Here Be Monsters

by Anthony Price

  ‘No. It was already neutered when Fatso became Deputy-Director last year.’ He shook his head quickly. ‘It must have been old Fred Clinton. He made the original decision to abort the operation. So he had over twenty years to think about it.’ He shook his head again, but slowly this time. ‘You’d better ask David, my dear.’

  ‘So you keep saying. So everyone keeps saying.’

  ‘So maybe it’s good advice.’ He looked at her almost desperately. ‘No one knows more about Debrecen than he does. At least … no one on our side—no one who’s still alive, that is. All I know, beyond what’s in the file, is hearsay from him, what he’s let slip. And that’s worth nothing.’

  He was suddenly so miserable that she decided to chance a straight question. ‘What d’you want to tell me, Paul?’

  He swallowed. ‘Can’t you guess? I’d rather you did, if only to set my mind at rest a little.’ He attempted a Paul Mitchell smile, but achieved only a painful grimace. ‘I think you have guessed, actually.’

  She had to put him out of his misery, she owed him that. ‘You mean, why Latimer put me in charge, and not David?’

  The grimace improved slightly. ‘That’s my girl! And—?’

  ‘It’s really David’s skeleton—isn’t it?’ She didn’t need to wait for confirmation. ‘He was in charge of the original operation. And he always had a lot of influence with Sir Frederick Clinton. So if there was a bad mistake it was his—right?’

  ‘Right.’ He looked at her expectantly.

  ‘And Latimer is gunning for David.’ That didn’t need confirmation either. But the next statement did. ‘But he reckons David might be—no, David is … clever enough to muddy the waters if he was in charge—?’

  ‘Right again.’ He nodded. ‘Fatso wants David out. But with David in charge … anything could happen.’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Look, Elizabeth … I know David pretty well. He recruited me—‘

  ‘He recruited me, too,’ Elizabeth heard herself snap.

  ‘So he did. But you’re the ‘82 vintage. I’m the ‘74, and I know how his mind works. Everyone thinks he’s devious—that he’s a meticulous planner. And it just isn’t true. Because what David likes, and what he does best and enjoys most, is working from hand-to-mouth in an emergency, improvising and botching up and making good.’ He frowned at her. ‘It’s like … he’s like—have you ever heard of the Sopwith Camel, Elizabeth—Miss Loftus?’

  ‘The—what?’ It took her a second to adjust from David Audley’s idiosyncrasies to Paul Mitchell’s. ‘It was—it was a First World War aeroplane, wasn’t it?’ She was only doubtful for another half-second: with Paul it had to be that war. ‘It was. But what—‘

  ‘It was. And it wasn’t very fast. And it had no rate-of-climb worth talking about. And it was a little bugger to fly, spinning pilots into the ground if they gave it half a chance.’ He leered at her ghoulishly. ‘But in combat it could turn on a ha’penny. And when the Hun bounced it … if a Camel pilot got one second, to pull his stick, no one on God’s earth—or in God’s sky—knew where the Camel was going. The Camel pilot came down on his tail, out of nowhere.’ He stared at her. ‘And that’s David—to the bloody life!’

  It wasn’t loyalty, thought Elizabeth. And it wasn’t admiration, either: it was something much more complicated, which she didn’t have time now to explore.

  She didn’t have time! ‘But I’m not a Sopwith Camel, Paul. And David will still have time to—to pull his stick, or whatever—‘ She floundered in the midst of a metaphor she didn’t fully understand.

  ‘That’s right—exactly right.’ He evidently understood his own imagery. ‘But he’s escorting you, don’t you see? If anything goes wrong—if you fail abysmally, or if you get shot down … and you are his recruit—his pupil—as well as his responsibility … Christ! If there’s one thing Jack Butler would never forgive—one thing that would discredit David finally and for all time—it would be that. And Oliver St John Latimer knows it. Because he’s an Audley-watcher too. And he’s watched him longer than I have. And he knows what he wants. And … he’s not stupid, is our Fatso—he’s bloody good.’ He gave her another dreadful smile. ‘And that’s half the trouble, of course.’

  Half the trouble? If that was half … ? But that was another thing to think about tomorrow.

