For the Good of the State (23 page)

That certainly sounded like good, friendly, special relationship advice, even if it was useless. ‘He won’t do that, Willy.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘So I can’t—even though I’d like to.’

‘No.’ She nodded again. ‘He said Audley wouldn’t run.’ Nod. ‘Not even after what happened yesterday.’ This time, no nod; merely curiosity. ‘He said Audley wouldn’t run—and wouldn’t trust anyone except himself.’

He might as well feed her something, to take back to her boss. And, after he’d let it slip, the CIA would pick up Basil Cole’s accident soon enough, anyway. ‘He’s also lost an old colleague, from yesterday morning.’ The memory of Audley’s anger came back to him. ‘So it’s personal, as well as professional. I think he wants blood for blood now.’

The words seemed to push her back into the pillows of the great bed, making her look smaller and, for the first time, a little frightened. For an instant, in spite of himself, he almost believed what he wanted to believe, even though he knew she wanted him to believe it too: that she wasn’t really Company talent, but just a cypher clerk whose private life had come in useful to her bosses.

But then his credulity snapped, and he grinned at her. ‘So … you see, I wasn’t altogether guessing when I said that Professor Nikolai Andrievich Panin was in trouble, Willy darling. Because your boss, Colonel Sheldon—he’s damn right about David Audley: he may be an
old
man, but he’s a tough old bastard. And he’s in a nasty frame of mind right now, I rather think—a nasty
revengeful
frame of mind. And not just because some foolish fellow took the liberty of shooting at him in his own home. And he doesn’t regard that as cricket … But some other foolish fellow has terminated someone he values.’ He couldn’t hold the grin. ‘So if this was your home-state, back in the old days, you’d be watching the smoke-signals in the hills, and hearing the war-drums in the distance. Because these are
his
ancestral hunting-grounds, Willy. So maybe you should be giving Colonel Sheldon’s advice to Comrade Professor Panin, not to me.’

‘Uh-huh?’ She had got her cool back, and she was almost his old lost Willy again. ‘But you haven’t talked to him yet—?’ She busied herself suddenly with plumping up the pillows alongside her, shifting from her almost-central position.

‘The Comrade-Professor?’ In another moment she was going to invite him in beside her. But he wasn’t ready for that: from beside her, he wouldn’t be able to see her full face—her beautiful, golden-freckled, treacherous face. And the rest of her would play hell with his concentration, too. ‘Hell—you know we haven’t!’ (An incongruous recollection of the motorway accident scene returned, when he had wanted to pull rank over the police, to get ahead, and Audley had rejected the idea out-of-hand: ‘
But we’ll be here an hour,
David!’—‘So I get another hour’s sleep, then. Let the bugger sweat, wondering what we’re up to. I’m not at his beck-and-call, keeping unilateral engagements, anyway, damn it all!’)
‘I’ll phone ahead, to say we’ll be late.’
(That had been when Audley had animated himself for a moment: ‘Tell them I want two rounds of smoked salmon sandwiches, cut thin but with the crusts included
…
and a bottle of good White Burgundy (they won’t have a decent Graves, they never do)
…
And I shall want a pudding—something with chocolate—milk chocolate
…
and their best Sauternes or Barsac, on ice—on ice, mind you, not in the bloody fridge: tell them that, Tom
.’)

‘But he left a note—?’

And I’ll bet you’ve read it, too
! ‘Yes.’
(That neat, meticulous, grammatical note, traced by a hand accustomed to Cyrillic, if not classical Greek, he had thought
.) ‘He said that he’d had a long day, with the flight and all the boring formalities, and the long drive.’
(And meticulously formal, too: ‘My dear Doctor Audley
…
“
and ’this long journey which we share
…
‘ down to ’With respect and sincerity‘—huh!—before that elaborate signature.)
’He wants to meet us tomorrow, somewhere in the open, but somewhere safe, Willy.‘

She pretended to chew on that, as though it was news to her.

Jezebel
! She wanted to ask him where, but that was too obvious even for her.

But, instead of answering straight away, she reached across and twitched open the covers on what had to be his team’s side of the rugger pitch. ‘Come inside, Tom.’

He mustn’t be that easy. ‘You said he was in trouble—“big trouble”. What sort of trouble?’ He ignored the unbeatable offer, as though he hadn’t heard it. ‘Bigger trouble than Audley is—?’

