Gunner Kelly dda-13

by Anthony Price

  He applied the handbrake fiercely. “But I think also that I do owe you an apology for failing to tell you where we were going, Herr Wiesehöfer. Actually, I thought I had—but it’s young Benjamin’s fault for monopolising you with his theories on Boadicea—”

  “Boudicca,” the boy corrected Audley sharply. “Everyone gets it wrong, Mr Burton says. ‘Boadicea’ is a spelling error—

  ‘Boudicca’ means ‘Victoria’, and she was Queen Victoria I, not to be confused with Victoria II, 1837 to 1901.”

  Darren shook his head at Benedikt. “He just talks all the time, that’s his trouble.”

  “It’s not me. It’s what Mr Burton says,” snapped Benje.

  “What Mr Burton says is that you’ve got verbal diarrhoea—” As he spoke, Darren squared up to resist physical assault.

  “Out of the car!” Audley shot an arm between them. “I’ve got a surprise for you both.” He winked at Benedikt.

  Benedikt climbed out of the car, and then stared at Audley across its roof. “And for me—a surprise also?”

  “For you the museum is the surprise. It’s strictly old hat for these dummy1

  two time-expired legionaries.” Audley led the way towards the entrance to the hangar. “They have to have something new every time— semper aliquid novi ex Bovingtonio, as Mr Burton would say.”

  “What’s new?” Darren, skipping backwards in order to face them, overtook them.

  “They do collect new things all the time—” Benje started out in a blasé tone for Benedikt’s benefit, but suddenly an idea lit up his face and he switched to Audley “—have they got one of those Argentinian personnel carriers from the Falklands? Is that it, David? Is that it?”

  “No . . . but you’re warm, young Benjamin.” Audley cocked an eye at Benedikt. “They may very well have bits of General Galtieri’s war surplus before long, they do collect such unconsidered trifles . . . They acquired their Russian SU-100 self-propelled gun from Suez in ‘56—they’re probably negotiating with the Israelis for a Syrian T6a, I shouldn’t wonder. Though where they’ll put it, God only knows.”

  Benedikt measured the enormous hangar with his eye. “That is filled with tanks?”

  “Bursting at the seams.” Audley nodded proprietorially. “They’ve got pretty well the whole British range, from 1915 onwards, including experimental vehicles and the ‘funnies’ from the last war

  —Crabs and suchlike . . . and armoured cars . . . And a very fair foreign cross-section, too—French and American, and all your Panzer marks.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “They’re particularly good on Tigers. Got a 1942 one, and a Royal Tiger dummy1

  with the Porsche turret. . . and a bloody great Hunting Tiger the size of a London bus.” He squeezed his eyes shut again, and then looked directly at Benedikt. “I met a Tiger once, on the edge of a wood in Normandy ... I don’t know which one it was, I didn’t wait to find out. All I remember is this enormous gun traversing, and I knew we couldn’t get out of the way quick enough—it was like looking Death himself in the eye and knowing that it was me he’d been expecting all morning. . . We were in a Cromwell, half his size, and we’d lost half our troop already since breakfast.” He shrugged. “Very nasty moment.”

  “What happened?” inquired Benje politely. “Did you shoot him—

  the Tiger?”

  “With my pea-shooter? Not likely! We just looked at each other for about a quarter of a second—maybe he was out of ammunition, having used it all on my late comrades ... or maybe he’d had his ration of Cromwells for that morning, and he was feeling generous

  —I don’t know—but in the next quarter-second he didn’t shoot, and after that I’d remembered a pressing engagement for lunch elsewhere.”

  “You retreated?” Benje sounded disappointed.

  “Well . . . let’s say I advanced in the opposite direction.” Audley looked at Benedikt. “You know, for years I couldn’t bring myself to visit this place. I hated the very thought of tanks, Cromwells as well as Tigers—and Panthers, they were just as bad, if not worse . . . And then one day it didn’t matter at all: it was as though there was a Statute of Limitations on bad memories, and after a certain time the badness no longer had any power. Or perhaps men dummy1

  change, and I have changed ... I don’t know. It’s interesting, though.”

