The Memory Trap (7 page)

‘He was thoroughly vetted.’ He hated to hear Fred consigned to history so crudely.

‘But not by you, David. Fred Clinton’s man—and an old-school-tie recruit, right?’

‘Army, actually.’ Mitchell knew too much, again. But not quite everything.

‘Okay—
old-regimental-tie
, then.’ Mitchell was implacable. ‘Failed the old regiment—and then failed
us
, the way I heard it.’

Elizabeth was frowning at him again. But he had to settle with Mitchell now. ‘Then you heard it wrong.’ The trouble was, in a perverse way the fellow had it right, all the same. He could even remember Neville Macready summing up Richardson when the news of his departure was announced: ‘
Yes
…
well, they can
’
t say I didn
’
t warn them
…
Clever fellow, of course
—
total recall, and all that. And plenty of style with it. But
…
“
Tiggers don
’
t like honey
”
, I said to Fred.
“
And they don
’
t like acorns. And they don
’
t like thistles
—
you
’
ll see
”
. But, of course, our Fred
’
s never read
“
Winnie-the-Pooh
”
—
wrong generation
—
he simply didn
’
t understand what I was talking about
.
’

‘How should I have heard it, then?’

Where Mitchell had been much more importantly right, however, was that guess about “the old days”. But that was where he kept coming up against the blank wall in the records, and the equally blank wall of his memory (which was more reliable than any record). So it couldn’t—it damn-well
couldn
’
t
—
be anything that they’d share, he and Richardson, that had made Kulik bracket their names in his last breath.

‘He was a very talented man.’ He eyed Mitchell reflectively. ‘In some respects he was maybe even better than you, Mitchell.’

‘Oh aye?’ Having goaded Audley into starting to answer, Mitchell wasn’t offended by the comparison. ‘But I got his job nevertheless, didn’t I?’ He even grinned knowingly at Elizabeth. ‘We’re both Audley-recruits, aren’t we, Lizzie? So … we may not be as talented. But we’re not quitters, are we?’

Elizabeth, who hated being knowingly-grinned-at by anyone, but particularly by Dr Paul Mitchell, became even more Loftus-faced. ‘Why did he resign, David? From Research and Development? And then the army, too? If he was so good—?’

That had been the question which had hurt Fred Clinton, when his potential star-pupil had graduated
cum laude
, and then turned his back on the services. But, if he—hadn’t read A. A. Milne, he had known his Dryden—

‘
I can
’
t say that I
’
m not disappointed, David. Not to say surprised, too
…
Although Neville says he warned me, with some rubbish about acorns and thistles
.’

‘
Yes
…
but, then, it
’
s the difference between
“
cold
”
war and
“
hot
”
war, Fred
—
isn
’
t it
?
’
(That had been the first time he
’
d had to face what he already knew, but hadn
’
t faced: that Fred was getting old now, and that the generation-gap between those who had felt the heat, and never wanted to feel it again, and those who hadn
’
t, but who wondered endlessly about what it had been like, was becoming a problem to him.)
‘
It
’
s like it was with my late unlamented father-in-law, Fred: so long as the guns were firing, he was a hero. But once they stopped, he began to get bored. And then he got up to all sorts of mischief
—

“A daring pilot in extremity … “
“ … but for calm unfit … “

—
so it
’
s probably just as well. Because he
’
d have got up to all sorts of mischief, if he
’
d stayed with us
.’

‘
Haven
’
t we got enough mischief for him?
’

‘
More than enough
—
1 agree
!’ (But that had been exactly the right moment to hit Fred with what he’d been worried about himself, at that time so long ago: that memory was still sharp, by God!) ‘
But he
’
s the sort of chap who might get involved with politics, Fred. And
…
de-stabilizing the Government isn
’
t what we
’
re into
—
is it
?’

‘
He isn
’
t into that.
’

‘
No
.’ (Fred wasn’t over the hill yet. But he was no longer sitting on the top of it quite, either.) ‘
But some of the people he knows are
… or,
let
’
s say, I
’
m not sure about them, anyway. And
…
I have rather got the impression that intelligence research bores him
—
when we have to advise others when to risk their necks out there
—
?’

That was it: whatever Mitchell might question as unlikely, he wouldn’t argue with that. Because Mitchell and Richardson were brothers-under-the skin; only Richardson had been flawed, and Mitchell wasn’t. ‘He wasn’t a research man, at heart.’ And, also, there was that other difference—which would wound Mitchell deeply. But it would also stop his mouth, too. ‘He was a soldier, you might say. And we didn’t have a proper war for him. So that’s why he resigned—from the army, as well as from R and D, Paul.’

‘Yes. He resigned.’ Unexpectedly, Elizabeth hit him from the flank. ‘But he also
retired
, David—from everything? Just like that—from everything?’

‘Uh-huh?’ Once the man had left R and D, that had been the end of him, was all he could recall. Fred had helped him back, of course: it had been Fred’s influence which had promoted him from captain to major … if not to keep him on his career-track, then maybe not to discourage their next recruit. So that had been merely prudent, never mind keeping faith with Richardson himself.

He shrugged. ‘Well … that was afterwards.’ All he could recall from afterwards was the office gossip in which he hadn’t been interested. Peter Richardson—
Major
Richardson now—back with his regiment had been of no consequence whatsoever: he had smashed up one of his sports cars (and been smashed up in it, with it … but that was no great surprise!); and then his adored Italian mother had died, on whom he had doted. (And that had been sad, maybe … but that was the way the world was: kings and queens and chimney-sweepers all had to die sometime; and so did mothers: mothers, and kings and queens and chimney-sweepers were dying all the time. And, anyway, the
Principessa
had died loaded with
lire
, to pay for a great big Italian hearse, drawn by four black horses through Amalfi, to solace her loving son in his grief in his inherited
palazzo.)

