Gunner Kelly dda-13

by Anthony Price

  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 dummy1

  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 our loyal ally perked up at the mention of him?”

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  “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 dummy1

  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 dummy1

  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 dummy1

  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 expe
ct 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 . . .”

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  “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 dummy1

  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!”

  Benedikt 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 dummy1

  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!”

  Jane?

  But Jane didn’t matter. Audley had lifted the stakes far above little girls with the possibility of this final duel between the two Kellys, Aloysius and Michael.

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  The outer door of the museum banged behind him, and the Corporal’s boots cracked like rifle-shots on the concrete floor.

  “I have a car for you, sir.” The Corporal addressed Benedikt as though Audley was as invisible as he’d promised to be. “Major Kennedy’s wife’s car actually, that the lady brought back with her from our last posting ... I hope you have no objection to a foreign car, sir?”

  Benedikt goggled at him. “A f-foreign car, Corporal?”

  “Yes, sir. A Volkswagen Scirocco GL—a Jerry car, but very nippy, and I think your young lads will like it ... If you’ve no objection?”

  Benedikt looked at Audley, then back at the Corporal. “No objection, Corporal. A Jerry car will do very well for me, thank you. No objection at all.”

  Zu Ruhm und Sieg! A Volkswagen would be just right for that.

  PART THREE

  You pays your money, and you takes your choice The Old House,

  Steeple Horley,

  Sussex

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  My dear Jack,

  You will, of course, be getting my official report of occurrences in Duntisbury Chase both before and after my somewhat traumatic meeting with you. But that will be couched in the proper jargon, abbreviated and bowdlerised so as not to offend less understanding official eyes and ears than yours, furnished and ornamented with such excuses and explanations as may mitigate my crimes if not altogether exculpate me from censure, and— apart from the usual suppressio vert suggestio falsi— with one or two outright falsehoods which I consider necessary and which I confide they will swallow.

  This private letter I am writing partly to set the record straight, but partly also because you may find out more from another source; and— not least because I must admit a gross original error of judgement— I would not wish you to be wrong-footed in such an event. I must also admit that if I was sure we could get away with it I would not be putting pen to paper now. But better from me now than from some enemy— or innocent source— later.

  By ‘we’, you see, I mean your daughter Jane and me.

  The fault, however, is all mine, not Jane’s. Becky Maxwell-Smith, a friend of hers at Bristol University, confided in
her. Being your cleverest one Jane smelt bad trouble. But— still being your cleverest— she also knew that you were up to your ears in work (Cheltenham) and that I was on leave, so she turned to me.

  Unwisely, as it turned out, but she can hardly be blamed for assuming that I represented Age and Wisdom, for not knowing that I was going through one of my accidie periods (why the hell didn ‘t dummy1

  you give me Cheltenham? I’ve a friend teaching modern languages there at school)— bored out of my mind and ready for any mischief.

  The moment I arrived at Duntisbury Chase I was lost: that marvellous place— a little world of its own under its unbelievable sky—and that Irishman.

  You know my hang-ups about the Irish— which probably date from the time 1 fluffed a question at Cambridge on Elizabeth Tudor’s Irish policy: I just don’t understand them. But I’d read the Maxwell memo (saying that it was definitely not an IRA hit) before I went on leave. So he seemed a safe enough object for close study

  — at least, that’s what I told myself.

  Self-indulgence and stupidity— I know! But it was good fun— and I was able to watch over Becky, as I’d promised— until our loyal Bundesnachrichtendienst ally turned up out of the blue. I should have reported to you then, but I thought I’d stand a better chance with you if I came bearing gifts— namely, how and why the Germans had reached Duntisbury Chase ahead of us (or, in this case,you, Jack—to be brutally frank), as well as Gunner Kelly’s secret, whatever it might be.

  As it turned out, Captain Schneider’s explanation for his presence was— and is— decidedly thin, which made me all the more curious about his appearance. I wanted more, but I had an appointment with one of my American contacts, who was digging dirt on Gunner Kelly for me in recompense for past favours.

  And that, of course, produced the dynamite too unstable for me to handle, which I brought to you with my tail between my legs— not least because I was terrified that the next thing we’d get in dummy1

  Duntisbury Chase was a herd of CIA tourists sampling the rural charms of the place, and making Michael bolt— and scaring off Aloysius (if he was alive).