Other Paths to Glory

by Anthony Price

  There was a moment of silence, and then Nikki spoke.

  ‘I don’t quite understand - ‘ she paused diffidently ‘ - what is so terrible in being looked down on … if the man on the hill can see you, you can also see him - he is stuck on the hill for all to see.’

  Audley grunted.

  ‘Yes, but stuck on his hill in a dugout with a telephone. And when he sees you move he simply murmurs a map reference into the phone and a battery of guns miles behind the line opens up on you.’

  Or whistles up a couple of police motor-cyclists, thought Mitchell, she certainly ought to understand that. And maybe that was still part of Bouillet Wood’s virtue, whatever was going on there now.

  Which, with any luck, they were about to discover at last.

  ‘It was an artilleryman’s war, Nikki,’ he said, slipping into Captain Lefevre’s character instinctively. ‘If their gunnery spotters could see you and your own spotters couldn’t see you - then you were dead. In 1917 two whole battalions disappeared that way up at Monchy - just vanished off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Vanished?’ She spoke incredulously.

  The first straggling houses of Hameau village were just ahead now, squat and ugly, with peeling brown paint. He could see a tractor towing a trailer-load of sugar beet in a field away to his left. Somewhere not far from where the beet had been planted, grown and harvested - maybe on the very ground - the greater part of the 9th North Berks Fusiliers had all vanished just as completely. They had passed over the crest of the ridge just ahead of the Poachers in the half-light, out of sight and out of recorded history. Only a lucky few of the handful who had lost their way and had joined the Poachers in the assault on the wood had survived.

  She didn’t really believe him, or she thought he was exaggerating, and he no longer had the heart to argue the point. It had all happened a long time ago, and the Fusiliers were part of the same clay as Marlborough’s dragoons and grenadiers.

  He drove on in silence through the village, past a trio of police motor-cyclists standing beside their machines at the crossroads outside the church - the lovingly rebuilt replica of the monstrosity which the British gunners had pulverised in 1916 - and turned on to the straight road which ran along the axis of the ridge.

  Audley leant forward intently.

  ‘This would be the German line.’

  Mitchell turned the wheel slightly to avoid two black-clad grandmothers shuffling along, fresh loaves cradled in their arms.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And Bouilletcourt Farm is just ahead, then.’

  As the high banks of the road sank away on each side of them the blank brick walls of the farm appeared on the left: a fortress below ground in 1916, it had been rebuilt like a fortress above ground, inward-looking except for a gateway fronting the road - in which another two motor-cyclists sat astride their machines. The arm of the state was much more evident this peaceful morning than it had been the previous evening. Then they were on the open ground again, with the lower ridges rolling away to the south, the land a jigsaw of green and pale brown fields, autumn woods and little clustered villages, very tranquil in the sunlight.

  Mitchell was disappointed to see that the unhelpful SDP man of the day before, alias Corporal Manson, was no longer on duty; small-mindedly, he had been looking forward to witnessing Captain Lefevre’s entrance as an invited guest. Not that even invited guests were allowed to enter without precautions: after the gates had been opened by the new man - a character out of the same mould as his predecessor, but not one of the gallery in the Cambrai tank book, Mitchell noted - the car was instantly checked by red and white bars like a miniature railway crossing barrier, the existence of which he had overlooked the day before and which penned them in effectively until their credentials had been checked. Even then the gate was locked behind them before the barrier lifted, triggered apparently by the gatelocking mechanism.

  Audley eyed the fences with undisguised interest before turning to Nikki.

  ‘A double fence … I take it there are dogs loose in no-man’s-land at night - or is it sown with nasty little mines?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the least idea, Dr Audley.’

  ‘Hmm …’

  Audley stuck his head out of the car and scrutinised the roadside as they moved forward.

  ‘Dogs for choice, I’d guess - ‘ Something caught his eye and he sniffed with distaste ‘ - in fact dogs for sure. Large and unfriendly dogs with eyes as big as soup-plates, radio-bleepers in their collars and murder in their hearts.’

