The Alamut Ambush

'But it did turn up at the depot, Hugh,' Faith persisted. 'Why make a mystery out of nothing?'

'The mystery's all Jack's, not mine, Faith. But as it happens it also turned up too late. If it was a substitute for the last bus it'd have been ditched within an hour. Once there was a call out for it they'd have spotted it before midday.'

'They still could have missed it. A parked car is just a parked car if it's not in a "no parking" zone.'

'No, Mrs. Audley,' said Butler. 'They didn't miss it, we do know that. It was parked near enough to one of the depot entrances to be in the way. When it was noticed the engine wasn't even cold.'

'All of which you could have told us in two minutes flat, Jack.'

Roskill masked his unease; again, it wasn't like the man to go the long way round. 'You're being rather a bore now. Why don't you just come to the point?'

'The point?'

'I don't know what Llewelyn does, but if David doesn't want to say, it's probably veiled in bullshit. So some bright boy in security will have smelt the same rats I have, and after that the procedure's dummy2

straightforward: they checked it out and they found it was bugged.

The point is – where do I come in?'

'Aye, it smelt,' said Butler heavily. 'It smelt of fish and chips and it had the previous evening's Oxford paper in it, and it was muddy.

Which suggested to the local police that it was a casual job. But they had a look for prints and they couldn't find one, not one.

Which made them think again, because it was a bit too careful.'

'I thought everyone knew enough to wipe off their fingerprints these days?' said Faith.

'Just so, Mrs. Audley. But only the professionals do the job really thoroughly. When the police delivered it back to London they suggested a closer look might be in order. Young Jenkins was given the job of looking – you met him last year, Mrs. Audley.'

'I did indeed!' Faith smiled reminiscently. 'Lots too much hair, but very good-looking. He's nice.'

'He's damn good, too,' Roskill said. Jenkins was the star up-and-coming performer of the electronic backroom boys, which excused his hair and the irreverance that went with it. 'If there was anything in the Princess, Alan Jenkins would have found it And I take it there was something?'

'There was, Hugh.'

'Well, for Christ's sake, man, don't be so mysterious. What sort of bug was it?'

'We don't know.' Butler looked obstinately at Roskill, as though he wanted to look away, but couldn't. 'Jenkins is dead. It blew him apart, whatever it was. He's dead.'

dummy2

'He's what?'

It wasn't a question: Roskill knew he'd heard perfectly well – he could hear the distant thump of the boiler and the whisper of the hot water in the pipes. It blew him apart, whatever it was ... Not Jenkins, of all people.

'He was told to remove any bugs he found,' said Butler flatly.

'Llewelyn wanted his car back on the double. Jenkins was working alone, taping his report as he went along. He'd checked out the interior of the car, and the engine and the boot. He was working in the pit underneath when he spotted this bug, just about under the driver's seat. He started to remove it, and then said, "That's interesting". Just that – and then there was an explosion.'

Faith put her hands to her cheeks.

'They haven't reconstructed things accurately yet – it happened just after midnight, this morning. But from what he said just before it sounds as though someone took a lot of trouble. All we know is that it was one of the latest plastic explosives almost certainly, with maybe one of those new proximity activators. But it must have been attached to the bug as well – it can't have been just bad luck, otherwise he wouldn't have spotted something interesting.'

Not Jenkins. Roskill groaned to himself inwardly. Lots of hair but very good-looking. But not good-looking any more.

He'd never thought of Jenkins as good-looking. Just intelligent and eager – that had been how he had looked that first time, at the Battle of Britain Open Day at Snettisham. Harry's younger brother who was a genius with electronic gadgets and bored with his dummy2

trainee managership. It had seemed such good sense to find a useful square hole for so square a peg...

'It was quick, Hugh,' said Butler. 'He never knew what hit him. He wasn't expecting it – damn it, no one was expecting it.'

No one had expected it – and bloody Llewelyn had wanted his precious car on the double. But that was half-baked, unfair thinking; of course no one expected it. Chicago in the twenties, maybe Berlin in the worst days of the Cold War. And Northern Ireland today. But this wouldn't be an I.R.A. job: if the police had driven it all the way from Oxfordshire it was a real professional piece of work.

'But why, Major Butler – why?' said Faith. 'Why should anyone want to blow Jenkins up?'

'Not Jenkins, Mrs. Audley. Jenkins was an accident, an innocent bystander. Killing Jenkins was like poisoning a food taster – no sense to it. It was Llewelyn they wanted, and it looks as though whoever rigged the device was plain bloody-minded. But then the whole thing was a botched up affair, half clever and half stupid: if they wanted to kill Llewelyn they could have done it with much less fuss. And if they wanted to put the fear of God into him they needn't have taken so much trouble.'

Butler was right. It was like a futile accident – as futile as a sudden skid on a patch of oil. Better to think of Jenkins skidding into a lorry: nothing anyone could do about it, and at least it was quick.

Except that this patch of oil had been deliberately spread by someone, and it would be a sweet thing to see that same someone's dummy2

face rubbed in it.

Roskill savoured the prospect for a moment: Butler had been right about that, too – for him Alan Jenkins overshadowed Snettisham.

So for the first time a desire for a tangible revenge — a new sensation that – would coincide with a job.

Then he stopped short in mid-thought, suddenly at a loss. That wasn't how things worked at all. Further, they worked the opposite way round: any sort of personal involvement, however innocent, was anathema. In this instance he ought to be the last person conscripted, not the first.

And doubly the last. Whatever Llewelyn did it had nothing to do with aviation or avionics, or he would have encountered him already. A bungled assassination was first and last a Special Branch matter, not a fit assignment for an avionics man. One might just as well despatch a chopper to intercept a bomber.

So what the devil was Butler up to? Roskill felt a cold tingle of caution crawl up his back. Butler was a good fellow, solid and sensible, but an establishment man to the core, prepared to put his hand to any awkward job loyally. And notoriously he was given such awkward jobs...

But it would be useless to ask outright for the truth. Butler would be ready to fend off such a question. Better simply to play it straight, with caution.

'And why would anyone want to blow up Llewelyn?'

'Perhaps Dr. Audley could tell us that.'

Audley slowly put down the empty glass he'd been nursing and dummy2

stared at Butler.

'The last time I set eyes on the man was maybe ten years ago. It was in a pub in Richmond – he apologised for treading on my hand in the game we'd played that afternoon. He'd trodden on it deliberately, of course; it was just part of his game. And that was the last time I met him. Ten, maybe eleven years ago.'

'But you know of him, then,' Butler prodded.

Audley looked at Butler reflectively.

'Too late, I did. He was a bastard,' Audley turned towards Roskill.

'But he knows what he wants – just as Butler here knows what he wants. Unfortunately for him, he's not going to get it.'