Sion Crossing (35 page)

Audley nodded politely. “But I was on the other side of the Channel then, Lady Alice. Though I did see some V-2s later on, in Germany—the rockets.”

“Oh—they weren’t nearly so frightening. You never heard them at all! Or … you only heard them afterwards—if you didn’t hear them, that was because you were already dead. So they were like an Act of God—at least that’s what I always thought.”

She gave them both a satisfied nod, as though to settle the matter. And Mitchell thought:
There she sits
…
and if anyone gives her a second thought, it’ll be ‘boring old bag’. But this boring old bag once drove an ambulance under fire in the Age of the Guided Missile, by God!

“Yes, of course.” Audley nodded, exuding respect and polite interest. “But now … about Senator Cookridge—”

“Ah! Yes—I was telling you about Tom!” she nodded back at him. “Yes—”

Mitchell felt half-ashamed with himself for being sidetracked by his own romantic reaction to her World War Two reminiscences. Audley was right: they weren’t getting anywhere fast—

“That was the trouble!” She wagged a wrinkled ringer at them. “Tom worked on my engine because it was too noisy, you see.” She looked at them expectantly.

“Too … noisy, Lady Alice?” inquired Mitchell.

“That’s right. When I was driving it I couldn’t even hear the doodlebugs when they were passing overhead. So I couldn’t hear them when they
stopped
.” She smiled triumphantly. “But when Tom had finished with that engine … well, then I had time to stop the ambulance, and jump out and crawl under it.”

Mitchell didn’t dare look at Audley. “And … you’ve been friends with him ever since, of course.”

“But he didn’t marry that girl back home—?” Audley took up the relay-baton.

“Oh yes he did. Of course he did—a lovely girl! My husband and I were at the wedding—a lovely girl.” Her face didn’t change. “But she died, she died … You know, I have seen so many people die, who were my contemporaries … But it’s the young ones I can’t bear to lose … And Tom was broken-hearted. So that was when he really concentrated on making money. And then on those politics of his—very complicated like an Irish horse-sale—which, I think, is why those Irishmen do so well in American politics … He always tells me about it, when he comes to see me—you really wouldn’t believe what they get up to: it makes our people look quite like amateurs.”

Mitchell leapt in quickly, before she could elaborate on the intricacies of American political horse-trading. “But he married again—didn’t he?”

“So he did.” She nodded agreement. “Another nice woman—his Patricia would have approved of her.” Another nod. “He asked me about it, and I listened to him—he was worried about the memory of Patricia—and I said to him: ‘She sounds a very nice woman, and Patricia would take that as a compliment that you’ve tried marriage once, and you liked it, so now you’re going to try it again.’” She shook her head. “But she died too … Poor Tom—lucky in war, and almost everything else. But …
poor
Tom!”

“She’d been married before, hadn’t she?” Butter would not have melted in Audley’s mouth. “The second wife?”

“Yes. But most unhappily.” Her brows knitted. “A most obnoxious man … There was a daughter—pretty little thing, but as thin as a bean-pole, and
so
suspicious of poor Tom, who’s ten-times better than her proper father … Yes—” She stopped suddenly.

“You knew him then, did you?” The butter still sat on Audley’s tongue. “What was his name? Mac-something?”

It wasn’t good enough: Mitchell could see that from the look on her face. But he had to do what he could.

“Macallan, David.” He pretended to jog Audley’s memory. “He was with their embassy over here—oh, way back … in the economic section. I think he’s dead now. He retired donkeys’ years ago, anyway.”

“Yes?” If Audley had noticed the change in her expression he didn’t show it.

“No,” said Lady Alice. Then she wagged a thin finger at little Miss Wall. “Pass me the cigarette box, Sam. Or, better still, light one for me.”

Miss Wall registered genteel shock-horror. “Allie, you know you’re not supposed to.”

“Light me one, and don’t witter. The doctor said I could have one to celebrate good news, and that’s what I’m doing. Must I get it myself?”

Audley leaned forward. “Good news, Lady Alice? Do share it with us.”

“I will, Dr Audley, I will.” She watched Miss Wall light up. “Just light it, dear—don’t smoke it … Thank you.” But then she turned to Mitchell, not to Audley. “He’s dead, is he?”

It was no use playing with her. “Yes.”

