A Prospect of Vengeance

by Anthony Price

  And then Mitchell’s face momentarily sank on to his rifle, his unshaven cheek distorting it, with his eyes squeezed shut. And with that all bets—all shouted orders—were off, and Jenny was on her knees, above the rock—

  The little car was moving again: it was backing, in a cloud of dust, down the track—it was turning—swerving and skidding in its own dust into the gap in the track behind it, in a racing turn-about, to escape—

  ‘What’s happening—?’ As she spoke, Mitchell stepped up beside her. ‘Did you miss?’

  ‘Yes. I missed.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘One does sometimes.’

  The Citroen’s tyres churned up the track, with its little engine screaming at them to get it moving, so violently that it rocked and bucked this way and that before engine and tyres were both fighting to obey the driver.

  ‘My rifle fires high, and to the right,’ continued Mitchell. ‘But he wouldn’t have missed: he had a rather special gun, I think—a Voss Special, I think they call it.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I’ve never seen one of them—I’ve only heard about them. They’re like the old buffalo-hunters’ long rifles, only better: on a windless day they can manage a couple of miles, supposedly … It’s got a very long barrel and a marvellous sighting-device.’

  Noise filled the valley, drowning out the rest of Mitchell’s excuse: there were dust-clouds on the top of the cornfield, where she had trailed up behind Ian, with her feet hurting; and there was a dust-cloud coming up the track from the village, round the rise of the field which was deceptively flattened by the height of the Greater Arapile above it.

  And—God!—there was even movement in the railway station, in the middle of nowhere, with men fanning out of the gap between its two buildings—and from behind them, with a single concussive bang, a red-winking rocket flared up, trailing a line of bright red smoke as it curved down towards the converging dust-clouds of the retreating Citroen 2-CV and the dther dust-clouds—

  ‘I smashed the passenger’s window, in the car, with that first shot.’ Mitchell’s voice came back almost to the conversational. ‘I was only supposed to frighten him … But he didn’t come up towards us—he went round to take aim over the bonnet—that’s when I saw the Voss … He was going to rest on the bonnet. So the second time I aimed for him.’

  The dust-clouds still converged—even as the red smoke-trail descended, to bounce in a final red spark as it hit the field: the spark bounced brightly once, and then the smoke drifted away from the point where it vanished.

  ‘I don’t know where that second shot went.’ Mitchell paused. ‘I aimed … left … and slightly down … I might have hit something—you never know … I couldn’t guarantee to hit a tyre, after that first shot, Miss Fielding—do you understand? Not at this distance—?’

  The further of the two dust-clouds stopped suddenly, the two vehicles which had caused it slewing to the left and right so as to block the passage of the approaching Citroen. One of them was large and black and civilian, the other drab and military-looking: their doors opened even before they had halted, and their occupants tumbled out—Spanish Civil Guards from the military vehicle, in their distinctive black tricornes, and bare-headed civilians from the black car—

  Mitchell was still speaking. But she had been so intent on watching the drama in the valley, trying to imprint every detail on her memory—this is something else I never thought I’d see!—that she hadn’t taken it in. ‘What?’

  ‘I said … they took their bloody time.’

  The Citroen had also stopped now, but well short of the road block—a hundred yards or more away from the Spanish Police.

  ‘You knew they were coming?’ It was a foolish question.

  ‘Too-bloody-right!’ He stared at the scene, frowning. ‘You don’t think we play silly games on our own in other people’s countries? Not this sort of game, anyway—Ahh! He’s thought better of it, by God!’

  ‘What—?’ Something in his expression chilled her, in spite of the heat. But his words turned her away from him, back to the valley.

  The Citroen was moving again, very slowly.

  ‘His moment-of-truth.’ Mitchell murmured the words. ‘Just like O’Leary … it comes to them all sooner or later … later or sooner … But he’s being—no! By God—

  As he spoke the sound of the little car’s engine changed, suddenly roaring in the great stillness of the yellow-and-red fields as the Citroen accelerated—with a new cloud of red dust, which had settled behind it, swirling up again as its tyres churned the track—

  ‘He’s making a run for it—that’s my man!’ breathed Mitchell.

