War Game (32 page)

Charlie shook his head. “Oh—not your greed, that I can accept. I can even understand why you’re so pig-scared of your own side that you have to give yourself a perfect alibi.”

“That’s true—I admit it. But then I’m still risking my life for my gold. You only stand to lose your gold and spend a few years in jail.”

“Your gold … your gold …” Suddenly Charlie’s expression hardened “Why should I believe in your gold? Why should I believe one single word you’ve said?”

“Why?” Audley drew a deep breath “Well, I’ll tell you why… . Because your ancestor Edmund Steyning was an artillery expert by profession—a trained gunner.”

“So what?”

Audley straightened up. “So he brought his biggest gun—
this
gun—“ he slapped the cannon sharply with the palm of his hand “—and he put it in the one place where it would be absolutely useless.”

Charlie frowned. “What d’you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Audley pointed out across the valley towards the earth ramparts of the old castle on the far hillside. “Four hundred yards as the crow flies—that would be point-blank range for this gun. Even the smallest field-pieces could carry far further than that. … So it’s wasted here—there wasn’t anything to fire at anyway: this wasn’t the vulnerable side, this wasn’t where the Royalist siege works were, or their batteries.”

“But this was where they attacked in the end—“ Charlie answered automatically, as though he didn’t know why he was arguing.

“A surprise attack. So how long d’you think it takes to load and fire this gun? Five minutes—ten minutes? Man, you’d be lucky to get ten shots an hour out of a monster like this—and even if you did you wouldn’t hit anything.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s too big to depress the angle of the barrel down the glacis. All he could do was fire straight ahead—“ Audley pointed his finger across the valley “—and that’s what Edmund Steyning did for a whole week: he fired point blank into a great bank of wet earth and
vexed
nobody. Except that he vexed Black Thomas Monson and Oliver Cromwell when they came to look for Nathaniel Parrott’s ton of gold and found that it had vanished into thin air. And they didn’t find it inside the castle defences because it wasn’t inside any more—it was outside.”

Charlie Ratcliffe was staring at the old castle as though hypnotised by its grassy banks.

Audley came round the rear of the cannon and stood at his shoulder. “The night before last I took an electronic metal probe and worked all along there,” he murmured. “And after an hour it started to sing like a nightingale to me. … See that scar of earth spread in the middle there—about half-way along—like a big rabbit-hole? They’re planted all around there, most of them, not more than three-foot deep, so far as I can make out … I dug a couple out from there, anyway.” He paused for a second. “Because I thought you might like to see a sample.”

Charlie turned his head quickly. “A sample?”

“Call it a souvenir, if you prefer. Or even a present.” Audley smiled. “I shall have enough for my modest needs, so I can spare you one—if not a present, say a down-payment?”

He lifted his sword-scabbard and jabbed hard at the topmost cannonball on the pyramid in front of them.

The ball quivered very slightly in its concrete socket.

“Forty-pounders—or something more, seeing that this one isn’t like the others,” said Audley. “I rolled the original one into the ditch.”

He held the scabbard in both hands and ran the metal tip of it down the dirt encrusted surface. “A very proper token from one traitor to another—in the best tradition, wouldn’t you say?”

The scabbard-tip began to bite deeper into the encrustation as it travelled down the arc of the ball towards its widest circumference, until finally it dislodged a whole flake of dirt.

Under the dirt, bearing the bright new scratch of the scabbard-tip in its softness, lay pale gold.

A SKIRMISH NEAR WESTMINSTER

SOMETIMES
it was better not to know a man too well, decided Audley. For just as inevitability took all the fun out of victory, so it removed the blessing of hope out of approaching disaster.

But there it was: Sir Frederick Clinton was standing under the John Singer Sargent portrait of Rear-Admiral Sir Reginald Hall, the greatest of all of his predecessors, with a glorious blaze of gladioli in the fireplace behind him and a welcoming smile on his lips, as he was accustomed to do before putting in the boot.

“David—good of you to drop in—sit down… . And how was Washington?”

Setzen Sie sich, Herr Audley!

“Too hot.”

Like this office.

“Yes, you’re a cold weather mortal, aren’t you! Next time we’ll have to find somewhere cooler for you… . But we’ve been having it quite warm here, you know, as a matter of fact.”

