Sion Crossing (3 page)

The near-certainty was that Howard Morris would on balance prefer not to damage his credibility with the Senator by producing an ignorant Englishman, whose knowledge of the Senator’s war was limited to Audie Murphy and a teenage reading of
Gone With the Wind
thirty years before. Better at such unreasonably short notice, to produce no Englishman at all.

And the certainty—the absolute certainty—was that his own knowledge was in fact limited to … Audie Murphy and … and, at this remove in time, more to a youthful fixation on Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara than to any detailed memory of the course of the “War between the States”.

But … by God, there was also one more certainty—

“My dear Morris—” If there was one more certainty, it was that this was an entirely absorbing conundrum in itself; which, the more so—most of all so—he wasn’t going to pass up, because he had stolen it from Audley, right under the man’s nose, too! Because … to get in with the Americans would be damned useful. And whatever Audley could do, Oliver St John Latimer could do—and do better, by God! “My dear Morris—I’m actually something of an expert on it … in a small way, you know. It’s an interesting war.”

All wars were interesting if that sort of thing turned you on, so that was a safe thing to say. And, although he mustn’t look at his watch to check the time, he had maybe a quarter of an hour to make himself an expert on it. And that was by no means beyond the bounds of possibility.

“You are?” Morris sounded wisely uncertain about an accidental occurrence which was too good to be true and not in the Latimer file.

“Yes.” The man mustn’t ask him a question to establish that claim, because the odds were hugely that he wouldn’t be able to answer it. It had occurred in the mid-19th century, but he couldn’t even date it accurately. So he needed to head off that possibility—

Time was on his side: he
could
reasonably look at his watch—there was hardly time for questions now—

Fourteen minutes. And time wasn’t really on his side—

He looked around, vaguely. Time was running out.

Books everywhere. Dry-smelling, dust-smelling … mostly books on sport and travel, rather than the American Civil War.

Dry-smelling, dust-smelling
—
the dry dust-motes swimming in the still air of that faded room in the sunshine, viewed from the canyon between the high-backed chair and the bookshelves, all those years ago
—

Colonel Marmaduke St John’s
Diary of the War in America
, with its spine sun-bleached from blue to an indeterminate off-white, and the mottled-brown page-edges uncut, every other one—

“Yes.” The memory of his Uncle’s library, in which he had spent so many childhood hours, came back to Latimer with crystal clarity now. “As a matter of fact, one of my St John ancestors fought in your civil war, Morris—Colonel Marmaduke St John. He even wrote a book about his adventures.”

The American stared at him in surprise. “He wrote a book?”

“Diary of the War in America.”
Latimer nodded, but as he did so his confidence weakened. For the crystal memory of the library did not actually include that particular volume, he remembered: one glance at it had been enough, in fact.

“I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Morris.

Latimer nodded again. “Fascinating book.” It had certainly not been fascinating: with a mighty effort he conjured up the faded picture of Marmaduke himself from the frontispiece … the muttonchop whiskers, bald head and fixed blank stare into the Victorian camera. “He was a fine soldier, was Colonel St John.”

Had he been? Another effort produced old Mutton-Chop’s framed commission, on the library wall to the right of the door—

The Supreme Government of India

To Marmaduke Henry Arthur St. John, Greeting.

We, reposing especial Trust and Confidence in your Loyalty, Courage and Good Conduct, Do by these Presents constitute you to be and appoint you, Marmaduke Henry Arthur St John Esquire, to be a Lieutenant of Artillery in the Service of the East India Company in the Bengal Establishment
—

“Indian Army,” Latimer grasped the recollection like a drowning man. “A gunner … He fought on the Delhi Ridge during the Mutiny.” That was right: Aunt Muriel had included that fact in her own memories of India’s dreadful climate.

“Which side did he fight on?” inquired Morris.

Latimer frowned at him. “Ours, of course. He wasn’t an Indian Mutineer, Morris.”

Morris waved an Indian-brown hand. “I mean, in
our
war? Was he for the Johnny Rebs … or for the Yankees?”

“Ah … I see!” It was a question he could hardly fluff, as an expert … for no doubt there was a copy of Mutton-Chop’s book in the British Museum which Morris could easily check on, so he had to pick the right answer. “Which side … ?”

