War Game (27 page)

“In his—ah—his regiment?”

“No. In one of the militia regiments.”

Well, well!

“David Bishop and Philip Oates, I presume?”

Davenport looked crestfallen. “You know them already?”

“Confirmation is always helpful. No one else?”

“I don’t think so. But they’re good operators—very careful. I’d guess they have instructions not to let him do anything, which pisses him off some I suspect.”

“He sees himself as a man of action, eh?”

Small shrug. “He’s been playing things close to his chest ever since Swine Brook Field, doing what he’s been told. But I think you’ve shaken him up a bit this last week, with what you’ve been doing.”

“Doing nothing isn’t to his taste, eh?”

“Right.”

So the editor of
The Red Rat
was pining to be a power in the land, the well-informed scourge of the enemies of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

“And where does Professor Stephen Nayler figure in this grand design?”

“Oh, he’s just window-dressing. Give him a TV programme and he’ll kiss anyone’s ass.” Davenport’s contempt warmed Audley’s heart. “He’s a punk, but he’s clean—we looked him over good.”

That was almost the last loose end tied up, thought Audley. All he had to do now was to tie all the ends in a new knot somehow.

“Well, that almost makes the trade, Master Davenport,” he said.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Davenport breathed out. “I shall be sorry to miss Standingham though. That should be quite a show, and I’ve gotten to enjoy the Double R Society—there are a lot of good people in it.”

Audley smiled. “Oh, but you’re not going to miss it—almost a trade, I said. I’m going to lose your extra passport and forget the breaking of our agreements, but there are things I need you to do first … after I’ve phoned Colonel Morris and talked to one or two other people. Nothing very difficult, certainly nothing very dangerous. But I want you there on the battlefield, preaching the revolution. It wouldn’t be the same without you now, would it?”

He skirted the crowd unobtrusively, weaving in and out of the cars parked under the trees and the picnic groups among them. It surprised him, how many people there were, often whole families, able and willing to spend a whole weekday afternoon watching a cricket match. A rugger crowd he could understand, that was a contest of mind and muscle he enjoyed himself; and a football crowd, that was a statistical fact to be accepted, so there had to be more in it than met his eye. But cricket, that was a pleasant surprise.

His pulse quickened as he spotted Weston’s car in the shadow of the trees beyond the old bandstand, and then Weston himself standing very still in the angle of the steps and the wooden balustrade of the stand.

The Superintendent was, if not the only unpredictable factor left, the last of the tools he required to handle Charlie Ratcliffe at Standingham. At a pinch he could probably do without Weston, but then he would have to give Weston’s task to someone from the Department, and that might enable someone within it to ask awkward questions afterwards. Whereas if he had Weston and Frances and Davenport all doing their own different things— the police, the Department and the CIA— it was an odds-on certainty that they would never be in a position to exchange notes, and would never therefore be in a position to understand what they had done between them.

Weston was looking at him now… . Well, to be honest with himself, they might each of them suspect. Frances possibly, Davenport probably, and Weston … Weston, being Weston, for sure, but without proof—only Charlie Ratcliffe would be able to supply that, and that was the one thing Charlie would be in no position to do.

But that thought armed him now for what he had to say. It was better to have Weston doing something for him than to leave him to his own devices. After what had happened to Sergeant Digby and with what he might already suspect, a copper like Weston would never rest quiet and easy.

The look on Weston’s face confirmed his fear. There was no mistaking the policeman for any tinker, tailor, schoolmaster or country doctor now: advancing on that look he knew how Prince Rupert’s cavalry had felt when they saw the sun glint on the swords of Cromwell’s Ironsides.

“Weston.”

“Audley.” The courtesies were minimal. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, I’m thinking.”

“No.” Audley shook his head. “Not to you.”

The jaw squared. “If not to me, then to my chief.”

“Not to him either. Sergeant Digby died in the execution of his duty while questioning two suspected terrorists who subsequently blew themselves up by accident. That was nothing to do with me— now or ever. The case isn’t closed for me because it was never open.”

Weston stared at him in silence for a moment or two, then took a sheet of paper from his breast pocket.

“Read it.” He held out the paper. “Read it, Audley.”

Audley opened the sheet. It was close-typed on cheap official paper, the words cutting across the faint blue lines beneath.

