Sion Crossing (40 page)

Click
—

He sobbed, and worked the bolt.

Bang
! It jolted in his hands, barrel towards the sky—

Joy
!

He worked the bolt again—
Bang
!

What was he firing at? The woods swam—trees blurred with movement—he had to have a target—

His vision cleared. There was movement out there, but it flitted and twisted though the vertical lines of the trees before he could sight on it—

Bang
!

He had fired at something again, but it was far away now—it had been there, but not there, even as he had fired.

Work the bolt—

Now there was nothing: nothing but trees and ringing echoes in his ears, and the silence of the woods was flowing back down the hillside, past him to the river.

He wanted to shout at them, but couldn’t shout. Instead, he tried to ask himself how many unfired cartridges there were in the rifle, and didn’t know the answer.

Maybe none. But there was still Kingston’s pistol, he remembered. And the man’s hand was slack: he didn’t mind giving up the pistol.

“Mr. Kingston?” He shook the black shoulder.

No reply. He was alone now.

He waited, holding the pistol up at an awkward angle on the edge of the rock, his mind empty of all thought.

Eventually there were distant noises.

Crack-echo-echo
…

Then—
tearing- bang- crack- bang- crack- echo- counter- echo
into infinity, down away past him, and back again—meaningless bursts of gunfire echoed and re-echoed along the margins of Sion Crossing. And his spirit stretched until he couldn’t hold the silly useless pistol, and he couldn’t cry either for himself or for Kingston, but thought only of long cool drinks of tap-water gushing out into the long tall glass he kept on the shelf above the draining-board in his kitchen, a million miles away.

Eventually, when thirst was already beginning to be just another illusion, there came a
rackety-rackety
engine noise; which he thought he might have heard before, but which came nearer this time, until it was quite insistent, with another noise which gradually repeated itself, until it resolved itself through the sound of the engines as a loud-hailer—

Later there were other words, in another and very different voice, altogether less sympathetic, as the helicopter flew back along the valley above the river and the trees—

By the time Hugh Roskill’s voice came back again, louder and lower, Latimer’s head had reached the rock, and the pistol was where the Sheriff wanted it to be.

HARRY THE BARMAN
caught Mitchell’s eye at once, and signalled above the throng simply by raising his arm vertically above his head and pointing horizontally with his forefinger towards the furthest corner of the bar.

“Ah! News from the Führerbunker!” Audley waved some signal of his own from the corner.

“And not a moment too soon.” Colonel Morris more than ever reminded Mitchell of Professor Gwatkin’s description of James I—
never drunk, but seldom quite sober.
“David here was just about to regale me with one of his military anecdotes—‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day’, God help us!”

“That is not strictly true.” Audley adjusted his spectacles, and Mitchell thought of Professor Gwatkin again. “I was about to adorn a tale, if not point a moral … I was merely reminded of an episode in Normandy in ’44, that’s all. I will not waste it on you if you don’t want to hear it, damned Yankee!”

“Southern trash,
if
you please!” Howard Morris leered at Mitchell. “Not
your
old war, Captain … but you can choose.”

Harry danced in front of them. “One pint of draught Guinness—one pint of best bitter—one large Founder’s Port … and eight minutes to ‘Time’ gentlemen. Same again?”

“Same again,” agreed Howard Morris. Then he frowned at Mitchell. “Are we celebrating or drowning our sorrows?”

“Is Oliver St John Latimer alive and well? Or dead? Or in durance vile?” Audley’s spectacles had slipped again. “What tidings, Paul?”

“David, I
told
you—” The CIA man was hushed by Audley’s gesture.

So the Americans had got the news as well, thought Mitchell. And Morris had presumably been deputed to pass on some of it, and to find out how the British were reacting.

“He’s all right, David.”

Audley nodded. “So we are celebrating our sorrows. Oliver has been lucky—and it is always better to be lucky than beautiful.” He raised his glass. “I drink to our deputy-leader!”

Mitchell drank. “Jack wants you back, David.” Then he thought: we might as well hear what Morris chose to reveal. “But I could use a couple of pints first. So tell us about the
bocage
.”

