‘I … have an undoubtedly true account of what happened.’ Harvey’s answer carefully amended the question. ‘And I’ve had a little talk with Colonel Butler, He was really extremely affable—’
‘Affable?’ Affability had never been one of Jack Butler’s faults in the past.
‘Helpful, then.’ Harvey stretched again. ‘I’m sorry, Henry: I played squash with a purveyor of the Polish non-joke last night, and he beat the hell out of me—I’ve been in agony ever since … No, what I mean is that Butler admits quite frankly that this wasn’t David Audley’s finest hour. And so does Audley himself, apparently.’
‘He does, does he?’ Now Henry Jaggard’s suspicions were fully-armed, so that he was more than ever determined to settle his doubts first. ‘Tell me the Irish joke, Garry.’
‘The Irish joke? Okay, then: it’s apparently a version of the Connaught Ranger’s defence, when he was accused of murdering his corporal—back in the Duke of Wellington’s time, during the Peninsular War: he said he hadn’t really murdered the corporal, because he’d been aiming at his sergeant, but his musket threw the ball wide by a yard.‘ Garrod Harvey looked a little disappointed. That’s a joke, Henry.’
‘Thank you for telling me. I’m laughing inside.’
Garrod Harvey started to shrug, but then his squash-playing injury hit him again. “The word is that the Irish—the INLA—have had Audley on their list for years, ever since that fellow O’Leary was shot, up north somewhere. And there was an old IRA man named Kelly who was killed more recently, down in Dorset somewhere—‘
‘Audley had nothing to do with his death. Neither did we.’
‘This is the rumour, Henry. Which is that Audley’s worked his way to the top of their hit-list. So they were waiting for him when he met Zarubin on Exmoor.’
‘Ah!’ Jaggard had heard that: the Irish were being blamed for the Exmoor Massacre, but he had not picked up the exact details. ‘A case of poor marksmanship, do you mean?’
This time Garrod Harvey’s pain wasn’t physical. ‘Mistaken identity, actually. Because it seems that Audley and Zarubin are about the same build. And they were both wearing Burberry raincoats. So this Connaught Ranger shot the corporal instead of the sergeant, Henry. And then Zarubin’s escort went after him, and also got shot. But the Americans had two of their people on hand—two women actually, so the story goes … And one of them shot the Paddy before he could correct his mistake. End of Irish joke.’
It sounded like an inside story—but not quite. ‘Nothing about those two “Irishmen” in the house at East Lyn, whom we had to bury? Or about their Polish passports, and all that “Sons of the Eagle” literature that was found there? Or is that in the Polish joke—?’
Garrod Harvey didn’t move his aching shoulders. ‘Nothing about them. Or about poor old Basil Cole, either—no! But there is some good Special Branch corroborative detail, all the same, Henry. Which isn’t so funny, actually.’
Actually … Basil Cole wasn’t so funny, thought Jaggard. ‘What detail?’
‘It seems … it seems … that the INLA took a shot at Audley just the day before, down in Sussex. And missed, so rumour has it.’ For a moment Garrod Harvey looked into space above Henry Jaggard’s head. ‘It is certainly a well-known fact that there were road-blocks out over half Sussex on that day, with the police and the Special Branch as thick as bees in June … or whenever bees are thick.’ He gave Jaggard a blank look.
That was nasty. ‘I thought that was merely an anti-terrorist exercise, Garry?’
‘Yes.’ The look was still blank. ‘But one about which David Audley might have had certain suspicions, in the end.’
That was enough. ‘Tell me the Polish joke. Or non-joke—?’
‘Non-joke. And Audley doesn’t really come into it—Professor Nikolai Panin has the leading role. And Viking very nearly has another leading one.’
That was even nastier. ‘I can see that it isn’t a joke. Go on, then.’
Garrod Harvey stared at him, like a man trying to remember a joke, but afraid that he hasn’t got the punchline clear in his mind. ‘It begins with General Zarubin becoming surplus to KGB requirements … or surplus to alleged Gorbachev needs, anyway … ever since they killed that Polish priest so incompetently—’ He focused on Jaggard ‘—this is still the rumour, Henry. It’s not what I’m saying, you understand—?’
‘Of course.’ But there were limits to credibility. ‘But I don’t see how that was a KGB problem—if that’s what you mean—?’
