Sion Crossing

by Anthony Price

  “Yes, sir.”

  What had he got to lose?

  Chapter Three

  Mitchell in London: Mischief

  “CURIOSITY?” JAMES CABLE considered his friend not without well-founded suspicion. “Vulgar curiosity?”

  “Not vulgar.” It was not going to be easy, thought Mitchell—not if it was going to be done right. Though ‘right’, in the circumstances, was hardly the right word for it.

  “Idle, then. And isn’t that the curiosity which kills cats?”

  It was certainly not going to be easy. “Not idle either.”

  “What sort of curiosity, then?”

  “It’s not really curiosity at all.” The one thing that he had going for him, decided Mitchell, was that James Cable was a decent, upright, honourable man, almost an old-fashioned naval officer—a pure Colonel-Butler-appointment. But also, Butler being Butler, nobody’s fool either. So, while he took responsibility as easily as he breathed air, nobody was going to push him around.

  “Oh?” Cable was one degree away from returning to his report and telling Mitchell to shove off.

  “Say ‘concern’ rather. Proper concern, James.”

  “Concern for the Honourable Oliver St John Latimer? Get away Paul!” Cable shook his head. “Not you!”

  “Why not? The Honourable Oliver … alias Fatso—”

  “That’s not quite fair. He’s not really so bad. And he’s damned clever—you must at least concede that, alias ‘Captain Lefevre’.”

  “I will concede nothing so far as Fatso is concerned, Lieutenant-Commander … Or should I say ‘Commander’, since such obsequious time-serving approbation renders your promotion inevitable? I will concede that—I’ll even put money on it: you will be carried upwards on his coat-tails when he becomes Deputy-Director.”

  Cable frowned. “You know something I don’t know?”

  “Very likely. I know he’ll be offered the job—much to his chagrin, since he was aiming at higher things. But he’ll take it. In fact, he may already have done so.”

  “You know too much, Mitchell.”

  “So I am often told. ‘Larned a little ’fore iver some lads was born, tho’ I never sarved in the Queen’s Navy, where I’m told yeou’m taught to use your eyes’.” Mitchell grinned. “The comings and goings of the last few days … and Fatso had a long session with Jack Butler on Thursday. And now there’s an envelope addressed to Jack in Fatso’s own fair hand, lying in Mrs Harlin’s in-tray and marked ‘Personal’—not ‘Private and confidential’, mark you … and not ‘Urgent’ either. Just ‘Personal’. A letter of acceptance—one pound will get you five, Admiral Cable, if you’re a betting man.”

  “Not with you, I’m not.” Cable was comparing what his friend had told him against what he knew. “You know both sides of the cards, I’m thinking. I’m but a poor Jack Tar, honest and bluff.”

  “More bluff than honest. So tell me—”

  “Where does David Audley come into this?”

  “He doesn’t. David is a man lamentably without any ambition—except to cause trouble for the rest of us … by doing his own thing in his own way.”

  “But he must have been in line for the top job.” They had been through this many times, but never before with Mitchell’s present certainty.

  “Then he has been passed over for it—like Latimer. Or he has refused, if they offered it to him … which is more likely.” Mitchell stared out the window. “Jack Butler will get the top job. After all, he’s been doing it quite effectively for two years or more—only a man like Jack would have put up with such a bloody scandalous lack of decision … particularly as he hates the job.” Mitchell turned. “That’s the delicious irony of it all: Jack has worked his way up to where he doesn’t want to be by sheer loyalty and devotion to duty … and, perhaps above all, by actual decency, you know. Old Jack gets results, but he’s also above suspicion, so they know he’ll never land them with some dreadful intelligence scandal—which HMG must find very beguiling… . Not least because the Opposition—and the CND, and all that lot … they’ll be looking for something juicy and nasty. And they won’t get it from Research and Development while he’s running the show … In fact, they probably never thought twice about Latimer and Audley—it’s Old Jack for Gold, Silver and Bronze, in that order.”

  “But Audley and Latimer are both twice as bright.”

