“He was one of theirs from way back, all nicely filed. So they knew what they were looking for. We never did.” Audley shook his head. “We never even had a decent photo of him—just one smudgy face in an International Brigade group picture that might have been him in his teens. But no real face, let alone prints or distinguishing marks. He was always a man for the shadows, not the sunlight… Shit!”
The uncharacteristic obscenity surprised Benedikt, and he looked questioningly at Audley.
“I was just thinking … They were damn good: they let us pick up their sighs of relief after he was dead—that Kelly, Aloysius could be filed as deceased, and the matter was closed. But they must already have had a Kelly, Michael file. And we didn’t even know of his existence, let alone the connection between them. So they’ve been hunting Michael while we’ve been sitting on our arses and twiddling our thumbs—hunting him in our territory.”
Benedikt forgave the lapse, sensing more than wounded pride behind it. “So Aloysius must have passed on information to Michael.”
Audley gestured helplessly. “What other interpretation is there? He ran—and they’re after him, damn it! Damn it!”
Now there was only one thing he needed. And although Kommissar at Wiesbaden could give it to him in no more than the time it took to key the question he wanted it now. “About the Debreczen meeting?”
Audley was studying the Tiger critically as though he was seeing it for the first time, his eye running along the barrel of the deadly 8.8cm gun to the massive armoured shield which fronted its turret.
“What happened at Debreczen?” asked Benedikt.
“What happened at Debreczen?” Audley turned a critical eye towards him. “It was before your time—just about literally before your time, Captain Schneider … Damn it! It was before even my time, professionally speaking.”
Early to mid-1950s, that would make it, estimated Benedikt. At least, if one discounted the unconfirmed report that a very young Lieutenant Audley had not been a simple tank commander in the last months of the war …
“Debreczen is out of the deeps of time—it’s still part rumour and part legend … we didn’t even get a whiff of it until years afterwards, from the Gorbatov de-briefing, and Gorbatov’s been dead … for a long time—” Audley smiled suddenly, reminiscently “—of cirrhosis, I should add. In a piece of Canada which most resembled his native land … At least the rat-catchers never caught up with him! Just the booze.”
Debreczen? Benedikt wanted to say. But he said nothing.
“It wasn’t actually in Debreczen … There was this old Hapsburg castle in the woods. Or … it was more like a Ruritanian hunting lodge, though God only knows what they hunted there … But the Germans had added some huts, and there was perimeter wire—all mod. cons., Nazi-style … And, for some reason—perhaps it was accessibility, with no questions asked—for some reason the Russians liked it for what they had in mind.”
Hapsburg castles Benedikt knew, and hunting lodges and huts and perimeter wire too. But he had never visited Debreczen … and where was Ruritania?
“First, it was like a seminar centre for experts—not only the GB specials, but also the foreigners that they really trusted, who could lecture on political conditions in their own countries … Like, what they couldn’t do and what they could do—what they’d done wrong in the past, but where the opportunities lay in the future … The sort of thing Philby and Co. did a few years later—okay?”
Philby and Co. had cut the British deep—so deep that for some of them the very names were taboo. But in this, as in so many other things, Audley was different, even though as a Cambridge man himself his wound must be particularly painful.
“And then, over the next year or so, they slipped in people from the West one by one—the promising ones they wanted properly educated for the long-term future … Not types connected with the intelligence services—not people who were already actively working for them, nothing like that… . These were the young ones who had good prospects in civilian life—in business and industry, and banking and the law, and the arts and academic life … The sort who might go over to politics eventually, or turn up in think-tanks. The policy-makers, if you like.” The Englishman regarded Benedikt bleakly. “They came for just a week, or a fortnight at the most … The sort of time they could lose quite easily in a European holiday—almost untraceable … As I well know, because I was eventually one of those who drew the shitty job of trying to short-list our Debreczen possibles. And without alerting them, that we were vetting the vacation they’d taken five or six years before … whether they’d really been tasting the wine in Burgundy, or skiing in Austria, or counting the Madonnas and Children in the Uffizi. And it was damn near impossible: I got two ‘certainties’— one of which turned out to be wrong … and two probables, both of which were probably wrong … and four possibles, who could be pure as driven snow but have my black question mark against their names for evermore, because I couldn’t absolutely clear them.” He scowled, and shook his head at the memory. “The best part of four months’ work, and really only one name to show for it. I wished to God I’d never heard of Colonel Gorbatov and Debreczen by the end of it—it was a damned shitty job!”
