For the Good of the State (37 page)

Tom remembered his duty suddenly. ‘No.’ He looked at the Russian. ‘I couldn’t bear to leave you when you have Professor Panin by the balls, David. Do please swing on them—and take not the slightest notice of me. I’m just a fly on the wall.’ He smiled at the Russian as sweetly as his duty-remembered face allowed.

Panin regarded him curiously. ‘He has me … by the balls, Sir Thomas?’

Duty beckoned. ‘Oh yes—so it seems to me, Professor. Undoubtedly.’

‘But … how?’ If the curiosity wasn’t genuine, it was well simulated.

‘This is England, sir.’
Stiffen it up: make like ‘Sir Thomas Arkenshaw
’. ‘Or … the Exmoor Division of the West of England Police Authority?’ He put a cutting edge into his voice. ‘We don’t just lose inconvenient bodies to order, Professor Panin. We have to have good and sufficient reason for doing anything like that.’

‘I see.’ But Panin had had time to rally. ‘And General Zarubin is not good and sufficient reason?’

‘General Zarubin?’ Audley fielded the name quickly, before Tom could react to it. But then he stopped, to stare past them both.

Tom turned from them both, to find Major Sadowski in the doorway again—and armed again, too. But this time it was with a very different sort of weapon.

‘
Ah.
’ Panin gave the long rifle only half a glance before nodding at Audley. ‘Now perhaps you will believe me, David—eh?’

Audley reached out and grasped the rifle, but for a moment the Pole wouldn’t let go of it, so that they seemed on the edge of an undignified tug-of-war. Then, either because of the bigger man’s main force or because of some tiny signal from his Russian master, Sadowski let go.

‘See this, Tom?’ Audley thrust the weapon towards him for closer inspection. But it was not something he’d ever seen before, although he recognized it all too well: the long slender barrel, and the chunky rectangular butt (with elliptical cut-out providing a pistol-grip behind the trigger)—and, above all, the telescopic sight above—identified its purpose beyond all doubt.

‘They call it “the Green Machine”, so I’m told.’ Audley hefted the rifle in his big hands, as though estimating its weight. ‘It’ll be the army’s new standard sniper-issue, starting in ’87. They haven’t had anything new for donkeys’ years—nothing even as good as the Argies had, even. In fact, what they had was based on the 1914 Lee-Enfield, I rather think. But this’ll do a lot better—‘ He canted the weapon sideways ’—Schmidt and Bender sight, to correct cross-winds at longer ranges.‘

Tom goggled slightly, not so much at the weapon itself as at Audley ‘s unlikely expertise.

‘I only know because of accident—I hate firearms.’ Audley picked up his astonishment. ‘But there was a bit of a scandal late last year, during the testing, when they had a break-in and lost a couple of these little beauties … Minus the sights, of course. But Schmidt and Bender must have sold a few of those elsewhere, I shouldn’t wonder. Only … anyway, someone thought it was the IRA. And someone else thought we might look into it, just for old times’ sake. But Jack Butler wisely said that we were too busy with other things—’ Audley gave Panin a sidelong look, just as he simultaneously threw the rifle back at Sadowski; who caught it, but with a fumble and only just; and rewarded the big man with a millisecond’s glare of red hate before his eyes went dull again ‘—but
I
always thought it was a GRU job . . I’m told they’re very hot on new weaponry—is that so?’ He pretended to relax. ‘But then you’ve never liked the GRU, have you, Nikolai? They’re basically just brutal and licentious soldiery, aren’t they?
Spetsnaz
cannon-fodder?’

Panin gave the Pole a curt dismissive nod. ‘See what else you can find—’

‘No!’ Audley recollected himself. ‘Better give it to Sir Thomas here—
if you please
? He reached out again, and the same tug-of-war restarted.

Panin gave the Pole another nod. ‘Evidence, David? Very well!’

Audley took possession of the rifle again. ‘Stolen property.’ He presented it to Tom. ‘At least I shall be able to give Jack Butler something.’

Tom felt the weight in his hands. But, even more than that, he felt its dreadful life-and-death power: at 500 yards, or even a thousand, with wind-drift allowed for, if this was what Audley must have been thinking of all the time since yesterday, in those throw-away lines of Kipling, then no wonder that he had been scared.

‘You can give him much more than that, David.’ Panin didn’t even look at Sadowski as he dismissed him again. ‘General Zarubin will give you more.’