  The boys were fidgetting now, a little disappointed with Audley’s lack of heroism and quite lost with his theories on the healing quality of time, but above all desperate to discover the nature of their surprise.

  Audley observed their impatience. “Shall we go in?”

  It was a museum without an entrance fee, but the entrance hall was like a shop dedicated to selling tanks in every form: in books and booklets, pictures and picture postcards, models and elaborate construction kits; and through a wide opening to his right Benedikt caught a glimpse of a vast hall packed with Panzers.

  But right in front of him were two soldiers in uniform who showed no sign of moving out of the way, and both of them were looking at Audley.

  One of the soldiers came to attention. “Mr Audley, sir?”

  “Yes.” Audley’s lack of surprise indicated that this, in some form, was the surprise. “Major Kennedy sent you?”

  “That’s right, sir.” The soldier wore sergeant’s chevrons on his arm and the mailed fist of the Armoured Corps on his beret. And now he was looking at Benje and Darren. “And these are the lads, eh?”

  “They are.” Audley turned to the boys. “The sergeant here is going to take you both for a ride. In a Scorpion.”

  “That’s right.” The sergeant gave the boys a brisk nod. “The Scorpion tracked reconnaissance vehicle, as used recently in the Falklands to put the fear of God up the Argies. Aluminium alloy dummy1

  armour, and a Jaguar 4.2 litre engine—road speed 55 miles per hour. A very nice little runabout if you don’t have to pay for the petrol. What would you say to a ride in that, then?”

  Surprisingly, Benje looked slightly doubtful.

  The other soldier, a button-nosed corporal who reminded Benedikt slightly of Gunner Kelly, grinned at the boys. “And you can drive it, too—what about that?”

  Benje thought for a moment. “We haven’t got driving licences,” he demurred.

  “Don’t need ‘em for where we’re going, my lad,” said the sergeant.

  “No coppers or traffic wardens to worry about, you take my word for it.” He looked at Audley. “About an hour, sir—would that be right?”

  “Come on Ben!” Darren encouraged his friend. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing to it, lad,” the sergeant supported Darren. “Remember those pictures on the telly of the Scorpions coming ashore at San Carlos Bay?”

  “Off you go, then!”Audley gestured to push the boys towards the door. “I can look after Herr Wiesehöfer for an hour, don’t worry.”

  “Ben—” Darren caught his friend’s arm “— come on!”

  “All right!” Benje shrugjed off the hand, but looked at Audley.

  “And you’ll be here with . . . with Mr—Mr Veezehoffer?”

  “I won’t step out of this place. I’ll just show him the tanks,”

  promised Audley. “Don’t wcrry about us, we’ll be okay, young dummy1

  Benjamin.”

  Benedikt watched them depart—Darren eagerly, Benje with the backward look of a prisoner going to a firing squad.

  “Hmm . . .” murmured Aadley. “A clever little boy.”

  Benedikt turned to him. “But frightened? No ... ?”

  “No.” Audley met his gaze. “Our young Benjamin has led a sheltered childhood—he hasn’t learnt to be frightened yet. He’s just too clever for comfort, that’s all. God help Oxbridge when it gets him . . . Perhaps we should put his name on the list, though—

  to get him inside our tent.” He shook his head slowly.

  Benedikt stared at the Englishman.

  Audley sighed. “He knew I was getting rid of him—the chance
to drive a Scorpion . . . and he still knew it!” He shook his head again.

  “Get... get rid of him?”

  “Oh, yes. Kelly’s got Benjamin sewed up tight—and I haven’t had time to unsew him.” Audley nodded. “Young Benjamin is Mr Gunner Kelly’s spy-in-the-sky on this trip— make no mistake about that. I got away last night because I’d given them you and your contact lenses on a plate, and they had to trust me . . . And then I gave them Captain Benedikt Schneider for good measure, to justify that trust . . . But Kelly still doesn’t like anything that happens where he can’t see it—or overhear it... I told you—in Duntisbury Chase I’m still one of the foederati from outside, not one of the native Britons: when it comes to the crunch, they’re not sure whose side I’m on.”

  Benedikt struggled with this interpretation of reality, even though dummy1

  it coincided with his own. “And that child . . . ?”