Morris grinned. “Which side would an Englishman fight for?”

Latimer looked at his watch. “What time did you say the Senator was coming here?”

“I didn’t exactly.” Morris looked at his own watch for a moment, then at Latimer. “Yeah … okay, Latimer … I’ll give him his call, then.” He stood up, but then looked down at Latimer again. “Which side
did
he fight for?”

Whose side would an English gentleman have fought for? wondered Latimer desperately—Scarlett O’Hara’s or Abraham Lincoln’s?

Inspiration came like a flash of light—“Colonel Morris!” He mocked the CIA man with false outrage. “Which side would you
expect
an English gentleman to support? It is not a question which requires an answer!”

FAR AWAY IN
the porter’s lodge at Oxford the phone was ringing.

Latimer drew a piece of club notepaper from one of the Secretary’s pigeon-holes and began to rough out his letter.

That, at least, would put Butler’s mind at rest, that he wasn’t going to renege on his decision. Poor old Butler hadn’t wanted the top job, for which he knew he was ill-suited. But duty was everything to him, and his own wishes and convenience and private life came nowhere in the reckoning.

The phone answered him, and it was an under-porter on it.

“Is Mr Bates there?”

Butler was really rather admirable. However much they disliked each other, Latimer had to concede that. To have turned him down—as he had half-expected Latimer to do, since he always expected the worst—would have been rather like kicking the old dog that brought one’s slippers and newspaper all tattered and covered with revolting saliva, but nonetheless faithfully.

—
I think I’d like to take a few days’ leave, from the months owed to me, which I shall never get round to taking
—

“Bates? Oliver Latimer here. Is Dr Burge in college this evening?”

It was a long shot. It was about as likely that Philip would be in Oxford in August, rather than in some more congenial foreign watering-hole, than that their common St John ancestors in the Indian Civil Service had remained in the sweltering plains during the hot season in preference for Simla. But there was just an outside chance that he might be putting the finishing touches to his book on Anglo-American relations in the twentieth century.

“Dr Burge, sir?” Bates thought for a moment. “I’m afraid he’s not in college today.”

“Or in Oxford?” Loyalty would animate anything Bates said, but he might allow for the blood-relationship.

“I don’t believe he is up at the moment, sir,” admitted Bates cautiously.

“No—of course.” The long shot lengthened towards infinity. “Is anyone else dining this evening? Dr. Franklin? Mr … er … Mr Smith? Or Dr Horam?”

Silence descended as Bates consulted his records.

—
which I shall never get round to taking.
Butler would not object to him taking a few days at this juncture; he had plainly thought the better of Latimer for taking the No. 2 job—the job which they both knew was dust and ashes in his mouth—without protest; he might even have assumed that Latimer also was bowing to the dictates of duty, as blind as the cruel pronouncements of justice. But he would expect an explanation, nevertheless.
I need to take stock of the job
—

“No, sir.” Bates knew exactly who was dining on High Table, but he had allowed time for an unnecessary study of the absentees.

Latimer crossed out
I need to take stock of the job.
It was a lie which belittled them both, and he might as well start with the truth.

“There’s no one dining in tonight, sir.” Some ancient memory of the young Mr Oliver St John Latimer impelled Bates to honesty. No historians remained in the sweltering plains of Oxford in the hot season. And no chemists, or physicists, or biologists, or classicists, or anyone else. It was August, and Oxford was empty.

“Thank you, Bates.” Perhaps it was surprising that Bates himself was there. But they probably didn’t pay him enough to be anywhere else—and there probably wasn’t anywhere else that he wanted to be, with the access he had to the cellars. Some things didn’t change.

It was no good ringing anywhere else, it would be the same everywhere, even if he could think of other names. Time was running out—had almost run out, to the minute … and he was stuck with The Youth and Scarlett O’Hara. And, in a better and more forgiving world, he would have had time to check up on Senator Cookridge with the Duty Officer in the section.

He stared at the crossed out line on the sheet of club notepaper. Things done too quickly, with inadequate thought, were rarely things done well.