Garrod Harvey continued to stare at him, but no longer blankly. ‘Zarubin was Panin’s problem. But he also had another problem, Henry—just as you did, actually.’ He cocked his head slightly. ‘In a way it’s almost a mirror-image situation—almost exactly.’
‘A mirror-image?’ Now that he thought about one of his worries, Jaggard could see the force of the analogy. ‘How’s that?’
‘Well … it seems that they knew they had a problem, in the London Embassy—just as you suspected.’ Garrod Harvey adapted himself to Jaggard’s frown. ‘They knew they had a leak somewhere. So Panin decided to use Zarubin as the expendable bait in a trap: he let slip certain information at certain levels, and waited to see how it all turned out.’ He nodded. ‘And Viking picked up his bit, and passed it on to us.’
Jaggard experienced his own twinge. But it was of excitement, not of pain. ‘But we didn’t act on it, Garry.’
‘We didn’t—you were absolutely right—’ Harvey almost stuttered over his agreement ‘—right to give them Audley instead of Viking, that is.’
That wasn’t how Jaggard wished to remember his decision. ‘That wasn’t quite what we did.’ It was on the tip of his tongue to remind Harvey that he’d backed Audley against Panin himself. ‘But go on, Garry—?’
Harvey nodded enthusiastically. ‘So we didn’t tip him off But the Americans did—right?’ Another nod. ‘Their man in the Embassy tipped them off … And they sent down the 7th Cavalry—or the daughters of the 7th Cavalry—to look after him. And thereby blew their man—do you see, Henry?’
Henry Jaggard saw. And also saw many beautiful advantages from his vision, like a flower blossoming in slow motion, as Viking obtained a longer lease of life from the CIA’s error. But, at the same time, his less-sanguine self saw innumerable predators and parasites attacking his flower. ‘Oh yes? And just where—where exactly—do the “Sons of the Eagle” come into this? I grant you they weren’t Irishmen, Garry. But whoever they are, they are now extremely dead. So who were they, then?’
Garrod Harvey nodded. ‘Ah! That’s the really clever bit—the pure bloody-minded Panin bit! Because the “Sons of the Eagle” are the deal Panin made with General Jaruzelski’s Fifth Bureau, which provided him with both his hit-men and his cannon-fodder, and all his window-dressing—like the passports and the forged Solidarity literature. Because the Fifth Bureau was only too pleased to kill Zarubin for him—the general knew too much about their involvement in the killing of the priest, and they could close that file when they closed his file … And they dreamed up the “Sons of the Eagle” as a bonus, as well as a cover, so that they could hang a terrorist charge on Solidarity into the bargain.’
‘And have their men massacred?’
‘Oh … they weren’t in on that part of the deal, Henry: the so-called “Major Sadowski” wasn’t a Fifth Bureau man—he was pure KGB, with a Polish accent. . a bear in eagle’s feathers. All he was doing was killing Poles, which is an all-the-year-round sport for Russians. And for Panin it was merely making sure that there wouldn’t be any inconvenient witnesses around, just in case we had the place staked out after all—’ Once again Harvey caught a shrug just in time ‘—I mean, he wasn’t keeping his promise … so why should he expect us to keep ours?’
‘Hmm … ’ Jaggard was still captivated by the Viking bonus. Until this moment he hadn’t given the man more than another month, before he’d have to be extricated. But now, if he was run cautiously … or even allowed to lie
fallow for a few months … his working life might be greatly extended, and perhaps even all the way back to Moscow. ‘So the Americans have lost their man, then? A pity … ’
‘Oh, they got him out in time. I rather think they guessed he was already on borrowed time in there. But they have lost him, in effect—yes.’
Jaggard felt generous. ‘Well, it wasn’t any of their business. But we owe them one now, nevertheless.’ Then a thought struck him. ‘They weren’t the originators of the Polish joke by any chance, maybe?’
Garrod Harvey shook his head and winced. ‘I think not, actually.’
‘No?’ Jaggard saw that Harvey’s ‘thinking not’ was only the brown wrapping covering certain knowledge. But then he also saw that if this ingenious and circumstantial account of the Exmoor Massacre was neither Audley’s nor the CIA’s work … then maybe Viking wasn’t so safe after all, damn it to hell! ‘You’re not about to suggest that this is all KGB disinformation I hope, Garry?’ He heard his disappointment roughen the question. ‘Yet still substantially true?’
