Soldier No More dda-11

by Anthony Price

  The book itself had fallen open at its first page—

  " I, Sidonius Simplidus, Bishop of Ephesus and sometime secretary of the most illustrious lady, Galla Placidia—"

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  It was not Roche's kind of book, but it reminded him strangely of other scattered novels he had picked up from the ground, on the track leading to The Old House, which fitted David Audley's tastes no better than his own. And there was another narrow strip of stiff paper that had also come adrift, which had fitted round the dustjacket: TENTH

  IMPRESSION: 250,000 COPIES SOLD! " 'Gone With The Wind' restaged in Imperial Rome" — Daily Express.

  If it was not his kind of book he was clearly in the minority, thought Roche as he put the pieces together and handed them to Lexy.

  "Thanks, David." Her arm sagged as she took the book from him. "Six hundred bloody pages!"

  "Just the chapter notes at the back, dear," said Jilly sweetly.

  "But nobody reads them."

  "They're the only thing in the book worth reading."

  "But—"

  Roche left them to it.

  To his surprise, Roche found himself talking to Thompson within a minute of establishing his credentials with the duty man.

  "You took your time," said Thompson accusingly, as though he also had an orgy scheduled, for which he was now late thanks to Roche.

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  "This isn't a metropolis—it's one of your sodding bastides,"

  Roche snapped back. "I had to find a phone."

  "You received the word about Bradford, the American?"

  "Yes." If they were beginning to run scared in Paris, as he was already running in the back-of-beyond in Neuville, then it was time to accelerate them. "What about Stephanides?"

  "Who's he?"

  "She. Cypriot-Jewish. There's a he in London—her father. I was just wondering if he and she might not be Mossad, that's all."

  "What?" The cat was now among the pigeons.

  "And Stein." Roche threw in a fox for good measure. "He's a reserve colonel in the Israeli Air Force—ex-RAF

  photographic reconnaissance. Do you know about him?"

  "Stein? Stephanides? Hold on there!"

  "I can't wait long. I'm due at an orgy, old boy."

  "What?" Collapse of bastide-fancier . "Wait!"

  It would have been invigorating, this speedy revenge, if it had not been so frightening, this discovery of their incompetence.

  It was a basic truth that none of them were omniscient, certainly not the British, but not the Russians and not the Americans either. But basic and inevitable truths didn't protect the men in the field, the Poor Bloody Infantry of all three services who had to get up out of their slit-trenches in the hope that at this precise point there were no mines and machine-gunners ahead of them.

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  Mutter-mutter-mutter. There was someone else there, and not the duty officer, just as there had been when he had phoned the other side.

  Roche looked at his watch. "Oh—for Christ's sake, take your fingers out and get on with it!" he murmured into the muttering instrument.

  "Roche?" the instrument squawked back at him instantly.

  Who? Not the bastide- fancier —

  "Sir?" he answered uneasily.

  "Now . . . not to panic, Roche—" the new voice sounded almost kindly, almost reassuring, and was all the more unreassuring for that. "Are you listening?"

  "You bet I'm listening." The new voice hadn't identified itself, it took it for granted that he could do that. But the distortion of the line confused Roche. "And I'm not panicking, I'm only terrified half out of my wits, that's all."

  "Good, good—that's fine!" The line crackled an obscene chuckle at him, the owner of the voice mistaking his mixture of trembling fear and bitterness for British stiff upper-lip understatement of courage.

  Oh— shit! thought Roche, despairing of being able to communicate the truth. "I'm listening."

  "Fine, it's simply that the order of battle is changed a little.

  Have you talked to Audley yet?"

  "I haven't even met him yet, for God's sake!"

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  "Don't worry—"

  "I'm due to meet him as soon as I get off this phone."

  "Good, good. And how do you rate your chances with him?"

