Really, Peter wasn't the old times — the good old, bad old times of the Clinton heyday of the late fifties and swinging sixties, when the trick had been to try and hold things together when everything was coming apart at the seams, and the truth of Fred's two-hundred-year Rise and Fall of the British Empire thesis had been evident. No . . . Peter had been very much towards the end of that period, anyway . . .
when Fred had been beginning to lose his grip and flying more and more by the seat of his pants. In fact, in retrospect and with hindsight, Peter himself had been a sure sign of the Decline and Fall of Fred's own empire: a clever young barbarian foederatus who had grown up in those locust years and worshipped different gods from those of Fred, who had dummy1
recruited him in a vain attempt to keep up with the times —
was that it?
It was. But —
(Was there anything behind him? But then, if there was, it would be well behind, and quite out of his view; and anyway, having thought about it, he really didn't much care after all — )
It probably was right, that interpretation of Richardson's recruitment. But even if it wasn't. . . and though in the end Fred's seat-of-the-pants had turned out quite wrong, undeniably . . . the young man had still been quite something, in his way —
'Richardson, David — Peter Richardson. Hobson of King's put me on to him. You'll like him.' (That morning in Fred's office, it had been) 'Oh aye? Fresh from university, you mean?' (In peacetime, as Sir Frederick was often wont to complain, recruitment was a sore trial.)
'Yes and no. He's a soldier, actually.'
'Another damn redcoat?' (Not least of Fred's complaints was that even Solomon might have baulked at judging between the military misfits and the graduates still-wet-behind-the-ears who were offered him.) 'Well, at least Major Butler will approve of him, then.'
'I don't think he will. This is a new breed, David. They've let him take a degree and now regimental duty is no longer to dummy1
his taste. So they've let us have him on secondment for a year. With the usual mutual option after that. And, as I say, I think you'll like him. So will your wife.'
'Oh aye?' (That was when people behind his back had not yet given up referring to Faith as "a much younger woman".) 'What makes you think they'll ever meet?'
'I want you to have him to dinner — to one of your dinner-parties.'
'Why should I do that? Other than because it's an order, I mean?'
'A little experiment. You should enjoy it —'
Had he enjoyed it, though?
The westering sun was trying to get through the clouds ahead, but not quite succeeding. He had spent longer among the records than he had intended, he realized. But it had been necessary to make sure that neither Butler nor Jaggard had missed anything, for his own peace of mind . . . even though, of course, they hadn't. So ... whatever it was, whatever it had been, that he shared (or half-shared?) with Peter Richardson was off the record and unimportant (so it had seemed, anyway): some unconsidered trifle . . . like Fred's "little experiment" of long ago —
Had he enjoyed it, though?
But that didn't really matter: what mattered was that he remembered it. And — for sure, among so many dummy1
uncertainties — Peter Richardson had naturally remembered it too: that was one absolute certainty which Richardson himself had conveniently and deliberately established, taking the only chance he had with "Mr Dalingridge", after he had spotted both Audley and the Russians (if not the Arabs too) from some observation point along that long hot path up to the Villa Jovis —
Faith had probably enjoyed it (that was a near-certainty, although an unimportant one): she had admired both Richardson's car (long and low and sporty, Jaguar or Triumph or whatever was in vogue then) and Richardson himself (dark and handsome, like some Roman military tribune in one of the more fashionable Legions, far from home but good with senior officers' wives automatically, especially when their husbands were somewhat older?) —
Memory expanded under pressure. (He had driven along this very road ... or along the old A40 to Oxford and the West, which had preceded this motorway . . . except that he was off the motorway now, and back on the old A40 again, circling Oxford itself: but ... he had driven westwards with Peter Richardson himself that time, towards GCHQ at Cheltenham in its earlier days, anyway. But that was the key in the lock.
