Sion Crossing (6 page)

“Sir—
sir
… We do
have
to go now—with respect, sir.” The priorities resolved themselves. “It’s protocol, sir.”

“Protocol?” The Senator turned the full weight of his displeasure on the young man. “Hogwash!”

“No, sir! HRH
and
the Ambassador—
and
the Foreign Secretary—I
have
to insist, sir!” The young man rallied bravely.

The Senator stared at him, then softened before such courage. “Okay boy—one minute—” He swung back to Latimer.

“I could meet you later, sir,” said Latimer.

“There won’t be any later.” The grey head shook regretfully. “It’s like this, Mister Latimer—I have acquired some papers—some original papers, but mostly some original research by a man who is now deceased.” Now he nodded. “He was researching the history of one of Billy Sherman’s regiments, all the way from when they mustered in Iowa, down through Chattanooga to Atlanta, and from Atlanta to the sea, and then to Virginia. And they were the boys who were at Sion Crossing.” The washed-out grey eyes narrowed. “And he’s got something I want an expert to look at, to see whether it smells right, or it smells wrong.”

Foolish!
thought Latimer. “Then you want a trained historian, sir.”

“No.” The eyes fixed him implacably. “I want
you
, Mister Latimer. And I want you for two reasons. And one of them is because I think you’re the best, and I like the look of you. And the other … I’ll tell you that one when you report back to me.” He drew a breath. “But I tell you this, Mister Latimer: whatever you tell me—even if you fail—you’ll have a friend in me. And I never forget my friends, Mister Latimer.”

Put like that, it was as much a threat as a promise. But put another way … it was both an unrepeatable opportunity to establish his credentials at the highest American level—and an irresistible chance to score a point against David Audley.

“When do you want me to go, sir?”

“As soon as possible. Bob here has all the details—tickets and expense money—” The Senator waved his hand “—yes, I know you’re not worried about that … but it saves time … My stepdaughter will meet you in Atlanta—she will look after you … She will fill you in on the details—the
real
details … You can trust her—she’s her mother’s daughter, by God!” The eyes hardened. “Just as I’m trusting you now, Mister Latimer—do you understand?”

However foolish it was, it mattered to the Chairman of the Atlantic Defence Committee—
that
was what he had to understand!

“Yes, sir.”

What had he got to lose?

“CURIOSITY?” JAMES CABLE
considered his friend not without well-founded suspicion. “Vulgar curiosity?”

“Not vulgar.” It was not going to be easy, thought Mitchell—not if it was going to be done right. Though ‘right’, in the circumstances, was hardly the right word for it.

“Idle, then. And isn’t that the curiosity which kills cats?”

It was certainly not going to be easy. “Not idle either.”

“What sort of curiosity, then?”

“It’s not really curiosity at all.” The one thing that he had going for him, decided Mitchell, was that James Cable was a decent, upright, honourable man, almost an old-fashioned naval officer—a pure Colonel-Butler-appointment. But also, Butler being Butler, nobody’s fool either. So, while he took responsibility as easily as he breathed air, nobody was going to push him around.

“Oh?” Cable was one degree away from returning to his report and telling Mitchell to shove off.

“Say ‘concern’ rather. Proper concern, James.”

“Concern for the Honourable Oliver St John Latimer? Get away Paul!” Cable shook his head. “Not you!”

“Why not? The Honourable Oliver … alias Fatso—”

“That’s not quite fair. He’s not really so bad. And he’s damned clever—you must at least concede that, alias ‘Captain Lefevre’.”

“I will concede nothing so far as Fatso is concerned, Lieutenant-Commander … Or should I say ‘Commander’, since such obsequious time-serving approbation renders your promotion inevitable? I will concede
that
—I’ll even put money on it: you will be carried upwards on his coat-tails when he becomes Deputy-Director.”

Cable frowned. “You know something I don’t know?”

“Very likely. I know he’ll be offered the job—much to his chagrin, since he was aiming at higher things. But he’ll take it. In fact, he may already have done so.”

“You know too much, Mitchell.”

