Sion Crossing (26 page)

Again, he had to say something. “Unlucky in love, Tom—that’s me. What did your daughter read at university?”

And that, too, was a mistake. “Mathematics. An’ she’s too bleedin’ clever to do my accounts now, is Miss Christ Church College.” Tom pointed towards the corner furthest away from the unconcerned crib players. “You got
fifteen
minutes to do your business at my expense, Dr Mitchell—” he jerked his head towards the clock behind him “—fifteen minutes and runnin’ … and you better not be so lucky next time.” He raised the flap of the bar and waved a dog-eared square of cardboard at Mitchell as he made his way towards the door.

“
Temprally closed
”, Mitchell just managed to catch the hand-scrawled legend, “
Use Salloon bar
”.

Audley took up the two pints and led the way to the corner furthest from the crib-players, who had shown little interest in the proceedings. The bar had a curious smell, Mitchell noticed; he had caught it earlier when he’d come in, but it was not so pronounced up at the bar. He hoped that it was the Thames, but had the uneasy feeling that they were too far away from the river for that, in which case it was the drains.

“Tom’s a rotten loser,” confided Audley. “He reckons to finger the Queen of Spades out of that pack, nine times out of ten … and I won last time, too—that’s what’s bugging him.” He smiled lop-sidedly at Mitchell. “But this is a good pub, all the same—it’s one of Jake Shapiro’s actually, so you can rely on the beer as well as the security … The only reason it isn’t full is that Tom’s so dreadfully rude to the customers, if he doesn’t like them at first sight. He’s got an index-linked pension from somewhere, as well as a punch like a sock filled with sand, so he’s no respecter of persons … You should be complimented that he said ‘next time’—that’s a rare accolade … Although it may be because he was unlucky in love too … I don’t know.” He eyed Mitchell innocently. “How is the fair Elizabeth these days?”

“She was well.” Mitchell watched Tom retrace his course from the door. “When I last saw her.”

“Fourteen minutes,” he admonished them, before disappearing into the
salloon
bar on his right.

“A bad loser,” murmured Audley. “A good man, but a bad loser, as I say.”

“You’re not such a good loser yourself.” After that crack about Elizabeth, Mitchell felt resentful. “When’s your plane?”

“Not yet awhile.” Audley drank some of his beer. “I should have bought you a Guinness, shouldn’t I? But never mind—this is a good brew … Yes, you’re quite right, I’ve never become reconciled to failure … Although it’s very unBritish, if I can’t win I don’t like to play at all.”

“And you think we’re going to lose now?”

“I think …” Audley pointed to Mitchell’s beer “… I thought you were thirsty—?”

Mitchell drank, and remembered Colonel Morris from the night before. “Very nice.” He drank again. “You think?”

“I think … we may already have lost, Paul—is what I
think
… But what I
know
… is that I don’t really know what game I’m playing, you see.” Audley drank again.

“Senator Cookridge’s game, surely?”

“Is that so?” Audley’s voice was frosted with disbelief. “Now, that’s what Jack Butler thinks—because he’s shit-scared of the Americans … And I don’t blame him for that, in these particular circumstances—in his shoes I’d be just as scared.” He smiled. “Things always look different from the top. In those trenches of yours, where we are at this moment, one has to do one’s duty, and obey orders regardless—
Serve God, honour the King
, and end up hanging on the old barbed wire … Poor old Jack! He knows he’s got to take a larger view of the proceedings, but he can’t forget about that barbed wire all the same … So, in this instance, he’s got the egregious Oliver St John Latimer in some trench in Georgia—Confederate or Union, it doesn’t matter … It’s just that Oliver isn’t trained for trench warfare … But, now that he’s been promoted, there’ll be a scandal if anything untoward happens to him. So that’s one thing to worry about … And if no one scuppers Oliver in America, old Jack’s going to have some hard words for him when he gets back—” the smile became wickedly genuine “—Oliver St John Latimer behaving like David Audley is really the most unkindest cut of all: it’s like the Labour Party asking for more Cruise missiles—or calling for the de-unionisation of GCHQ at Cheltenham, say?”

Mitchell retreated into his beer. So that, among other things, was what Audley was up to in Cheltenham, was it?