  Mitchell made a doubtful face. “I don’t know about that. Jack’s no slouch when it comes to plain commonsense—and being honest and honourable gives him one hell of an advantage over most people, ’cause they can never make sense of what he’s doing and they lose time coming to the wrong conclusion… . Say, maybe they’re half as bright again. But David doesn’t suffer fools gladly enough … and he’s the original maverick steer that looks like a rogue elephant.” The doubtful face contorted. “Which we both know well enough, for God’s sake! Because he’s bloody well nearly done for me a couple of times—and you once, to my certain knowledge… . It’s only because I fancy his wife and adore his little daughter that I put up with him, James—and that’s a fact!”

  “Or adore his wine cellar and fancy his old-boy contacts?” murmured Cable nastily. “And Oliver St John Latimer?”

  “Fatso? Fatso is a Philistine and a basket-hanger. He probably wears a tartan tie—and Ruskin says that any man who wears a tartan tie will undoubtedly be damned everlastingly.”

  “What?” It was fatally easy to lose Paul Mitchell’s train of thought. “A … basket-hanger … in a tartan tie?”

  “Kipling.” Mitchell waved a cultured hand. “You go on expensive jaunts to Sweden to learn about Russian submarines—I get sent to Cheltenham, and never when the races are on there either, damn it! But that at least has enabled me to study the Latimer-Audley handicap race—and to brush up on Kipling.”

  “What does Kipling have to do with them?”

  “Audley means Kipling. He quotes the bloody man all the time, so I’m into the business of out-quoting him—he hates that.” Mitchell grinned again. “Mr King in Stalky & Co—he was Stalky and Co’s great enemy—I can’t work out which of them David identifies with … Beetle or M’Turk or Stalky himself … he changes rôle most confusingly. But Mr King was their Latin master at the school, and a damn good one too … but their enemy. And Oliver St John Latimer is Mr King—Audley’s Mr King … who wore a tartan tie and was a basket-hanger, whatever that means. In fact, ‘the king of basket-hangers’—Fatso to the life.”

  Cable rocked uneasily. “But our new Deputy-Director—if you’re right?”

  “Oh—I’m right, Commander Cable. And that’s what makes my curiosity not idle cat’s curiosity, but the real need-to-know stuff—‘intelligence relevant to the Defence of the Realm’, if you want the small print of my strictly unofficial request to the Duty Office—” Mitchell appealed to friendship over duty “—which I hope, for old times’ sake, you won’t enter into the log—?”

  Cable looked even more unhappy. “You tell me why, Paul … and then maybe I’ll tell you what. Okay?”

  Mitchell thought for a moment. “Okay?” Then he thought for another moment. “Last night … Fatso phoned you up here—right?”

  “Right.” What they both knew could not be denied.

  “Right! When has he ever done that before?”

  “How should I know?” Already Cable might have an inkling of what Mitchell was aiming at, but he wanted more. “I’m only—we’re both only … acting duty officers, each of us … duty officers—during the holiday period—like now?”

  “But you read the log every morning. That’s down in the book of words. But it’s only routine, because we’re not Cloak and Dagger—we’re Research and Development. So … nobody phones us here, except to find out where somebody else is—and mostly where somebody else is next morning, because there’s no hurry … We just want to check up on something, or get a second opinion—nothing urgent. So usually … usually, we don’t get any calls at all—right?”

 
Another thing not to be denied. So Cable shrugged.

  Mitchell nodded. “So Fatso phoned last night. And Fatso never phones—or never until last night … Because he’s always doing something far too important—and far too buttoned-up and well-organized and academic—to disturb his dinner, or his gardening, or whatever … but nothing trivial—not ever… . That’s not his style, James—you know that, for God’s sake!”

  Mitchell was extrapolating now. But he was doing so from shared experience of the duty log, also not to be denied; and from the assumption that Oliver St John Latimer would not ring in casually, but only in desperation, in some extremity.

  “It’s out of character, I agree.” Cable shrugged. “But there are always exceptions to any rule. And …”

  And hovered between them in the motionless air of the room, because … by reason of Mitchell’s purely accidental presence in the duty officer’s room last evening, they both knew where that led them.