And he could feel it turning in his memory, between Fred's
"little experiment" and its unrecorded sequel. And the experiment and its sequel were so beautifully bridged now, dummy1
after all these years, by "Mr Dalingridge", that there could be no mistake: he could even remember Richardson himself directing him off the main road, up on the higher ground of the Cotswolds, into a maze of stone walls and sleeping villages untouched by time since the days of sheep which had built the tall churches and the manor house —
'Just a little detour, David. To meet a friend of mine for lunch . . . Someone only you know about, eh?'
It all came down to memory. And not to damned computer-memory, which was no better than common coinage in the pockets of anyone who had access to it, but to private memory, which he alone possessed now (although which Zimin had aspired to, in attempting to take Peter on Capri, by God! That was the memory which really counted now, by God — by God!) —
But Peter couldn't come first, now. (The digital clock on Jack Butler's "Buy British" Rover advised him that, as well as the setting sun, which had given up its attempt to shine before dark: he had delayed too long among those records to attempt Peter first: he had to keep another rendevous before that. And, because of Peter's importance rather than despite it, better so, perhaps?)
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There was still nothing behind him, when he took the Burford turn-off. But then, if there had been (as before), it would have been well-back, and he wouldn't have been able to spot it. And it didn't matter now, anyway.
And, also, it was late enough in the day, as well as out of the high tourist-season (as on Capri!) for there to be no crowds and plenty of room to park, right outside the appointed place.
'Do you have a Mr Lee staying with you?'
The girl in reception had evidently been warned that Mr Lee was expecting a visitor. 'Yes, sir. Number Three — just up the stairs there, and on your left.'
He knocked on Number Three. But then had to wait, because Mr Lee had locked his door.
'Hullo, old friend.' Jake locked the door again, leaving the key in the lock. 'You're early — or are you late? Your message was rather vague.' He wiped his moustache and grinned.
'Would you like a beer?'
There was an unopened suitcase on the bed and a very much opened crate of beer on the floor beside it: it had had twelve bottles, but there were fewer now — and another one fewer as Jake himself removed it.
'This is good beer, too.' Jake opened the bottle, then inverted dummy1
a glass on top of it, and handed both to Audley. 'We passed a local off-licence and they offered me a local brew. And it isn't half-bad, I tell you.'
"We" added itself to the emptiness of the crate. 'You're not by yourself then, Jake?'
'Lord, no!' Jake replenished his own glass. 'I'm much too old to be let out on my own in these dangerous times.' He glanced at Audley almost casually over the froth. 'What about you?'
'Just me.' He felt thirsty suddenly. 'So far as I know.'
Jake raised his glass in salute. 'Not to worry.' He drank deeply and appreciatively. 'My custodes will let me know who are custodieting you, old friend.' He smiled at Audley. 'Your Mr Jaggard said you were working for him. And ... I suspect he trusts you even less than I do.'
So Jake had been well-briefed, then. Or had drawn the right conclusions, anyway. 'You've met my Mr Jaggard, then?'
'I have indeed.' Another drink. Then another smile. 'A very cautious gentleman.' The smile was a smile-of-many-colours.
'And I have told him everything I know. Or ... some of everything I know, anyway. And
he is very grateful. And . . . I am to see him again later tonight. Or, failing that, early tomorrow morning. And then he will be very grateful again.'
But no smile now. 'You look rather pleased with yourself, David. And that worries me.'
'I am pleased with myself.' He wasn't such an expert on dummy1
English beer as Jake had once been. But it tasted good because he was thirsty.
'I see.' Jake nodded over his glass. 'So that will be because you are hoping to meet your old colleague Major Richardson? For whom you people are all looking — as well as for General Lukianov?'
Everybody knew about everyone everybody was looking for now, evidently. 'I might be, Jake.' With everybody looking, that was hardly surprising: Jake had merely chosen the more likely of the two.
'But Mr Jaggard doesn't know this yet?'
Jake was another one like Paul Mitchell: he was too clever for his own good. 'What have you got for me that you haven't given Henry Jaggard? On Prusakov and Kulik, as well as Lukianov, Jake?' He looked at his watch ostentatiously, and then at the remaining daylight outside.