Audley waited until Sadowski had disappeared again. ‘I wish he’d bloody say something—just once … even if it was only “Goodbye”.’ He blinked at the Russian. ‘He isn’t a lip-reading deaf-mute by any chance, is he?’ Then he turned to Tom without waiting for an answer. ‘See what that poor devil’s got in his pockets, will you?’

Tom frowned at him. ‘What?’

‘My dear boy—we’re going to be hanged, drawn and quartered for this if he was just reaching for his wallet.

But if he has …
had
… a gun in there, then perhaps they’ll only hang us. Besides which I should have thought it might set your mind at rest somewhat?‘ Audley blinked again, and then sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ’Okay?‘ He returned to the Russian. ’You were saying, Nikolai—?‘

Szymiac’s coat was open now, and Tom could see the broken threads and the slight tear where the coat-button on the floor had been ripped out. And the man’s shirt was bloody in two places, over the heart and lower down, near the waistband of his trousers: the spreading stains had mingled but the different wounds were still quite plain. And he could guess which Smith and Wesson bullet was which from Sadowski’s evident professionalism as well as from the memory of his own unsatisfactory firing position, which for one pathetic moment now had roused the half-hope that he might have missed altogether.

He saw the shoulder-holster immediately, tucked under the left armpit, as the body slid back and down under his touch, as inanimate as a sack, the head lolling heavily forward to reveal a bald patch like a tonsure at the back. He started to think
well, a real tonsure wouldn’t be inappropriate
, but then he thrust the thought away from him and concentrated on extracting the pistol delicately from its cradle. It was small and light and short-barrelled, not unlike a Makarov, but with a distinctly different grip which reminded him of a Walther.

Then he became aware that both the dreadful old men were watching him in silence, so he held it up for their inspection.

‘Well, that’s something,’ murmured Audley. ‘Not much, but better than nothing, I suppose.’ He took a step towards Tom and reached for the weapon. ‘Evidence, Tom.’ He showed it to Panin for a second, and then dropped it into his pocket.

‘P-64.’ The Russian nodded. ‘Polish Army issue.’

‘Is that a fact, now?’ Audley seemed only mildly interested. ‘Well, I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it! But … you were saying—? General Zarubin wants to give me something—to give to Jack Butler, was it? Or what—?’

Tom let the coat fall back on the blood-stained shirt, watching them both intently as they stared at each other —
two really dreadful old men
!

‘You were saying?’ Audley opened the bidding formally.

‘He will be grateful.’

‘Uh-huh?’ Audley nodded, then looked down at the rifle, which Tom had leant against a chair, and then nodded again at Panin. ‘I can well imagine that. But as we’ve already done his—
your—
dirty work, that would seem a somewhat devalued currency now. I’ve never been able to pay any bills with gratitude: the next word after “Thank you” is usually “Goodbye”.’

‘But he still has business to transact here. Which, of course, is his main business, you understand?’

Another nod. ‘Yes—of course.’ Audley gestured towards the rifle, and then patted his pocket. ‘This is
your
business. For which you too are grateful—of course. But if you are insufficiently grateful, and I make waves … then that will interfere with
his
business—I do apologize for being so slow on the uptake, Nikolai? What you mean … is that General Zarubin’s gratitude is only just beginning, eh?’ Innocent understanding did not sit well on the old man’s face; somehow it only made his expression more brutal. ‘All I can do to you is get you on the next plane home, as
persona non grata
. And then you have to take your chance. But General Zarubin doesn’t want to go home either—he’s got a lot to lose too, has he?’

The Russian’s mouth tightened. ‘You have much to lose, also—’

‘That won’t wash.’ Audley cut him off. ‘We’ve been there before, too.’

‘And Colonel Butler?’

‘Jack will take his chance, like you.’ Another shake.

‘And your country?’

Audley sniffed, not with his head-cold, but derisively.

‘Just make me your offer, and stop buggering about.’ He made a hideous face at Panin. ‘You always knew it would come to this—at least, that it would if your dumb-mute did his work properly.’

Panin stared at him for a long moment. ‘I can’t give you an offer, David. I am not empowered to do so. But General Zarubin will trade you a name, face to face. And that will … will perhaps clear you from this—’ He pointed past Audley, towards Szymiac ‘—with your superiors.’