‘That was when he retired—resigned?’ It was Elizabeth again, not Mitchell. But, where Mitchell had merely questioned him about the sequence of events, Elizabeth was frowning at the events themselves.

So now he wasn’t so sure of himself. But what he remembered wasn’t in doubt, nevertheless. ‘That was when he sent in his papers—yes. Because then he had all his inheritance to manage. All the family estates, up and down the coast, Elizabeth—‘ What made that doubly-sure was that one of Fred Clinton’s criteria had been money, always: a man’s politics and his sexual weaknesses were two things which mattered most, in those old days. But if he already had money, at least that ruled out arguments about his expenses allowance, when the budget was tight ‘—so … that was old money, anyway.’ And that was what Fred had liked best:
old
money. Apart from which, Peter Richardson had always loved his other country, as well as his mother: he had been almost as patriotic about the ancient Republic of Amalfi, which was more than half-a-thousand years older than Italy itself, than about his other Land-of-Hope-and-Glory.

But Elizabeth was still frowning at him. ‘What’s the matter, Elizabeth?’

She was still frowning. And so much so that even Paul Mitchell wanted to know what the matter was, also—

‘Lizzie—?’

‘I think you should talk to Captain Cuccaro, David.’

Now they both looked at her. But Mitchell cracked first. ‘Uh-huh? And … what did Cuccaro say, Lizzie? Does he want to talk to the elusive Major, then? On his own account—? Does he? Never mind the Russians?’

But she shook off Mitchell and all his questions then, together with her frown. ‘It’s the Mafia who want to talk to Major Richardson, Cuccaro says. And … and, I think that’s what he wants to talk to you about, David—‘

THE ITALIANS
had not sent a boy to do a man’s job: Audley had concluded that already from his brief meeting with Captain Cuccaro when he’d come aboard. But that, in view of what was surely in their records, was hardly surprising. Only close-up it was even more evident.

‘Professore.’

‘Captain.’ Additionally, Cuccaro was what Mrs Faith Audley would have called “a fine-looking man”, as well as an elegant one in his immaculate designer-jeans and expensive shirt (complete with a curious bronze medallion on a chain round his neck). All of which made Audley himself feel even more crumpled and unprepossessing. “Thank you for joining us, Captain. Your assistance is much appreciated.’

Cuccaro rolled easily with the boat’s motion. ‘I am here to facilitate your mission, Professore.’ He gestured gracefully. ‘And, of course, to ensure your safety as well as your success.’

There was no reason why the Italians should connect him with events in far-off Berlin. But there was now the extraordinary Mafia intrusion to be explained. ‘My safety?’ He let himself almost lose his balance.

Cuccaro grinned suddenly. ‘I am also grateful to you for this—‘ He swept a hand over the boat ‘—these days, I command only a desk, you understand. So this is a most pleasant change—to be at sea again, Professore.’

Small talk
, was what Audley understood, even as he grabbed the nearest stanchion in order to keep his feet: if this was the way the game had to be played … then the boat first. And that curious medallion … which that last lurch had brought close enough for him to be able to make out a bearded head on it, surmounted not by a crown, but what looked like a German
pickelhaub
.

‘Is that so?’ He managed to find an Audley-smile from somewhere. ‘I wouldn’t have thought this is your sort of boat, Captain.’ He waved as best he could with his free hand to include the tattered awning and the flaking paint, glancing quickly at Elizabeth (whose expression still bore the remains of the impact of Cuccaro’s grin: being dazzlingly smiled-at by handsome men was for her an outrage only a little short of being actually touched by any man, handsome or not). ‘”A smuggler’s boat”, Miss Loftus said—?’

‘Yes.’ Cuccaro grinned again. But this time it was a different smile. ‘Or, it was until very recently.’ He held up his hand, with a single brown finger raised, ‘Do you hear that?’

The only thing Audley could hear was the engine. Which was just an engine, in the same way that the boat was just a boat. But evidently not to Captain Cuccaro.

‘Beautiful!’ Cuccaro focused suddenly on Audley again, and was himself. ‘It is … an appropriate boat, let us say, Professore.’

Audley listened to the engine again. All he could say for it was that it wasn’t making much noise. But if it was a smuggler’s boat, that was to be expected. ‘You mean … it’s unobtrusive, Captain?’

‘That also.’ Cuccaro nodded, but seemed only half to agree. ‘The
Guardia
seized it up the coast, a few days back.’ The faint American origins of his otherwise perfect English intruded. ‘There are many such in these waters—“unobtrusive”, as you say.’ Another nod. ‘And very fast, when speed is required.’ He stared at Audley for a moment. ‘Most of the time, they hire out to the tourists … with maybe a little fishing, also. And then, one day—one night, they meet a bigger boat, by appointment.’

‘Uh-huh?’ If Cuccaro wanted him to be interested in smuggling as a prelude to their own business, then he would be. ‘Drugs, presumably?’

‘Drugs … or what you will.’ The medallion swung in its nest. ‘Cigarettes are still very popular with the smaller fry. And, of course, there are the local exports—the ancient artefacts … Roman and Greek from Campania and the south. Etruscan from the tombs in the north—they are much sought-after by foreign collectors. It is good steady business, Professore. If one is not too greedy.’

Audley nodded politely. ‘That’s very interesting.’ But two could play at this small-talk-game. ‘That medal of yours, Captain—is that an ancient artefact?’ He leaned forward, keeping tight hold of his stanchion, but couldn’t quite make out the inscription. ‘What does it say—?’

‘My good luck piece?’ Cuccaro looked down for an instant. ‘
”
Wilhelm der Grosse Deutscher Kaiser
”
, Professore. “
Koenig von Preusseri
”
.’