'You're in a hurry?'
'Not particularly — if you've got a lot to tell.'
'You ought to be in a hurry. And ... I do not have a great deal.
But what I have is good.' Jake paused. 'It is also sensitive, David.'
'Sensitive?'
Jake hid behind his glass for a moment. 'I must ask that it goes no further, from you, for the time being. It will surely come from other sources eventually.'
It was the source, not the information itself, which was dummy1
sensitive. 'Don't insult me, Jake. When have I ever blabbed?'
But he saw at once that injured reliability was not enough.
'Very well. You have my word.'
'Fine. Your word I will take.' Jake nodded. 'We have a Kremlin source, David. But we do not want it put at the slightest risk, you understand. Even for something which worries us as much as this.' He made a face suddenly.
'Also . . . there are those on my side who are not so convinced that we should be frank with you. They believe that terrorist operations always weaken the credibility of the PLO itself.
And that suits them — whatever the cost to others.'
Jake had always been a moderate. 'I understand.'
'Good. Well . . . Prusakov was the brains. Kulik was a useful idiot — a very necessary idiot. It is even possible that he thought he was about to make a genuine deal with you in Berlin, when actually he was setting you up. And himself, of course. At least, that is what the Russians believe now, anyway.'
'But Kulik was a computer expert. He can't have been that stupid.'
'He can. But . . . they were both computer scientists, he and Prusakov. And they were both in severe personal difficulties.
Sex and money in Kulik's case. Money and politics in Prusakov's. With Lukianov ... he is more complex.' Jake cocked an eye at him. 'You know about computers, David?'
'Not a lot.' Audley was only too-well-aware of his Luddite dummy1
tendencies where computers were concerned. But it wasn't just that they so easily could out-perform him in his own special field (though not, as it happened, in the case of Peter Richardson, by God!). It was that computers had passwords which could be broken, and no words-of-honour, he told himself. 'Try me.'
'Computer viruses? How about them?'
'No.' It was no good pretending, even though he rather liked the idea of computers catching the common cold. 'Make it simple, Jake.'
The Israeli nodded. 'What it looks like is that Prusakov found out about Kulik's problems. And that gave him an idea, which he sold to Kulik. And then they studied the form together, and came up with General Lukianov, who was angry and disaffected with life in general. And with the result of defective tactics in Afghanistan — defeat and the planned evacuation — in particular.' He nodded again. 'And who, additionally, was up for the chop, professionally if not personally . . . Only, with his Middle Eastern contacts from the old days, he then came up with a variation of Prusakov's idea, it seems.'
'Which was?'
Jake sighed. 'Well . . . that's what the Russians don't know, exactly. But it was selling something to Abu Nidal, we're pretty sure. Which, of course, isn't the same as doing business with you and the Americans, or anyone in the West
— that would have been treason, to Lukianov's way of dummy1
thinking.' He gazed at Audley in silence for a moment. 'But, unfortunately, they don't know what it is that he's selling.
Because Prusakov and Kulik between them have sabotaged the collective KGB/GRU memory bank, erasing whole sections of it — ' He shook his head quickly ' — don't ask me how. It wasn't supposed to be possible, with all the fail-safes and back-ups . . . And then there were the old-fashioned files
—'
'Files?' Audley knew about such old-fashioned things. Files were what he had once browsed through at leisure like a contented herbivore, and almost without let or hindrance in the days of Sir Frederick Clinton, who had come to take a relaxed view of his omnivorous habits. He had even done a bit of browsing that very morning, like in those halcyon days.
'They've gone, too. Shredded, presumably. And that was General Lukianov, for sure. Because Kulik and Prusakov wouldn't have had access rights to them.' Jake nodded again.
'Their job was to fix the computers, however that could be done . . . Which I frankly don't understand — whether they simply did some sort of demolition job, or left triggers behind to be activated by the right inquiry — I don't know.
