The Memory Trap (14 page)

And the not-so-clever Jake Shapiro, thought Audley. But then half Jack’s strength was that no one really believed in his sincerity. ‘Yes. But now I want some information—in
my
interest, Colonel Shapiro.
’

‘Yes?’ Jake peered into the trees on his left, pretending to be nervous.

‘What’s the matter.’ Suddenly Audley actually became nervous.

‘Don’t worry. We are well-protected, old friend.’ The reassurance came quickly. ‘You lost someone in Berlin, didn’t you?’

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ He decided not to hide his fear. ‘Answer the question. My time is running out. And maybe in more ways than one,
old friend
.’

The Israeli faced him. ‘Correction. You lost
two
people in Berlin: you lost a man named Kulik also.
’

‘How d’you know his name?’

‘I know all three names. But only one of them matters now.’

Audley held his tongue without difficulty. No more questions!

Jake held up three fingers. ‘Kulik is dead in Berlin.’ One finger went down. ‘That was very careless of you—what my old boss would have called “unnecessary carelessness”. But perhaps understandable at that stage.’

Audley concentrated on the remaining two fingers—blunt, serviceable fingers, rising from a work-calloused hand. In retirement, Jake had become a working farmer. But soft fruit looked like hard work, judging by those hands.

‘And now Prusakov is also dead, as of two days since.’ The second finger went down. ‘But your people cannot be blamed for that.’

Something out in the furthest corner of Audley’s peripheral vision diverted him from the last finger: the shape of Sir Matthew Fattorini’s Rolls flicked through trees on the inner side of Abercrombie Gardens. But the Rolls didn’t matter now:
Who-the-hell-was
“
Prusakov
”
?

‘So that leaves Lukianov at large.’ The third finger seemed to get larger as Audley stared at it. ‘The luckiest—or the cleverest … yes?’

So there had been
three
runners. And although he dearly wanted to know who
Prusakov
was—and
where
and
how
and
why
Prusakov had run out of luck and cleverness “two days since”, that would have to wait. ‘At large where, Jake? Lukianov?’

Jake shrugged. ‘That, I don’t know. And neither do the Russians, evidently.’ The shrug became a shake. ‘They are tearing their hair—but that is also common knowledge … What was it Cohen used to say, in the Saracen? “Screaming blue murder, like Auntie Vi did when she caught her tits in the mangle”?’ The shake stopped and the bushy eyebrows lifted. ‘All the way from Finland to the Black Sea—how many perfectly innocent criminals have been caught? And honest smugglers, who reckoned they’d bribed the border-guards sufficiently, too—?’ The eyebrows came down. ‘The first plus-side is that the KGB is pushing all its contacts so hard that
we
are picking up people we never suspected, who are sticking out their necks. But the minus is that we
’
re also losing valued middle-men who never knew who they were working for.
’
Quite terrifyingly, Jake began to become incredulous at his own revelations.
‘
If they were moving their tank divisions and dispersing their SS-20s as well, then we
’
d be battening-down for the Third World War
—
just as you are, David!
’
But then the incredulity steadied itself.
‘
Only you
’
ve gone off half-cock. Because they haven
’
t shifted a mobile army-cookhouse.
’
The shake came back, but more disbelievingly.
‘
Just all their bloody
spies
…
and their sleepers
…
and even some of their
Spetsnaz
sleepers
—
which is even more outrageous
…
the handful that we know, here in England
—
‘
Jake Shapiro actually bit his lip, under his moustache, on that
‘
—
and that
’
s strictly between you and me, as of now, David: if you want more on
Spetsnaz
, then you
’
ve got to trade at the very highest level
—
not you, but Jack Butler and his Minister. And it will involve a public pronouncement on your Government
’
s attitude to the PLO.
’
He nodded.
‘
This is big business now, David.
’

Audley felt almost as disembodied as he had also so recently felt on Capri when the screaming had started, half-aware that his features must have become as wooden as Jake Shapiro’s suddenly were. Because Jake knew what he was saying: it had all been agreed—and bloody-quickly agreed, too—at his own very highest-level, in the few minutes which had elapsed between his “Mr Lee” call to the Saracen’s Head and their joint-arrival under General Abercrombie’s statue. Or (what was more likely, actually—and what was certainly worse, therefore) it had been agreed before? Which meant that the Israelis were so worried that they were desperate to co-operate at any price, in spite of Jake’s pretended arrogance.