Audley’s eyes narrowed slightly. “If you insist—”

“I don’t insist,” said Howard Morris.

“But you are now irrelevant, Colonel Morris … It was in ’44, as I say … And it befell this armoured regiment—”

“As it might be … the West Sussex Dragoons, for instance?” interrupted the American.

“As it might be any poor devils—the Northamptonshire Yeomanry, or the Bombay-Irish Lancers—” Audley waved him away “—taking a breather before next morning’s massacre … And they damn well knew there was a German 88 somewhere on the ridge ahead, waiting to take the first poor sod …
But they didn’t know exactly where he was, you see?”
He spoke to Mitchell only.

It was the same with all old wars—Troy and Waterloo and Normandy, thought Mitchell. Only those who could remember the minor details still cared about them.

“So … there was this road block, with a warning notice, to stop the unwary from going too far.” Audley took another sip. “And—would you believe it?—some careless fellow took it down, and forgot to put it back … so some other poor unsuspecting fellow from another unit swanned down the road in his armoured car and was brewed up … It was really quite scandalous.” He shook his head. “Quite scandalous.”

“Yeah,” agreed Howard Morris. “But you did find out where the Kraut gun was, I take it?”

“Right. We—the Bombay-Irish Lancers—
they
mortared the daylights out of
that
one next morning … Unfortunately, they had a couple more on the reverse slope, only that’s another story—which I shall not tell you.” Audley looked at Mitchell. “But I do think that Bill Macallan did plan to send me in where angels feared to tread, to … to find out if there was an 88-millimetre anti-tank gun in Sion Crossing—would that be about right?” He paused. “Who was he?”

Mitchell glanced at Howard Morris. But, if Audley was popping the question so openly, that must be the way he wanted it. “His name was Robinson, apparently, David.”

“Robinson?” Audley frowned. “Do we know him?”

“Not from Adam. He was on Macallan’s American Debreczen list from long ago, but nobody sussed him out after Macallan was sacked.”

“What did he do? This Robinson?”

Mitchell shrugged. “Nothing very much. He was a successful industrialist. Mostly chemicals, with some high tech later on … and some political clout—he had a finger in a lot of pies in the south … They’re checking up like mad now, apparently.”

“And how did he come to Sion Crossing?”

“He simply retired there.” Mitchell took another drink. “He was … he was a sort of recluse, with a private army hired to keep his property private. But also lots of money for local charities—he was very patriotic, and all that.”

“Yeah!” Howard Morris grimaced. “Like—the
Star-Spangled Banner
and the
Bonnie Blue Flag
, and not a whiff of the
Red Flag
, is what you mean.”

Audley cocked an eye. “What was it—an ultra-safe house? To co-ordinate the KGB coverage of the Atlantic coast?” The eye cocked at Morris as well as Mitchell. “Or maybe a communications centre?”

Mitchell tried Morris too. “We don’t know yet—?”

“Nor do we.” The CIA man’s shoulders lifted. “They had a lot of sophisticated equipment scattered around … Sensors in the woods near the house. And Mulholland tripped a warning net in the river … In fact some of the stuff self-destructed before we could get to it, so we won’t know for sure till we’ve picked up the pieces … It all happened rather quickly—your Wing-Commander Roskill became somewhat insistent on the subject of Oliver Latimer’s survival, David. So the Sheriff and the Feds went in hard and fast.”

“Ah … but you were all ready to do it.” Audley looked down his nose at his friend. “You knew something was up—you were all set to go in, with the FBI-CIA liaison group, you tricky sod!”

“Not me, David—not me!” Morris shook his head. “I was just as much taken for a ride as you were … I only met the Cookridge woman—I never saw the false Cookridge … She got him into the embassy, into her step-father’s ante-room. I got the call from there, so I thought it was kosher—it was a con job, and I was conned … Remember
The Sting
?”

“Who was he?”

“The false Cookridge? We don’t know that yet, either. Probably a bit-part player off Broadway. Or a pro con-man … We’re still checking.” Another shrug. “The fact that
she
was genuine was good enough for me, anyway. And I guess I was good enough for Oliver.”

