“I’m not prejudiced, Dr Audley.” The note vanished. “It’s the colour of their money that counts, that’s all.”
“Very proper!” Audley turned back to Morris. “It was nicely done, anyway—however it was done.” He turned to Mitchell. “Let’s go to where glory waits, Paul—”
But outside he ignored the waiting car.
“Let’s walk. I need a little fresh air.”
The sound of the city was mixed with its smell: eternal traffic far and near, brick-dust and drains and carbon monoxide and the river, all accentuated by the warm darkness.
“It was nicely done,” said Audley. “Whoever did it.”
The river predominated. Not so filthy now, much of it recycled via the Thames Water Board from unmentionable sources, but mixed with an untainted fraction from the springs and water-meadows of Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire, far away.
“Whoever?” Mitchell realized that Audley was thinking aloud, buying time before he faced Butler.
“Yes.”
They were heading towards the nearest bridge.
“Yes. Because I can’t help trying to hope that he wasn’t as smart as that … That maybe we’ve been conned twice over …”
He? Macallan—
“Macallan, David?”
“Twice …” It was almost as though Audley wasn’t listening to him. “Say … if the CIA had known about Robinson for a long time, but now they’d decided they had to close him down … But they didn’t want the Russians to know how long they’d been on to him … So they sent us up the road towards the 88—maybe?”
He? Robinson—
“I don’t know, though—” Audley crossed the road towards the bridge without looking either way “—I just can’t see Howard Morris sending me up the road … It isn’t his style—”
Michell had to run to keep up with him. “But he didn’t, David—he sent Oliver.”
“So he did.” The name made Audley miss a step as he reached the safety of the riverside pavement. “He sent Oliver—but he couldn’t have known Oliver would go, could he?” He shook his head. “No … on balance, I think Howard’s in the clear: he just smelt a rat, and did his best to scupper the plan … but without offending Cookridge. Only he didn’t quite scupper it, that’s all.”
They were close to the bridge now.
“So that just leaves Macallan, David.”
“Yes.” Audley paused to look over the parapet at the dark water below. “Just Macallan.”
Mitchell waited. Audley’s face was invisible in the light of the nearest lamp, and his expression was distorted by unnatural shadow.
“Just Macallan … He must have followed my career, such as it has been … And when they knew he was dying his friends would have talked more frankly, I suppose.” He nodded at the water. “And then he got word from that researcher of his, about the mysterious Mr Robinson of Sion Crossing.”
The river smell came up strongly. “And the researcher was killed, David.”
“Yes …” Audley shivered suddenly. “I’m getting old.” Then he squared his shoulders. “‘The baked meats of revenge are best eaten cold’, they say … It certainly would have been a beautiful revenge—sending me to my death to prove that he’d been right … He knew he was making his own crossing to Sion—he’d be there on the other side, waiting for me, when I made my own crossing—on his instructions … I like that … that’s damn good revenge, it really is!”
There was no understanding David Audley in this mood: all his thoughts were on Macallan and they were admiring thoughts. Poor old Oliver didn’t come into the reckoning at all.
“I’d like to believe that,” said Audley. “It would be nice and neat—Sion-bloody-Crossing!” He started walking again. “I wonder whether there really is any treasure there—” He threw the thought over his shoulder at Mitchell “—if there is, it was perfect … and if there isn’t I’ll bet he’d salted the evidence nicely, to lead me on … But even if that didn’t work, he knew I’d be hooked by his name—and hooked by the memory of Debreczen … He’d have got me one way or another—whatever I found out would have merely led me on.” He chuckled suddenly. “That’s cunning for you—in a good con trick your victim always helps you … In fact, it’s so good … it’s almost a pity it failed, by God!”
That was too much. “It didn’t altogether fail, David. He got Robinson. And it sounds as though he nearly got Oliver.”
“So he did—so he did!” There was no hint of sympathy, let alone gratitude in Audley’s agreement. “In a way we have all benefitted, in fact—we all have our glittering prizes.”
“What?”
“My dear fellow … Jack Butler thinks the better of you—and of James Cable … And he thinks no worse of me than he did before.” Audley nodded to himself. “And I have made the acquaintance of Lady Alice Marshall-Pugh, through whom I shall in due course make friends with Senator Thomas Cookridge. And that will prove very useful, I have no doubt.”
God almighty! thought Mitchell. “And Oliver?”
“Oliver?” Audley lengthened his stride. “Oliver St John Latimer has derived the greatest benefit of all, my lad. He has what he needs most, I suspect.”
“Oh yes?” The irony would be lost, but he must attempt it. “You mean … he’s still alive?”
Audley thought for a moment. “That is a benefit, certainly … For him, if not for us.” Then he shook his head. “But … no …”
“What then?”
“Experience.” Audley patted the parapet. “Experience at the sharp end—which he has never had … The next time Oliver St John Latimer reads a report, or writes an order, he will know that there’s flesh and blood at the other end of it.” He patted the parapet again. “Being frightened in an experience you can’t buy. I’d guess that he has discovered that in Sion Crossing.”
They were almost across the bridge. Up-river the lights twinkled on the Thames like jewels, all the way to Westminster.
The End
Sion Crossing Page 33