‘I can’t promise that, Jake.’ Suddenly he felt greedy: having got so much so easily, he wanted more. And, anyway, however interesting that
Spetsnaz
information sounded—and in exchange only for some half-arsed ministerial statement, which could be made to sound like something-and-nothing—it was just a sprat to catch a mackerel. ‘I’m not even supposed to be talking to you now.’

‘I can remedy that.’ Jake gave him a bleak look. ‘If you hadn’t called me this morning, I would have called you this afternoon. Because I am empowered to do business with you, old friend.’

‘With me?’

‘With you to start with. And to show good faith I will give you Prusakov: they took him in Italy, in a house outside Rome. But, unfortunately he swallowed a pill, so that is the end of him. However, they also took the Arab who was with him. And they will have squeezed
him
for sure. But that has not given them Lukianov. And he is the most dangerous of the three, we believe. Because he was the one who approached the various terrorist organizations in the first place, seeking the highest bidder for his merchandise—we know that.’

‘What merchandise, Jake?’

Shapiro shook his head. ‘That we do not know.’ He looked at Audley sidelong. ‘And you do not know—?’

He must give the Israeli something. ‘You’ve heard about Capri?’

‘Capri—?’ Jake frowned.

Audley unfolded his
Telegraph
and offered the right page. He had to allow that the stage might have lost a great actor when Jake’s parents had illegally emigrated. But his surprise looked genuine.

‘You were there?’ The Israeli crumpled the newspaper as he looked up from it. ‘This was …
yesterday
—
?
’

‘Yes.’ Whatever else Mossad knew, Capri didn’t fit in with it.’

Tell me about it.’

Audley shook his head. ‘The Russians killed two Arabs. And they lost one of their own men, doing it. That’s what we believe. But the man wasn’t Lukianov, anyway. At least, I don’t think so.’

The Israeli drew a deep breath. ‘It can’t have been “Lucky” Lukianov. Because the Russians wanted all three of them back alive, from the start. And as of last night—as of this morning, too … they still wanted him.’ He lifted the crumpled
Telegraph
. ‘So if this is kosher, then it could be a terrorist squabble to decide who’s going to attend the auction. The fewer the bidders, the lower the price, maybe? Not that they can’t all afford to pay … But Abu Nidal certainly isn’t going to let Ahmed Jebril get it, if he can stop him.’ He sighed. ‘Whatever it is … ‘

Audley let out his breath slowly. It was probable that Jake knew more than he was telling. But he didn’t know about Peter Richardson yet.

‘Okay, Jake.’ If he risked more, then he might betray how little he’d known. Because Jake was smart. ‘Tell me about this fellow Lukianov.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Harlin.’ Audley could always gauge how far he was into the doghouse from the expression on the face of Jack’s PA. And one glance this morning was enough. ‘Any messages for me?’

‘Good morning, Dr Audley.’ All the years of their acquaintance made not the slightest difference: with Mrs Harlin it was Jack Butler
contra mundum
now, just as she had once given her whole loyalty to Fred Clinton before him. ‘There are no messages for you. But Sir Jack is waiting for you in the conference room.’

‘In the conference room?’ It was still her loyalty to Jack which allowed her to warn him that they already had visitors. And she had no need to elaborate on her encoded message: a conference before 10 o’clock in the morning always meant trouble. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harlin. Would you tell him I’m here, then?’

‘I have already told him of your arrival, Dr Audley.’ The arrow on her disapproval-dial moved up into the red as he failed to move. ‘He is w—‘ Her features relaxed suddenly’—ah, Sir Jack! Dr Audley—‘

‘Yes.’ Butler’s voice came from behind him.