  Suddenly Audley had become quite talkative, quite jovial even, as he had been the night before after the decisive phone call had been made. But Mitchell found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying as they drew closer to the wood: the vague tangle of greens and browns and black, resolving itself into distinct trees and bushes, dragged his attention from the words.

  He could see clearly now that the fence erected beyond the furthest overhang of the trees had tubular metal uprights that were crowned with downward shaded lights. He saw too that there were no wires visible, so the electric cables must be buried underground, running up the hollow of the uprights. Altogether, with the fences and the lights, the men and the dogs - and heaven only knew what other invisible devices - Bouillet Wood had once again become a heavily defended strongpoint.

  He drove slowly along the edge of the wood to where, as he remembered from the old days, the entrance had been. That also was gated now, and had another dark-suited keeper. But the gate was open and the keeper waved them inside.

  The curving drive within was much as it had been, the gravel better weeded and the grass somewhat trimmer. In the gaps between the trees he could see the unevenness of the wood itself, not much changed in surface outline from when Leigh-Wood-house had led his Poachers through it, for nothing but time itself had happened to the ground since then. Twice afterwards the war had swept over the ridge, first the Germans pushing south in their March offensive, then the British pursuing them northwards again; but neither side had attempted to stand on this bloody strip - each had maybe had enough of it in 1916.

  They were getting near the house now, the open clearing in front of it lightening the woodland ahead. He caught a momentary ripple of white facade between the trees –

  ‘Stop the car,’ said Audley.

  Obediently Mitchell pulled the car to the left, into the mouth of one of the rides which cut at right angles through the undergrowth. As he did so he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

  As the movement registered on his brain his foot went down harder on the brake pedal in an involuntary reaction, so that they were all jerked forward. Sergeant Ogilvie was in conversation with Corporal Manson a dozen yards down the ride from them.

  ‘Ted - good to see you again.’

  ‘My David. Always the early bird!’

  They shook hands with all the warmth of old friendship. Ollivier’s gaze shifted directly to Mitchell, candid and appraising.

  ‘And Captain Lefevre - good morning to you.’

  The hand was cold and firm.

  ‘Monsieur Ollivier.’

  ‘A better morning than the night before, Monsieur Ollivier.’

  ‘Shall we go on up to the house, my David? I was on my way to receive you there.’

  Audley looked around him.

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, Ted, I’d prefer to stretch my legs. I’ve been so cooped up these last few weeks a bit of your country air would do me a power of good.’

  Ollivier smiled.

  ‘But of course! Not enough exercise is the curse of our age - and our age particularly.’

  He struck his stomach with his fist.

  ‘All that rugger-playing muscle wishes to retire and turns itself into fat, it betrays us both.’

  He nodded to Corporal Manson.

  ‘Tell them we shall make our way in at our leisure, Pierre.’

  ‘M’sieur.’

  �
�And perhaps Mademoiselle will chaperone me,’ went on Ollivier, acknowledging Nikki MacMahon’s presence at Mitch-ell’s shoulder. ‘And so we will walk … undisturbed.’

  ‘Undisturbed is right,’ murmured Audley. ‘You’ve got yourself a fine and private place, Ted.’

  They fell into step, four abreast.

  ‘We like it - we like it.’

  ‘A rare thing these days, privacy.’

  ‘A jewel beyond price.’

  ‘Which someone now wants to steal from you.’

  Ollivier gave Audley a side-glance.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Not think - know.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Because there are too many damn bodies around for comfort, for one thing. We’ve got three -‘

  ‘ Three!’ Ollivier stopped abruptly. ‘Who?’

  ‘The man you wanted us to talk to, Emerson. And his research assistant, a young man named Mitchell. And an old soldier.’

  Audley faced Ollivier squarely, all the friendship draining out of his voice.