  Good, good— fine, fine— don't worry! The very imbecility of the reassurance sobered Roche. He could see, across the angle of the square, a French family at an outside corner table in the restaurant which had one star in the Michelin: the father was studying the menu calmly, dutifully watched by his wife and two impeccably-behaved children. Everything was right and well-ordered in their world in which the vital decision was confit d'oie chaud or confit de dinde mayonnaise, and their lives would go on untroubled regardless of his own agonies.

  "I know one hell of a lot more about him than there is in the file."

  "For example?"

  The French father handed the menu to his wife and took up the wine list.

  Well, as Lexy would say, what the hell! "He's the illegitimate son of a schoolmaster named Willis, who probably screwed his mother at a commem ball at Oxford in the twenties," he said brutally. "Will that do for a start?"

  "Willis the Godfather?" inquired the voice politely. "Does he know?" Pause. "Audley, I mean."

  The father closed the wine list. That decision was not within his wife's competence.

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  "They all knew in the end. I suppose he was the last to find out. But I don't think anyone ever told him, actually."

  Another pause. "So what?"

  "They've been screwing each other since, in their own different ways." That wasn't fair so far as Wimpy was concerned: Wimpy had been suffering in too-late silence ever since; and Mr Nigel had died too early for Master David to achieve anything except the purely intellectual satisfaction of restoring what his official father had neglected.

  "And knowing that will help you?" The voice, which was more likely Stocker's than Clinton's, was cheerfully sceptical.

  "Well, at least it accounts for him being such a bastard." But then again, it wouldn't be too difficult to cherish The Old House for itself, so perhaps he was also being unfair to Audley. Except that the man's deliberate neglect of Wimpy over recent years, which might have been dismissed as unthinking youthful carelessness in anyone else, fitted the first image better: Mrs Clarke's lively, affectionate little boy had changed over the years into nothing if not a careful and calculating man, so it seemed.

  "And that helps?" The Stocker-voice persisted, blandly devaluing his progress and rousing Roche's own contrariness.

  "For Christ's sake, Major—let the dog see the bloody rabbit before you start whistling at it! I told you, I haven't even met the man yet!"

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  The Frenchman was ordering his dinner now, and from the way he was placing the order, with precise gestures of the hand and the fingers, he was accompanying it with instructions about the cooking too.

  Sheer envy roused Roche to further contrariness. "Don't you want him now, Major?"

  "Of course we do." Stocker didn't deny the identification of rank. "But things have moved on a bit since you were briefed, and we're running short on time. So we've got to look to the next phase of the operation."

  Ah! At last, the poor damn dog was about to be shown the wolf hiding in the thicket behind the rabbit!

  "What next phase?" asked Roche obediently.

  "We have a job for Audley to do down there. You didn't think recruiting him was the end of it, did you?"

  The wine waiter was hovering over the Frenchman. "Roche

  —"

  "Yes, sir." Roche had no more precious time to waste. He had to show that the dog could bite back. "This second phase—

  would it have anything to do with a Frenchman named d'Auberon?"

  "What?"

  "D'Auberon. D-apostrophe-A-U-B-"

  "D'Auberon—yes," Stocker crackled the line. "What do you kn
ow about d'Auberon?"

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  Roche wondered whether it would not have been safer to have let Stocker say his piece first rather than to have tried to impress the Major with his cleverness. Because that

  'D'Auberon—yes' had only been an acknowledgement, not a confirmation, and if Madame Peyrony and Lexy were wrong. . .

  "I said 'What d'you know about d'Auberon?' " repeated Stocker. "Well?"

  The trouble was, he knew absolutely nothing about d'Auberon beyond Madame Peyrony's praise and Lexy's prattle. Until a few hours before, he'd never heard of the man.

  "I know he's here, for one thing," he played for time, blessing the miles of telephone wire separating him from Stocker-in-the-flesh. The fact that d'Auberon was here, not half-a-dozen miles from Audley—and from all the rest of them, and not least himself—was all he really did know for sure. But try as he would, he still couldn't even place the man's name, never mind which particular Algerian row had sparked his resignation. The hijacking of Ben Bella from the Moroccan air liner on General Beaufre's order had caused a flurry of such resignations, but the date didn't quite fit. The oil discoveries or the building of the Morice Line were much better bets—

  "Come on, man!" snapped Stocker. "What else d'you know?"