‘Yes.’ This time she pretended that she was recalling what had been said to her—a mere cypher clerk suddenly briefed beyond her competence, on matters which she’d never deciphered or enciphered. “They say he’s out of favour, in Moscow. They said he was almost ready for the scrap-heap, Tom. They were surprised he’d even been let out, to talk to your Dr Audley.‘

Was that what his Dr Audley had hinted at? But he had said more than that. And she was fishing now—and she was bloody good at it.

So he could fish back, equally innocently. ‘Do they think he’s open to offers?’

‘No.’ She shook her head so quickly that a golden tendril flopped down, across the rise of one breast. ‘Colonel Sheldon said that was why he was let out—because he never would defect, he said.’

So Colonel Sheldon agreed with his old pal, David Audley. ‘So what exactly does he want with David Audley, Willy?’

‘We don’t know, exactly.’ She smoothed down his half of the pitch. ‘But they gave me three names, to tell you—to tell Dr Audley.’

Maybe not-so-good. Because, if they’d discussed the possibility of Panin’s defection in front of her, they would have talked about a lot more than that. But he must let that pass, for the time being. ‘What names, Willy?’

She took a remembering breath. ‘Zarubin, Gennadiy Ivanovich—’

She might just as,well have said Smith, Peter John, with a couple of hundred million to choose from. But maybe Audley would know better. ‘Yes?’

‘Marchuk, Leonid—Leonid—’ The rest of
Marchuk, Leonid
got away from her for a moment ‘—Leonid
Nikitich
Marchuk.’

Another bloody
Peter John Smith
. ‘Marchuk. Yes—?’

‘Pietruszka. Adam Pietruszka—’ she breathed out her relief at remembering the alien name ‘—Adam Pietruszka.’

Tom got up, and set himself to walk round the end of the bed. The curtains in the big window overlooking the road, through which he had seen that tell-tale sliver of light, were properly drawn now, he noted.

‘Marchuk?’
Pietruszka
! ‘Pietruszka? Zarubin?’

‘Colonel Sheldon said he’d know the names.’ She spoke in a small voice, diffidently, as though she knew that her Anglo-Saxon-American accent left something to be desired when she tried to wrap it round Slavonic names.

He came back to her at last, round the last right-turn.
Pietruszka
! Big smile. ‘Then I’m sure he will.’
Pietruszka, for Christ’s sake! Pietruszka—Piotrowski—Wolski—Chmielewski—Pekala
!

But if she was expecting him to react to that last name, then she was going to be disappointed. Because instead he sank into the bed, and took her into his arms, enfolding her softness even as that treacherous fragrance also enfolded him, mixed with her own unique Willy-smell, unforgettable and unforgotten, warm-and-female; and hated her and himself as he did so, in a mutual betrayal.

Pietruszka—that bloody—cowardly—murdering—Red —fucking
—
bastard — treacherous — swine
!

But she pushed at him—tried to push him away, almost convulsively, turning her face from him.

‘You’re so cold—God!’ She pushed at him again, turning her head quickly left and right. ‘God! I’m just crumpet now, aren’t I! I’m just a sodding freebie now!’ She stopped shaking under him, and became boneless and defenceless, staring up at him accusingly. ‘Just a freebie!’

Pietruszka
! he thought, as he let himself be repulsed.

She stared at him as though she didn’t know him. And they hadn’t known
him
either, when he’d been taken out of the Wloclawek reservoir: his own brother had only identified him from a birth-mark on the side of his chest, they had beaten him so badly—

Audley was right: blood for blood!

Everything came together in that instant, and he knew exactly where he was. And, better than that, he was at last where he wanted to be—which was more to the point!

He pulled back from her. ‘I’m sorry. You’re quite right—’ Pull back further: go sideways, away from her ‘—I think I want you more than I’ve ever wanted you … Because I
need
you … But if I’m cold it’s because I’m scared too, Willy.’

‘Tom … ’ That great lie, which was also not a lie, weakened her and confused her ‘ … I’m sorry, too.’

He sat back on his heels, in the midst of the great disordered bed. At least they were both agreed on something. But she mustn’t know why he agreed with her. And, anyway, it wasn’t a great lie, actually, at all: he was scared, and he did need her … and only a blind idiot wouldn’t have wanted her, the way she was now.