  ‘Three innocent men, Ted. Your privacy’s too expensive for us. We can’t afford it.’

  ‘ Three!’ Ollivier blew his cheeks out. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘Tell you? You gave us a bit of map and a name - man, you haven’t been exactly open and above board with us. What the devil do you expect?’

  ‘Did you talk to Emerson?’

  ‘Talk to him?’ Audley gave a derisive grunt. ‘Everyone we want to talk to has an accident before we reach him. You want to watch out, you’re the first living person we’ve met who’s got any answers. You’ve got your dogs and your infrared scanners - ‘

  Infra-red scanners? Mitchell switched back to the fences. As always, he had seen but not seen everything.

  ‘I’m sorry, David.’ Ollivier cut the big man short. ‘I have erred -‘

  ‘Damn right, you’ve erred. You’ve got trouble. You wanted me and you’ve got me. But I need some answers first.’

  ‘Give me the questions.’

  ‘This is a neutral house - right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who’s due to meet here?’

  Mitchell woke up with a start. A neutral house?

  ‘I can’t tell you, David. That’s absolutely classified. I don’t even know myself, I promise you.’

  A neutral house?

  ‘My men start to hand over today - this afternoon,’ said Ollivier urgently. ‘You know the rules.’

  Audley knew - had known from the start - just what was happening in Bouillet Wood.

  ‘What is a neutral house?’ said Mitchell.

  ‘Stay out of this, Paul,’ Audley snapped.

  It was the moment of truth and decision.

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s an order.’

  ‘There aren’t any orders for me. You asked me a question last night. Now you can choose your answer.’

  Audley turned towards him. There was a strange blank look on his face for an instant. Then it softened into something Mitchell couldn’t place. It seemed almost as though they were meeting again after having met long before and learnt to know each other, and now were meeting again at last.

  Then he smiled.

  ‘All right, Paul … It’s quite simple, really … if the chairmen of two big companies, say, have got a mutual problem, something that’s going to put a lot of people on the breadline if they don’t handle it quickly, it doesn’t always do for one to march straight up to the other. Because too many other people have big ears and big eyes - not just their rivals and competitors, and not just the wheeler-dealers on the stock exchanges, but on their own side maybe. What they need is somewhere safe and private, where they can slip in and out with nobody the wiser.

  ‘It’s the same with countries. You have a summit meeting in public, with the TV cameras and the political commentators, and too many people want to know why - and who won … That’s the curse of open diplomacy - one side’s got to be seen to win or lose, and if neither does then it’s just as bad. So the first thing they came up with was the hot line, which was a big step in the right direction. Except that when it’s a matter of life and death nothing beats face-to-face talking.’

  It was very quiet in the wood, with not a sound from its thousands of dead soldiers, British and German.

  ‘So then they set up the neutral houses. If two countries have a problem, they just approach any third party for the key to a neutral house. No publicity, no TV, no questions asked - permanent top security guaranteed at head-of-state level. All the latest anti-bugging devices and experts from all sides can spot-check them at any time as a matter of routine. They’ve been in operation for five years now without a hitch.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘No names, no pack-drill, Paul. There are a dozen safe houses in half a dozen countries - maybe.’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘That this was a neutral house? For sure, not until a moment ago. It’s a new one on me.’

  ‘But you guessed?’

  Audley flashed a glance at Ollivier, then shrugged.

  ‘France is a popular country for meetings - got a reputation for fair dealing, I can’t think why. Maybe because the cops have got things screwed down tight. But Americans met the North Vietnamese here - maybe right here - long before the Paris talks started. They’ve met the Russians too, and the Chinese. The Israelis have met the Egyptians three times in France to my certain knowledge … And the specification fitted like a glove.’

  ‘Specification?’