  The Spaniards at the road block were scattering—taking cover behind their vehicles.

  ‘He’ll never get through—‘

  In a tank maybe, thought Jenny. But a 2-CV was too little, too light—

  Then the Citroen braked—its little red brake-lights were invisible in the dust and the sunlight, but it bucked and slewed sideways, until it was broadside in the track.

  ‘He’s turning round—‘

  ‘No he isn’t—‘ Paul Mitchell cut her off as the distant sound of the revving engine reached them again as the little car threw itself into the wire fence beside the road—

  The fence bowed and shivered, and stretched on each side of the car for a moment, before the posts snapped and were pulled away as the car broke through into the corn stubble, throwing up an even greater dust-cloud as it started to climb the slope—the same slope down which she’d walked, thought Jenny, suddenly torn between what she knew, and the old instinctive sympathy for any hunted animal with the pack in full-cry behind it—the fox breaking cover out of the spinney into open country, knowing that it had been cornered, but going for its own run-for-freedom nevertheless—

  The burst of gunfire, sharp and reverberating, with the echoes ringing across the valley from the Greater Arapile towards the opposing rocky plateau, changed the image: this was sun-baked Beirut again, with that same knock-knock-knocking—

  But the dust-cloud was still moving. ‘He’s going to get away—‘

  ‘No, he isn’t.’ Mitchell’s voice was matter-of-fact, quite unemotional. ‘See there—?’

  Up over the top of the cornfield, out of the dead ground from which the Redcoats had once marched towards the French, another of those malevolent army vehicles loomed up, trailing its own dust-cloud. And this one had its own little turret, like a miniature tank: it stopped suddenly as she watched it, and the turret began to traverse.

  The Citroen changed direction, no longer trying to breast the rise, aiming now to escape beween two fires, along the curve of the field—

  ‘Don’t look—‘ Mitchell caught her arm ‘—Miss Fielding—‘

  She pulled away from him—pulled away just as the long slender gun in the turret banged three times—a different sound from the preceding small-arms knocking … deeper and louder—and probably the loudest noise this peaceful valley had known since—

  The Citroen was bowled over like a rabbit, rolling and exploding in the same instant, its four little tyres and underside visible for a last fraction-of-a-second before it became an incandescent ball of fire, shooting out flame and black smoke as it became unrecognizable.

  ‘Don’t look!’ This time Mitchell’s grip was irresistible: he swung her round to face him. ‘He’s dead now. He’s no problem now—it’s called “Shot while resisting arrest”, Miss Fielding. So … he’s got no problems now, either: no one forced him to run, Miss Fielding … do you see?’

  It was strange how quiet it was. There had been the loudest bang! of all as the Citroen had exploded. But now she couldn’t hear anything as she stared accusingly at Mitchell. ‘You knew that was going to happen.’

  ‘No. That is to say … no … I didn’t know for sure.’ He was stone-faced. ‘But you don’t need to waste any sympathy for him, Miss Fielding. He’d never met your nice Mr Robinson, who goes to church on Sundays. But he’d been paid to kill nice Mr Robinson, so that was what he was g
oing to do—at maybe two thousand yards, and with a soft-nosed bullet. And that was what he was going to do … and it frightened the shit out of me when he got out of his car, and the Spaniards hadn’t turned up, I can tell you.’ His jaw tightened. ‘Because then I had to decide whether I was going to shoot-to-kill, or not … And this contraption—‘ He lifted the rifle ‘—this was just supposed to be insurance. They said it wasn’t really necessary, because they’d be here once he showed up. And then they offered me a hand-gun … But I didn’t want to let him get that close. Because he’s an expert, and I’m not—‘

  ‘No—?’ She remembered what Reg Buller had said. And what, from her own observation of only a few minutes ago (so little time?) … she also remembered.

  ‘No—damn it—no!’ He showed his teeth. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Fielding. Whatever you think you know … you-don’t-know—‘ He let go of her arm, and straightened up. ‘But I’m not about to tell you.’

  What she knew was that she mustn’t let him confuse her with either sincerity or very good acting: for some reason he had given her too much, up to now, but she didn’t know why. And that was no reason to trust him now.