‘Hullo, Jack.’ Audley glanced over his shoulder, but then returned to Mrs Harlin. ‘Just one thing, Mrs Harlin. Would you phone my wife and tell her that I’ve had a talk with Matthew Fattorini, and that he’s going to fix up a trip to America for Cathy.’ He shook his head at her. ‘She’ll understand … We’ve got this problem of Cathy wanting to swan off to India for a year, to do her Christian duty. But she’s still much too young for India.’ He gave Butler half a shrug. ‘And if this doesn’t work I shall call on you, Jack. She’s your god-daughter after all.’

Butler considered him dispassionately for a moment, as though weighing his anger with this flimsy alibi against other more pressing matters. Then he looked down at his PA. ‘And while you’re about it, Mrs Harlin, you may reassure Mrs Audley that her husband has found time to attend to his duties. So she is not to worry about him.’

‘Oh—?’ Audley decided to cut his losses also, for the same reason. ‘We have company, I gather?’

Butler pointed towards the passage.

‘Who—‘ He found himself addressing Butler’s back ‘—who have we got, Jack?’

‘Henry Jaggard.’ Butler stopped suddenly, indicating the door to a side-office. ‘In there, David.’

The office was empty. ‘Who else, Jack?’

‘Your friend Renshaw, from the Cabinet Office. Leonard Aston. Commander Pitt.’ Butler stared at him. ‘And a woman named Franklin. You know her?’

‘I’ve heard tell of her.’ Jaggard evidently meant business. ‘Isn’t she Henry’s new secret weapon?’ He cocked his head at Butler. ‘Is she targeted on us this morning—not the enemy?’

Another hard stare. ‘Is there anything I should know before we go in, David?’

Not yet there wasn’t. ‘Have they seen Mitchell’s report, on the Italian debacle?’

‘Of course.’

Of course—yes! Because Kulik had been Henry Jaggard’s business, and they had just been “helping out”—eh? ‘Uh-huh? So now I’m getting the blame for losing Peter Richardson—is that it?’

‘You didn’t lose him. He didn’t turn up.’ Butler’s jaw set firm. ‘And with the Russians there too, as well as those Arabs, that was just as well.’

Good old Jack! ‘He’s still loose, is he? Old Peter—?’ That was the real worry. ‘The Italians were locking all the gates when I left.’

Butler drew a breath. “They think he’s off their patch now.’

Audley relaxed. Richardson under Italian lock-and-key might have made things easier. But Richardson still free strengthened his own position right now. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘Someone answering his description chartered a plane at Rome late yesterday afternoon, just before they closed things up. An American businessman, with a good American passport. Name of Dalingridge.’ Butler frowned slightly at him. “The Americans don’t know anyone of that name … Do you?’

The name had caught him so much by surprise that he’d let his face show it. ‘Where was he heading?’

‘You know the name?’

It was too late to deny it. But, also, it was altogether too good to be true … unless Richardson had intended it to be exactly that. ‘I might—yes.’

‘From where?’ Butler was past doubting that Mr Dalingridge was Major Richardson. So now it was far too late to deny it.

‘Christian name … “Richard”, by any chance?’ And it was fair enough, anyway: old Jack had given his orders and had taken all the responsibility for what he’d done (and not done), with no recriminations. So he deserved a bit of good news.

‘”Richard Dalingridge”, Jack?’

Butler nodded. “That’s a name he would have used, is it?’ Then he nodded the question away as superfluous. ‘And he’d expect you to know that, would he?’

Old Jack was smart, and quick with it, as well as loyal, the new question reminded Audley. But that, of course, was why he deserved to be where he was, as well as accounting for it. ‘He would—yes. Where did he go?’

‘Mmm … ‘ Butler was doing his arithmetic. ‘He went to Lyons. And that’s all we’ve got so far.’

It was enough, anyway. By high-speed train “Mr Richard Dalingridge” could have been soon enough in Paris. And then it would have been time for another passport, from his professional smuggler’s stock, prudently acquired for such a rainy day. And what would that name be? “Hugh Saxon”, maybe … becaue “Hugh Dallingford” would sound a bit too much like “Dalingridge”—? Or … maybe he’d reckon that one signal from Italy, where it would be sure to be picked up, would be enough.

He grinned at Butler. Once the shock of that retirement criminality was assimilated, it came as no surprise that Peter hadn’t forgotten any of his lessons—or anything else from the old days.
Yes
…
Peter, of all people, by God
!