Now they were at one of Colonel Butler’s question marks. “What had she got to gain? Why did she do it?”

“She loved her father—her real father … And as he was dying he made a plan, to vindicate himself. All she did was to carry it out.”

Audley swayed forward. “And Winston Mulholland?”

“Macallan briefed Mulholland himself—and paid him. He knew Lucy couldn’t handle a job like this by herself.” Morris drank. “Not that she didn’t have the balls for it … I figured her for one tough lady when I met her, and by all accounts she’s her father’s daughter right enough.” He wiped his moustache. “But it seems she had second thoughts about your Mr Latimer, and paid Mulholland danger money to pull him out. Which I somehow don’t think she’d have done for you, old buddy, with what her daddy told her; you were scheduled for full repayment, with accumulated interest.” The white teeth showed. “I guess you could call that ‘capital punishment’. You were
lucky
, man!”

Audley’s face hardened. “She’s talking then?”

“Singing like a bird.” In spite of friendship, Morris didn’t seem too unhappy. “Unlike your esteemed colleague, who is maintaining a somewhat battered stiff upper lip, as you might put it. Which is perhaps just as well, because it seems there are a lot of dead bodies lying around out there—and floating in rivers—they’re all over the goddam’ place … And the local sheriff and the Feds, plus our liaison group and the State Troopers—they had a shoot-out on some bridge …” Morris rolled an eye at Mitchell. “I tell you, Captain, it sounds like a re-run of the War between the States. But old Hugh, your gimpy Wing-Commander—he’s blaming it all on Mulholland. He says that Mr Latimer wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“And what does Latimer say?”

“He maintains their joint innocence.” The eye rolled back to Audley. “It’s rather odd—he’s insisting that Mulholland acted under his orders … In fact, he refused to leave without a written undertaking that no charges will be made. He’s really been rather difficult.”

Mitchell gave Audley a quick look. “And what does Mulholland say?”

“He doesn’t say anything. He’s in intensive care, full of bullets.”

That was an odd sequence, thought Mitchell. “Oliver doesn’t know one end of a gun from the other, Colonel.”

Morris raised the hand which didn’t hold his glass. “
I
believe you, having met the gentleman in question. But the Sheriff thinks differently … Still, I’m sure we’ll go along with whatever Colonel Butler decides, in the circumstances. We don’t want any Anglo-American disagreements—okay?”

Morris was doing his duty, decided Mitchell. There was so much dirty linen here that all those still alive would be given a fresh set—and an airline ticket—even including Winston Spencer Mulholland, if he survived intensive care.

“What’s going to happen to the woman?” Audley was still hardfaced, almost vengeful.

Morris regarded him quizzically. “You tell me what she’s done, and I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to her.” He scratched his head. “She’s made fools of us—and you … But we’re not rushing to throw the book at her for that.” He finished scratching. “Even if we can find the right words in the book … which I doubt we can do … I think we’ll leave her well alone, David.”

Audley said nothing.

Morris nodded. “You ask me … I think Bill Macallan worked that out too. That’s why he hired Mulholland—to do the dirty work
and
to protect her, from us as well as the other side.”

Audley considered that reply for a long five seconds. Then he smiled his own peculiar Audley-smile, coldly disarming. “Yes … you’re probably right:
The less said
,
the better
, as my old Latin master used to say … yes.” Then he sat back, nursing his glass. “Yes. But then, perhaps you could answer one small question?”

“Fire away.” Morris composed himself seriously.

“I will.” Half a lifetime before, as a callow youth, Audley had commanded a tank in Normandy, Mitchell remembered. “Just when did you tumble to Miss Lucy Cookridge and Winston Mulholland, Howard?”

“When?” Morris’s frontal armour was thick enough, but only just.

“Yes.” Audley was flanking him now, looking for the fuel tank. “I know how Hugh Roskill got to Sion Crossing, because we sent him there. But how did the entire Union army get there so quickly?”

“Ah …” Morris nodded, as though a great truth hitherto hidden from him had been revealed.

“Amazing efficiency, would that be?” Audley was hull-down behind Morris now, with his gun-layer’s finger on the button. “Or miraculous quick-reaction? It does you credit, either way.”