The adjective was not inappropriate this time, thought Benedikt: an assignment which left other men soiled by unconfirmed suspicion was a dirty one, however prudent and necessary in a dirty world. “But Aloysius Kelly was the name you obtained?”
“Good God—no!” Audley blinked at him. “Aloysius wasn’t one of the pupils—he was one of the teachers, man—one of the experts running the course. One of the trusted foreigners, don’t you see.”
One of the trusted ones—
“He’d been on the game for years by then,” Audley elaborated. “He’d nothing to learn, but a hell of a lot to teach.”
Benedikt kicked himself. Both Aloysius Kelly’s years of service, from the Spanish Civil War onwards, and the implacability of the KGB’s pursuit pointed to that truth. And, more than that, of all men a defecting instructor could not be allowed to live: where any Debreczen ‘student’ might, or might not, have glimpsed a fellow-student, their instructors would know them all—
“It was the CIA who identified him, when they squeezed their Debreczen graduate.” Audley’s eyes clouded. “Ours shot himself before we could get to him—he got wind that we were on his tail … But the Yanks got theirs—the one they managed to identify. He was an Irish-American, that’s probably why he remembered Aloysius particularly: there were no names in Debreczen, only numbers and letters … The pupils never saw each other, only their teachers—it was a sort of Oxbridge tutorial system, very elitist and security-conscious… . Anyway, this Irish American made Aloysius sure enough—ex-Abraham Lincoln battalion in the International Brigade, ex-sidekick of Frank Ryan … But he had a low opinion of the IRA at that time, did Aloysius—it was the early fifties, and he said they weren’t worth a row of beans in Ireland then, but there was good anti-British work the American end could do, playing up British colonialism to weaken the Atlantic alliance, that sort of thing …” Audley paused. “Unfortunately, the third day the Yanks had this chap—in a supposedly safe house outside Washington—somebody sniped him at about seven hundred yards while he was taking a breath of air.” Audley’s shoulders lifted. “A real good shot… and I always wondered whether our chap really pulled his own trigger … But it goes to show how much they valued Debreczen, eh?”
Benedikt nodded, and thought of the wide-open view of Duntisbury Manor from the ridge, down across the lawn to the terrace … And was the fate of the Irish American—and possibly that unknown English traitor too—one of the things that Aloysius Kelly had passed on to Michael Kelly?
“So the Yanks never finished squeezing their man, anyway— who was the only one they got a line on. And they put Aloysius Kelly’s name on the red side of the tablets—” Audley looked at his watch suddenly “—and didn’t forget about him either.” He looked up at Benedikt equally suddenly. “You saw how o
ur loyal ally perked up at the mention of him?”
“Yes.” Benedikt’s mind was beginning to accelerate, moving from his own thought—one of the things that Aloysius had passed on to Michael—even before Audley had reminded him that the CIA was in the game now. “How much do you trust your American friend, David?”
“To leave the field to us?” Audley pursed his lip. “In theory quite a lot.” Then he frowned. “But Aloysius Kelly’s memoirs—or whatever he may have passed on to Michael to make a target of him … that’ll be a sore temptation to him, I fear. A sore temptation.”
“And he didn’t give his word to Mr Smith.”
“Nor he did! And he’s got Mr Smith, too.” Audley’s features contorted into ugliness. “And any lead to those Debreczen graduates … They were just the likely lads in the mid-fifties—they’ll be the top dogs and the bosses now, the ones who’ve stayed the course.” He shook his head. “A sore temptation!”
Quite suddenly the only course of action open to him became clear to Benedikt: there would have been Germans among those Debreczen traitors—graduates was a weak euphemism for such swine—so his service had an equal interest now in what had started as a purely British affair.
