Authors: Anthony Price
“Quite okay, Elizabeth.” He took heart from her unofficial concern. “Embarrassed, but quite okay. Origin of call is Flat 7, Macmillan Gardens, 037-98842, the residence of Lady Alice Marshall-Pugh. Two requirements: Clear a priority scrambled line to Washington Station for onwards transmission to Wing-Commander Roskill—he should be somewhere in Georgia by now, but he’ll be checking back at frequent intervals, so they’d better be ready to tape Colonel Butler’s instructions for instant action, and no messing—understood?”
“Yes, Paul—understood.” Elizabeth was not normally so meek. “Understood.”
Her very meekness steadied him: she was picking up his implicit panic signal, and that was humiliating. “Also … I’d like to have a word with Colonel Butler, if that’s
possible
, Elizabeth dear.” He tried to recapture his own normal voice.
“It’s possible.” She was not deceived. “Hold the line.”
He caught Audley’s eye again, and observed that Audley was nodding. “Tell Jack to abort Oliver at once—” With what was rare delicacy for him Audley cut off the advice with a shrug “—Sorry, Paul—your show … But that’s what I would
advise
, is what I mean.”
Mitchell managed a smile. It was like the soldiers all remembered: some commands were rewarding, and others weren’t. Platoon commander and company commander were all right, because they were at the sharp end; and battalion commander was okay because he was father of the family; but nothing else was worth having until you got to the top and could conduct the whole orchestra of an army. And they were both uncomfortably somewhere in the middle now.
“I have Colonel Butler for you now. I am putting you through. Good luck, Paul darling.”
That was something anyway—
“Butler here.” the Colonel’s voice blotted out the echo of
darling.
“Mitchell?”
“Sir!” Mitchell stood to attention mentally. Butler liked things clear and concise. “I am speaking from the flat of Lady Alice Marshall-Pugh, off Regent’s Park. She is a close friend of Senator Cookridge. He had an appointment to meet her on Friday evening, before he gave his speech at the Savoy.”
Audley nodded at him again. “It was in my report.”
“It was in David’s report.”
“Yes.” Pause. “He met Latimer instead. So?”
“Sir … She says he met her as arranged. So Latimer met someone else. Cookridge couldn’t have been in two places at once.”
Pause. “Are you telling me Cookridge has a double?”
“No, sir. Not a double. Latimer’s probably never met Cookridge.” Another encouraging nod from Audley. “Hardly anyone over here has. A general resemblance would have been enough—if Colonel Morris said it was Cookridge, anyway …”
Pause. “You think Lady … Lady Marshall-Pugh is reliable Mitchell?”
Mitchell looked down at Lady Alice, who was observing him with rapt attention. At this short range he could smell old age mixed with Chanel No 5. Then he looked at Audley, but this time the big man hadn’t picked up any message.
So it was up to him, to his judgement. Which was fair enough, because he’d started it all.
“Either she is, or Morris is,” said Butler harshly. “You can’t have both.” Butler paused. “And I have just been informed that you’ve cleared a line to America—is that correct?”
“Yes.” The combined weight of time and distance, and of the equivocal events of the past forty-eight hours, pressed down on Mitchell.
He had always thought of himself as so clever
—
but when it came to the crunch he wasn’t at all
—
“Speak up, man!”
He saw Audley looking at him, and suddenly he heard Audley’s voice in his memory:
it was a damn good plan because it fitted together loosely, allowing for elements of bad luck
—
“No, sir.”
“No—?”
“Colonel Morris got his instructions by phone. He never met Cookridge. He could have been deceived also.” But it didn’t really matter: what mattered was the smell of the whole thing—and the presence of Winston Mulholland in it—and the fact that James Cable had come up with Lady Alice only as a long shot. “We have to get Oliver out of there, sir. Whether the Americans are in it or not—it doesn’t matter. I think she’s okay, and I think we’ve been set up somehow. And Oliver’s at the sharp end, and he doesn’t know it. So we’ve got to get him out.”
Pause. “Quite right, Mitchell.” This time it was Colonel Butler who was nodding at him, though from far away. “The SG is on the way—to the Americans as well as the Wing-Commander. And I have also sent minders to your present location, to seal it up. When they arrive you are to come on in. Right?”