  ‘The place is just right. Biggish house, but not too big. Screened from direct sight. Impossible to approach without being seen. Off the beaten track - strangers in these villages stand out like sore thumbs, and there’s no tourist traffic - but not too far off. Close to the Paris motorway, and the major junction with the Brussels-Liege-Aachen motorway is just south of Bapaume. Close enough to the Channel! And I’d guess there’s a helicopter pad behind the house somewhere. Made for the job, the whole place.’

  There was that little field in the middle of the wood just north of the house, where he had once found all the British and German cartridges, Mitchell remembered, his mind staggering under the implications of the situation. Because he still didn’t know what Audley and Butler did - although he now seemed to have joined them, for God’s sake! - he hadn’t known what to expect. They had always seemed more like cops than robbers, defenders of the peace and security of the realm, but what he had never suspected was the rarified level at which they operated: the ultimate level of secret summit meetings.

  He realised he was staring at Audley - and clear through him - just the way Audley had in the past stared at him.

  ‘I understand - more or less.’

  ‘Good.’ Audley swung towards Ollivier. ‘You’ve got a meeting here and the security angle’s going sour on you - is that it?’

  ‘We think something’s up - ‘ Ollivier began cautiously.

  ‘Oh, come on, Ted - how many bodies do I have to produce to make you talk? What about last night, come to that? Was that an accident, then?’

  Ollivier smiled wryly.

  ‘Oddly enough, David, it looks very much as if it was an accident.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘A Spanish farm worker. They employ them on the farms hereabouts, have done for years. This man was a - a scavenger of old war material. He sold what he found. His employer had warned him before that he was living on borrowed time, but it seems he was foolish.’

  ‘You’d vetted him?’

  ‘We have vetted everyone who was not born and bred on the ridge - and some of those who were, also.’ There was an edge of exasperation in Ollivier’s tone. ‘Do you want to teach us our business, eh?’

  Audley rubbed his chin, staring at the tall Frenchman in silence.

  ‘But you called me in, Ted. Why did you do that?’

  ‘Because you I can trust, my friend,’ replied Ollivier simply. ‘I kno
w you will not go shooting your mouth off - I know you will keep your counsel, and mine if need be … I trust you.’

  ‘I’m touched,’ Audley murmured. ‘Relatively touched, anyway.’

  ‘Relatively?’

  ‘Relatively … Gensoul insisted you made contact with Perfidious Albion about Emerson, and I was your best bet. That’s fair enough - so relatively touched, yes.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, you were all my own idea.’

  ‘Indeed!’

  Audley missed his step, scuffing his shoes in the carpet of fallen leaves.

  ‘Then you really must be in a hole, Ted.’

  ‘Not a hole. Maybe a quandary - an impasse.’

  ‘Sounds like a hole to me.’

  The silence was broken suddenly by distant barking. The dogs with eyes as big as soup-plates were hungry, probably.

  ‘A few days since - ago - one of our agents, a man of the Surveillance du Territoire, spotted someone he knew … not far from here. A known terrorist.’

  ‘Someone I know?’ asked Audley.

  Ollivier shook his head.

  ‘I would think not. The man is a former Pied-Noir known as Turco. But you would know the type very well, I’ve no doubt - you have them in Ireland now.’

  That was one for Nikki, thought Mitchell, keeping his eyes down.

  ‘Political? Or non-political?’

  ‘Non-political.’

  Mitchell looked at Audley.

  ‘Is there such a thing as a non-political Irishman?’

  Audley returned the look, unsmiling.

  ‘What he means is an old-fashioned psychopath. When the going gets nasty and most of the genuine patriots have been killed or captured - or had enough - the scum comes into its own. They don’t find the dirty jobs unpleasant, the psychos don’t. They like ‘em.’

  He turned back to Ollivier.

  ‘A hit man?’

  The Frenchman nodded.

  ‘Then you’ve got trouble. What did your agent do?’

  ‘It was in a village near Amiens - Querrieu - they were both in cars. Our man turned round and followed him, but Turco’s no fool and he must have been on the look-out -‘

  ‘Which clinches it. So the following turned into chasing?’