Too many double meanings there for comfort.

“So I’ve gathered,” said Audley.

Clinton sat down. “Well, I’ve been reading your reports—“

Plural.

“—the CIA one is most interesting.” Clinton paused. “And the Ratcliffe one … that’s interesting too. What you might call a satisfactory conclusion, fiscally speaking.”

Obviously he was expected to fight to the end, thought Audley. He shrugged. “We were lucky.”

“Ye-ess … I’m inclined to think you were.”

Audley smiled back at him. “The Minister said I was lucky. He’ll be glad to know I’m still on form.” Put that one in your pipe, Fred, and see how it tastes. “It’s a great virtue—luck.”

“But not everyone would say you’d been virtuous.”

“Not everyone would say I’d been given a fair chance. Little Tommy Stocker didn’t exactly confide in me at the briefing.”

Clinton shook his head. “Ah, now that’s not quite fair. We hadn’t the faintest idea Ratcliffe’s gold wasn’t genuine. And we had no proof of the Moscow connection either.”

But a suspicion, Audley thought bitterly. And a suspicion would have made all the difference to Henry Digby.

“So this is another one we owe to the CIA, then?”

“Indirectly, you might say.” Clinton had had almost enough of sparring now. “But then they did break the rules, didn’t they.”

“What rules?”

“Ye-ess, from you that’s a good question, David.” Clinton stirred the files in front of him to reveal a sheet of paper with a pencilled scrawl on it. “I’ve had a call from the Chief Constable of Mid-Wessex. It seems that you’ve annoyed one of his officers—a superintendent by the name of Weston.”

Audley felt absurdly pleased. It made him feel better not to have put one over on the Superintendent too successfully.

“If I have, then I’m sorry, Fred. He’s an extremely capable chap, Weston.”

“He is?” Clinton raised an eyebrow. “Well, he thinks you’re capable too— capable of anything. And this time he thinks you’ve got away with murder.”

Audley enlarged his smile. “Yes … well, I often do, don’t I? But I shall have to apologise to him.”

“I think he means it literally. So he may not accept your apology.”

“Literally? How on earth does he arrive at that conclusion?”

Clinton’s smile was no longer even a memory. “Fortunately for you—not with any proof. Otherwise he would have charged you, his Chief says. But he maintains you did it, all the same, somehow or other.” Clinton slid the paper back under one of the files and stared at Audley. “He’d just like to know how … and so would I, David.”

Audley pointed. “You’ve got my report, Fred.”

“So I have. And yet it doesn’t say anything about murder in it, or not the one Weston’s inquiring after.” Clinton tapped the files. “And I’ve also received a special forensic report from the Mid-Wessex Force.”

Audley nodded. “Well, you’ll just have to choose the one you like the better, won’t you?” he said politely. “As Weston would say, it’s proof that counts.”

Clinton continued to stare at him. “Oh, but they don’t conflict with each other at all. Yours has more … shall we say— theory in it. Plus all the information about the gold … But the section relating to the last fatality doesn’t differ factually. Indeed, both reports come to the same conclusion.”

“So the Chief Constable’s call was unofficial, then.”

“Entirely unofficial.” Clinton opened the top file and turned its contents to a marked passage almost at the end. “So … let me see now … what it amounts to is that you both believe that Charles Neville Steyning-Ratcliffe blew himself up while tampering with—or perhaps setting —an explosive device … which according to you was probably intended as a trap for —who was it”

“Professor Stephen Nayler.”

“That’s right. Because Nayler knew too much about the gold—yes.” Clinton nodded at the typed words. “And their forensic people have passed on various small objects and specimens to the Bomb Squad … which have been identified as parts of an American time pencil detonator—“ He looked up. “—the standard CIA fifteen-minute device.”

Audley nodded back. “There’ve been a lot of those around since Vietnam, Fred. Standard terrorist equipment now as well, they are.”

“Quite so, David. And of course it was the same type as the one found on the Ferryhill Industrial Estate—which really clinches it, doesn’t it?” Clinton paused. “But in any case you were in plain view, playing Cavaliers and Roundheads, for a good half an hour before the explosion. You never even went near the so-called ‘Powder Tent’—as the Superintendent himself is the first to testify.”