  Not how but what, thought Roche. "Well, naturally I know what he was doing, Major," he said dismissively, as though to dummy5

  state the obvious.

  "But you weren't in Paris then, Roche."

  Wasn't I? The months flashed before Roche's eyes. Except for the odd weekend—except for the long, boring communications course and his long leave which had together caused him to miss the whole ghastly excitement of the Suez crisis—

  God! It wasn't Algeria at all— it was Suez!

  "But I made up for lost time when I got back, naturally."

  "Those meetings had nothing to do with your work, Roche."

  What meetings?

  "No, they didn't, I agree. And of course I don't know everything that went on in them ... I only know what I heard."

  What meetings, for Christ's sake?

  "You never reported what you heard," said Stocker accusingly. "Why not?"

  What meetings had gone on during Suez? He'd been out of circulation for the best part of three months, sweating and fretting on the communications and instructional courses, and then on leave. There would have been dozens of meetings, political and military, during that last desperate revival of the moribund Entente Cordiale, attended by all the ghosts of 1914 and 1939 as well as everyone from Eden and Mollet downwards! But they had all been dust and ashes by dummy5

  the time he had returned—ashes still hot with recriminations against perfidious Albion which he hadn't dared to rake over.

  "Why not?" Stocker snapped the question at him again.

  The quick answer to that was 'It had nothing to do with my work, like you said, Major', but the thought of Suez cautioned Roche against facetious answers. That wound was too raw, and too much pride and too many reputations had been lost over it, for that sort of reply.

  "It was just gossip, sir—bazaar gossip . . . after-dinner coffee stuff. I didn't rate it."

  "Gossip be damned! I should have thought any suggestion of a leak from the RIP sub-committee was worth reporting, gossip or not."

  Lord God! thought Roche, thunderstruck. The RIP sub-committee! Sir Eustace Avery's own sub-committee!

  "Well?" Stocker poked the question down the line fiercely.

  "Sir?" But what was the question? And, whatever the question was, how was he going to answer it?

  RIP.

  "Well?"

  Requiescat in pace.

  Roche swallowed. "Yes, sir. It was ... in retrospect... it was an error of judgement, I admit. But it was just gossip."

  Rest in peace—

  "Of course it was an error. I don't mean that." Stocker clearly dummy5

  wasn't going to let him rest in peace. "What do you know about it, is what I mean—what d'you know about it?"

  Roche's flesh crawled. That was the precise question Jean-Paul had asked him when he'd finally got back to Paris last December, just before Christmas, when it was all over—

  "What do you know about it?"

  "The what?"

  "The RIP sub-committee."

  "What's that? I've never heard of it."

  "Then start hearing about it. Whatever you hear, we want to know. Start earning your keep, Captain Roche—"

  He hated Christmas, not because of the memory of Christmas Past, or even of the bleak image of Christmas-to-come, but because of his annual thought of Christmas-might-have-been—all the Julie-Christmasses that would never be, which made the food stick in his throat and the drinks taste of wormwood at the parties.

  But this time it was earn your keep, Captain Roche—

  "RIP, old boy? 'Rest in Peace'— Requiescat-in-bloody-pace for evermore." But Bill Ballance knew, because he always did know.

  "I don't mean that, Bill. I mean—"

  "I know what you mean. But that's what I mean too—dead and buried, never to rise again, more's the pity! Our dummy5

  unknown top secret warriors . . . your glass is empty, old boy.

  Fill it up and we'll drink to them. . . That's the spirit! So now

  —to our unknown warriors—the men who got the right answer to the wrong question—RIP!"

  "RIP, Bill? I can't toast a set of fucking initials."

  "No? But they were fucking good, David—bloody incredible, when you think about 'em . . . everyone else was getting their sums wrong, and they were absolutely spot on right down the line—alpha double-plus . . . bloody miracle!"