  He looked away from her, dismissing her.

  The unrecognizable wreck of the Citroen continued to blaze fiercely, with its black smoke rising up in a mini-mushroom-cloud in the still air. And the uniformed men were converging on it … But the civilians were getting into their car—even as she watched the doors closed one by one, and then the car turned on to the track and moved slowly towards them.

  Then she realized that she was alone: Paul Mitchell was retracing his steps, back to the monument, walking across the autumn crocuses as though they didn’t exist—as though she didn’t exist—

  ‘Dr Mitchell!’

  He stopped, and turned. ‘Whatever you want to know—you ask Dr Audley now, Miss Fielding. And I wish you joy of it.’

  There was a knot in her stomach. Just as Audley had so strangely reminded her of Philly, now Paul Mitchell recalled Ian—the new Ian, for whom she also didn’t really exist as she had formerly done.

  He looked past her for an instant, then at her, very coldly. ‘I must go and make our peace with the Spaniards. Not that it’ll be too difficult, I suspect.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Don’t worry—they won’t ask you any questions. Just so long as you go straight home now, and forget what you’ve seen.’

  Her mouth opened.

  ‘Oh yes—forget, Miss Fielding.’ The twist became a travesty of a smile. ‘A wanted man—a known foreign terrorist who has worked for ETA in the past? And I wouldn’t like to guess what’s happened to his little fat chum, either. So two known terrorists, believed to be working for ETA, have been shot by security forces, while resisting arrest. And that has nothing to do with any British tourists who may have been passing through, on their holidays: that wouldn’t be good for the tourist industry, would it?’ He flicked a glance past her for an instant. The Spaniards have waited a long time to close the MacManus file, and balance their books. So this way there are no complications—no messy trial, or anything like that. But next time ETA may not find it so easy to hire outside talent.’

  Jenny watched him bend down, to disassemble the rifle and replace each bit of it in its place in the case—right down to retrieving a final round from his back pocket, and putting it too in its box, with the two empty cases of the bullets he’d fired. Then he looked up again. ‘Of course, you may not want to forget—not after you’ve witnessed such a saleable event, eh? Pity you didn’t have a camera!’ He snapped the case shut and stood up. ‘And the Spanish won’t touch you, either. Because, apart from being your father’s daughter, you haven’t done anything—have you?’ He stared at her. ‘Which is funny really, when you think about it. Because that’s all your own work—‘ He pointed into the valley ‘—that, and what happened to John Tully.’

  ‘John—?’

  ‘But you’ll be in the clear there, too. He “surprised an intruder” … going through the files in his office. Only I’ll bet there aren’t any files on all this, because you’d only just started, hadn’t you? And our chaps will not want to make a fuss about us, I shouldn’t think … And I expect he was into a lot of other things, in any case. So, although they’ll maybe want to talk to you, I doubt whether they’ll ask any difficult questions. In fact, I guarantee they won’t.’ He gave her a dreadful reassuring smile.

  All my own work! She looked down at the old-and-new battlefield for a moment, suddenly aghast. ‘But why—?’

  ‘But what?’ He was waiting for her as she turned back to him. ‘You don’t need to feel too guilty, Miss Fielding. You have to earn your living, and this time you were trying to settle an old score—weren’t you? And who can resist business and pleasure?’ He pointed again. ‘He bloody-well couldn’t, anyway—not even when he knew the risk … In fact, we’re all in your debt for him—even though he wasn’t the one you wanted.’ He looked away suddenly. ‘But I can’t stay here philosophizing about guilt—David!’

  ‘No—‘ She couldn’t let him go ‘—why—why—did he come after us? You must tell me, Dr Mitchell—you must!’

  ‘No I mustn’t—David!’ He didn’t even look at her. That answer’s more than my job’s worth. If you want to know, then you ask old David—he’s the one you came to ask, isn’t he? David—‘

  Audley loomed large. But where was Ian?

  ‘My dear Paul!’ Audley looked at her vaguely for an instant. ‘You were right … but only just, by heaven! So … don’t you ever do that to me again.’ He focused on Jenny. ‘I sent Mr Robinson to reassure my wife, Miss Fielding. And to make his peace with my daughter. He seemed … rather cut up about deceiving her—I don’t quite know why, but he did.’