“So I am often told.
‘Larned a little ’fore iver some lads was born, tho’ I never sarved in the Queen’s Navy, where I’m told yeou’m taught to use your eyes’.”
Mitchell grinned. “The comings and goings of the last few days … and Fatso had a long session with Jack Butler on Thursday. And now there’s an envelope addressed to Jack in Fatso’s own fair hand, lying in Mrs Harlin’s in-tray and marked ‘Personal’—not ‘Private and confidential’, mark you … and not ‘Urgent’ either. Just ‘Personal’. A letter of acceptance—one pound will get you five, Admiral Cable, if you’re a betting man.”

“Not with you, I’m not.” Cable was comparing what his friend had told him against what he knew. “You know both sides of the cards, I’m thinking. I’m but a poor Jack Tar, honest and bluff.”

“More bluff than honest. So tell me—”

“Where does David Audley come into this?”

“He doesn’t. David is a man lamentably without any ambition—except to cause trouble for the rest of us … by doing his own thing in his own way.”

“But he must have been in line for the top job.” They had been through this many times, but never before with Mitchell’s present certainty.

“Then he has been passed over for it—like Latimer. Or he has refused, if they offered it to him … which is more likely.” Mitchell stared out the window. “Jack Butler will get the top job. After all, he’s been doing it quite effectively for two years or more—only a man like Jack would have put up with such a bloody scandalous lack of decision … particularly as he hates the job.” Mitchell turned. “That’s the delicious irony of it all: Jack has worked his way up to where he doesn’t want to be by sheer loyalty and devotion to duty … and, perhaps above all, by actual decency, you know. Old Jack gets results, but he’s also above suspicion, so they know he’ll never land them with some dreadful intelligence scandal—which HMG must find very beguiling… . Not least because the Opposition—and the CND, and all that lot … they’ll be looking for something juicy and nasty. And they won’t get it from Research and Development while he’s running the show … In fact, they probably never thought twice about Latimer and Audley—it’s Old Jack for Gold, Silver and Bronze, in that order.”

“But Audley and Latimer are both twice as bright.”

Mitchell made a doubtful face. “I don’t know about that. Jack’s no slouch when it comes to plain commonsense—and being honest and honourable gives him one hell of an advantage over most people, ’cause they can never make sense of what he’s doing and they lose time coming to the wrong conclusion… . Say, maybe they’re half as bright again. But David doesn’t suffer fools gladly enough … and he’s the original maverick steer that looks like a rogue elephant.” The doubtful face contorted. “Which we both know well enough, for God’s sake! Because he’s bloody well nearly done for me a couple of times—and you once, to my certain knowledge… . It’s only because I fancy his wife and adore his little daughter that I put up with him, James—and that’s a fact!”

“Or adore his wine cellar and fancy his old-boy contacts?” murmured Cable nastily. “And Oliver St John Latimer?”

“Fatso? Fatso is a Philistine and a basket-hanger. He probably wears a tartan tie—and Ruskin says that any man who wears a tartan tie will undoubtedly be damned everlastingly.”

“What?” It was fatally easy to lose Paul Mitchell’s train of thought. “A … basket-hanger … in a tartan tie?”

“Kipling.” Mitchell waved a cultured hand. “You go on expensive jaunts to Sweden to learn about Russian submarines—I get sent to Cheltenham, and never when the races are on there either, damn it! But that at least has enabled me to study the Latimer-Audley handicap race—and to brush up on Kipling.”

“What does Kipling have to do with them?”

“Audley means Kipling. He quotes the bloody man all the time, so I’m into the business of out-quoting him—he hates that.” Mitchell grinned again. “Mr King in
Stalky & Co
—he was Stalky and Co’s great enemy—I can’t work out which of them David identifies with … Beetle or M’Turk or Stalky himself … he changes rôle most confusingly. But Mr King was their Latin master at the school, and a damn good one too … but their enemy. And Oliver St John Latimer is Mr King—Audley’s Mr King … who wore a tartan tie and was a basket-hanger, whatever that means. In fact, ‘the king of basket-hangers’—Fatso to the life.”

Cable rocked uneasily. “But our new Deputy-Director—if you’re right?”

“Oh—I’m right,
Commander
Cable. And that’s what makes my curiosity not idle
cat’s
curiosity, but the real
need-to-know
stuff—‘intelligence relevant to the Defence of the Realm’, if you want the small print of my strictly unofficial request to the Duty Office—” Mitchell appealed to friendship over duty “—which I hope, for old times’ sake, you won’t enter into the log—?”

