War Game (22 page)

“Philip Oates knew he was being photographed,” said Frances, holding up the snap.

“I hope they all knew they were being photographed,” said Audley. “These are four people we’re leaning on—I told you. Plus Charlie Ratcliffe himself. All five of them, they’re going to hear their phones go ‘click’ when they lift the receiver. They’re going to notice cars parked across the street from where they live—the same cars that were parked across the road from where they work. Their friends are going to tell them that people have been asking questions about them. And the people they see aren’t going to be the people who are doing the real watching, either. They’re each getting the VIP treatment.”

Frances frowned. “You mean … Fail-Safe Surveillance?”

“For a week, yes.”

“Even for a week, that’s pretty expensive stuff.” Frances’s brow furrowed with the effort of the mental arithmetic she was doing. “I didn’t know your budget stretched to that sort of thing just now.”

Mitchell laughed suddenly. “Maybe we’re expecting a profit for once. A ton of gold would pay a fairish dividend on the deal.”

“Don’t be silly, Paul.”

“I’m not being silly, honeybunch. If David does pull this rabbit out of the hat not even the Tribune Group will be able to complain about the high cost of security —we could probably put in for a Queen’s Award for Industry, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“But there’s something not right about this.” Frances shrugged him off simply by staring at Audley. “There are too many people getting involved, David. First there were just the three of us—or four, with that policeman of yours. But now there are five surveillance teams … and they can’t possibly operate at fail-safe level without four to a team. Plus a field controller and a technical services adviser for the electronics.” She shook her head. “That’s an awful lot of people, David.”

“Plus the red-haired, red-faced gentleman,” murmured Mitchell. “But of course we do have ‘friends’ helping us this time, according to David.”

“Special Branch,” said Frances, still watching Audley. “Special Branch doing the harassment bit—which they hate doing. And we hate making them do it… So you can talk about us leaning on Charlie Ratcliffe, but it feels more like someone’s leaning on us.”

Another bright one, thought Audley. But then Mitchell, the trained military historian, had enjoyed his part of the assignment, which was little more than doing what came naturally to him. Whereas Frances, who had cut her teeth on very different problems, would have little sympathy for her task, and none at all for dressing up like this. And that had spurred her on to question its nature.

But with such a bright one, doubt was a corrosive which had to be treated seriously. “There’s a political angle to this, Frances,” he said gently. “Sometimes the politicians require us to pick their chestnuts out of the fire, and we have to do it.

“Of course there’s a political angle,” said Mitchell dismissively. “Charlie Ratcliffe is a political animal. And the lunatic left is a political force—a disproportionate force too, even without a war-chest full of gold. We’ve got to take his goodies away from him, Frances. It’s as simple as that.”

“It isn’t simple at all,” snapped Frances.

“No, it isn’t simple.” Audley recognised the source of her doubt: it was the knowledge that there on the left, but for the grace of God, went Frances herself, in the ranks of Charlie Ratcliffe’s regiment. “But it isn’t improper either. If Ratcliffe had played straight to get his gold, we wouldn’t touch him. But he didn’t play straight, he played dirty. He had another human being killed—“ he had to hold her here “—like a rabbit.”

Kill it, Audley—go on, man—kill it!

“Yes—“ Mitchell started to speak, but caught Audley’s eye just in time. As though to stop up his mouth he started to munch the parsley which Mistress Henrietta had given him.

“Like a rabbit, Frances,” Audley repeated. “And he didn’t even have the guts to do his own killing. He hired someone.”

He could feel her doubt weakening. In the end it was always a matter of trust and now she wanted to trust him, not knowing that he had won her by summoning up that old, dark memory of the harvest field.

She stared at him. “You’re sure?”

No.

But that trust was a two-way thing, like the feudal bond he had almost accepted in the Minister’s car.

“Yes.”

No more doubt: it was gone like a shadow in the sunlight. Frances would serve now, consenting to whatever had to be done.

“So what next?” asked Mitchell through the parsley. “You really want me to lean on John Lumley?”

“I don’t want you to do anything, either of you. Keep an eye open for them, but don’t do anything. Just fight your battle today the way it’s scripted. You’re my Tenth Legion.”