“We cannot sit on this any longer, David.” He shook his head at the big Englishman. “Neither of us can. It is too big for us both.” Yet he had to leave the man an honourable escape route. “The Americans know. But this is your territory.”
“Yes.” Audley faced reality with traditional British phlegm. Or perhaps, thought Benedikt, he had recognised it at the first mention of Aloysius Kelly. “You’re quite right.”
“Who is your chief?” He hoped his expression was impassive. “Colonel Butler?”
Audley smiled painfully. “Yes. Jack Butler.”
“He will be angry?” He pretended to think about Colonel Jack Butler. “But he is a good man, is he not?”
The smile twisted. “Yes—and yes.”
Benedikt searched for the right words. “We have no choice. But not much time, I think.”
Audley studied him. “Not much time is right. But I still have a choice.”
Benedikt frowned. “What choice?”
Audley continued to study him. “Duntisbury Chase should hold for a few more hours. But how far can I trust you, Captain Benedikt Schneider?”
“Me?” Had he betrayed something?
“Yes. I need to talk to Jack Butler face to face. But I need someone I can trust in the Chase—someone who won’t make Michael Kelly run. But can I trust you?”
He had betrayed something, but Audley didn’t know what it was. And the only way the man’s dilemma could be resolved would complicate his loyalties even more, by adding Audley’s to them. Yet there was no alternative. “Would my word-of-honour help you?” He managed to avoid sounding quite humourless. “My father’s used to be good enough for your people in the war.”
For a moment Audley’s face recalled Mr Smith’s. Then, like Mr Smith, he relaxed. “Yes, of course.” The big man looked around. “We need another car for you, so that you can get back with those boys … No need to hurry back—take them to lunch somewhere, and then round about, to be in the Chase by tea-time—four or five … And tell Becky I phoned my wife and she called me home—say my daughter’s sick, and they can get me at home—” Audley was leading him through the tanks towards the entrance “—I’ll be allegedly in the bath when she phones—if she checks up—and my wife will know where I really am, so that I can phone back … Okay?”
They were passing through a line of modern giants, a British Chieftain and an early German Leopard among them. The entrance ahead of them was empty, except for one of the armoured corps NCOs standing guard in it.
“I want a car, Corporal.” Audley didn’t mince matters. “For the captain here—quick as you can. Hire it or borrow it, I don’t mind. Major Kennedy will help you.”
“Yes, sir.” The Corporal rolled his eyes at Benedikt, but reacted like any intelligent NCO to a clear and concise order delivered by someone whom he recognised as being in a position to give such orders. “Right away, sir … Quarter of an hour, sir?”
“That would do well. I shalln’t be here when you come back. The Captain will be in charge of the boys.”
“Right, sir.” The Corporal very nearly saluted, but restrained himself with an effort before striding off.
Audley looked at Benedikt. “They could give you a hard time—or young Benjamin could, anyway … Darren should be full of tanks, but young Benjamin is a Kelly-admirer and will stick to his orders … Tell him more or less who you really are, and that you’ve agreed to help Miss Becky and Gunner Kelly and me—that should give him something to chew on … And when you get back latch on to Kelly and try not to let him out of your sight—interrogate him as much as you like, he’ll expect you to … And if you’re sticking your neck out, you’ve got a right to, after all.”
“But you’re not expecting anything to happen … for the next few hours?”
Audley nodded. “That’s right. They only acquired their walkie-talkie radios this morning, and they’re reckoning on a practice run tonight. Mrs Bradley’s boy, Peter, at the village shop, has been ‘larnin’ ‘em’, as Old Cecil puts it—he’s a CB radio enthusiast … There’s a lot of quite unlooked-for expertise in Duntisbury Royal, and not just the ancient village skills … from Peter in the shop to Blackie Nabb, who was a Royal Marine Commando in Korea.” The Englishman’s voice was quietly proud. “Blackie was one of Drysdale’s men who fought their way up Hellfire Valley to link with the American marines south of the Chosin Reservoir—the Falklands was a Sunday stroll compared with that … Besides which, anyway, it’s Gunner Kelly who knows how to summon up the demons on his tail—he won’t do that until the Chase is ready for them.” He half smiled at Benedikt. “You were an altogether unexpected test of our defences, you know …”
“And I did not get far?” Benedict completed the sentence. “True. But I was a man alone. And I am not the Special Bureau No 1 of the KGB.”