  “The American Civil War, James? For God’s sake—you gave him something about the Monitor—about which you know bugger all except what you read in The Times yesterday, or the day before—”

  “I know quite a lot about the Monitor.” On naval history Cable was not about to let Paul Mitchell bully him: he ought to know as much about naval history as Mitchell did. “Don’t push your luck, Mitchell.”

  “Okay—okay! The first ironclad turret-ship! No offence meant, Commander.” Mitchell retreated. “But he didn’t want anything about that—he wasn’t interested in what you offered him, was he?”

  “Perhaps not.” They were still haggling over shared intelligence from the previous evening. “You gave him something better.”

  “I gave him mostly half-digested cod’s-wallop. And he lapped it up like it was David’s Château Pichon-Longueville-Lalande … But, if there’s one sure thing, it’s that Fatso knows sod-all about the American Civil War: he doesn’t know Shiloh and Gettysburg and the Shenandoah Valley from any of the innumerable holes in the London-to-Birmingham motorway, for a fact.”

  “So what’s new?” For a fact Cable shared Oliver St John Latimer’s lack of knowledge. “And you do?”

  “Not really. Except that it’s a bloody interesting war, I’ll say that for it—and I’ve just been refreshing my memory of it … Because it was the standard British Staff college subject in the old days—that at least is the truth … Colonel Henderson was one smart operator—and that’s another fact.” He gestured disarmingly. “Also … when it comes to enthusiastic fire-and-the-sword, the North did a pretty good job on the South—almost as good as the French and the other Europeans did in their civil wars.”

  “Mitchell—what are you drivelling on about?”

  Mitchell stared at him for a second, and then shook his head. “I’m drivelling on about Fatso, James—that’s all. For him to be interested in the American Civil War was way out enough. But for him to come back to the duty officer—that’s not just out of character, it’s downright suspicious.” Mitchell cocked his head. “Because it’s something he’d never do unless he really didn’t know which way to turn—do you see?”

  It was something which had not occurred to Cable the evening before, even when he had turned to Mitchell for help, out of his friend’s accidental presence and his knowledge of his friend’s knowledge of military history. And Mitchell had left thereafter, to go drinking and play dominoes … Or had he? That was what Cable was thinking now.

  “What have you done, Paul?”

  “Nothing, my dear fellow! Or, nothing much …”

  “What did you do?”

  Mitchell gestured vaguely. “I only asked Gammon, down below, about Latimer’s call—where it came from—”

  “What?”

  “It was on an open line—you warned him yourself, old boy. So it wasn’t scrambled, or anything like that. I simply asked Gammon where I might contact our Mr Latimer. It was all above board, James.”

  “What did he say?”

  Mitchell bridled slightly. “Well … he gave me the Oxbridge Club in the end, when I pushed him a bit.”

  “The Oxbridge?”

  “He goes there sometimes, after work. The drinks are marvellously cheap—you wouldn’t know … but they are. David goes there too, as it happens …”

  “You went to the Oxbridge last night?”

  “Well … yes … I mean, not directly after Fatso’s call—I had to play this dominoes match first, down the pub … and got quite disastrously trounced by those rascally accountants from Procter and Sykes in the Haymarket—at five pence a spot and the drinks. It cost me a small fortune.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I think they’ve got a system—”

  “Not the damn dominoes! Why … why did you go and check on Latimer? Is that what you did?”

  “Yes, damn it! And I’ve been telling you why, James: he acted out of character, and that makes me curious. And when I’m curious I want to know more, that’s all. So now I want to know if Fatso’s done anything since he phoned—and that’s all, too!” Mitchell shrugged. “It’s not much to ask. If I’d been on last night I’d already know.” Another shrug. “I already know he phoned in again, this morning. But the log says just ‘routine check’. Was it just a routine check?”

  It was Cable who was curious now. “What did you find out at the Oxbridge, Paul?”

  “You really want blood, don’t you!”

  “If I’m going to break the rules I do—yes. What happened at the Oxbridge?”

