Authors: Anthony Price
Harry ran his eye over the bottles behind the bar. “No, sir. Would Crême-de-Menthe do?”
“Probably.” Morris sighed. “Harry, would you give us some privacy? These two gentlemen are about to screw me for all I’m worth. I won’t bleed, but it may not be a pretty sight. So bug off, there’s a good fellow.”
Harry took them all in, finally coming back to Morris. “Well—that’s life, sir: there’s always someone waiting for the chance. Usually it’s the tax-man.” Then he brightened. “Just don’t forget you’ve got a pint in with Dr Mitchell—right?”
Morris watched the barman depart. “With a hemlock chaser … Okay, David … so
someone’s
up to
something.
But not
me
—and I don’t know
what.
And that’s straight.” He started his latest pint.
Audley drank, and then nodded. “But you said ‘Catch-22’, nevertheless?”
“Oh—sure! Whichever way it goes, I’m going to lose. Because someone
is
up to something—”
“Someone American.” Mitchell pretended to know a piece of common knowledge, which was either the old bastard’s identity, or that bitch’s, or both.
“But you were the middleman, old buddy,” said Audley. “You’re not exactly a virgin waylaid on her journey home to the YWCA, are you?”
Morris’s features twisted. “That’s not far from the goddam’ truth, actually. And I’m about to be screwed, either way—I’m resigned to that.”
Audley leaned forward. “I could take that as a kind of insult, old friend. We didn’t start this, remember?”
“Uh-huh. You didn’t start it—I didn’t start it. But if I don’t come clean with you, you foreclose on my mortgage—” Morris glanced at Mitchell as though he well knew the author of his misfortunes “—and if I do … then Senator Cookridge will sure as hell have me run out of this town on a rail.”
Senator Cookridge? Mitchell just had time, warned by
if I do
, to hold his expression of well-informed politeness.
“Uh-huh!” Finding no comfort in Mitchell, Morris turned back to Audley. “So it seems I’m caught between a rock and a hard place, then.”
“Not necessarily.” Audley shook his head quickly.
Cookridge
?
“No?” The tiniest flicker of hope crossed Morris’s face. “Go on, David—?”
Cookridge?
Christ! That raised the stakes!
And, in raising them, it accounted for the American’s resistance to their pressure. And—
Christ
! He musn’t look so hard at Audley to see if he had made the same connection!
He buried his face in his Guinness glass.
“Me?” Audley’s voice hardened. “It’s you who should be talking, not me.” He shifted his glance to Mitchell, and then back to Morris. “And if you’re wondering about how long you can stall us … we’re already into injury time, old buddy.”
“I’ll bet.” Morris accepted the situation. “But what I was actually wondering about … is just how much you really know, David?”
“How much do we know?” Audley sniffed at the question, as though he didn’t fancy the smell of it. “We know about the Senator … we know about ‘the old bastard’.” He sniffed again. “We don’t know nearly enough about that ‘bitch’ of yours, to be honest.” He flicked a smile at Mitchell. “And we know a hell of a lot about the American Civil War—or ‘the War Between the States’, if you prefer … or ‘the War for Southern Independence’, or whatever you like… . But again, not nearly enough—will that do?”
Morris gave him an evil smile. “You don’t know about Lucy? Now that surprises me!”
Audley gestured abruptly, nearly upsetting the nearest glass. “Oh, for God’s sake, Howard! Friendship is one thing—”
“Friendship?” Morris fired the word back at him. “It’s my neck, buster—not
yours
! And thanks to me, by God!”
“Thanks to you?” Audley frowned.
“This time you owe me—you
really
owe me—my God, you do!” Morris chuckled insincerely. “You know where you should be?” Morris pointed at Audley. “You know where?”
“You tell me.”
“Uh-huh.” The finger waved negatively at Audley. “You tell me where you think Oliver St John Latimer is first. Then I’ll tell you where you should be. Okay?”
For the first time Mitchell wondered whether it was all the beer that Howard Morris had taken on board which was talking. But somehow he didn’t think it was.
“Very well.” Audley was deadly sober, anyway. “We think he’s in the United States.”
“You think?”
“Cut the bullshit, Howard. He may be there—and where should I be?” Beyond sobriety, Audley was deadly serious now.
“Okay.” Morris picked up the message. “You should be wherever he is, David.” His mouth tightened. “Instead of him.”