“More like Fifth Column. So what are we being reserved for, my lord?”

“The storming of Standingham Castle next Saturday.”

Mitchell’s eyes lit up. “Of course! Forgive me for being so dim, David—I’d got my parts mixed up.”

“Your what?”

Mitchell laughed. “I was still doing my
Henry V
bit—your favourite play, as we all know, David—

To horse, you gallant princes! Straight to horse!”

“Don’t be a pain, Paul,” said Frances.

“You can’t talk, Frances dear. You’ve been doing it far worse than me—

But if the cause be not good, the king himself hath a heavy reckoning to make …”

What a young snake the boy was, thought Audley ruefully.

“But now you know our cause is just, our quarrel honourable, you can safely shift from Agincourt to Elsinore, my lady.” Mitchell was enjoying himself. “Because we’re going to be Hamlet’s Players in
The Murder of Gonzago
—

The play’s the thing
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.

“Bravo and good on you, David. We’ll pronounce our lines trippingly, I promise you. Is there anything else you want?”

Yes, just one thing so far as Mitchell was concerned, thought Audley fervently. But he would have to settle for something less drastic.

“Yes, there is one thing,” he said heavily.

“Be my guest.”

“I’d like to know why the hell you’re eating parsley.”

But that only stopped Mitchell for a fraction of a second. “Mistress Henrietta’s gift? But of course—I asked her for it.” Mitchell pointed to the corner of the playroom, to a small table laden with Air Vice-Marshal Rushworth’s forgotten sandwiches and beer bottles. “The Royalist cavalry aren’t allowed to drink today—a shocking anachronism, because they were pie-eyed back in ‘44. But I’ve had a beer and I can’t afford to be dismissed the service until after I’ve stormed Standingham next week. Didn’t your father ever tell you that parsley takes away the smell of booze, David?”

COLONEL BUTLER
was standing in a great bow window staring down at the bridge. In his hand he had a large cut-glass tumbler of heavily-watered whisky; Audley knew it was whisky, because Butler hated sherry and avoided beer, which put too much of a strain on his bladder; and he knew it was heavily watered, because Butler was on duty, and if there was a god to whom Butler knelt (other than the one who protected his three small daughters) it would be Mithras, the soldier’s god of Duty.

The same sun which had bathed Paul Mitchell and Frances Fitzgibbon with seventeenth-century magic, the high midday sun, turned Butler’s fiery red hair to a rich gold, but even in the sunlight Audley could see that there was grey in it now. Colonel Butler had started to grow grey in his country’s service, which would probably have pleased Butler if anyone had dared say as much.

“Hullo, Jack,” said Audley. “Good to see you.”

“David.” The effort of saying “David” taxed Butler sorely. It had taken Jack Butler five years to make the great leap from “Audley” to “David”, which he would have managed for his youngest and greenest subaltern in a few hours if he had remained with his Lancashire Riflemen. And by now he would have been commanding that regiment for sure; in fact, with Ulster the way it was he would have been commanding a good deal more than that, certainly more than five surveillance teams and a few Special Branch men. But Duty had got in the way of predictable promotion, and Jack Butler would never wear red tabs on his lapels now, he would live and die a colonel on the general list, seconded to special duty with an obscure department of the Ministry of Defence. And live and die quite happily, by Mithras!

But that didn’t mean that he had to like calling David Audley “David” when he didn’t even approve of David Audley.

It had been his god-daughter Catherine Audley who had finally led him to that, and even she hadn’t been enough to make Butler glad to see her father.

“Politics, Jack.”

“Politics. Aye, politics.” Butler looked at his watch. “We haven’t much time.”

“No. Thanks for the photographs. I liked your messengers.” Audley smiled. “The boy didn’t say a word, the girl did all the talking.”

“That would be her.” Butler didn’t smile back, but his face softened for half a second. “I’m not supposed to communicate with your inside people, that’s why— not even supposed to know who they are. But I’ve seen the young woman Fitzgibbon on the ridge.”

Audley nodded. “Looks the part, doesn’t she?”

“It suits her, I’ll say that. And I wouldn’t have thought so.”