  Mitchell made a face at him, and swivelled his head as though his neck hurt him and he was exercising tender muscles gingerly. “Exactly … I don’t know …”

  “But something did happen?” Cable was beginning to worry. “Come on, Paul!”

  Mitchell shook his head. “I didn’t want to push things too far … I’m damn certain the Steward there … that’s Wilberforce, who was a college scout at Oxford before he was recruited by the club committee … I’m damn certain he knows more than he’s telling—that was one reason why they took him on, because he knows when to put the telescope to his blind eye, as well as when to hold his tongue… . But you’re right: something odd did happen there last night. And there is one thing that I do know.”

  “Which is?”

  “Howard Morris was there. And at just about the same time that Fatso phoned us—or … just about the right time before he phoned us anyway.”

  “Yes?” That was inviting a cause-and-effect conclusion.

  “But he was looking for David Audley—that’s what they said at the bar. And there were some rum types swanning about upstairs after that.”

  “Rum types?”

  “Chaps in ill-fitting dinner-jackets, with bulges in the wrong places. That was all I could get before Wilberforce cut off further communication. ‘Members’ private business is their own’ is his motto … when someone’s slipped a crisp Florence Nightingale into his sweaty palm, of course.” Paul Mitchell gave Cable a jaundiced look. “But David Audley fits very well with Howard Morris. Only …”

  “He doesn’t fit with Latimer?”

  “He doesn’t fit at all with Fatso. Certainly not well enough to argue about who won the battle of Gettysburg.” Mitchell tried to look innocent. “So what about this morning’s routine call, then?”

  “It was just routine. ‘Any Calls? Any red star post?’ That sort of thing. But …” Cable looked as though he was tempted to give evil for good, but only briefly “… he confirmed that letter in Colonel Butler’s in-tray. And he said he’d be unavailable for a few days, but he’d be ringing in at regular intervals.”

  “Unavailable?”

  They looked at each other.

  “Just that.” They both knew that that was another action out-of-character: Oliver St John Latimer was a notorious non-taker of leave, a notorious workaholic. “So what do we do?”

  Mitchell thought hard for a moment, frowning with the effort. “We can run a trace on his calls, I suppose.”

  “It would
have to be logged.”

  “Which means he’ll see it? Point taken.” Mitchell smiled. “Why should you stick your neck out for my curiosity? But … I’m in the barrel here on Sunday, and I don’t give a bugger what Oliver St John Latimer sees or doesn’t see. So I’ll run the trace then.” He nodded at his friend. “Probably better so, actually—he’ll keep for twenty-four hours. And no one’ll be able to accuse me of indecent haste.”

  Cable stared back at him rather doubtfully. “You think there is something, don’t you!”

  Mitchell shook his head. “No. No … that would be pitching it too strong by a long way. If it was David … now, David is capable of all sorts of eccentricities—as we both know. But Oliver St John Latimer, he doesn’t stray from the straight and narrow, so the odds are against. Like I said, James, it’s more concern—concern plus hope, I would admit that.”

  “Hope?”

  “Oh yes … I’d dearly love Fatso to step off the path of virtue, and for me to be the one to catch him—I’d risk running a trace on him for that any day. But … the American Civil War, James: all I can smell is verbena and mimosa and magnolia-in-the-moonlight—does magnolia have a smell? And fresh mint in the juleps … no matter how much I’d like to smell brimstone and sulphur. I just don’t understand it, that’s all.”

  The thing was done, thought Mitchell. One way or another … it was done!

  One way … it was just possible that he’d underrated his friend, and that dear James had seen through his pretended disdain both of Latimer and of Latimer’s promotion, and had glimpsed his genuine fears for his own long-term advancement if Latimer had any say in the matter. But he’d more or less covered that possibility by frankly admitting how much he’d like to see Fatso fall arse over tip. And, with good-men-and-true such as James, such frank admissions were generally disbelieved and discounted, and treated rather as proof of the exact opposite—like the terrified subaltern on the Somme who had admitted to his company commander before the battle that he was scared, only to be rewarded with “Jolly Good! That’s the spirit!”