“Instead?”
“That’s right. Instead.” Morris stared at Audley unblinkingly. “He wanted you—”
“He?”
“Senator Cookridge—now who’s bullshitting?” Morris’s face twisted. “He wanted you—the great David Audley, the historian—the finder of lost things—the picker-up of unconsidered trifles … the great and good friend of the United States of America.” The finger came up again. “He wanted
you
, David—and he wanted
me
to get you. So … now do you see the joke?”
For a moment Audley said nothing, and they were in a private silence in the midst of the bar’s hubbub.
“You mean … you disobeyed orders?” The joke appeared to puzzle Audley.
“They weren’t orders exactly. He asked me to do him a favour, that’s all.”
“Which you didn’t do.”
Morris shrugged. “I did my best, in the time allowed. He wanted you quickly—I went to the Oxbridge because I heard you’d be there. But you didn’t turn up.”
Mitchell stirred. “But Latimer did turn up?” There was something not quite right about this. “So you approached him instead?”
Morris looked at him. “Yes, Dr Mitchell. Like they say, a bird in the hand, is it?” He smiled at Mitchell. “Or is it Hobson’s Choice?”
“He asked for
me
, Howard?” Audley was frowning more deeply now. “Specifically for me?”
“Uh-huh.” Howard drank some more beer. “For the celebrated David Audley, no less.”
“Go on.”
“Go on—where?”
“Don’t play dumb, Howard.” By the look on his face Audley had reached Mitchell’s
unless
. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“Okay.” The glass was empty. “I got a call from him yesterday. I was doing my weekly thing at Grosvenor Square … like telling Schwarz what he didn’t want to hear, and wasn’t going to believe, about Greenham.” The American’s mouth twisted under his moustache. “No matter … I got this call, which gave Schwarz a nasty turn, because the Senator farts, and they all smell roses—it was bad news to Schwarz that the Senator even knew of my existence.”
“You know Cookridge?”
“Never set eyes on the old bastard. But he sure knows about me.” Morris paused. “And he sure knows about
you
, old buddy. Like … he knows we have a passing acquaintance, for instance.”
“What else does he know about me?”
“Oh … he dropped some names.” Morris glanced at Mitchell for a fraction of a second.
“Go on. What names?”
“Well … let’s say he knows your wife’s maiden name, huh? And there was one of our guys you worked with once—a certain Major Sheldon, who pulled teeth for the USAF down Salisbury-way a few years back—and a few KGB teeth too—remember?” Morris smiled at his friend. “And he said you were an authority on Civil Wars—yours and ours.”
Mitchell kept his eyes on the American, while placing half of the last allusion accurately from his own fledgling experience. That had been when he had met Frances for the first time, and the memory was unfailingly painful.
Frances
…
oh Frances, Frances
…
“Yes?” If Audley had memories, he didn’t show them.
“He told me to make contact with his daughter, Lucy. He said she had all the information I needed. I was just to set up the meeting, but she would handle it from there on—I was to get to hell out of it, on pain of death.” Morris gestured. “Oh, he wrapped it up … And he emphasized that it was entirely private, not professional … And he put a big cherry on the top of the cake, naturally.” The very white teeth showed under the moustache. “He let slip that I was the man he trusted to do the job right, not Schwarz. And that there were some changes already in the pipeline—all quite regardless of this little private matter, of course.” Morris signalled down the bar. “Harry—I thirst.”
Mitchell thrust Frances back into her little English churchyard, and looked at Audley.
“David—”
“Yes.” Audley didn’t look back at him. “It stinks.”
“Like a battlefield on the third day,” agreed Morris.
“So what did you do?” asked Mitchell.
“I did as I was told—inevitably.” Morris reached for his latest pint. “Who was I to question the Senator’s slightest whim?” He tested the new pint, and found it satisfactory.
“So you went to the Oxbridge—?”
“Not directly.” Morris trusted Mitchell now, on the twin grounds that Audley evidently did so and because he had committed himself, and consequently had no choice. “With my responsibility for Cruise Security I just naturally had to check up on the Senator’s schedule for the evening—just in case the ladies of Greenham might have planned to attend his dinner engagement with His Royal Highness … professional etiquette, and all that—” he put his hand to his mouth “—pardon! This beer’s not absolutely right—the Senator is a strong supporter of NATO, after all—” he gave Audley a little nod “—he is actually quite a sound old bastard, present events apart: for a mid-westerner he shows a surprising grasp of geography … meaning, he knows that Europe lies between the Soviet Union and the US of A, more or less, David. Which is more than I can say for some of his colleagues.”