Mitchell only gawped at the receiver for a second. Because, with The Beast there beside him, Colonel Butler could tap out his instructions with his fingers while his ear and his mouth were otherwise engaged. It was only technological.
“Yes, sir—”
Click.
“Well?” inquired Audley, with a supreme effort of politeness. “Did he buy it?”
Mitchell smiled reassuringly at Lady Alice before turning to Audley. “He’s sending in the Marines.”
“Good.” Audley stood up. “And the whole Union Army, I hope … Lady Alice—since you know so much about me, perhaps you will permit me to call on you again by appointment, to take you out to lunch?” He cocked an eye at Miss Wall. “With Sam … to put you both right about any slanders which may have been spread about me?”
Lady Alice inclined her head graciously. “Dr. Audley … we shall look forward to that with great pleasure.”
Audley’s eye came back to Mitchell. “In a little while I may phone you at the office, as from the departure lounge at Heathrow. And I confide that you will cancel my flight, Paul.”
“Is my Tom safe?” inquired Lady Alice. “You owe me that, Dr Mitchell.”
“Quite safe now, Lady Alice. And … I hope you don’t mind, but we will be giving you a bodyguard for tonight.”
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Miss Wall. “A … bodyguard!”
“Don’t witter, Sam!” snapped her mistress. “At our age—we should be so lucky!”
KINGSTON FIELDED THE
Ingram from the midst of his supermarket purchases with one hand, while the silenced pistol in his other hand covered the staircase above and behind Latimer and the hallway on his left in a narrow arc. Then the slightly blood-shot eyes in the black face switched to the doors on each side of him.
Latimer himself stood rooted to the spot, terrified first by the pistol as it passed and repassed him, and then by the sight of Joe tumbled in death on the landing behind him.
“Cmon—move it, man!” Kingston clutched the Ingram to his naked chest as he backed towards the open door, while his eyes and his pistol quartered the hall again. “We got to get off Sion land!”
For another half of a fraction of a second Latimer’s mind and his legs refused to move. Then they both accelerated him towards the doorway.
“Get the rifle—” Kingston’s final instruction caught him as he passed the negro and the light burst all around him.
The Confederate guard was wrapped round the corner of the balustrade on the verandah at the top of the steps, his legs sticking out stiffly halfway across them, with his rifle lying on the grass at the bottom.
As Latimer stooped to take up the rifle, already uncertain as to what to do next, Kingston passed him at the run, leaping half the flight in one bound, and was already way across the open space as he straightened up. And then he was no longer uncertain.
The trees were a thousand miles away, and the house reared up behind him as he ran, leaving his back naked. But it was too late for arguments and explanations—he had to
run.
There were bushes, bright red-flowered, to his left—and Kingston was turning, no longer holding the pistol, but with the Ingram held two-handed, sweeping left—and through him—and right, to cover his rear … Kingston had dropped to one knee, and was looking back, as though he didn’t exist, oblivious of him—
The trees were so far away, and then only with their thin scattering of leaves, and he had never run like this in his life, through hot and cold, outside him and inside him, towards a winning post which seemed unattainable—
He plunged into the beginning of the forest, at the end of the lawn, without stopping—trees were obstacles, but anything that wasn’t a tree could be burst through regardless, compared with what lay behind him.
Where was he going?
But that was not what was immediately important, any more than rattlesnakes and poison ivy were important: covering ground was what was important—there was no path, but any direction which was not backwards was the right one—
We got to get off old Sion land
— swerve left, swerve right—just keep running!
A stray branch whipped his face, starting tears and nearly blundering him into a thicker patch of undergrowth. He skidded in a shower of leaves, almost losing his balance as he twisted his direction—the bloody woods were all alike, and every way was suddenly indistinguishable—
Which way?
Tears and sweat blurred his vision.
He drew a shuddering breath, and was conscious of the rifle in his hands for the first time: he had picked it up on the negro’s order, but it had been no more than a stick of wood to him. Now it was a rifle—but it still might just as well be a stick of wood for all he could do with it: even if he had ever been any good with guns, he could hardly see now.
