‘Yes.’ Tom caught a glimpse of a squat tower.
‘He missed me.’ Audley dismissed all churches from the conversation. ‘We were the last surviving tank in the troop, that night. And my driver also missed his foot.’
The church came into view. And there, sure enough, was another pub. So turn sharp left now—
‘Shot himself in the boot instead—missed his toes by a whisker.’
Another nod. ‘So we didn’t have to court-martial him, thank God!’
They passed the pub, which Tom thought looked uncommonly inviting, now that the light inside it was stronger than the evening blue outside.
‘So he was killed later on, after I’d left the regiment.’ Audley Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State shook his head. ‘But… Basil Cole, I was asking—?’
There was still a third nightmare outstanding, in Audley’s old age.
But Basil Cole, who had worked for Victor Fawcett, in some Old Testament progression— Someone begat Someone, and Someone-Else begat Someone-Else— was more important than Audley’s nightmares, from the Normandy bocage of forty years ago. Only, what mattered now on the darkening road was that they were only
‘a step or two’ from where Audley wanted to go. ‘Basil Cole—?’
‘Yes.’ Audley rallied under pressure. ‘ “Old King Cole”— you’ll like him, Tom.’ Chuckle. ‘Drunken old bugger!’
Drunken old bugger? thought Tom. ‘Basil Cole?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Audley sounded sure of himself now. ‘It was Old King Cole who sounded the early warning signals on Burgess and Maclean, before you were born—even almost before I was born, professionally speaking… Why are you slowing down?’
‘I caught a glimpse of a church, I thought. Up ahead.’
‘You did?’ Audley sat up, then gestured irritably. ‘Go on, go on!’
The church came into view. If Basil Cole dated from the early days of Burgess and Maclean then ‘ Old King Cole’ was right, thought Tom. ‘Here’s the church, David.’
‘I said a church and a pub. I see no pub. You just drive— I’ll tell you when. Okay?’
Tom accelerated. What he had to get used to was crossing England from pub to pub. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay. So… where was I? Go on, man—don’t dawdle…’
Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State
‘You said Basil Cole was a drunken old bugger.’
‘Is—not was.’ Audley corrected him. ‘So they put him out to grass eventually—Fawcett did. Gave him his wooden foil and niggardly pension. Fortunately his wife had a bit of money—nice woman.
But hardly enough to keep him in his favourite tipple, you see.’
Tom didn’t see. But he needed to keep his eyes open for the next pub, so he decided not to admit it.
‘And that was where my old boss came in—I take it that he will not be unknown to you, Tom?’
‘Sir Frederick Clinton.’ Clinton was the near-legendary architect of Research and Development. ‘Colonel Butler’s predecessor?’
‘Correct—Fred, no less. And he was another animal who dated back to when the Ark came to rest on Mount Ararat. So he and Basil Cole were by way of being old shipmates. And he knew that in spite of Old King Cole’s heavy-laden cargo of years and empty whisky bottles there was nothing wrong with his brains—they weren’t so much addled as preserved. Which says a lot for the properties of Islay peat.’
Tom concentrated on the road ahead.
‘Also…“ Audley twisted sideways ’… you know, we’ve always run R & D on a derisory budget, you see. Old Fred liked to recruit people like me, with private incomes—he always said it was partly to save money, and partly so that they could indulge their own esoteric tastes without recourse to some third party. But actually it was so that he could divert our legitimate expenses into his slush fund, is what I know now—‘ He shook his head ’—which I only Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State know now because Jack Butler, who inherited that fund, is a friend of mine… or, a friend of a sort, anyway.‘ Pause. ’Huh!‘ Another pause. ’He was a downy old bird—or half-downy, half-foxy—was Fred! We were always bloody nonplussed by how much he knew… Whereas the truth was that he had this private ”Black Economy“ of his—paying selected pensioners of his own in used banknotes in little brown envelopes, to keep his private files up-to-date, and then feeding our main files with what he wanted us to see. Huh!‘ Another pause. ’That’s not the way Jack plays it now—
now they have to come in once or twice a week, and feed the computer—beastly damn thing… But at least we have access to it, even if Jack always knows who’s doing what now, more’s the pity!‘ He half-chuckled, half-grunted. ’Although he still slips ‘em their brown envelopes, just like Fred. And you know why—?’
Tom didn’t know why. What he knew was that they were at last coming to another scatter of houses in the half-light. ‘Why?’
‘Custom and practice, Tom—custom and practice.’ The half-and-half sound was repeated. ‘His father was a printer—Father of the Union Chapel, before he became Composing Room Overseer, and then Head Printer. So Jack’s a union man at heart. And he knows a thing or two about “old Spanish customs”—like little brown envelopes with no names on ’em. Huh!‘
There was a church coming up—and a public house—Tom strained his eyes to read the badly-illuminated sign outside it. ‘Is this where we turn left, David?’
‘What?’ Audley sat up. ‘Yes, of course it is—didn’t I tell you?’
The turning was narrow and awkward, with the brickwork on each Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State side testifying the failed efforts of those before him who had found it too narrow and awkward. ‘So Basil Cole works part-time for Research and Development—is that it?’
‘That’s right. M to R, to be exact.’
He wasn’t going to make it—not because there wasn’t room, but because there was a black-and-white mongrel dog in the way, sitting in the road.
‘M to R?’
‘Uh-huh. Fred had four old Moscow-watchers. Dorothy Marshall handles A to F, and Frank Hodgson G to L, and my own Sheila Ellis has S to Z—she feeds me directly now, every Wednesday, does Sheila—’ Audley sat up again ‘—what’s holding you up?’
There’s a dog in the road—M to R—?‘
‘Uh-huh. So including P… Run the bloody animal over, then… So Old King Cole is the expert on Panin— go on, man!’
Jesus Christ! He revved the engine angrily. ‘But I thought you were the expert on Panin—’ He caught himself too late.
‘Did you, now?’ The silky satisfaction in Audley’s voice confirmed his failure. ‘So you’re not just a high-grade minder, then? Not that I ever really thought you were, of course— run the bloody animal over—go on. Audley turned away from him. ’Well, there’s no one on our tail, anyway—at least, not from the other side, whichever side it may be… But you’re here to report back to whoever it may be, anyway—“What the devil is that swine Audley up to?”—but it could hardly be Frobisher… because he can’t be interested in anything I do… can he?‘
Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State Tom rolled the car forward. Everything Harvey had said was true, and he had betrayed himself. ‘I’m just here to get you to Panin, David… Which I’m not doing very well at the moment, actually.
Because we’re ninety minutes behind schedule already—’ The headlights picked out trees and more brickwork ahead ‘—so how far to Basil Cole, then?’
‘Not far. But do you have to be present when I exchange confidences with Nikolai Panin? Or do you merely deliver me to some agreed rendezvous?’ Audley waved ahead. ‘Which is it?’