“And?” Audley urged his friend patiently.
“And there was a little private time built into his schedule, before dinner.” Morris nodded. “It seems he was over here a million years ago, as a mere stripling, dropping bombs from a B-17 on to our West German allies. Which accounts for his nodding acquaintance with the geography of the area, I suppose … And while he was taking time off from pulverizing the Third Reich he occasionally came up to the Big Smoke for rest and refreshment, like any red-blooded American boy.” Another smile. “Cementing Anglo-American relationships—you know.”
“He whored around.” Audley, who just dated from those historical times, didn’t smile.
“I thought you were going to say that.” Morris looked pleased. “A very common British misapprehension—‘Over here, over-paid, over-sexed’ … Actually, he was one of the good Christian boys who played the church organ and sang in the choir, and really did cement Anglo-American friendship. And the lady he came back to see—
allegedly
came back to see—is about a hundred years old, and she really
is
a lady—and an old dragon, too … Lady Something-Something, of London W1, who drove an ambulance and dispensed tea and buns from a Church of England tea-and-bun wagon in the Blitz over here.” The smile vanished. “At least, that’s the story officially. Unofficially … I rather think he dropped in on Latimer in a private room in the Oxbridge, and talked about the War between the States.”
“You didn’t stay to see?”
Morris winced. “There were some guys I didn’t know turned up, to case the joint. So I decided it might not be too healthy to chance my luck.” He finally settled his eye on Audley. “Besides which … I’d already done the deed, David.”
Audley considered his friend without speaking.
The silence lengthened between them until Mitchell could stand it no longer. “You substituted Latimer … Why?”
The eye switched to Mitchell. “Because he was there, I guess, Dr Mitchell. Like climbing mountains.”
Audley emitted a curious sound. “Or because you didn’t like it?”
“That too.” Morris stared into his beer for a moment, and then looked up. “I guess I didn’t like it—and he was there, and I didn’t want to disappoint the Senator … supposing I was wrong—okay?” The look zeroed in on Audley. “I guess I’m justly served, having you screw me like this.”
“Justly served?” Mitchell frowned.
“I shouldn’t have done it. The Devil tempted me … if it had been David, I’d have told him to see the Senator, and to be nice to him—but to turn the old bastard down flat, whatever he wanted.” Morris shook his head sadly. “But …” He looked at Audley. “But … it being Latimer, I didn’t care so much.”
“You didn’t trust me, did you?” Audley produced his very rare sweet smile—the genuine one. “You thought I wouldn’t take your advice?”
Morris rocked on his bar stool. “Christ, David—you’ve got one helluva bad record for not being able to resist temptation, haven’t you! And this was a bloody-near perfect temptation, too—a nice bit of history somewhere—with a first-class ticket to the States thrown in … I never thought Latimer would bite—I thought he’d run a mile, rather than go into the field, even if it was a private affair …”
“And Senator Cookridge, too!” Audley nodded. “I’d certainly take a risk or two to get in with him—” He switched the nod to Mitchell “—he’s a new man, and I’ve never met him. So he doesn’t owe me anything yet.” The nod came back to Morris. “But I would have cleared it with Jack Butler first. I wouldn’t just have gone swanning off into the wild blue yonder, as Oliver has done.”
Morris grimaced. “Well, that would have been a turn-up for the book. But you can’t expect me to know when leopards change their spots—I thought you’d go … and I thought Latimer
wouldn’t
go, anyway—”
“But he
has
gone, Colonel,” Mitchell intervened.
“Okay. So I was wrong.” Morris spread his hands. “So I don’t know what makes Oliver St John Latimer tick—so maybe he’s got an eye for a pretty woman … I don’t know!” He came back to Audley quickly. “And that was the clincher, David—I knew you’d succumb to the fair Lucy’s charms, the moment she lowered her long lashes and showed you her even longer legs. And …” He stopped.
“And?”
“And even more when you knew who she really was.” Morris watched Audley. “
Lucy Cookridge
—doesn’t she ring a bell?”
“Should she?” Audley plainly disliked being watched so expectantly. “I told you, Howard, Cookridge is a new man so far as I’m concerned.”