“And that’s good news?” There was a hint of steel in Audley’s question.

“Isn’t it?” She hardened her voice to match his. “Oh … come now, Dr Audley? I know
you
—you were pointed out to me once, at a meeting of the Atlantic Friendship Society, years ago, by someone who knew quite a lot about you … And I never forget a name or a face.” She drew on her cigarette. “William Macallan—I know quite a lot about him, too.”

“Indeed?” Audley paused. “I’d be enchanted to know how.”

“Very simply. Because I am what you both take me to be—and what I have said I am: an old friend of Senator Thomas Cookridge.”

“And he told you about Bill Macallan?”

Another puff. “Why should he not? We have a relationship which is rewarding to us both. We owe each other nothing … except perhaps he once saved my life, and perhaps I delivered him from temptation. We can do each other no harm—we have always lived in different worlds, and it amuses us to exchange confidences. We have the wonderful advantage of having no relationship except affection and esteem and trust, quite free from self-interest.” A last puff, and then she stubbed the cigarette out. “Will that do, Dr Audley?”

“Very well, Lady Alice.” Audley smiled. “So now tell us about Macallan.”

She thought for a moment. “An obnoxious man.”

“So you said.”

“And ruthless.”

“And clever. We know that.”

She considered them both. “You were a historian once, Dr Audley … And you, Dr. Mitchell?”

“The same, Lady Alice.” Mitchell shrugged. “It must be an occupational hazard.”

She nodded. “Yes. I can see you have something in common. But I think you may share something else … I always imagine men in their correct centuries. My husband was a Victorian: he would have loved building the railways. But you are both eighteenth century Englishmen, I think.”

This game had to be played. “Both rotten with port? And we lost the American colonies?” Mitchell grinned.

Audley glanced at him. “I can stand that quite easily—” Back to Lady Alice “—but I always see myself as a medieval man … and I can never forgive myself losing Bordeaux to the French—all those vineyards?”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Lady Alice cast a longing look at the cigarette box. “Your patriotism is civilized by reason. But William Macallan was a sixteenth century man—he could have served either the Protestant cause or the Catholics, but his patriotism was a fanatical faith. His ends always justified the means.”

Audley cocked his head. “And this irritated Tom, did it?”

“It did more than that. That wretched man pursued Tom—he thought he was a traitor—” She pointed at the box “—light me another, Sam—go on … My Tom a traitor!”

A chill settled on Mitchell, so that he couldn’t look at Audley.

Miss Wall lit the cigarette obediently, and Audley took it from her and passed it to Lady Alice.

“A traitor?” Puff. “I first met Tom after that raid on the German balls—” She saw Mitchell’s face, and waved a hand at him “—ball-
bearings
—when he lost half the squadron … and I’ve seen him press his face into the road under an ambulance—” This time she caught Audley’s expression “—
You
think I don’t know when a man’s lying to me, through his teeth, I know … because you couldn’t tell when all those wretched men in the Foreign Office were lying to you!”

Audley was’t going to take that lying down. “They can be pretty good liars, Lady Alice, you know—”

“What do you know?” Scornful puff. “You never had a woman talking to them—how do you say it? De-
briefing
them? And not on the pillow beside them, either …
really
talking to them … over forty years, and never missed a time to talk too, not once …
No
—he wasn’t a traitor then, and he isn’t a traitor now, if that’s what you’re on about.” She gave him a sharp nod. “But that Macallan—
he
could have been a traitor—
he
would have sworn black was white if it suited him … And that’s what I told Tom, when he came to me years ago—I said ‘Don’t try and defend yourself, he’ll love that. You take the war into his country—if you know what you are, you try and show that he isn’t what he claims to be—you look for some of his dirty washing, and throw that in his face.’”

Audley’s hand had come up to his face. “God bless my soul!” he exclaimed, and looked at Mitchell.

But there was something niggling Mitchell—

They weren’t going to get anything out of her: to her Senator Thomas Cookridge was as far above suspicion as he was to Colonel Howard Morris of the CIA
—

But that wasn’t it—?

“Have you ever heard of Sion Crossing?” said Audley, obviously animated by the same despair.

“Sion Crossing?” She frowned.

“S-
I
-O-N Crossing?” repeated Audley.

That wasn’t it
—

“S-Y-O-N—Syon House, I know …” Sion Crossing threw her.