“Mrs. Fitzgibbon will, too.”

“I’ve no doubt she will. So you emerge without a stain on your character… . Which is just as well, because the Minister will want to see these files, and he would take an extremely dim view of our conniving at an assassination.”

“So he made very clear to me, Fred. He just wanted me to make things happen.”

“And you did, didn’t you?” Clinton shut the file and sat back. “But you had quite a long conversation with Ratcliffe earlier. What exactly did you talk about?”

“It’s in my report.”

“Yes. You say you pushed him a bit with what you’d found out about him. But he must have known you couldn’t prove anything?”

“I suggested to him that with Nayler’s help we could probably prove quite a lot. I’m a good liar.”

“I certainly wouldn’t quarrel with
that
claim.” Clinton put his hands on the edge of his desk and considered Audley in silence for a few moments. “So he decided to remove Nayler from the scene—that’s what it amounts to, does it?”

“Obviously he intended to remove somebody. Nayler’s the best bet.”

“Ye-ess… . But don’t you think it a bit odd that he should have tried to do it himself? He usually let the professionals make his hit for him.”

Audley shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t have time. Or maybe they just weren’t available when he needed them.” He looked inquiringly at Clinton. “Did he look for anyone?”

“Apparently not. He went back to his regiment after you’d talked to him, and then he ducked out again just before the explosion—they didn’t miss him at the time.” Clinton paused. “Funny though …”

“What?”

“Two of the people you suspected might have a hand in things—the men Gates and Bishop—they had a road accident just before the battle, on their way to Standingham. They ran into an American Air Force lorry—did you know that?”

“No.” Audley shook his head. “Nothing serious I hope?”

“Concussion and fractures. And it was their fault, it seems. You didn’t know about that?”

“Why should I? We never proved anything against them—or Colonel Butler didn’t. And if Ratcliffe didn’t look for them …” Audley spread his hands. “We’d pulled our people off them the day before, anyway. All except Frances—I told her to keep her eyes open for Gates and Bishop. And Paul Mitchell kept a sharp eye on Davenport all the time.”

“I know. … So what it amounts to finally is that Charlie Ratcliffe tried to do something for himself for once, and made a balls-up of it.”

“It looks that way,” Audley agreed. “He should have stuck to revolutionary journalism. It’s safer.”

“Very well.” Clinton leant forward and extracted the piece of paper from under the file again, tore it in two and dropped it into his wastepaper basket. “I accept your report.”

“Thank you, Fred.”

Now for it.

“And now, David, let’s stop chasing around and get down to the real facts. Weston’s a damn good copper, his chief says—and I’m an old copper of a sort too… . And you, as you have already admitted, are a liar.”

“So what does that mean?”

Clinton pointed a finger. “It means that you came to some sort of arrangement with the CIA—with that young man you so promptly allowed to get away afterwards, Davenport or Donaldson, or whatever his name was. Which I don’t like at all, but which I just might be ready to forgive, in the circumstances.”

“You would?”

“I
might
.” Clinton’s voice was suddenly cold. “But killing is another matter, David. If you’re getting a taste for that as a quick way out of your difficulties then I have to know about it. Because you’re no use to me like that.”

“You really think I killed him, Fred?”

Clinton stared at him. “Weston said you were after blood—he says he recognises that now.”

“I see.” Audley nodded back slowly. That was fair enough on Clinton’s part, because killing was as much an acquired taste as duelling, and there was only one way a successful duellist could reassure himself that he was still on the top line.

“The truth now, David.”

What was the truth?

“All right. I didn’t kill him, Fred. He killed himself.”

“But you knew he’d kill himself?”

“I hoped he would. And I did my best to ensure he did.”

“Then where’s the difference?”

“The difference … the difference is that it was up to him. If he was willing to kill—then he died. If he wasn’t— then he was home and dry. It was his choice.”

“That’s pretty shaky morality, David.”

“Okay. So next time a terrorist blows himself up on his own bomb you weep your crocodile tears and I’ll stick to my shaky morality, Fred.” Audley made as if to get up. “Is that all, then?”

Clinton waved his hand irritably. “Sit down, man, sit down—if there was a fault it was mine, in letting you loose.”