“Right worshippfule Sir, Whereas of late have I suceeded to thee Estate wherof mine Fathyr was seised there cameth into myne possessioun alsoe a certeyne quantitie of treasure the whych did my Faither take from a certeyn Papisticalle shippe. But wheras at thatte tyme for inasmuch as his Majestic hadde mayd treatie and peace with thee king of Spayne it beseemed to hime not opportune to advertise thee whych and he caused itte to be hydden and to noo manne tolde he of it bethynking himme that as tyme showld shewe himme when and uppon what occasion he sh’d makke it knowne but he feeling thee comyng nighe of Dethe did tell mee of it.

And as nowe thee Lorde, to whom bee al prayse, hathe shewn unto mee the waye of righteousness and that Parliement doth strive mightilie in Hisse cause ageynst the wrongdoyng and persecution of the righteous by thee evil counselours of his Majestic it seemeth too me that trewe Religion and thee cause of Parliement requireth of mee that I sh’d place this treasyre atte the disposal and use of thee Lord’s true servents as so vast a tresure the whych I doe assure Your excellencie nor never in the tyme of her late Grace did come into thisse realm beying twoe thousande pounds weght of golde.

But as certyn shyps thee whych adhere to thee cause of his Majestic make uncertain thee passage twixt Devonshyr and London it seemeth to mee it were not wise to sendyth so grete an cargo by see tho’ thatte were in othyr time thee suryst route. Wherforre will I brynge it mineself bye lande untoe yr Excellencie thatte it maye serve wel as maibe thee cause of thee Lorde and hys Righteouse to bee of use and servyce suche as seemeth wel to y’rselfe.

Writ by mine owne hand thee fyrst daye of August, the yr of thee Lorde 1643.”

So this was Charlie Ratcliffe’s ace in the hole, thought Audley. A copy of a copy of a letter from Colonel Nathaniel Parrott to John Pym … unsigned and unaddressed, but that was of no great matter in the circumstances. It might be a forgery or it might not, though with the run of the Earl of Dawlish’s papers and the technical expertise of the KGB’s draughtsmen that might never be established. It might even be genuine.

But it would serve as
wel as maibe
to make his case: 2,000 pounds of Spanish-American gold had been lost, and 2,000 pounds of Spanish-American gold had been found.

He looked up at Weston. “A poor speller, but an interesting writer. Where did you find it?”

“On Henry Digby.”

“And what else did you find?”

“Nothing else.”

“Well then—that’s all there was, I suppose.”

“Don’t play games with me, Audley.” Weston’s voice was cold, but well-controlled. He wouldn’t be a man to let anger get the better of him ever. “You know who he obtained this from, I take it?”

“Professor Stephen Nayler at Cambridge, I’d guess. I told him to have a word with the Professor.”

“The letter doesn’t surprise you, then?”

“Not very much. I’d expect something like that to surface sooner or later. I couldn’t get it out of Nayler, but I suppose Sergeant Digby had a more persuasive manner than I have.”

“So he was investigating the gold, not the murder.”

“He was following my orders—“ Audley lifted a finger quickly “—which didn’t take him anywhere near the Ferryhill Industrial Estate, Superintendent. He must have gone there on a private matter.”

Weston stroked his chin. “You seem to have changed your tune in the last few hours.”

“I can play lots of different tunes on the same instrument.”

“Aye, I can believe that. But I preferred the first tune. It sounded truer to my ear.”

“That could very well be. I could play it again if you made it worth my while— just so long as you don’t think you can force me to, that’s all. Because you can’t, you know.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Not a chance. I may not look it, but I’m top brass, Superintendent. And not in the Home Office, either. And Henry Digby’s killers are dead, too.”

“But not their killers.”

Audley shook his head. “I can’t give you them … any more than I can give you James Ratcliffe’s killer.”

Weston pursed his lips. “What can you give me, then?”

“First we have to make our deal, Superintendent.”

Weston shook his head. “I don’t make deals.”

“Better hear the deal before you turn it down. It won’t stretch your conscience, I give you my word on that.”

“I can listen.”

“Off the record—the way I listened to you beside the Swine Brook?”

“No. After Ferryhill the case is altered.” Weston shook his head again.