But, beyond David Audley and Nikolai Panin there was
Adam Pietruszka
now. And that changed the priorities—

Blood for blood
! But he must control himself, too.

‘Don’t be sorry.’ He sank back into the bed. And, the irony was, he would be warm now that he was in control of himself again. ‘Don’t be sorry. Willy.’ He reached out for her. Then he stopped, and reached up instead for the light switches, even as he re-inserted himself into the bed.

Darkness —

He reached out for her again, and this time she didn’t reject him. Rather, she melted into him.

Darkness and silence
. And he could almost feel the high folds of the moorland outside, protecting them.

But then she stirred uneasily, in the crook of his arm. ‘Shouldn’t you tell Audley those names, Tom?’

Zarubin—Marchuk
…
Pietruszka?

He looked up into nothingness, as she snuggled against him, knowing that the Green Man was up there above him.

Pietruszka—Piotrowski—Wolski—Chmielewski
: no doubts about those names!
And Pekala, too
!

The Green Man was still looking down on him, with that ancient inscrutable wisdom of his, dark and clear: his green leaves had once been symbolic of the pleasures of the flesh, but he also understood the necessity of sacrifice too, as part of regeneration: so his understanding was part of Father Jerzy’s, pagan and Christ-like and complete.

‘Tomorrow morning will do—’ He had surrendered to exhaustion, and there was no going back on that white flag now; because sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof … and
blood for blood
was for tomorrow ‘—let Audley get his night’s sleep—okay?’

She sighed. But then she snuggled again, without knowing what she’d accepted … which maybe Jaggard didn’t know … and maybe Panin didn’t know, either … But Audley would know, as Tom Arkenshaw knew now—

Pietruszka—
damn his black soul to hell
!

Tom felt himself divide, into his English half and his Polish half, as he held the woman he still loved in his arms, and deceived her.

Yet it was not a complete description: Father’s gentler English half had once demanded blood-for-blood, the old Anglo-Saxon
wergild—
but that was long ago … so that half could cherish Willy now. It was Mamusia’s side which wanted blood—

Somehow, he must preserve David Audley tomorrow, and yet he must exact
wergild
for Father Jerzy also—

‘Tom, honey … hold me tight, Tom—’

Like Audley, Father also had Norman blood in him. And Norman blood had a pragmatic virtue: it attended to first things first.

So that was what he would do now, then.

AUDLEY BLEW
his nose noisily, and with evident self-pity, and surveyed the elderly Ford Cortina with distaste, and muttered again under his breath.

Out of the corner of his eye Tom observed the garage man bestow the crisp new bank notes into a back pocket, and the garage man caught his glance and nodded ingratiatingly. ‘She’s a good runner—you can take my word for that, sir,’ he added quickly, in support of his nod. ‘An’ I’ll put your car under cover.‘

‘If you’d just get in the car, David.’ Tom moved into the pause before Audley could explode into disbelief. ‘Then we can talk.’

Audley opened his mouth, but another sneeze caught him before he could pronounce on the garage man’s word; and, before he could recover, Tom had ducked round to the other side of the Cortina and was into the driver’s seat; and, with commendable prudence, the garage man followed him as far as possible, bending down and tapping on the window, leaving Audley isolated.

Tom wound down the window.

‘I know she don’t look much—’ The man massaged his pocket, as though he couldn’t believe his luck ‘—but that engine there … that’s sweet as a bell! You just start ’er up, an‘ listen to ’er.‘

There was 95,000 on the clock, and the state of the bodywork suggested that this was the second time round. But Audley had surrendered to the inevitable and was climbing in on the other side, so he turned the ignition key quickly.

The engine roared—and roared louder as he revved it to drown out what Audley was now saying.

‘What did I tell you?’ The garage man’s reaction was a masterly overlay of gratified confidence above relieved surprise. ‘That’s a good engine, that is—sweet as a bell … An’ two new tyres on the back … You just want to watch the hand-brake—best to put ‘er in gear when you leave ’er on a hill … I still got a bit of work to do on that—like I told you, didn’t I?‘

‘Yes—thank you.’ It wasn’t stopping, it was getting away that mattered now, and the road was open and the way was clear. ‘I’ll be off then.’ He engaged the gear and released the defective hand-brake to suit his words. ‘Goodbye—goodbye—’