My congratulations. But I admit it does have a use on this assignment you've accepted."
Butler remained silent.
"Colonel," Stocker began again, slowly this time, "you must understand that ever since the Rudi Dutschke affair we have had to move very delicately in the academic world. You may remember that there was a petition circulating in the universities not long ago—they seem to find it quite intolerable that the security services should keep an eye on them. Apparently they consider themselves above suspicion."
"We had nothing to do with the Dutschke business, of course," murmured Sir Frederick. "If they'd asked me I should have told them that Balliol was just the place for him." Butler held his peace. The Dutschke affair had been handled abominably—and Sir Frederick was a Trinity man.
"We're not going to put you into Oxford—or Cambridge," said Stocker hurriedly, as though those ancient seats of learning had become lions' dens in which security men might be privily eaten. "But we do need to give you some sort of cover where you're going—sufficient cover to last for a few days, anyway."
"I don't think I could persuade anyone that I am an academic for more than a few minutes," said Butler.
"I don't talk the language. And I don't look the part."
"You look like a soldier, Colonel—and you talk like a soldier. That's understood. So we're going to capitalise on that. You see, you have a namesake in the Army List. He'll be going, on to the retired list very shortly—a certain Colonel John Butler. Your proper Christian name is John, isn't it?"
Butler winced. The first twenty years of his life had been lived under the name John—a decent, unexceptional name. It was a source of constant sadness, if no longer actual irritation, that he had been forced to abandon it for a diminutive he disliked. But now he had even learnt to think of himself as Jack.
"I was christened John. When I joined my regiment my first company commander happened to have the same name. To avoid confusion my commanding officer renamed me."
"And the name stuck?" Stocker's left eyebrow lifted a fraction. "How singular!"
"By jove!" Sir Frederick flipped open the file in front of him. "It might very well be the same man—let me see—you were in the Royal East Lancashire Rifles, weren't you?" He ran a slender finger through the page of typescript. "Here we are! 'R.E. Lanes. R'. The very same man! Now that is singular—and most convenient. Do you suppose he knew that—" He stopped suddenly, staring at Stocker with a smile on his lips.
dummy2.htm
Stocker was examining a similar file. He looked up at Sir Frederick. "I think it's very likely, sir. It's much too convenient to be a coincidence. But in any case it does give the confusion an extra dimension.
Very few people will be likely to know both of them."
"Now wait a moment!" Butler strove to keep the anger out of his voice. "If you are proposing that I should try to pass myself off as Major—I mean Colonel—Butler—" He spluttered at the notion of it.
"Why, it's ridiculous."
The man, that senior Butler, had been a thin, taciturn officer, pursuing the minute faults of his subalterns with pedantic zeal. He had not liked the man who had stolen his name.
"I fancy there are very few people outside your regiment who know what he looks like, Jack," said Sir Frederick reassuringly. "He's been out of England these seven years. He was with the UN in Cyprus first, and then he was attached to the Turkish Army. And he spends all his leaves in—where the devil is it, Bob?"
"Adana, sir. Extreme south-eastern Turkey. He keeps very much to himself."
Butler looked questioningly from one to the other of them.
"But he does happen to be an acknowledged authority on Roman siege warfare, Colonel," Stocker went on smoothly. "In fact what he doesn't know about—ah—Byzantine mechanical weapons really isn't worth knowing. He's written quite a number of papers on the subject. We have them all here"— he patted a despatch box—"including the proofs of an unpublished article on the siege train of Belisarius which you may find very useful."
The drift of their intention was all too clear, and Butler didn't fancy its direction.
"We'll see that you don't make a fool of yourself," said Stocker quickly, moving to cut off objections.
"I don't give a damn about that," said Butler harshly. "It won't be the first time. I don't mind risking that provided I know what I'm up to."
Sir Frederick nodded. "You shall, Jack—you shall. The object of this rigmarole is quite simple, you must see that: the people with whom you're going to mix for a few days mustn't question what you are, and they'll be far less likely to do that if they think they know already."
"In a couple of days' time you're going up to a place called Castleshields House. It's up north, not far from the Roman wall—Hadrian's Wall, that is. It's a sort of study centre for Cumbria University, just the sort of place your namesake would go to if he came home."
dummy2.htm
"So you can read 'em the paper on Belisarius and then you can potter around to your heart's content.
What's he supposed to be studying, Bob?"
Stocker consulted the file again. "The rotation of cohorts on Hadrian's Wall, sir."
"The rotation—urn-—yes! You're studying that, so you don't have to know anything about it. That part's not important, anyway. You can swot it up in a day or two."
Butler resigned himself to the inevitable. Half a lifetime earlier he had been well down the Sandhurst list in Military History—it had been Economics and Map Reading and Military Law that had lifted him into the top twenty. But that half lifetime had also taught him not to be surprised at the jokes duty played on him.
"And just why am I going to Castleshields House, Sir Frederick?"
And come to that, Sir Frederick—just what is the significance of Neil Smith's measles and progress in Latin ? And why did Eden Hall burn for those ?
"You must be patient for a little longer, Jack. You have my word that we won't hazard you again without explanation— you shall have them all in due season. But first we have to put you into circulation.
You've got that in hand, Bob, haven't you?"
Stocker nodded. "There was a paragraph in the Evening Standard at midday. And there'll be another in The Times diary tomorrow—it'll be written as though the visit was arranged long ago."
There was nothing surprising about Stocker's pull in Fleet Street, where so many good turns were always being sought and done. But what would have happened if he had refused? The answer followed the question instantly: of course they knew him as well as he knew them, so they had confided from the start that he would do his duty.
"But tonight?" Sir Frederick persisted, prodding Stocker.
"Yes—well tonight, Colonel, is the quinquennial O. G. S. Crawford lecture at the Institute of Archaeology in Gordon Square. It's organised by the Society for the Advancement of Romano-British Studies and everybody who is anybody will be there. Just the thing for you, Colonel."
Butler frowned. "Just the thing I should avoid, I would have said."
"Absolutely the contrary, my dear Butler. We have arranged a chaperone to protect you from outrage.
And to see you are introduced to the right people. Believe me, it's all laid on. And there's more to it than just showing you off—you must wear your uniform, incidentally, so everyone will notice you—"
dummy2.htm
"Damn it! But I never—"
Stocker overbore him. "This once, Colonel, this once! I know it's not the done thing, but there's a very particular reason why you must be there."
Clearly there was no further point in questioning even small details of the operation; it had been all worked out by the experts, and there was some comfort in knowing that with Sir Frederick looking on the experts would be doing their best. But oddly enough there was something about this planning that struck a chord at the back of his mind—he couldn't quite place it, but in time it would come to him. And somehow it was not quite reassuring . ..