‘In the snow…’ Audley murmured the words to himself, but with a different emphasis, as though they had reminded him of some other White Christmas in Oxford, long after the Empress Matilda had contested Oxford and England with Stephen of Blois ‘… in the snow in Oxford? But now we have Russians, with snow on their boots, on Exmoor… But why on Exmoor, Tom?’
Audley had got there simultaneously, though in a different way. ‘I don’t know, David. But that’s where he wants to meet you.’
‘I believe you. Because, for the time being… and maybe for your dear mother’s sake… I choose to believe you. But also because I don’t really have much choice, at this moment—do I?’
They were settled in the fast lane now, with uneven lines of red rear-lights stretching far ahead of them, to be overtaken, while a matching line of yellow-white headlights whipped past them on the oncoming lanes to the right. So there was the twentieth century and sudden death a few yards away; but there was the twelfth century, with all its very different, yet nonetheless human, calculations of ends against middles, and loyalties and affections, still in the background of both their minds. And he had nothing to say about that.
‘Which leaves me with four questions, Tom.’ Unlike the Empress Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State Matilda and King Stephen, and even unlike the Marshalls, John and William, and even Ranulf of Caen, poor old David Audley had no strong motte and bailey into which he could prudently withdraw: he was out in the open, committed to a parley with the enemy in unknown territory. But at least he knew it now.
‘Only four?’ Yet, as a good medievalist, the old man would have known better than to put his trust in stone and mortar, never mind an earthen rampart and a wooden palisade: there was no strong place couldn’t be taken, whether by force or guile or treachery:
‘the stronger the keep, the stronger the prison’, Stephen of Blois had once warned Ranulf of Caen.
‘Four to start with, anyway.’ Sniff. ‘Like… why you, Tom Arkenshaw? for a start—eh?’
‘Me?’ Tom flashed the car in front out of his way. In the medieval analysis he represented Jaggard’s guile rather than the enemy’s treachery. But it might yet amount to the same thing, near enough.
‘I thought we’d dealt with me: I’m just a slightly superior minder, aren’t I?’
‘Are you?’ Audley waited until the car ahead had surrendered its illegal 90-mph to their dangerous 100. ‘Well… time will tell—eh?’
At last he found his handkerchief, and blew his nose comprehensively. ‘ “Times levelled line shews man’s foul misdeeds”— Euripides?’
Nasty! thought Tom. ‘Very true, David. And—“Somewhere behind Space and Time… Is wetter water, slimier slime”— Rupert Brooke?’ But as that didn’t really mean anything, better to press on before Audley came to that conclusion also. ‘And Question Two, Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State David?’
But Rupert Brooke stopped Audley in his tracks; and now there was a terrifying clot of heavy vehicles playing Grand Prix with an express coach making up lost time for Bristol, and shuddering the car with their slipstreams as he tried to reach the relative safety of open motorway beyond. ‘Question Two, David?’
‘Yes…“ Audley waited until they had broken through. ’ Why me? is next. But I suppose I can’t expect you to attempt to answer, if you really don’t know the answer to Question One—or even if you do… or you think you do.‘ He sniffed again. But then he found his handkerchief and blew his nose at last. ’But maybe one answer to
”Why Audley?“ is quite simply ”Panin“. Only that rather begs the answer to the third and most important question. Which is Why Panin?‘ He tried for a moment to return his handkerchief to his pocket, but then gave up the struggle, against the:restriction of his seat-belt. ’But at least he gives us a clue, does old Nikolai: with him at least we know who we’re dealing with.‘
Better just to drive (and hope that there weren’t any unmarked police speed-traps), and listen (and just listen). ‘But I thought you needed Basil Cole, to tell you about Panin?’
‘So I do—or, so I did… But I’ve got someone else looking into that now… How long have we got, before you get me to wherever it is?’
Tom looked down at the little green numbers on the dashboard.
‘Not very long—unless we get stopped for speeding.’ The thought of a dilettante crew like Research and Development extending Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State itself over the weekend was far from comforting. ‘You’ve got someone good on him, have you?’
‘Yes. I have.’ The old man became lofty. ‘How long?’
Tom glanced at the time again, and estimated it against distance; and that was no problem for nine-tenths of the journey, for all great roads were the same at night, motorway or autobahn, autoroute or autostrada. It was only that last tenth, in the wilds of Exmoor somewhere beyond Tiverton, which was imponderable. ‘Maybe three hours.’ The darkness was a pity, as well as the lost time: no chance now of taking in Robert de Bampton’s great motte, which King Stephen had besieged in ‘35, just north of Tiverton. ’Who, David?‘
‘Who-what, Tom?’
‘Who have you got checking on Panin now?’
‘Ah… now, you tell me why you need to know. And then I’ll tell you… maybe.’
‘Too many people seem to know too much already. I’ve said it—
you’ve agreed with it. But you’ve already told someone else. So I’d like to know who.’
‘Good try. But not good enough.’ Audley started fumbling with his seat-adjustment again. ‘At least I can get a good sleep for three hours.’
‘You really don’t trust me, do you?’
‘Don’t fret yourself. I don’t trust anyone. Except maybe old Nikolai Andrievich—him I can trust.’
‘I see. You can trust Panin…’ He noted that Audley hadn’t sat Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State back yet; so the old man was waiting for him to react ‘…but not me?’
‘Exactly right. But I told you before: he gives us a clue, maybe—
remember?’
Gives— not will give, Tom remembered: he had dismissed the wrong tense too easily. So now he could only crawl. ‘What clue does he give us, David?’
‘Clues., actually… or possibly, anyway.’ Audley’s voice was lazy on its surface. But Tom felt a prickle up his spine which he recognized suddenly as something he’d felt earlier, though without accepting it consciously, whenever Nikolai Andrievich Panin had been mentioned. That calm surface—even the deliberate cosy reduction of the KGB veteran to ‘Nikolai Andrievich’, or ‘Old Nikolai’, for all the world as though he was truly an old and trustworthy friend—that calm surface was a sham. The truth was that the old man was scared.
‘Clues, then?’ Now that he had recognized it, he understood it: the sea above the Great White Shark might be as calm; but the unseen horror beneath was such that it had to be belittled, otherwise it would be too frightening. And, after their bullet and Basil Cole, that was fair enough.
‘Possibly.’ Audley rocked slightly, from side to side. ‘You’re still rather an equivocal character, Tom—to me, anyway. Because I know that you’re on our side… but are you on my side? No… no, don’t answer!’ He waved a hand halfway across the car. ‘You are a minor equivocal consideration, compared with Nikolai Andrievich, Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State who is a major unequivocal one—do you see?’
He had done the old man wrong. Because being scared might be part of it, but it wasn’t all of it: the old war-horse was also champing at the bit at the prospect of meeting this Russian again, after all the years in-between since last time. ‘You mean…