“I can close your mouth with the Official Secrets Act, man.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Good for Weston, Audley thought approvingly. So long as there were policemen like him there would be no police state in Britain.

He nodded. “Very well. I’ll just have to trust you, won’t I?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Of course… . But then, you see, after Ferryhill the case is altered for me too, Superintendent. Because Henry Digby was my man at the time. So I have a score to settle too.”

Weston stared at him thoughtfully, then away across the open field beyond the bandstand towards the children’s playground. Finally his eyes came back to Audley.

“Off the record, then,” he said.

“Thank you.” Audley paused. “I have no proof for what I’m going to tell you, and I doubt if I could get it now. But I think I’m guessing right—at last.”

“I understand.” Weston nodded slowly.

“James Ratcliffe was killed in June by a Russian agent—KGB Second Directorate, Second Division, Ninth Section. Probably a man by the name of Tokaev, operating out of Paris at the time.”

Weston’s jaw tightened. “You knew this when you spoke to me last week?”

“No.” Audley drew a deep breath. “I thought this was a domestic political matter—which in a sense it still is. Charlie Ratcliffe is a nasty little muck-raking revolutionary, and a lot of useful people have skeletons of one sort or another in their closets. If he became rich suddenly he’d have the resources to cause a lot of trouble—that’s what I thought I was dealing with. And the trouble with me was … that it didn’t interest me one bit.”

“Why not? A job’s a job, isn’t it?”

“Not for me. I’m a counter-intelligence expert, not a bloody little political errand boy. Besides, I’m not at all sure that a little muck-raking isn’t a good thing—if the Americans sometimes go too far we usually don’t go far enough. We’re a bit too damn good at sweeping secrets under the carpet … I’ve had the brush in my hands more than once, so I should know.”

“I see. So you just went through the motions, eh?”

“More or less. To be honest, I thought the Double R Society was more interesting than Ratcliffe himself. I didn’t think I could prove anything against him—and I never dreamed he was hooked in with the Russians.”

“But your … superiors knew better— yet they didn’t tell you?”

Audley shook his head. “Frankly— I just don’t know. They may just have had a suspicion, with no proof, and they wanted to see what I came up with. They certainly edited Ratcliffe’s file, but I thought that was to remove some of the political dirt he’d uncovered. Because I doubt whether even he dares to print everything he digs up.”

“Aye, there’s still a law of libel. So you didn’t do anything, is that it?”

“Oh, I set about trying to cause trouble for Charlie, in case he could be stampeded —lots of thrashing about was what it amounted to, with us doing the thrashing. There was an outside chance that one of his accomplices might crack. But if no one did … well, you can’t win ‘em all.”

Weston’s lip curled. “Yes… . And Henry Digby?”

This was the bitterest part, the price of stupidity that someone else had paid.

Another deep breath. “At a guess I’d say you’ll be able to establish the killers as Irishmen, and maybe as suspected members of a Provo splinter group. But that won’t mean a thing.”

“No?”

“The KGB has men in every guerrilla outfit. They used these two to hit Digby, and then turned them into evidence for you. And you haven’t a hope in hell of proving it. It’ll be another dead end.”

The only thing Weston couldn’t control was that muscle in his jaw. The lips and the eyes were steady, but the jaw betrayed him. “Why Digby? Why not you?”

“They knew about Digby. They don’t know about me.”

“I see. Like the old story of King David and Uriah the Hittite—you put him in the forefront of the battle. Off the record, Audley—I hope that helps you sleep at night.”

“Digby doesn’t help me sleep—you’re right there. But I didn’t get him in the forefront of the battle, I thought I was putting him in the rear rank. I sent him to do a little gentle research into how Charlie Ratcliffe found his gold.”

“And that killed him?”

“Yes, I suppose you can say that it did. I think he went to Professor Nayler, and the Professor told him how Charlie Ratcliffe had done it.”

“We can check on that.”

“It’s perfectly innocent, what Nayler told him. But I’d guess Nayler also told Charlie about him, and that frightened him.”

“Why should it do that—if it was innocent?”

“Because Digby had been investigating the murder, and now he was investigating the gold.
And
he was an expert on the Civil War in his own right. Nobody else had those three qualifications.”