‘Tom!’ Audley was no longer looking at Panin, and made no attempt to follow his finger. ‘Better make your call now, just in case, so someone can clear up after us.’ He fixed Tom unblinkingly. ‘And we’ll go and see what Henry Plantagenet has to offer, in exchange for not doing penance for Thomas Becket. Right?’

THE ROAD OUTSIDE
was reassuringly empty except for a young woman exercising her children and her dogs, regardless of the weather. But then suddenly it wasn’t reassuringly empty at all, Tom realized.

Chiefly it was the children and the dogs which disguised Wilhemina Groot initially, because children were not her favourite human beings and dogs were her least favourite animals. But she was also more conventionally disguised in clothes which, to his certain knowledge, had never before featured in her wardrobe: the Willy he knew and now knew that he loved had hitherto either been a smart city girl, dressed by Bruce Oldfield and Yves St Laurent, or a
motte-and-bailey
girl, dressed in jeans and his own cast-off sports gear for lack of anything better, never a Young Farmer/Young Conservative/Sloane-Ranger-far-from-home, uniformed in Barbour jacket and green Wellington boots, with her blonde hair concealed under a tweed deerstalker.

Tom cursed under his breath, recalling his precise phone instructions, which were the last element of her disguise. It had been her helper he had asked for, as an ally at a pinch, not this complication of Willy herself. But this was unarguably Willy herself now being fraternized by one of a pair of damp and over-exuberant Dalmatian dogs inadequately controlled by a pair of damp children, and he had to make the best of it.

Still, there was a plus as well as a minus in the scene, he told himself desperately: if he hadn’t immediately identified her, then maybe Panin and Sadowski hadn’t either, ahead of him—ahead of him ostensibly to superintend the Zarubin rendezvous, but more likely to get clear of their victims as quickly as possible; to which action Audley had all-too-readily agreed—a worryingly preoccupied Audley (as well he bloody-might be!), but an Audley who was even now four strides ahead of him, on the way back to the parked car; and, at the very least, there was no sign of any of Panin’s own watchers at the moment.

But now he was close to her, and although she had pretended to enjoy the Dalmatian’s affection for Audley’s benefit as he passed her she was looking at him now, and with a much greater desperation than his.

‘There’s a lovely boy, then!’ She observed the Dalmatian’s juvenile owner’s momentary glance at Tom, and hit the dog hard on the jaw with her fist. ‘Hi, Tom!’

The dog emitted an astonished yelp of pain on discovering (as Tom himself had already done) that despite her lack of inches Willy packed a mean punch, and sprawled sideways away from her into the gutter.

The dog’s owner was further diverted by the yelp, but then her spotty little brother, who had been trying to ride the other animal, fell from its back, and added his own anguished cries to the confusion as both Dalmatians set off in different directions.

‘They’ve just gone—‘ Willy skipped to avoid her dog as it tried to pull the little girl away from them, in the same direction as its comrade ’—your friends have gone, Tom … They just pulled out, like a bat out of hell … in a grey Austin Montego with dirty number plates—thataway.‘ She pointed past Tom. ’I only just got here. I’m sorry.‘

‘Did they recognize you—’ Tom stopped as he saw her face.

‘Recognize me?’ Her fuse ignited. ‘For God’s sake, honey! You called for help, and you didn’t give us much time—I told you last night, this isn’t
my
league! So how the heck should I know? I didn’t see them last night—if they can recognize an embassy secretary being raped by a goddamn bit-part player from a Walt Disney production—raped in the rain before lunch in the middle of nowhere—?’ But then, in her turn, she also stopped. ‘What’s wrong, Tom?’

‘Nothing’s wrong.’ In the circumstances that was something less than the truth. But at least she was right: if he himself had only just spotted her, disguised by clothes and dogs and children, then she ought not to have rated a second glance. ‘I was expecting … hoping for … your helper, that’s all, Willy. In the front line, as it were—that’s all I meant.’

‘ “As it were”?’ She mimicked him. ‘My most efficient “helper” is keeping an eye on us, don’t you fret. Colonel Sheldon wouldn’t like me to come to any harm—Dad wouldn’t take kindly to that.’ But then, in spite of the typical Willy-banter, she was frowning at him with that sure insight of hers, the ignited fuse quite extinguished. ‘Only you didn’t mean that, did you? Because I know you, Tom Arkenshaw. And this is like last night, when I dropped those names, and it was wrong then. But it’s even more wrong now—isn’t it? Isn’t it?’