  “That child is old enough to believe in a cause, if he trusts whoever is feeding him the bull-shit.” Audley’s jaw set hard. “In a year or two he’ll think for himself, and no one will make his mind up for him. But at the moment he can still remember the Old General, and he’s got adolescent yearnings for the way Becky’s shirt bulges, which he doesn’t understand . . . And he believes Mr Gunner Kelly is an extension of those bulges, on the side of Good and Right. And if I tried to tamper with that I’d get my fingers burnt.”

  Gunner Kelly. Mr Gunner Kelly ... It always came down to him!

  But they were here now—and they had got rid of ‘young Benjamin’, however unsatisfactorily—

  “What are we doing here, David?” The organisation of ‘Major Kennedy’ and those Armoured Corps NCOs to get rid of the little spy could only have been encompassed during Audley’s brief period of freedom, which meant that it had been planned in advance for a reason. And there could only be one reason worth such a risk. “Kelly?”

  “Kelly.” Audley pointed to the hall of the tanks. “I had one opportunity, three days ago, to get a question out. . . Now we’ll see whether I’ve got an answer to it. Shall we go and find out?”

  Benedikt strolled into the hall alongside him. On one side there was a line of Panzers which could obviously hold their own on any modern battlefield, so far as any armoured vehicle could in the present state-of-play on the North German killing ground . . . while on the other—the museum was ranged anti-clockwise, he could see that at a glance—while on the other there were those crude dummy1

  rhomboid-shapes—God! But they must have been brave to have faced such things, crawling out of the smoke, crushing barbed-wire and men in their remorseless advance—the ultimate horror of machine against flesh-and-blood on the ground, before rockets and computers had abstracted the collision of the two to petty imagination—

  “No time for a proper tour . . . Another day, maybe . . .” Audley’s voice was casual. “It’s a good cautionary tale, really—the story of the tank, right from the beginning . . . Ploughshares into swords, to start with, you might say.”

  Benedikt looked at him. “Ploughshares?”

  “Oh, yes . . .” The big man gestured vaguely to his left, towards the anti-clockwise beginnings of the fully-fledged leviathans lined up on his right. “The caterpillar track began its life as a bit of agricultural machinery, anyway—‘to boldly plough where no horse had ploughed before’, that sort of thing.” His voice was still casual, but there was something in his face which hinted to Benedikt that the Statute of Limitations on bad memories hadn’t altogether run out, whatever had been said to the contrary. “But it put paid to the cavalry charger much more comprehensively than to the farm-horse and the plough-ox—there are plenty of quadrupeds still at work in the fields in third-world countries well-equipped with tanks. Like I said, a cautionary tale—a matter of human priorities . . . Or, ‘How many armoured divisions has the Pope got?’, as Stalin said—was it Stalin?” He twisted a lop-sided smile, unsmiling, at Benedikt. “But our priority is over there—” he pointed “—past the DD-Sherman with its skirts right up, over by dummy1

  the Tunisian Tiger. Okay?”

  Benedikt nodded, and followed the Englishman dumbly into the labyrinth. One thing was certain, he thought: if there ever was another day for him here, it would not be David Audley who presided over it. For some reason—perhaps to get rid of those juvenile spies without argument—it suited the man to set up a rendezvous here. But the place was still too painful for any casual visit.

  But now Audley was moving purposefully ahead of him down the aisle, ignoring his surroundings. Only when he was half-way down the hangar, level with a cross-aisle, did he pause for Benedikt to catch up.

  “We are meeting someone?” The question sounded foolish, but he qualified it by looking about him at the other visitors thronging the museum. So far as he could observe they consisted mostly of family groups, with the fathers showing off their knowledge to their sons and the bored mothers more concerned with the whereabouts of stragglers.

  “Trust me.” Audley answered without answering, moving down the side-aisle. “That’s my old tank, the Cromwell. Would have been good in the desert in ‘42 ... bloody death-trap in the Normandy bocage in ’44—not too safe against your old Mark IVs, and suicide against those big sods over there . . . unless you could find one all by itself and get in a shot from the rear. . . which I certainly never did.”

  Audley was nodding down another aisle, directly ahead of him, at a sinister desert-yellow Tiger facing them.