“And, worst of all, he knows sod-all about Cookridge.” Audley sighed. “Except that if Reagan is re-elected in ’84, then the Senator is going to be a Very Important Person indeed—like, one old man trusting another old man of the same type … So Senator Cookridge could be calling the tune over here by ’85, or ’86—and who the hell is Senator Thomas Cookridge, I ask you—eh?”

They really were into high policy now, far away from events in Sion Crossing in 1984, never mind 1864. This was the other dimension of decision-making, so hideously removed by that “larger view” from the life-and-death affairs of the poor devils in the trenches!

“That’s my job now—to check up on Cookridge.” At the same time, what Butler had set him to do no longer seemed so stupid to Mitchell. Indeed, it could be crucial, even. “Whatever I get … I’m due to phone you in Rome tomorrow morning, David.”

“Oh yes?” Audley didn’t seem much comforted by that prospect. “Well, I wish you the best of British luck!” His eyes clouded. “Does Jack know anyone who can give you the low-down on the Senator? Anyone in London?” Audley’s expression became as innocent as when he’d mentioned Elizabeth. “Because, if Howard Morris doesn’t know—because if
he
doesn’t know—?” Suddenly the innocent-clouded look dissolved. “I tell you, Paul—the Foreign Office is bloody useless. The only man they’ve got who knows the blighter from Adam is sailing a trimaran in a single-handed race somewhere. And they don’t even know how to ask him the question, never mind get any sort of answers, without broadcasting it across six continents… . I can give you that for free—I tried that this morning, and I got a dusty answer … All you’ll get from them is facts and figures, nothing more.”

Mitchell’s morale dropped another point on the scale. “There are SGs scrambled to Washington at the moment, to our people there. And there’s a chap at Cambridge who knows him—I’ve put a ‘search’ out for him.”

Audley said nothing for a moment, yet Mitchell could read his thoughts exactly.

“I’m sure you’re doing all you can.” Audley nodded. “But it’s too bloody late, if you ask me.”

“You mean … we haven’t got a prayer.” Mitchell nodded.

“A prayer is about all we have got. We can pray that we’ve imagined all this from start to finish—that all Senator Cookridge wants is a professional opinion from an unbiased third party that this … this Sion Crossing treasure—gold, or whatever, still exists, and can be found.” He nodded back at Mitchell. “That sort of initial professional advice, from someone who isn’t going to be in on the actual search, is perfectly correct procedure—sensible procedure, too … Because most treasure-hunters are consumed with a mixture of greed and enthusiasm, so their judgement is usually defective. You need a cool, dispassionate approach for that sort of thing—I know, because I have been involved in one or two little treasure-hunts, as you know, Paul.” He drank, and nodded again. “In fact, I would have been a natural choice for Sion Crossing—as you yourself have pointed out … So the Senator was well-advised … but in this instance—unlucky, shall we say?” He half-smiled at Mitchell suddenly, and frowned at the same time. “Or perhaps not, as the case may be, since Oliver might well make a perfectly adequate consultant … good logical mind, used to handling unreliable information … a bit short on imagination, but that’s not a fatal defect when it comes to treasure—better a devil’s advocate than a dreamer … Yes, Oliver could well earn his fee, you know.” He nodded once again.

Mitchell frowned “His fee?”

“Oh—I’m sure he’s not seduced by the thought of money.” Audley cocked his head knowingly. “To do Cookridge a good turn could well be better than money in the bank.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Yes … I think, if Cookridge had come to me, I might very well be in Sion Crossing by now, one way or another.”

“Even after knowing about Mulholland?” The black face grinned in Mitchell’s memory.

“Ah … well, now … I might not have known about Mulholland.” Audley thought for a moment. “Yes … you see, that’s just possibly the one place where this operation didn’t go according to plan—if it
is
some sort of operation … which, on balance, I think it has to be.”

“But surely it went wrong when Howard Morris chose Oliver instead of you, David?”

“Same thing. Just related cause and effect.” Audley nodded. “Let’s suppose old Howard
had
met me in the Oxbridge, and popped the question—and suppose I
had
agreed to meet Cookridge.” He shrugged. “I’d hardly have refused, because it would have been much too interesting … So then Cookridge pops
his
question—”

“But you said you’d have checked with Butler, David, then?”