  ‘So he’s done everything right, you see.’ Paul had the bit between his teeth now. ‘Jack Butler won’t be able to fault him when he gets back from his leave, whatever he may suspect privately. Because—Item One—that American was on the Debrecen List—the Americans’ list, which is in the file … and I’ve been busy checking off some of the English names, so I know. And I don’t doubt he’s acquired some evidence that that “tragic fall” was—‘ He gave her an innocently-raised eyebrow ‘—an efficient shove, maybe?’

  So that had been Major Turnbull’s function, she understood: to confirm legitmate suspicion and justify further action—

  ‘Yes.’ He read her face too easily, ‘So—Item Two -take appropriate action?’ The eyebrow remained raised. ‘One dead Debrecen American. But two recent entries in the Debrecen file. So let Loftus, Elizabeth Jane win her spurs. It’s time she did a bit of field-work, to get experience and earn her keep. But give her David Audley, who is elderly and should be responsible, and who was her “recruiting-sergeant … and who knows all about Debrecen—Good thinking, Mr Deputy-Director. Defence of the Realm properly secured, essential training of promising staff advanced, and duty well and truly discharged.’ The eyebrow lowered. ‘And Fatso’s back well and truly protected while he inserts his poniard into David Audley’s back—see how it works, Elizabeth Jane? Because David can’t refuse to help you—see?’

  What she saw was a Paul she hadn’t seen before—not so much cynical as strangely bitter. But then the curtain scraped on its runners again.

  ‘Right, then!’ Tom sucked his toothless gums noisily.

  ‘Buzz off, Tom.’ Paul continued to stare at her. ‘You’re too late. You’re too late and I’m too late. We have to go-‘

  ‘Oh yus?’ Tom advanced nevertheless, until Elizabeth couldn’t ignore him. ‘Got ‘is measure, ‘ave you, Miss?’ He flashed an irreverent eye at Paul Mitchell. ‘Looks like ‘e’s lost’s sixpence, an’ found a dud shillin’.’

  ‘If you don’t buzz off this minute, Tom—‘ Paul spoke with quite uncharacteristic malevolence ‘—I’ll have the Old Bill object to the renewal of your licence next time, if it’s the last thing I do on this earth.’

  He was so obviously serious that she found herself looking at him again compulsively, and the scrape of the curtains closing was a distant sound in a much larger silence.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing about David, that I do know … when he really gets himself into trouble.’ He fixed the malevolent look on her. ‘And one thing about the Debrecen file—the thing he has in common with it.’

  She had read the file, but it was suddenly a blank in her mind as she thought about David Audley, with whom she had only worked once. Only that had been—

  ‘They both kill people, Elizabeth—Elizabeth Jane … Miss Loftus.’ He stumbled over the confusion of names. ‘Or … people end up dead, one way or another, when they get together. And I have a very strong presentiment that they’re going to do it again, this time, between them.’

  It was really very strange, very strange indeed, this almost fastidious abhorrence he had about violent death, thought Elizabeth. And it was strange not because this time she herself might be involved on the edges of it—that really wasn’t strange at all—but rather because his whole ten-year civilian academic career, and his devoted hobby over the last ten years, involved the concentrated study of that 1914 -18 bloodbath in the trenches of France and Flanders.

  ‘But it doesn’t worry you, does it?’ Calculation, only half-masked by curiosity, had replaced honest passion. ‘Not one bit, eh?’

  ‘Of course it does.’ Normally she could lie more readily, and much more convincingly. But this time he caught
her off-balance, in the middle of remembering another reason why his hatred of violence was so odd—

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Calculation had taken over. ‘Old Fatso’s not so stupid—I’m the stupid one. He’s got your number right to the last decimal point, naturally: fitness reports, psychological profile, and all the little—nasty little—small print … all those bloody-minded, coldblooded naval ancestors of yours, of the flog ‘em and hang ‘em brigade, from the Nore and Spithead.’

  What she remembered was that, when the chips were down, Paul himself had a natural talent for violence, instinctive and efficient. ‘I really don’t know. But then I don’t really know what you’re talking about, either.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t.’ He nodded mild agreement. ‘And your old man, too—that’s the special beauty of it, from Fatso’s point of view: not just the chance to up-anchor, and make sail, and put to sea … But a bloody-marvellous father-figure target to sink as well—right, Elizabeth Jane?’