Garrod Harvey held his head steady. ‘It does rather look that way, I’m afraid.’
‘Why—’ Jaggard controlled his voice ‘—why should they want to give us so much?’
‘It’s a very good question—I agree.’ Garrod Harvey was genuinely uncertain now. ‘But what I think is … everything didn’t quite go the way they planned it, you see … ’ He trailed off.
But Henry Jaggard saw once again, and all too well. Because no plan, however good, ever survived the cold plunge into reality still warm and dry.
Harvey met his scrutiny. ‘It’s possible that the shot we took at Audley unsettled them—’ He held up his hand.
‘It had to be clone, Henry. Because we had to concentrate his mind … for our purposes. But they didn’t know about that—just as we didn’t know about Basil Cole. And the Americans turning up must have unsettled them even more.’
Jaggard waited.
‘But the real balls-up was when Audley ordered Tom Arkenshaw to go after Major Sadowski—and Tom obeyed his order. Because it seems that Panin was going to put a stop to that, only Audley threatened to shoot him on the spot, himself.’ Harvey drew a breath. ‘So Tom saw Sadowski giving the sniper a friendly “hullo” when they should have been shooting it out.’ Harvey almost smiled. ‘The irony of which is that Sadowski was probably only trying to get close enough to make sure his bullet went in the right place. Whereas the sniper had a rifle, and didn’t need to do that—so Tom knew at once how the land lay: that they were in it together. And, of course, they both went after him then. And finally, to clinch it, when they had him at their mercy Sadowski obligingly shot his sniper-friend first.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘Ah … well, Sadowski was a real pro, whatever else—or whoever else—he was. He hardly said a word in front of Tom, so it’s possible that he recognized him from somewhere, and didn’t want to risk his Russian-accented Polish in front of him. But if he was a slow talker he was a fast thinker, Tom reckons. So he wanted the sniper’s bullet in Tom, and his bullet in the sniper, for the autopsy.’
‘He could have told the sniper to kill Tom, surely.’
This time Garrod Harvey forgot not to shrug, and paid the price for shrugging. ‘If you want a thing done properly … And what Tom Arkenshaw also thinks is that the Major liked his work. And in his own line of work he’s met one or two of the breed, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Jaggard remembered his duty belatedly. ‘He’s all right, is he—Tom?’
‘All right?’ A shadow crossed Garrod Harvey’s face. ‘Sir Thomas Arkenshaw has a badly-broken ankle and a heavy cold—for both of which David Audley is more or less responsible. But he thinks Audley’s quite a man, nevertheless.’
‘Yes?’ That had always been a danger, on the debit side of the special connection Arkenshaw had with Audley which had made him the man for the job. ‘But you haven’t any doubts about his report, Garry?’
‘Oh, no.’ Harvey managed a carefully-controlled nod. ‘It’ll be as full and honest as you could wish for, Henry—right down to Audley’s continued insistence on going it alone whenever Tom advised him against it.’ Another controlled nod. ‘Audley behaved exactly as I predicted, in fact.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then—’ But Jaggard saw that it wasn’t ‘—isn’t it?’
‘He also told Audley everything that happened, after he’d gone after Major Sadowski.’ Garrod Harvey’s lips compressed. ‘And he admits that he also told Audley that he was reporting back to you, Henry.’
‘He—?’ In that instant Sir Thomas Arkenshaw’s name moved from the black to the red side of the tablet in Henry Jaggard’s mind, marked now for No further promotion. But then he knew that he wanted to know more about the fatal admission. ‘How did he come to admit that? You pressed him—?’
‘He volunteered it of his own accord.’ Something close to approval was in Garrod Harvey’s voice. ‘Sir Thomas Arkenshaw is a medievalist, like David Audley. And I may be wrong, but … it was almost like a formal act of defiance—or whatever the old medieval Arkenshaws did, when they renounced their feudal allegiance, and moved from one side to the other, in the old days.’ Garrod Harvey didn’t shrug, but rather twisted himself uncomfortably for a moment. ‘You also have to remember that he’s half-Polish, Henry. They’re an unpredictable lot, in my experience.’ Harvey raised an eyebrow. ‘Eh?’
