.
‘Uh-huh?’ She looked at him as though surprised that he had nodded so readily. ‘Well … Colonel Sheldon likes this fellow Jaggard, but he doesn’t trust him—Commodore Jaggard, is it?’
‘Air Commodore.’ Jaggard had been so perfectly pinstriped civilian that it was hard to imagine him pioneering the P1127, which had transmogrified into the Harrier, more than twenty years
ago. But at least it hinted why Colonel Sheldon USAF might be on his side, emotionally. ‘Royal Air Force, Willy. Once upon a time, anyway.’
‘You’ve met him—Commodore—Air Commodore—Jaggard?’
‘Briefly.’ That was strictly true: even that last time, when Henry Jaggard had blinked the rain out of his pale-blue eyes on the top of Ranulf’s ditch—that had been a brief meeting. ‘But Colonel Sheldon likes David Audley too? At least, enough to warn him?’
‘Oh yes—he surely does.’ She nodded back at him quickly. ‘He knows Audley from way back—he even calls him “David” … And he did a job with him, over here, once. He has a high regard for him, Tom. And the work Audley is doing is too important to be screwed up, he says.’
Here was a pretty tangle of Anglo-American loyalties! thought Tom. Because, if Jaggard needed his political allies, Sheldon also needed his British allies—and Audley too! So Sheldon was in trouble now, too.
‘But not important enough to come and talk to him now?’ He saw from her expression that she had thought the same question, even if she hadn’t asked it. ‘So what does he advise, anyway?’
She licked her upper lip. ‘He says you should both cut and run, Tom.’
That certainly sounded like good, friendly, special relationship advice, even if it was useless. ‘He won’t do that, Willy.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘So I can’t—even though I’d like to.’
‘No.’ She nodded again. ‘He said Audley wouldn’t run.’ Nod. ‘Not even after what happened yesterday.’ This time, no nod; merely curiosity. ‘He said Audley wouldn’t run—and wouldn’t trust anyone except himself.’
He might as well feed her something, to take back to her boss. And, after he’d let it slip, the CIA would pick up Basil Cole’s accident soon enough, anyway. ‘He’s also lost an old colleague, from yesterday morning.’ The memory of Audley’s anger came back to him. ‘So it’s personal, as well as professional. I think he wants blood for blood now.’
The words seemed to push her back into the pillows of the great bed, making her look smaller and, for the first time, a little frightened. For an instant, in spite of himself, he almost believed what he wanted to believe, even though he knew she wanted him to believe it too: that she wasn’t really Company talent, but just a cypher clerk whose private life had come in useful to her bosses.
For the Good of the State Page 17