Because all this new information technology is way over my head now.'
'I see.' It was Audley's turn to nod. The technology didn't matter: in this context computers were only glorified files.
But files were the beginning of everything — they were any organization's collective memory, and they were sacrosanct.
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'No wonder they're desperate — never mind what Lukianov himself is up to.'
'The Russians?' The Israeli grimaced at him. They've been running around in circles, trying to find what's been wiped out. Because they can't start trying to reconstruct what's gone until they find there's a gap. Then — in theory, anyway —
they can try to get on to the original sources of the information which might have been in it. But it's one hell of a job, even for the experts. And some of the stuff has probably gone forever — that's what our people reckon.' Jake's expression changed, becoming almost quizzical. The funny thing is ... or, "funny" isn't the right word . . . our whizz-kids aren't exactly rubbing their hands — they're as worried as everyone else is. Because they've now got to make damn sure that our secret information retrieval systems are as fail-safe as the missile systems have to be — safe from human mischief as well as human error. Which is near as damn-it impossible, I'd say.' He finished his beer, wiped his moustache, and set his glass down. 'But which is the least of our problems at the moment, David.'
'Yes.' It wasn't their problem at all, thought Audley dismissively. 'Jaggard doesn't know any of this, you say?'
'Not yet. But he will know soon enough.'
'How?'
'The Americans will tell him. We have ensured that one of their sources will pick it up. At ... his own risk, of course.'
Jake sighed. 'He would have got it soon enough, probably.
dummy1
Because it isn't the sort of thing that can be kept under wraps long — especially as Lukianov will certainly have taken out more than he needed, just to muddy the waters.' He spread his hands. 'We don't know how much they've managed to reconstruct as of now. But they'll have started with him. And, of course, they know that you and Richardson are involved.
So it would seem a reasonable guess that everything that was ever on file about Messrs Lukianov, Audley and Richardson has been consigned to oblivion, whatever else may have gone.' One bushy eyebrow lifted mockingly. 'You should perhaps thank him for that, even though he did not intend you to enjoy the ben
efits of it?'
'Uh-huh?' But there were people enough over there who could quickly fill most of that gap, Audley concluded dispassionately. In fact, old Nikolai Panin could probably do the job single-handed from his honourable and well-deserved retirement niche in Kiev University.
'Flattering, too . . . when you think about it.' Jake played idly with the bottle-opener, as though tempted again by his remaining stock of Cotswold bitter. 'That he wanted to erase you personally, as well as your record —don't you think?'
Audley looked at his watch, and then at the window. It was almost dark enough now — and he had no time to gratify Jake's curiosity about the truth of Berlin. 'How bright is General Lukianov, Jake?'
'Bright?'
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'I know he's a gambler. But he backed two favourites which didn't stay the course — Afghanistan and Brezhnev's son-in-law. And before that ... the Middle East? Your home ground.'
'That's right.' Jake could hardly deny that. 'We didn't really overlap, though. My field's Egypt — as you well know . . . Or, it was. But his was Syria and Lebanon. With side trips to Libya and the old Barbary Coast.'
'The terrorists' home ground. And he liaised with them?'
Jake thought for a moment. 'Nobody liaises with them — not in the way you're seeming to imply, anyway.' He shook his head sadly. 'You British do not understand the nature of terrorism — Ireland, the Middle East... the old Empire before that.'
This was dangerous ground, which must be skirted now just as it had to be in the old days. 'And neither do the Russians?'
'And neither do the Russians — no matter what they think —
' Jake also felt the ground quiver beneath him ' —
Lukianov . . . was perhaps marginally safer there than any of your people, or the Americans, might have been. But that was more because the Russians have a heavier-handed response; no publicity or public muscle-flexing, just an old-fashioned eye-for-an-eye operation, without fuss. So that protected him in his dealings with all sorts of people.'
'Some of whom he's dealing with now?'
'That's certainly the way it looks, yes.'
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