“Ah …” Audley bridled “… but that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t have taken the bait.” He gave Mitchell a sly look. “You wouldn’t have started digging then … And we’d never have checked with anyone—I’d have said to Jack: ‘Here’s a marvellous chance to get in with this fellow Cookridge, about whom we know sod-all at the moment—you can spare me from Cheltenham for a few days—I’ll be back in no time at all.’” Audley smiled. “It would have made good sense … And I’ve never been to Georgia—I know the theory of the Mint Julep … I’ve drunk an Oxford version of the South Carolina recipe from the Trapier cup at New College, even … But one of Rick Harwell’s juleps served ‘on location’, as it were—that would be something to remember, Paul!”

Audley’s eyes closed momentarily, and Mitchell thought
when it comes to doing the right thing for the wrong reason
—

Then the eyes were open, transfixing him. “And Jack would have bought that—because it makes sense. In fact, if Oliver had gone to him with the same story he would have bought it, though he wouldn’t have let Oliver go …
In fact
, Oliver behaving out of character is the real and only place where this operation has come unstuck—otherwise, it’s a quite damnably clever little piece of logical planning, when you think about it—” He stopped abruptly.

And there, of course, was the cause and effect, thought Mitchell:
it was only because they had been baffled by Oliver St John Latimer’s eccentric behaviour that they had dug deeper
—
had cornered Howard Morris and checked the flights to America

“Whereas now we’ve got Mulholland,” he said.

“Miss Cookridge led us to Mulholland.” Audley looked at him, and then through him into the deep of his own memory. “But it was Howard who gave us Miss Cookridge—and it was Howard who connected her with Macallan … Although he might well have assumed we’d already got both of them …” Audley continued to stare into his memory. “Was that for friendship’s sake? Or was that because he was scared? Or was it deliberate policy?” Audley frowned.

“He knew Macallan would remind you of Debreczen, David,” said Mitchell.

Audley focussed on him. “Debreczen—of course! You’re absolutely right, Paul Mitchell … if he’d been an Englishman, and they’d kicked him up into the Lords, he’d have been Lord Macallan of Debreczen, by God!” He nodded approvingly. “Quite right!”

“But where does Cookridge come in? Because he doesn’t mean Debreczen—” Mitchell stretched Audley deliberately “—he means Macallan’s ex-wife and daughter. And that’s not exactly a friendly connection—it’s more like an unfriendly disconnection, David.”

Audley shook his head. “But Sion Crossing means the Civil War, and there’s a connection there. Because the Civil War was always Bill Macallan’s hobby—that I do know!” Then he shook his head again. “But then Macallan was bed-ridden in Iowa for months—or years—before he died. And Iowa’s a long way from Georgia.”

“I can get him closer than that,” said Mitchell.

“What?” Audley concentrated on him.
“How?”
And then caution overlaid the flash of eagerness. “Or is this your stock-in-trade, Dr Mitchell?”

The sudden half-mocking formality marked the man’s acceptance that the ten-year-old pupil-teacher relationship was over for him too: they both knew they were equals now.

“Not really, Dr Audley.” In that instant Mitchell decided that it was enough to have made his point implicitly. With Latimer as deputy-director he might need Audley as an ally in the coming months, and Audley wielded influence with Colonel Butler and others out of all proportion to his position. “I don’t think we have to trade with each other. I only said that to get you out of the office.”

Audley contemplated him for a moment, as though he too was making a longer appraisal of their future relationship. “Just as well! Because I haven’t got anything to trade with you—now that you’ve got full access to The Beast.” Then he straightened up. “Though don’t you go getting the idea that The Beast knows as much about Debreczen and Macallan as I do, my lad … At least, so far as the old days are concerned. Because most of what it’s got is mine, and I didn’t put everything in it, by golly!”

“Of course.” Mitchell recognized his chance. “And the same applies to Sion Crossing now, David.”

Audley’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean? Didn’t this pal of yours put over the details? I thought Jack was reading ’em off from that screen of his?”

“So he was.” Mitchell nodded. “But my pal didn’t put everything he’d got into it.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a friend of mine—because I told him to put over the history.” Mitchell gazed at his teacher innocently. “But I also told him that if he picked up anything that wasn’t history he was to keep that for me alone.” He smiled at Audley suddenly. “You once said that common knowledge spread power too thinly for it to be very useful, David.”

“Disgraceful!” Audley concealed approval behind insincere disapproval. “Did I say that?”

“You did. With many other anti-social doctrines.” Mitchell nodded. “I have been very badly trained, I suspect.”