“True.” Audley’s face creased suddenly, as though with doubt, and then cleared slowly as the doubts resolved themselves. “But there is … something else which I think you should know.”
“Something else?” It was disturbing that the Englishman had not been frank with him. “Something you haven’t told me?”
“No — not really … Something which has only occurred to me since Aloysius Kelly came into the reckoning, you see.”
“Yes?” An instinct told Benedikt that the man was not lying. He had seen that creased look not long before, while Mr Smith had still been with them.
“I don’t know quite how to put it … Aloysius Kelly’s not been my concern for years — never was, really, I’ve only read the reports … The American one originally, and then the others, four or five years back, when he was killed.”
“Yes?” But this was the man’s true skill; to distil truth from the merest broken shards of knowledge buried in ground thickly sown with lies and rumour.
“I swear there’s something Gunner Kelly knows that we don’t … a certainty — almost a serendipity … But more than that.” The creases were back. “It could be just that he’s stopped running and started fighting …”
“Or?”
Audley faced him. “Or we can turn the whole thing round.” He paused. “Like, bring it back to Mr Smith’s old auntie. Because if there was one thing Comrade Aloysius Kelly was, he was a damned downy bird, and he wouldn’t be easy to kill.” Another pause. “So let’s suppose he wasn’t killed. ”
“Wasn’t — ?” Those creases were justified. “Then who — ?”
“Any tramp by the wayside would do. Any homeless vagrant — any drifter … Aloysius Kelly could have spotted the bomb — he knew the form: he’d more likely set one than be caught by one. But if the KGB set it — if he gave them a body … then no more pursuit: out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety — the old, old story, Benedikt, man!”
Be
nedikt stared at him. More likely to set a bomb than be caught by one —
“And Michael Kelly?”
“And Michael Kelly … It would have been Michael who set him up in that cottage — if he gave Michael money years before, some of it would have been for the betting shop debts, and some for the bolt-hole … But after the bomb, if Michael knew he was still alive, then Michael was a little nettle still growing among the flowers. And little nettles have a way of growing bigger.”
But that didn’t fit. “Are you suggesting that Michael got away from Aloysius? That he realised he’d be next?” He shook his head. “No.”
Audley frowned. “Michael’s no fool. Damn it—you can see that for yourself.” But then he shook his head. “No … I take your point—it isn’t likely. But there was something that bound them together: blood had been thick enough for Michael. It could have been thick enough for Aloysius … at least to start with, until the idea of being absolutely safe began to corrode his mind.” Pause. “Remember Mr Smith’s parting shot? Running changes a man?”
That was more like it. To kill a blood-relative who had also been a friend … that might daunt any man; and the Irish were a strange race, in which poetry and romantic chivalry mingled with dark notions of blood sacrifice. Yet also that image of corrosion was right: to leave one’s life in another man’s hands … for Aloysius Kelly could never be sure that the KGB would not reach Audley’s conclusion, and look to confirm their suspicion from Michael. And Aloysius of all men would know how unremitting they were in pursuit, too … to leave one’s life to such a chance—
“Perhaps he just gave Michael a sporting chance, for old times’ sake. ‘I’ll count from one to a hundred—and then watch yourself, me boyo.’ ” Audley’s eyes widened in amazement at his own imagination. “That’s the trouble—why I’d never take an Irish job: I like them too much as people, and I find them totally incomprehensible—I studied their history at Cambridge from Strongbow to Parnell and Gladstone, and I could never answer a single question right, even when I knew the facts. And I wish to hell I’d never promised Jane and Becky— that I’d never promised to make sense of this, damn it!”
Gunner Kelly Page 20