  "RIP, Bill?"

  " 'Russian Intentions and Policy', for short. And if they'd only put 'em on to the Americans instead of the Russians, we wouldn't be drowning our sorrows here alone tonight like lepers . . . have you heard the story about Eden?"

  "Which story?"

  "When the telegram from Krushchev arrived. I was here in Paris ... I suppose poor old Mollet got the same message, more or less, but he was cool as a cucumber too—of course he'd got the same intelligence report as Eden had, so it's not to be wondered at, is it!"

  "What telegram, Bill?"

  "The one in which Kruschchev said if we attacked Egypt he'd bomb us all back to the stone age—that was when the second wave of our chaps was just landing, and the jolly old Fleet Air Arm was clobbering the Gyppo defences to hell. . . and when Ike got the news in Washingtom he wet his pants—or went to dummy5

  church and prayed, or played a round of golf, according to which version you believe—"

  "Bill—"

  "—but Eden ... he just read the telegram once, and tore it in two, and went off muttering 'nonsense' to have his mug of Horlicks without turning a hair, same as Mollet—only he wouldn't have drunk Horlicks—don't you see?"

  "No, I don't see at all—"

  " Requiescat—or requiescant, to be exact... or should it be requiescaverunt? My Latin's a bit shaky nowadays . . . But no matter—the point is that everyone gives the two of them, Eden and Mollet, the credit for getting that right at least, even if they got everything else wrong—that the Russians were just bluffing ... Of course the Russians were bloody well blurring, with a few million angry Hungarians, and half the Hungarian army, shooting at them, so they wouldn't have cared less if we'd tarred and feathered Nasser and run him out of Suez on a rail, for all they could do about it except make loud threatening noises... but the point, dear boy, is that Eden and Mollet knew that for a fact, because the jolly old Joint Anglo-French Russian Intentions and Policy Intelligence Sub-Committee had told them so—that they could Rest in Peace so far as the Russians were concerned.

  Which is what I've been saying all along—and which is really the whole tragedy, old boy, because what Eden really needed to know was not what the Russians would do, but what the Americans would do—our friends and allies—not Mr K., but dummy5

  John Foster Dulles and Dwight D. Eisenhower, e
h?"

  Oh—ah—"

  " Oh-ah indeed! Though maybe the RIP chaps might not have worked out what Ike was going to do, since Ike probably didn't know himself, so it might not have done us any good to have an inside man in the White House, like we did in the Kremlin—"

  An inside man?"

  "Stands to reason. You don't get one hundred per cent certainty by studying your navel and trusting to luck—you only get it when someone gives you the answers in the back of the book. RIP— quod erat demonstrandum, dear boy. And I think the French had him, because we certainly didn't—and don't, more's the pity. But I'd like to have been a fly on the wall when they met, all the same!"

  Who was 'they'?"

  "Lord knows! None of our people here, that's for sure . . . I thought you might have been one of them, young David—you weren't in circulation at the time, and you're a bit of a dark horse, writing all those non-event reports of yours all the time, to no possible purpose. . . . They came and they went, and but for one of 'em—that stuffed shirt Avery—Useless Eustace—I've no idea .... But it was the French who produced the information, Avery just took the credit. And we shall not look upon their like again, I fear—because the French will never speak up again, after what we've done to them, and I dummy5

  can't say that I blame them. Have another drink—to your next report on the incidence of scurvy in the French Mediterranean Fleet, say—?"

  RIP.

  He had known that Jean-Paul would already have all that, even before he passed it on, and that he would not earn his keep with Bill Ballance's carefully indiscreet ramblings, just as he knew that it would be dangerous to push Bill further, beyond Bill's suspicion that his Christmas drinking might be the subject of an internal security check by the dark horse.

  But that had been the last whisper he had been able to overhear about the near-legendary Joint Anglo-French Russian Intentions and Policy Sub-Committee, from Bill or anyone else. So he had never had a useful name to give to Jean-Paul, either British or French, let alone Russian.