“You wouldn’t?” But he couldn’t have Frances sold short. “More fool you, then. She’s a damn good one.”

That seemed to please Butler. “If you say so.”

Which side would Butler have been on in 1643? thought Audley suddenly. That would be a pretty question to settle, with loyalty and duty and honour split right down the middle by common sense and those intellectual qualities which were hidden behind the archetypal red face.

But that wasn’t today’s problem, thank God!

“The other one’s Paul Mitchell.”

“Hah!” That was as close as Butler ever got to laughing.

“You think that amusing?”

Butler’s face shut like a portcullis. “I think you’ve got two good ones then, that’s what I think.”

Audley was irritated at the anger he felt. “But you also think it’s funny. Why?”

Butler looked at his watch again.

“Why?” Audley persisted.

Butler shrugged. “I think it’s … interesting that you don’t like him.”

“What d’you mean by that?”

This time Butler sighed, looking at Audley for a moment with his head on one side. “Let’s say … I think you ought to look in the mirror sometime, and then look at Mitchell. But I’d prefer to bring you up to date, if you don’t mind.”

Audley swallowed. “Very well.”

“The London end is going satisfactorily. There’s a rumour a foot thick in the City that Ratcliffe’s credit isn’t so good any more. We haven’t attempted to define it, but the way it’s come back to us is that there’s been a break in the murder investigation which implicates him and that there’s a technicality in the treasure trove law which no one has thought of before.”

“But we didn’t start those rumours?”

Butler shook his head. “No. We just put you in at the top, that’s all. They’ve done the rest themselves … with a little help from your friend Fattorini. He’s been a tower of weakness in the market.”

Audley smiled to himself at the thought of Matthew happily serving God and Mammon at the same time.

“And our five subjects?”

Butler took a sip of whisky. “Ratcliffe is a bit rattled. He was close to clinching a deal on a nice little second-hand offset press—the printer’s about to go bust—and this has nearly scuppered it. We’ve helped someone else put in a cash bid for the same press backed with a government printing contract, too … he doesn’t know about the contract, but he does know about the bid. And his old printer is baying for the money he owes.”

“I’d heard about that.”

Butler’s lip drooped. “There’s a nasty solicitor’s letter in the post. He should have got it by now.”

“So he should be running scared?”

“Not scared. I don’t think this lad will scare easily. But angry—yes, I think he may well be angry. Because he’s not stupid and he can put two and two together.”

“But he can’t prove anything?”

“Not a thing. And that’s really what’s making him angry: he isn’t used to the other side playing dirty. But beyond that, he must assume that we’re working on something real, and he can’t possibly have any idea what it is.”

That was true, certainly. Charlie Ratcliffe had too much at stake to assume they were bluffing, and with luck also too much to tempt him to play it cool in the hope of calling their bluff. If he wasn’t off balance yet he was no longer quite steady.

“Good. And the other four?”

Butler drew a deep breath. “It’s really too early to say. If there’s a guilty one then he’s got the most reason to play innocent, and the innocent ones haven’t had enough prodding to wonder what the devil’s happening. Also, if the innocent ones are guilty of something we’re not interested in —that can be a problem.”

“But you’ve done some checking on them?”

“Oh yes, we’ve checked them. But first time round there’s nothing anyone could put a finger on.”

“There wouldn’t be. And Mitchell swears Lumley is clean, for one.”

Butler nodded, lips tightly compressed. “Yes, he would. He knows Lumley from the time before he was with us, when he was a research fellow at the Institute for Military Studies. And I’d be inclined to go along with him there, too. Lumley has the wrong profile for Ratcliffe’s purposes. And also he’s the one of the four that Ratcliffe has never met, so far as we can establish.”

“But he has met the others?”

“Oh yes. That’s about all he has done with Oates and Bishop—met them. They’re not in his regiment, and they don’t have his extreme brand of politics, but they’re both postgraduate students at Wessex University, which is roughly what he is.”

“Sociology?”

“No. They’re both geographers, actually. One’s doing a thesis on geology now, and the other’s writing a book on meteorology. Ology is about the only thing they have in common that we can find, but it’s early days yet.”

Early days. But there were only seven days to the storming of Standingham Castle, and after that all days might be too late.