Cable looked even more unhappy. “You tell me
why
, Paul … and then maybe I’ll tell you
what
. Okay?”

Mitchell thought for a moment. “Okay?” Then he thought for another moment. “Last night … Fatso phoned you up here—right?”

“Right.” What they both knew could not be denied.

“Right! When has he ever done that before?”

“How should I know?” Already Cable might have an inkling of what Mitchell was aiming at, but he wanted more. “I’m only—we’re
both
only … acting duty officers, each of us … duty officers—during the holiday period—like now?”

“But you read the log every morning. That’s down in the book of words. But it’s only routine, because we’re not Cloak and Dagger—we’re Research and Development. So … nobody phones us here, except to find out where somebody else is—and mostly where somebody else is next morning, because there’s no hurry … We just want to check up on something, or get a second opinion—nothing urgent. So usually …
usually
, we don’t get any calls at all—
right
?”

Another thing not to be denied. So Cable shrugged.

Mitchell nodded. “So Fatso phoned last night. And Fatso
never
phones—or never until last night … Because he’s always doing something far too important—and far too buttoned-up and well-organized and academic—to disturb his dinner, or his gardening, or whatever … but nothing
trivial
—not ever… . That’s not his style, James—you know that, for God’s sake!”

Mitchell was extrapolating now. But he was doing so from shared experience of the duty log, also not to be denied; and from the assumption that Oliver St John Latimer would not ring in casually, but only in desperation, in some extremity.

“It’s out of character, I agree.” Cable shrugged. “But there are always exceptions to any rule. And …”

And
hovered between them in the motionless air of the room, because … by reason of Mitchell’s purely accidental presence in the duty officer’s room last evening, they both knew where that led them.

“The American Civil War, James? For God’s sake—you gave him something about the
Monitor
—about which you know bugger all except what you read in
The Times
yesterday, or the day before—”

“I know quite a lot about the
Monitor
.” On naval history Cable was not about to let Paul Mitchell bully him: he ought to know as much about naval history as Mitchell did. “Don’t push your luck, Mitchell.”

“Okay—okay! The first ironclad turret-ship! No offence meant, Commander.” Mitchell retreated. “But he didn’t want anything about that—he wasn’t interested in what you offered him, was he?”

“Perhaps not.” They were still haggling over shared intelligence from the previous evening. “You gave him something better.”

“I gave him mostly half-digested cod’s-wallop. And he lapped it up like it was David’s Château Pichon-Longueville-Lalande … But, if there’s one sure thing, it’s that Fatso knows sod-all about the American Civil War: he doesn’t know Shiloh and Gettysburg and the Shenandoah Valley from any of the innumerable holes in the London-to-Birmingham motorway, for a fact.”

“So what’s new?” For a fact Cable shared Oliver St John Latimer’s lack of knowledge. “And you do?”

“Not really. Except that it’s a bloody interesting war, I’ll say that for it—and I’ve just been refreshing my memory of it … Because it was the standard British Staff college subject in the old days—that at least is the truth … Colonel Henderson
was
one smart operator—and that’s another fact.” He gestured disarmingly. “Also … when it comes to enthusiastic fire-and-the-sword, the North did a pretty good job on the South—almost as good as the French and the other Europeans did in their civil wars.”

“Mitchell—what are you drivelling on about?”

Mitchell stared at him for a second, and then shook his head. “I’m drivelling on about Fatso, James—that’s all. For him to be interested in the American Civil War was way out enough. But for him to come back to the duty officer—that’s not just out of character, it’s downright suspicious.” Mitchell cocked his head. “Because it’s something he’d never do unless he really didn’t know which way to turn—do you see?”

It was something which had not occurred to Cable the evening before, even when he had turned to Mitchell for help, out of his friend’s accidental presence and his knowledge of his friend’s knowledge of military history. And Mitchell had left thereafter, to go drinking and play dominoes … Or had he? That was what Cable was thinking now.

“What have you done, Paul?”

“Nothing, my dear fellow! Or, nothing much …”

“What did you do?”

Mitchell gestured vaguely. “I only asked Gammon, down below, about Latimer’s call—where it came from—”

“What?”

“It was on an open line—you warned him yourself, old boy. So it wasn’t scrambled, or anything like that. I simply asked Gammon where I might contact our Mr Latimer. It was all above board, James.”