Audley blinked. ‘I once had the doubtful honour of serving with an armoured regiment which couldn’t really protect itself properly when it ran into Germans.’ He blinked again. ‘In great big tanks.’
Tom waited. And then restrained himself, and continued to wait.
‘Eighty-eights were fortunes of war—misfortunes, rather… And Mark IVs were about even-steven—’ Audley looked clear through him ‘—the only trouble was, the Germans were better than we were, like the First XV playing the Second XV… On a good day, with the wind in our favour, and some of them sick, we could maybe take them, with a bit of luck—like, if we mixed up with a good infantry battalion, who had things under control… and a couple of 17-pounders to blunt Jerry’s enthusiasm—’ Suddenly he was looking at Tom. ‘But T-Tigers— Mark V’s— and especially King T-Tigers… that was like playing the All Blacks—we really couldn’t handle them at all. You just had to hope that you were in the reserve troop that day, on the touchline cheering the team on.’
He nodded. ‘Because then—then if you were lucky, and spotted them first… then you could call up your little spotter plane, who was stooging up and down in the clouds up above, trying to be unobtrusive at about the speed of an invalid tricycle, and hoping he’d be lucky too… And then, if it really was your lucky day and his, there’d be a squadron of rocket-firing Typhoons within call.’
He drew a long breath. ‘Some days there wasn’t—or not quickly enough for the lead troop… Some days the spotter bought it… But that was Limejuice anyway: it was there to protect us from our just deserts.’
Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State And genuine history it was, too, thought Tom—like Mamusia remembering dead Uncle Henryk; and, also, perhaps not something Audley was normally so garrulous about, except that now he was in mild shock from the terrace. It was a phenomenon Tom had observed before, and most recently on the part of an elderly Palestinian Arab, who had regaled him with his memories of the King David Hotel bomb in ‘46, in gory detail, after that last Beirut massacre.
‘But Limejuice now—’ Audley caught his expression ‘—our duty man will pass it on to Special Branch liaison. Which means we’ll have the nearest police unit in the first instance. Then an Armed Support Group—or whatever they call it now—’
‘The police arrive unarmed?’
‘God knows!’ Audley had evidently accepted his ‘merely a precaution’ reassurance at face value. ‘But it’s certainly an
“Approach with extreme caution” job… And finally, in God’s good time, a couple of our own people will appear—it’s all laid down in the Contingency Book… Which Jack Butler updated not long ago, as it happens.’ He sniffed. ‘Which is why I’ve got it all off pat —I had to sign that I’d read it… You don’t think this is an everyday occurrence, do you?’
Tom had drifted back to the front window. ‘I was beginning to wonder.’
‘Well—you can stop bloody wondering. It isn’t. At least, not to me, by God!’
The square of gravel was still empty. ‘Not ever?’ He turned Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State towards the open field with the sheep, deliberately not looking at the man.
Audley didn’t reply to the question, and Tom remembered his Arab again as he crossed to the arrow-slit window. ‘Not ever?’
‘In twenty-five years…’ Audley spoke against his better judgement, just like the Arab ‘… I’ve had trouble three times here.’
The old Arab had had constant trouble since the 1930s. So Audley had been damn lucky, thought Tom: he was still living in the same house. And the terrace was as empty as the forecourt, so he was still lucky. ‘Three times—?’
‘Only once…’ Audley searched for the right word, committed now to his indiscretion ‘… genuinely.’
Now what the hell did he mean by that? wondered Tom.
‘The other two were illegitimate intrusions. And heads rolled because of them, on the Other Side, I can tell you!’
‘They did?’ Tom was disappointed in his man suddenly.
‘They did.’ Just as suddenly all the heat went out of Audley’s voice. ‘You think I’m bull-shitting you, Tom Arkenshaw—I can see that. Right?’
‘No—’
‘If you want to think that, then you do that. And if you think I’m trying to impress you… well, you can think that too.’ Audley paused. ‘The last time was ten years ago. And I was in Italy at the time. It was about the time your section was formed.’ Another pause. ‘And if you care to check the record you’ll find that it was formed on my recommendation. You were in your second year at Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State university at the time. You were secretary of the Anglo-Polish club and treasurer of the Wine and Food Society, which must have been a lot more enjoyable.’ Another pause. ‘And would you like me to give you the name of the woman who recruited you?’
Harvey had been right— sod the bastard! ‘Not especially, Dr Audley. But I would like to know why you’re assuming this is the Russians.’
‘I’m not assuming any such thing. And for God’s sake call me David—otherwise I’ll have to call you “Sir Thomas”. It’s bad enough that I’ve had to explain to my daughter what a baronet is, without having to do that.’
‘Yes?’ Tom grabbed the diversion gratefully. ‘What did she say?’
‘She was quite relieved.’ Audley fell for the diversion like any doting father. ‘You had confused her somewhat, I think.’
‘If it’s any consolation to her, she’d confused me too, you can tell her—David.’
‘Yes?’ Then Audley saw through him. ‘I’m not assuming any such thing.’
He’d better not go on underrating Mamusia’s old admirer. ‘No?’
Besides which, he had to keep checking the windows—not so much for some mad bugger with a rifle as for some poor devil of a policeman saddled with an “extreme caution” order. And that meant the forecourt again. ‘Then who else could it be? Who have you offended?’
‘Nobody—that’s the trouble, Tom.’ Audley’s frown indicated that he had already tackled the problem, but in vain. ‘I’m not into Irish Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State matters nowadays—I’m not reliable there… And the same applies to Arab-Israeli business—no one trusts me with them either…
except the Arabs and the Jews themselves, that is—and they don’t matter…’ He bit his lip.
‘But you’re a Soviet specialist—aren’t you?’
‘Supposedly… sometimes.’ Audley bridled slightly.
‘Like now?’
Audley chewed at his lip, as though he didn’t like its taste. ‘In so far as it’s any of your business—yes… But nothing contentious…
Interesting, maybe— bloody fascinating, if you like—’ But then he shook his head decisively ‘—only I don’t see how it could be them
—not this time… if ever.’
Tom felt reality slipping again. ‘You’re sacrosanct, are you?’
‘What?’ Audley focused on him as though he hadn’t heard.
‘Where I come from they aren’t above hitting people, David.’
Audley stared at him for a moment. ‘But you aren’t where you come from. And I’m not “people”, Tom.’ Now Audley was focusing exactly on him. ‘No, don’t get me wrong, my lad: no one’s sacrosanct, I agree… But at my level, over here and over there, there are a few unwritten rules, Tom.’
‘What rules?’
‘ What rules?’ The brutal look returned. ‘In theory the rules exist at two levels—at least, according to Jack Butler, who’s a great man for rules—“Rules of Engagement”, as he puts it—okay?’ But then he read Tom’s face. ‘You’re used to terrorists, boy—uncontrolled ones and Soviet-controlled ones— I know! But that’s not what I’m Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State talking about now.’