There was something damnably not right with Garrod Harvey this afternoon. And, as Jaggard trusted Harvey more than he trusted most men, that was much more worrying than Sir Thomas Arkenshaw’s medieval Polish practices. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Garry?’
The eyebrow came down. ‘Tom Arkenshaw isn’t very pleased with us, for having done what we did to him. And he’s also deeply humiliated—professionally humiliated—by what happened … “I ran like a rabbit”, is how he put it.’ Another controlled nod, ‘And he has been trying to protect people like Audley—and Zarubin—from people like Panin and Sadowski … maybe for too long.’ Another nod. ‘We worry about all the killers there are loose in the world, who can pick and choose their killing-grounds at leisure. But we don’t give much thought for the poor bastards who are expected to out-think the killers—or put themselves in the way of the bullet when they don’t.’
That simplified the message. ‘It’s called “battle-fatigue”, Garry.’ Jaggard nodded wisely, without pain. ‘We’ve just got to rest him up, that’s all.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘How is it too late? Has he resigned?’ That, at least, would simplify this problem. Though Garrod Harvey was right, of course, in his general thesis; and that would bear further inquiry in the future. ‘He’s resigned—?’
The same shadow which had crossed Garrod Harvey’s face before now recrossed it. ‘He’s asked for a transfer to Research and Development, Henry.’
‘He’s what—?’
Another controlled nod. ‘Colonel Butler knows about it. And he says that he’s very ready to give Sir Thomas Arkenshaw a try. Because he’s one down on his establishment, since last year.’ Then Garrod Harvey held his head very steady. ‘He already has the necessary endorsement from his Selection and Recruitment Adviser. And I don’t need to tell you who he is.’
In a perverse way Henry Jaggard felt himself warming to David Audley, and not for the first time: it would have been disappointing if the man had let himself be beaten too easily, with no unexpected tricks in his bag. Yet also he was glad because such tricks made what had to be done that much easier—because before there had always been a nuance of regret, that he had to break someone useful and loyal because cruel necessity had overtaken him. But now, by his actions, Audley had not only deprived him of any real certainty about Viking, but had also ruined Sir Thomas Arkenshaw, who had been marked for promotion. ‘Well, if Audley thinks that’ll save him he’s about to learn otherwise, Garry!’
Garrod Harvey’s face was suddenly a picture. ‘He
nry—’
‘No!’ He had all that he needed now. ‘There are five men dead—five dead men to account for. Which is a bloody massacre, by any standards. Or six … if you count the man Cole—’
Harvey shook his head, forgetting his back. ‘You can’t count Basil Cole, Henry. That was Panin making sure Audley didn’t get whatever advice Cole might have given him—’ His mouth twisted ‘—or maybe it was even Panin making sure that Audley would never let go—I don’t know … But Panin would have known that Audley would go to Cole first, in any case. And—’
‘It doesn’t matter what the hell he thought!’ Henry Jaggard was beyond arguing the toss with subordinates. ‘I want Audley out, Garry. And I know Jack Butler will fight for him—you don’t need to tell me that.’ He overrode Garrod Harvey brutally. ‘All the better if he does: we need that. Because Audley’s sacking is what’s really going to pull R & D into line—Audley is the real heart of R & D, not Butler. If we can get Audley, then we’ve got it all—Glamis, Cawdor and the whole kingdom—’
‘Henry—’
‘And I know everyone admires him. You admire him—and Tom Arkenshaw does … And, damn it, I admire him too, Garry—I know!’ Even now, in spite of everything, he knew that he would sincerely regret Audley’s passing: over many years Audley had probably done more good for the state than either he or Garrod Harvey ever would. ‘But he’s got to go. Because it’s not only what I want: it’s what the Minister wants, and it’s what the FCO wants. And, with what you’ve got, it’ll have to be what Downing Street will have to want this time. Do you understand, Garry?’
‘Yes.’ Garrod Harvey stared at him. ‘But no, Henry.’
‘No—’ Harvey’s uncharacteristic obstinacy took Jaggard flat back. ‘What d’you mean—no?’
‘I do understand.’ The stare was fixed immovably. ‘But it’s not on, Henry. We can’t do it.’
Jaggard opened his mouth to blaspheme, but then he amended the sound. ‘What d’you mean—?’
‘I talked to the Americans—to Colonel Sheldon, at Grosvenor Square.’ Garrod Harvey moistened his lips.
For the Good of the State Page 33