I have a small private matter to resolve
, he wrote. That, strictly speaking, was the truth, according to Howard Morris. And it was hard to imagine how the Senator’s interest in the American Civil War could be anything but private.

All the same, he felt strangely guilty. This might be—damn it, it bloody well
was
—the sort of thing the man Audley did all the time. So he could well understand why Morris had thought of Audley first. But it was also the sort of thing that he himself had never done. But he was doing it now.

And doing it not very well, too. Because he had maybe another five minutes, and the second-hand ticked remorselessly to remind him that he had half-claimed to be an expert on that damned war; and although Old Mutton-Chops might be good enough for Howard Morris, he wouldn’t be enough for the Senator. But who, in five minutes, could rectify that deficiency? Failing Philip … not the Duty Officer, certainly, even with the computer at his fingertips: the American Civil War did not figure in late twentieth century British security. So he had been foolish—

Suddenly he found himself staring at the Ackerman print on the wall of the Secretary’s office, and remembering who the Duty Officer was this holiday weekend Friday. And remembering more than that.

His finger dialled the number. “James Cable?” Lieutenant-Commander Cable was one of Colonel Butler’s young service recruits. But no fool, for all that. “This is Oliver St John Latimer, Cable.”

“Sir?” Blank surprise came back down the line.

“Do you know anything about the American Civil War, Cable?”

“Sir?” Surprise became incredulity. “This is an open line, sir.”

“I know that, man. You were attached to the US navy a few years back—Norfolk, Virginia, was it?” It was a faint hope, but it was all he had: Rhett Butler had made his fortune out-smarting the US navy, so there had been a naval civil war. “I’m having this argument about the American Civil War. What do you know about it? You must know something, Cable?”

There was a slight pause. “Sod all, I’m afraid, sir.” Another pause. “Except … I knew one of their underwater fellows who was always trying to locate pieces of the USS
Monitor
off Cape Hatteras or somewhere … where she went down—she was a damn Yankee boat from that time.”

“The USS
Monitor
?” Anything was better than nothing.

“The first ironclad. Or … technically, maybe the
second
… or, I suppose the
Gloire
and the
Warrior
were both ahead of it—and the Confederate
Merrimac
too. But it was the first turret-ship—and it was the first one into battle with another ironclad. Hampton Roads—eighteen-sixty-something.” Pause. “Was it naval history you were arguing?”

What the hell might he be arguing about? Only Senator Cookridge could answer that—

“But hold on a moment, sir.” James Cable pressed on. “I have got an expert here who’s forgotten more about Gettysburg and all that than I shall ever know, I’ll bet—hold on!”

Latimer stared at the instrument in his hand, frowning. For a disconcerted moment he feared that it might be Audley himself who was about to come on the line: the man had all sorts of esoteric historical knowledge, not all of it medieval and some of it military; and it had been Audley whom Howard Morris had wanted, so some of that military history might be American; and it was just possible that he had been on his way to the section via the club this evening, not on his way home. But, against that—James Cable was a very proper young man, with a very proper sense of rank and seniority, and unlikely to refer to Audley in such cavalier terms.

“Hullo, there.” The voice was not Audley’s. “Latimer?”

Mitchell? Damn it!

“Oliver?” Paul Mitchell was
not
a very proper young man, having been born without any sense of rank and seniority: he merely sounded somewhat surprised. And with that surprise there would inevitably be curiosity—
damn it
!

“Mitchell? What are you doing there?”

“Doing?” Mitchell didn’t pretend he was answering a sensible question. “Working, oddly enough. But later on I’m going down the pub to play dominoes—at five pence a spot. I’ve got this theory … unlucky in love and war, lucky at dominoes.” He sniffed slightly. “What’s this about … the American Civil War, was it?” He sounded frankly disbelieving.

“You’re an expert on it?” A denial would only make matters worse. So far as Latimer was aware, Mitchell was an expert in only two fields: the 1914-18 War and killing people. He had written several books on the former, but steadfastly maintained that his other reputation had been forced on him by a mixture of accidental but inescapable circumstances and undeserved bad luck. For his own part, Latimer suspected that Mitchell, had he been born a century earlier, would have been a happy machine-gunner in the trenches.