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  “Head-on—that’s not the way to say ‘hullo’ to a Tiger.” Audley shivered. “One of your chaps—a bright lad named Wittmann—

  bagged a whole squadron of London Yeomanry outside Villers Bocage with just this one Tiger of his, so we were told. And apparently he’d already got over a hundred Russian tanks on his score-card—he must have been the Richthofen of his team. ”He eyed the Tiger silently for a moment. “They used to start up with a sort of cough . . . quite distinctive. Once heard, never forgotten, but not wanted to be heard again—”

  “Hullo there, David.” The voice which cut off Audley’s reverie came from behind them. “Telling how David slew Goliath?”

  Benedikt turned towards the voice.

  “Why—hullo, friendly cousin!” Audley greeted the newcomer with cheerful innocence. “Good to see you.”

  “A pleasure shared, as always.” Smooth black hair, thin moustache . . . swarthy, almost Mexican complexion . . . and the dark eyes were fixed on Benedikt, appraising him frankly. “You have a friend, I see.” The voice, by contrast, was mid-Atlantic rather than trans-Atlantic, educated American.

  “A friend and colleague,” Audley corrected him smoothly. “Allied colleague.”

  “Is that so?” The American continued to scrutinise Benedikt. “But additional to our deal, maybe?”

  Audley gave a tiny shrug. “Additionally necessary, say. But I have thrown in a little more to balance him. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

  dummy1

  “Hell—I’m sure I won’t, at that!” The American flashed white teeth at the Englishman. “It’s just that my ... acquaintance back there may not find your allied friend and colleague so easy to take on board, that’s all—no offence, allied friend and colleague.” He gave Benedikt a share of the teeth. “Just ... I get this feeling he already wishes he didn’t owe me so many favours.”

  “He’s nervous, you mean?” Audley contrived to mix innocence and satisfaction in the question. “But not on account of me, surely?”

  The American considered Audley coolly. “On account of you . . .

  maybe a little. He doesn’t know you as well as I do, I guess.” He paused. “On account of what he’s gotten for you . . . about which, because of our agreement, I have not as yet inquired, you understand ... on account of that, I think he now knows something he’d rather not know.”

  “Ah!” Audley’s satisfaction increased. “That’s good.”

  “Good isn’t his word for it. In fact,
it took all my powers of persuasion to get him down here today. It seems he’s conceived a sudden urge to visit his second cousin in Boston—an overwhelming urge to be somewhere else for the time being—to get away from it all... You know the feeling?”

  “I know the feeling.” Audley smiled. “So you’ll just have to use your charm—or whatever—again, won’t you?”

  Another cool look. “Seems that way.”

  “Which would bring benefits all round, remember.”

  “All round?”

  dummy1

  “To you and me all round. It’s all waiting for you at the usual place, what you want—plus the bonus on behalf of my colleague here. All pure and unadulterated.”

  The American came to his decision. “Okay, David. You can have him. Half an hour, no more—and don’t frighten him if you can help it, he’s not a bad guy. Just give me a minute to convince him.”

  “Agreed. I’ll be sweetness and light itself.”

  “And I get this too . . . whatever it is ... in due course?”

  “If it concerns you—yes.”

  “Fair enough.” The American acknowledged Benedikt. “Watch yourself with this English gentleman, friendly ally. Auf Wiedersehen.” He nodded finally at Audley. “See you, David.”

  Benedikt watched the man disappear among the tanks, then he looked at Audley.

  “CIA?” It felt like the first thing he had said in hours.

  “At its best.”

  Benedikt digested that. Praise from Audley was worth remembering. “He knew me.”

  “Of course—he would. It’s his business to know you. He just met you face to face a week or two before he expected to, that’s all.”

  Audley grinned. “Sorry about all that horse-trading. You inhibited us both, rather.”

  Horse-trading was how Audley operated, Benedikt remembered.

  “You have a special relationship?”

  “Of a sort . . . when it’s in our respective national interests.

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  Otherwise we have this old-fashioned gentleman’s agreement about declarations of war preceding hostilities. Short of that we play dead straight with each other, which makes for much greater efficiency as well as simplicity. And we trade on that basis.”