He brushed the sweat from his face with his sleeve, and blinked to clear his sight. He had to get moving again—but which way?
Then there was another sound in his ears, over to his left.
He swung the rifle towards it, blinking again to concentrate his partially-restored sight, and saw—saw with an overwhelming wave of relief and gratitude—the black shape of Kingston bobbing and weaving through the trees not far away.
“The creek, man—” the negro signalled urgently “—make for the creek!”
The creek of course! That was the nearest and most obvious boundary of old Sion land. When they reached that they would at least know where they were, and whatever Kingston had in mind then, it was better than the near-panic in his own brain.
There was no time to argue anyway, for the man was already ahead of him, running like a gazelle.
Latimer’s aching legs carried him forward. As he fended off branches with the rifle he felt an arrow of pain in his side which made him gasp: he had not had a stitch like that for years—not since the agony of those dreadful house-runs at school, when he had been the fat little boy at the back of the run—
“Come on, Latimer! Don’t let the House down!”
Latimer swore silently at the memory as he ran—
“Come on, Latimer! The way to beat a stitch is to run it
off!”
They had all had longer legs, and he had always come in last: this was only history repeating itself unbearably—
History repeating itself: long ago the Iowans had run through these woods, making for the creek!
At last the land was changing—it was no longer dead level, but was falling away ahead of him. Yet now Kingston was changing direction, no longer taking the shortest route down the slope, but veering away to his right, in the direction of the bridge.
But the bridge was guarded
—
He tried to shout, but it was useless: the arrow had fallen from his side, but he had no breath left for shouting. His chest hurt, and he could hardly take in enough air, and what he could take in burnt like fire. And he was wringing wet with sweat, as though he’d already been in the river.
It was no good: he couldn’t go on, and he wouldn’t go on
—
not that way, into danger!
And besides, he didn’t owe Kingston anything. It was illogical to think of the negro as having saved him: Kingston had delivered him into danger, and then into greater danger when the first danger had receded—he owed Kingston nothing except suspicion.
His legs were carrying him downhill. The stream at the bottom there was probably not very deep, and even if it was, it was not very wide anyway. And he was sick and tired of being led by the nose.
“Where you going, man?” Kingston’s voice was only slightly breathless. It was more surprised than breathless.
Latimer looked up towards the voice. Kingston’s naked chest was shiny with sweat, and it rose and fell with deep controlled breaths.
“Where you going?” repeated Kingston, steadying himself on a tree with one hand. But it was the other hand which steadied Latimer: the Ingram in that black hand was still as much a persuader as it had been in Joe’s.
“They—” He struggled to control his own breathlessness “—they have—men—covering … covering the bridge.”
“You don’t say?” The grin was only slightly smaller than usual. “Man, they got men all over.” Kingston nodded past him down the slope. “Got an old boathouse down there, covers the creek for half a mile either way nicely.” He jerked his head in the opposite direction. “’Nother guy by the bend can see up the creek this way, an’ down to the bridge. Like, interlocking fields of fire, as they say. Maybe more by now … Though losing Joe’ll throw them some.” The grin widened. “Make them trigger-happy too, though.” This time the nod was towards the rifle in Latimer’s hands. “You any good with that, Oliver?”
“Not much.” It was no good pretending.
“Uh-huh.” Kingston didn’t seem surprised. “Well, you jus’ squeeze the trigger when you have to. ’Cause they won’t know that.” Grin. “We go on a piece, an’ the creek’s not too wide, an’ there’s good cover on the other side. Okay?”
It was not at all okay, but it made sense as far as anything did, leaving aside the traffic jam of questions in Latimer’s mind.
“Okay?” repeated Kingston.
“Okay.” There wasn’t time for questions. All that was certain was that Kingston knew more about the defences of Sion Crossing than he did.
“Okay.” Kingston pointed up the slope. “You keep your eye on the top—you see anything on the skyline, don’t holler—jus’ tap me on the shoulder an’ give me the rifle. An’ if I hit the dirt, you hit it too.” He looked at Latimer critically. “Gimme your coat.”
“What?”
“Jus’ give it me, man.”