  The passion was back. It was deep-layered now, under that false mildness, and then under mocking calculation and curiosity. But it was there all the same, and she half-wished that it worried her more, instead of merely irritating her.

  But then it was anger, rather than irritation. ‘I don’t see what my father has to do with this.’ The anger flared. ‘Or with you.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’ He felt the heat. ‘As of this minute I was never here, and we never met.’ He straightened up, and gestured towards the door. ‘And seeing as we haven’t met, and I shall have to buy an alibi to prove that I was somewhere else—that I am somewhere else … or at least half-way there—‘ He frowned suddenly, and made a silly face. ‘When you gave David those jobs … what did you say you were doing? I mean … just curiosity—?’

  This time she wasn’t off-balance, by one guilty half-second. But she couldn’t tell him. ‘You can take me with you, and put me off in Bond Street. I’ll take a taxi from there.’ But she mustn’t leave him time to work that out. ‘Only … you said, Paul, that when David and Debrecen got together—that when they came together—?’

  ‘People end up dead?’ He nodded. ‘And so they do.’ Another nod. ‘Back in ‘58—there were two—two, if you count one in America, as well as one over here.’ Pause. ‘And in ‘83 … well, there was one a few years before that, when the KGB hit someone up in Yorkshire.’ Pause. ‘But then there was ‘83, down in Dorset. About which I know no more than you do, because all I know is what is in the record.’ Pause. ‘And then there’s ‘84 … which was also in America. And which is also in the record, more or less.’ This time the pause was so long that she had almost decided that he had finished. But then he nodded. ‘But mostly less, rather than more. Because, for a secure file, it’s still bloody non-committal, don’t you think? What David calls “half-arsed”—whatever that means … “Half-arsed”, would you say, Miss Loftus?’

  ‘What else does David say about it—about Debrecen?’

  ‘Ah … now, as everyone keeps telling you, you’d better ask him, I think. And then draw your own conclusions. Because in my experience he never says quite the same thing twice. So we should maybe compare notes some time—over dinner, say?’

  She had to remember that he was still Paul. And not getting what he wanted only made him want it more: for Paul, failure was a beginning, not an end. ‘He won’t tell me the truth?’

  ‘That depends.’ He pointed at the door again. ‘I have to establish my alibi.’

  ‘Depends on what?’

  ‘On lots of things.’ He swivelled on his heel, away from her, then towards her. ‘David knows his duty. Do you know yours, Miss Loftus?’

  ‘I know what I’ve got to do, Dr Mitchell.’

  ‘Do you, Miss Loftus? And does it include scuppering David Audley to please Oliver St John Fatso-Latimer, pray?’

  ‘No, it does not—‘

  ‘But are you sure of that, Miss Loftus? And is David Audley sure of it?’ He held the pub door open for her. ‘What you both want to ask yourselves is … do either of you really know what you are doing? As opposed to what you think you’re doing?’

  7

  ‘GORBATOV — that is absolutely correct, Elizabeth.’ Audley shifted his long legs in the Morgan’s confined space. ‘It all starts with him. Before Gorbatov, Debrecen was without light, and void, so far as we were concerned.’

  For a man hypothetically cast as a prosecutor at his own court-martial, if not commander of the firing squad afterwards, David Audley had been just a little too relaxed, Elizabeth had thought.

  True, he had protested briefly when she’d insisted on driving. But that had been more for form’s sake than genuine desire, since they both knew that he was a bad driver, unable to keep his mind on the road at the best of times, and that this time she wanted his mind on other matters.

  And true, he had been momentarily querulous at the sight of the little Morgan, into which he would not fit easily. But then, again, he had quickly adjusted himself to the imposition, mentally as well as physically, launching instead into a long anecdote about a hot-shot USAF pilot he’d once known, who had once owned just such a car—

  ‘Flew Voodoos, out of Upper Heyford in Oxfordshire—photographic reconnaissance — took some very pretty snapshots for us on one occasion too, much to the annoyance of a certain ally across the Channel … Bought himself one of these — same colour, British Racing Green, naturally. And you know what tickled him most, Elizabeth?’

