They often keep themselves to themselves. They - let's say they have other things to do, shall we?' He didn't shrug this time. But the effort of not shrugging was somehow mutually embarrassing. 'Or… or, as I remember them from long ago… shall we say instead that Haddock Thomas didn't need to impress the fair Delphi by over-tipping the waiters? He dummy2
was quite a man.'
Elizabeth matched his not-shrugging effort with her not-letting-her-mouth-gape effort.
Because what he was saying was itself impressive, and for a wildly different collection of reasons - reasons beyond his simple embarrassment at her pathetic inability to understand how lovers behaved among the wild herbs of Provence.
She forced herself to nod wisely. Because David Audley's famous memory of things long-past was nonetheless impressive (even though he'd had time, and reason enough, to refresh it recently).
'Uh-huh.' He was glad to be able to press on. 'So he couldn't account for his St Servan fortnight as exactly as Barrie could, for his Italian progress - which was more like a royal jaunt in Tudor times, with memories and largesse scattered behind it like confetti - do you see?'
What she saw was that Haddock Thomas - Dr Caradog Thomas more recently, and Squadron Leader Thomas formerly - must indeed have been impressive, to have been so much more certain of himself than Peter Barrie (or, anyway, more attractive, all those years ago).
Because Sir Peter Barrie had been pretty goddamn impressive, and certain, and attractive just this morning.
'Yes, David - ' But this time, as she tried to nod wisely again, she saw something else grimacing at her which took all the conviction from her voice.
'You do?' He caught her doubt, and threw it back at her angrily. 'Do you? Do you, Elizabeth?'
That only made her more certain: he had already conceded the impossible, that he might have made a mistake - or even mistakes - all those years ago. But he had not yet admitted the slightest possibility that those mistakes had related to Haddock Thomas. Or, for that matter, to Sir Peter Barrie. He had cleared them both once, and innocent they both remained, notwithstanding the Pointe du Hoc and the King's Arms, Fordingwell.
'I see well enough.' Her instinct was to hit back. But that would only betray her insight into his obstinate faith in himself. Thomas's alibi stood up well enough, one way or another.
'And you found nothing else to suggest he was a Debrecen man - obviously.'
'That is… correct, Elizabeth.' He looked as disappointed as a boxer poised to parry a weak punch, with his own knock-out counter-punch ready, only to have the towel prematurely thrown into the ring.
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'Yes.' She mustn't smile - she must appear innocently serious. And she had to get away from Haddock Thomas. 'But you investigated other people - other names on the list - ?'
'Oh yes. Yes…' He studied her speculatively for a long moment. 'I worked over maybe two-thirds of the short-list before we consigned Debrecen to oblivion.' He watched her narrowly.
'And - ?'
He shrugged. 'Cleared a couple. More or less.'
'Including Sir Peter Barrie?'
'Three, then.'
'More or less?'
'Didn't do them any good.' He sniffed. 'You put a question mark beside a name, and then rub it out. But the erasure still shows.'
She began to see why he hadn't liked the job. 'And - ?'
'Ruined a couple more. More or less.'
He had probably ruined Haddock Thomas. Or at least driven him out of the Civil Service, whatever he said to the contrary. But she didn't want to return to Thomas. 'How?'
He thought for a moment. 'They had two question marks.' He looked at her. 'Another one I killed. More or less.'
Again, she remembered Paul's assessment of Audley plus Debrecen. 'Killed, David?'
'Not personally.' Audley showed her his hands. 'Clean - see?'
There was, as always, a slight ink-stain on one of his fingers; the result (so Paul said) of his religious use of a leaky gold fountain-pen given to him by his wife as her first birthday present to him, years ago.
Audley considered his hands critically for another moment, then bunched them into fists on his lap. 'He was the closest thing I had to success, actually. If that's what you'd call success.' The fists tightened. 'He probably was a traitor. Though whether he ever visited dummy2
Debrecen is another matter.' He looked at her. 'I leaned on him… and he conveniently shot himself.' He raised his shoulders slowly and eloquently. 'Or maybe the KGB shot him - I was never quite sure. But if they did, it was very expertly done, anyway. And I didn't expect it.' He gave her a dreadful smile. 'Mistake Number One, possibly?'
One untimely death, plus Haddock Thomas's resignation: was that an emerging pattern?
'Was that why the operation was aborted?'
'Partly that.' He was studying the cottages ahead of them now: cottages, idyllic, English, as opposed to cottage, idyllic, French, near St Servan-les-Ruines, thought Elizabeth. 'Not everyone I was bullying was as friendless as Peter Barrie. Haddock, for example - he had friends in several high places, rather surprisingly… You see, it wasn't popular, what I was doing - there were accusations of "witch-hunting"… or, in the American vernacular,
"McCarthyism" - the Senator wasn't just history in those days, either.'
She had clean forgotten about that. "This was happening in America, too… Of course!'
'Of course?' He came back to her quickly. 'My dear Elizabeth, that was really the chief reason why we aborted… That is, apart from the fact that I was fed up - and Fred was worried about Research and Development getting a bad name… which was a lot more important than my being thoroughly pissed-off, in the final reckoning.'
'It went wrong in America?'
'Wrong? Huh!' he emitted a growling noise. 'It depends what you mean by "wrong" -
"Define your terms", I should say: maybe "wrong" in '58 might mean "right" in '84 - eh?'
Irritation tightened her hands on the steering wheel, so that she suddenly became aware of them. They were no longer sweaty, merely disgustingly sticky. And she herself felt cold now, in the shadow of the trees, and tired and thirsty with it. Whereas he seemed altogether to have forgotten that he had been dying for a cup of tea an hour ago.
The Yanks had three things going for them that we didn't have.' He was lost in his own memory now. 'They had the resources. And the man who was running their show was a real professional, much more experienced than I was…' He trailed off, memory engulfing him altogether.
Elizabeth dredged her memory. 'And he enjoyed his work?'
'That's right.' He focused on her. 'I told you, didn't I?'
'You also said you didn't get on with him.'
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'An understatment. He disliked and mistrusted the English in general, and me in particular. He only worked with me because he hated traitors even more - he was a good hater. Old Scottish Presbyterian stock, out of Virginia from way back. They were always good haters.'
Audley had done his homework on his hostile colleague, typically. 'And you returned the compliment?'
'I didn't fancy him as a drinking crony. He didn't drink, anyway.' He retreated behind more English understatement. 'But more than that, I was a little scared of him, to be truthful.'
The thought of Audley scared was itself a little frightening. And the more so because he was also quite notoriously a lover of America and all things American. 'Why, David?'
'Huh! I was afraid I might turn up on his private Debrecen hit-list one day, for one thing.
But I also didn't like his methods, they were a bit rough for my effete tastes - I suspect he regarded Senator McCarthy as a much misunderstood man. But he was damn smart, all the same.'