  That sounded more like the old Ian, she thought. But then … what had they talked about, these last out-of-time minutes—?

  ‘I’m sorry, David.’ Mitchell shrugged insincerely. ‘Being right never seems to do me any good … But I must go and make our peace with Aguirre now. And then I’ll come back and put you fully in the picture—okay?’

  ‘Yes—you do that.’ Audley still stared at Jenny. Tell him that I’m booked into the Parador near Victoria tomorrow night. Because I want Cathy to see the battlefield there. And then we’ll be gone the day after that—Hotel des Basses Pyrenees in Bayonne, which is safely out of his jurisdiction. I want her to see the Vauban fortifications there.’

  Mitchell’s mouth twisted. ‘I’ll tell him that. But … you tell Miss Fielding—whom Mr Buller always calls “The Lady” … or sometimes “That Lady” … or sometimes just “Lady” … whatever you want to tell her, David. She’s full of questions.’

  ‘Yes?’ Audley didn’t even watch Mitchell tread through the crocuses, as she did: he still seemed fascinated by her. But, although when she faced him she couldn’t read his expression or his thoughts, she had the disconcerting feeling that he had been reading hers. ‘He gave you a bad time, did he?’

  ‘Not really.’ More than ever he reminded her of Philly: Philly, not really in face or size, or even voice, but nonetheless indefinably Philly. So now she must really beware him. ‘His rifle didn’t shoot straight, Dr Audley. That may have put him in a bad mood.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ He regarded her steadily. ‘Paul usually hits what he’s aiming at. He has a natural talent that way. But he just doesn’t like squeezing the trigger.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. But it’s early days yet. So I suppose I could be wrong.’ Philly, defending one of his friends, would have said exactly that.

  ‘You could be. And you are.’ He gave her a little sad smile. ‘It was the mention of Frances that unsettled him. It always does. And I’m afraid it always will.’

  ‘He loved her—didn’t he?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The smile twisted. ‘But that’s not his problem, my dear. His problem is that he knows she didn’t love him. And … but we’re not really discussing Frances Fitzgibbon, are we?’ The sa
d smile faded. ‘It’s vengeance we’re discussing—and publication?’

  He couldn’t have had more than five minutes with Ian—or had time tricked her? But even only five minutes would have been enough for the new Ian to put his question. And if Audley had demanded a price for the answering then the new Ian would have paid at once, without a second thought, even though he believed he already knew the answer to it.

  ‘You’ve been talking to my partner, Dr Audley.’

  He nodded. ‘I have had that opportunity—yes.’ He stared at her in silence for a moment. ‘And I must tell you that he no longer seems so keen on writing about me, Miss Fielding.’

  Surprise, surprise! But … there were plenty more fish in the sea, even if it would be hard to find one that swam so gracefully as Ian. ‘I hope he didn’t suggest that he was speaking for me?’ It was the original Philly she must remember, not this equivocal copy.

  ‘On the contrary. He made it abundantly plain that he was not speaking for you, Miss Fielding. And … he explained your commitment.’ Suddenly he looked away from her for an instant, down into the valley. But then came back to her. ‘But, for his part … perhaps he remembers that old Chinese proverb about revenge?’

  Jenny didn’t look into the valley. If he thought he could weaken her so easily, then he was much mistaken. ‘What proverb is that?’

  ‘”He—or, in this instance, she, of course—she who embarks on revenge should first dig two graves”, Miss Fielding.’ He tried the valley again. ‘The way you’re going, it looks as though you’ll need more than two, though.’

  She summoned Philly to her aid. ‘There was a grave dug before we started, Dr Audley. And we—I—didn’t dig that one.’

  No answer this time: he simply stared at her, testing her.

  ‘You think we’re digging our graves now?’

  He tried once more, this time gesturing towards the new battlefield of Salamanca. ‘Don’t you think so, my dear?’

  Now she had him. ‘I don’t quite know what to think yet. Except … at the moment the only people I know who might want to stop us are yourself and Dr Mitchell.’