  Too relaxed, she thought. But no, she didn’t know, she had said.

  ‘Bought it from the factory (he’d been on the waiting list for years, of course), and paid for it in cash … some of which we’d just given him, for services rendered … but most of which was gambling profits — he was a mean poker player … But, anyway, he paid in cash, and there was seventeen shillings and fourpence change to come from his money. And they only had pound notes, so they sent an apprentice lad across the road to a pub to get him his seventeen-and-four, down to the last penny. Tickled him pink, that did.’

  Much too relaxed. It hadn’t tickled her at all.

  ‘What was his provenance?’ Although they weren’t quite out of London proper the traffic was already thinning in the brief gap between closing time and early departure home. ‘Was he ever in the real army—Red Army?’

  ‘So he maintained. One of the heroes of the Patriotic War, who ran up the red flag over the Reichstag, or the Brandenburg Gate, or some such place, in ‘45. But I have my doubts, although he had his army stuff off pat, certainly. So they say.’

  She was meant to pick that up. ‘You never interrogated him?’

  ‘No.’ He gazed ahead sightlessly. ‘He came across just about the time I came into the Service. So I was doing my homework while they were taking him apart. And I suppose you could say he was out of my league.’

  Elizabeth drove in silence for a time, beckoned by the motorway signs. Paul had warned her that she would be out of her league in this affair, but that wasn’t a bad way of improving one’s game. All the same, the idea of an age of the world when David Audley had not been in the Blues’ team overawed her somewhat: it was a defect in her powers of imagination that she could not readily enough accept that those who were old had once been young—that dear old Major Birkenshawe had once been a dashing subaltern, and even Father had been a dewy-eyed little midshipman—even Father!

  ‘There were three of them, who assessed him—all Fred Clinton’s trusted cronies. One was a don from Cambridge, who’d been a Doublecross consultant; one was ex-SOE -one of the few Fred had been really thick with, and had kept an eye on; and there was a soldier, an ex-regular who’d watched Fred’s back during the war. And he was the one who didn’t reckon Gorbatov as a front line warrior: “In the army, but not of it” … meaning that he’d been NKVD from the cradle, keeping watch on the lads as they carried the red banners westwards.’

  The West, the final blue sign ahead proclaimed, echoing him and inviting her into the fast lane.


  ‘His version—Gorbatov’s version—was that he’d been talent-spotted by one of Ignatiev’s lieutenants in 1950, as a politically reliable career soldier. A very tough egg by the name of Okolovich—Anatoli Okolovich. And we knew all about him … In fact, he was an up-and-coming man at that time, and an invitation from him to join the happy band certainly wouldn’t have admitted refusal: it would have been either the Communist Party or the farewell party.’

  That was one of Paul’s little black jokes, so maybe it had started as one of Audley’s. Elizabeth took a quick sidelong look at the big man beside her. He was so utterly unlike Paul in so many ways that the ways in which they were like each other—ways which were sometimes no more than similar phrases and jokes trivializing unpalatable truths—emphasized their underlying similarity. So -, allowing physically for Paul’s age and much better looks, and mentally for his admiration of Audley, was this the shape of Paul Mitchell to come?

  ‘So he did the sensible thing, and ended up in ‘56 as General Okolovich’s leg-man in eastern Hungary, when the balloon went up there. Except that, according to him, he’d been feeding the General with soldierly warnings about trouble in store … which Okolovich had unwisely bowdlerized before passing on to his ambassador, one Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov—you remember him, Elizabeth?’ He turned towards her. ‘What’s the matter, Elizabeth?’

  She glanced at her mirror again. “There’s a police car about three hundred yards behind us. He’s waiting for me to put my foot down.’

  ‘Ah!’ He nodded, and then hunched himself to view her speedometer. ‘72-3? Young woman in British Racing Green sports car? Do you always play with policemen like this? It’s very naughty.’

  ‘I just don’t want to get stopped, that’s all.’

  ‘No? But you could show him your card then—and make him hate you. And then put your foot right down again, and make him hate you even more. Paul—your own Paul—does that all the time, so I’m told.’