“That’s the Somerset-Northumberland house—Robert Adam interiors and Capability Brown landscaped grounds—what?”

“In Georgia, Lady Alice,” said Audley. “In the United States—or the Confederate States, more correctly. It was burnt down in the American Civil War.”

Now he had lost her—and she had lost him—completely: he was an eighteenth century Englishman talking about a nineteenth century American house.

“Did Senator Cookridge ever talk to you about the American Civil War?” Audley pursued his line of inquiry like a doomed infantryman pulling at the unbroken German wire.

“No.” She was quite lost now. “Why should he?”

Something came to Mitchell, but unformed in his mind. “On Friday …”

“No.” She was positive about that, anyway. “He was on about his speech on Friday.” She was torn between them. “He’d never made a big speech over here—and this new job of his is a great responsibility … He wanted to mention the war, when he was over here. But he has to make a speech in Germany on Tuesday, and he couldn’t make up his mind about how they’d take it—his own people had given him conflicting advice, the way civil servants always do—” She stopped as she saw their face—
as she saw her own sudden doubt reflected in their greater doubt
—

Mitchell looked at Audley.

“What’s the matter?” said Lady Alice.

Audley was looking at Mitchell.

“I’m sorry, Lady Alice … but—” The unformed thing in Mitchell’s mind formed, and then distorted itself, and then formed again in sharp focus “—you say he came here on
Friday?
”

“Yes.” She frowned at him. “Where else would he go?”

“On Friday evening?” It sounded stupid, it was so simple.

“Of course.” Her look and her words were both edged with pride. “He always finds time for me, whenever he comes over. He never misses, I told you.”

Never
—

“On Friday?” Audley was afflicted by the same stupidity. “At what time, Lady Alice?”

“What time?” She thought they were both mad. “Well … I suppose it was just about seven.” She thought for two seconds. “He was short of time—is it important?” But one look at them was enough. “He went straight to the embassy from Heathrow, and he changed there … and he came to me … for about half an hour—maybe a little longer—he was afraid he might be late, but it was more important to get the speech right—the bit about the war. And I said that the Germans would understand that when he spoke about the horror of it he knew what he was talking about … And after that he went straight to his dinner.” She turned to Miss Wall. “Right, Sam?”

“Yes, Alice.” Miss Wall nodded. “He had all those bodyguards with him. I was quite frightened of them!”

“Christ!” exclaimed Audley.

Mitchell stood up. “Can I use your phone, Lady Alice, please?
At once—?
”

“Over here,” she gestured to the table beside her. “Or in my bedroom, if you want privacy—Sam will show you, Dr Mitchell.”

No nonsense: she might not understand what had passed between them, but she sensed its urgency.

Mitchell circled her chair to reach the phone. It didn’t matter what she heard: there was not a moment to be lost, and he wanted Audley to hear what he said. And these two old ladies weren’t going anywhere as of now.

He dialled the right number. The table was piled with books, and he observed that she was into sixteenth century history, which did not surprise him: that analogy between Queen Elizabeth I’s spymasters and spies—Walsingham and Throckmorton, and Gresham … and Maitland and Melville and Leigh, and all the rest of the tortured doubles—and their twisted allegiances—

The number answered, and it was Elizabeth, of course—his own not-quite Elizabeth.

“Robertson here. Please clear this line.” There was also an empty glass on the table, and an ashtray with two cigarettes stubbed out on it, and several bottles of pills. On the top of the books there was a note-pad with a ball-pen attached to it. On the pad was written ‘Edna’, then ‘James’, and then ‘Dr Mitchell’ underlined.

It wouldn’t take long, because Elizabeth was efficient. Also, it was the first time he’d ever used an emergency code-name to her.

Audley caught his eye. “You might scramble a line to Washington Station, while you’re about it,” he advised casually. “It’ll save time.”

Mitchell nodded. He must get the procedure right too, otherwise all hell would break loose around their ears, with all sorts of funnies alerted, from the Bomb Squad to the SAS.

“Line cleared,” said Elizabeth. “Please state origin of call, Mr. Robertson.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Robertson’s ‘All Clear’ signal resided in those innocent words, repeated. “Thank you.”

Just enough time for an intake of breath. “Are you all right, Paul?”