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Audley was glad that she had chosen to wear tinted glasses, only to find that it was he whom Roskill was observing speculatively.
He started guiltily.
'The post-mortem on Morrison?'
'My report's in the car. But I'd rather you read it on the way. We've got quite a way to go, and not a lot of time.'
The inside of the Triumph was like a pilot's cockpit. Evidently Roskill was a car enthusiast–and he was beyond doubt a skilled driver, for no unskilful one could drive so consistently fast and stay alive. Audley tore his eyes from the roadside which was flashing by so terrifyingly, and started to unzip the plastic folder Roskill had handed to him. Then he stopped; it was always better to hear a verbal report if possible–reports could not answer questions. And it would serve to bring home the realities of the situation to Faith, if that was still necessary. It might slow down this hair-raising drive, too!
'Did he fall, or was he pushed?' he inquired.
'Neither,' replied Roskill, slowing down not in the least. 'He was dead when he was slung down those stairs.'
He changed gears with casual skill, and drifted the car coolly round a badly-cambered bend with an ease Audley envied bitterly. How was it that some people could bring machines alive, and then achieve a symbiosis with them?
'But you were right, Dr Audley,' Roskill continued. 'It was an accident, most likely. He actually died of heart failure –he had a heart condition that only needed the right shock to set off.'
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'And that shock was—?'
'Somebody slapped him around a bit. Not hard, but hard enough.
Made his nose bleed. We frightened him, but we weren't in any hurry. Someone else was, apparently.'
'They'd have hit him to make him tell them something?' asked Faith.
'That's right, Miss Jones. He'd just spoken to us, and he knew we were OHMS. He'd know that his next visitors weren't official–but he also knew that we were coming back soon. So he might have tried to stall them and that was very unwise of him.'
'Unwise?'
Roskill was silent for a moment. Then he spoke more seriously:
'Miss Jones, most people think that types like me are just like–the men on the other side. They think we're just tools, like a gun or a fighter; same basic object, just a different make. But it isn't quite true, you know.'
'You're good and they're bad?'
Audley wriggled uncomfortably. The old argument was rearing its head.
But Roskill avoided it.
'I'm bound by laws, very strict laws, and they aren't. In this country, anyway.'
'But you'd stretch those laws.'
'Stretch–maybe. But break–never! With a free press and civil liberties I wouldn't even if I wanted to. Which I don't, oddly dummy4
enough.'
Audley intervened. 'Hugh means that if Morrison had refused to talk to us there isn't a thing we could have done about it. And there aren't many places in the world where that's the case. That's why you're coming up to Knaresborough with us, as I told you: because I've a feeling that Tierney won't be panicked like Morrison.'
Roskill nodded.
'True–but that isn't really what I meant to say, Miss Jones.
'I meant to say that if ever you should be in Morrison's situation, don't try to be brave or clever. Just tell 'em what they want to know. Sing like a canary.'
'I'll remember your advice, Mr Roskill.'
'It was just a thought. And please call me Hugh–everyone else does.'
'Well, then, Hugh–what was it they wanted to find out from that poor man? David didn't seem to think that he had much of value to tell–except that he knew my father brought the treasure in.'
The speed of the Triumph dropped all of three m.p.h., only to rise sharply. Audley remembered from the Dassault interview that Roskill had flown fighters: he drove exactly as one would expect a fighter pilot to drive.
'Treasure?' said Roskill innocently.
Audley told him briefly about the Schliemann Collection, and was exceedingly gratified to find that his information was received with the same caution as he had accorded it. This not only vindicated his attitude, he reflected, despising the jealousy he was unable to stifle; dummy4
it relegated Hugh to his own level in Faith's eyes.
'All this trouble for a load of museum exhibits!' The prospect seemed to amuse Roskill, and although Audley refrained from turning to look at Faith he could sense her bristling on the back seat.
'All what trouble?' she asked.
Roskill gave Audley a quick sidelong glance.
'That's the thing that's been disturbing me more than somewhat, Dr Audley: the priority service we've been getting. I'm used to being told to get on with it, and mind the expenses. But ever since that JIG fellow set eyes on me it's been all "Ask and ye shall receive"–
and I don't like it!'
'The Schliemann treasure—' began Faith.
'The Schliemann treasure may be the biggest thing since Tutankhamen, Miss Jones. I'm sure it's enough to set all the thieves in Europe drooling—'
Roskill stopped for several seconds, conscious at once that he had dropped a brick. Then he plunged on.
'—But it isn't the sort of thing that gets me out of bed. And certainly not Dr Audley here. And never the other lot–them least of all.'
Faith opened her mouth to speak and then closed it suddenly. She had evidently realised that she had let slip the treasure ahead of schedule, although Audley had given her no instructions about it.
But like the admirable young woman she was, she had caught herself in time before mentioning Panin.
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She glanced at him and he smiled at her. Not so much out of gratitude at finding a woman who could hold her tongue–it was high time that Hugh was introduced to Panin, anyway–as because she had heightened his regard for her. It was a new thing for him to desire and admire a woman at the same time.
'There's one man who might be interested,' he began. Strictly speaking he ought to get Stocker's clearance before telling Hugh about Panin. But the cat would be out of the bag on Tuesday in any case.
Hugh listened, nodding at intervals.
'Well, that's a bit more like it!' he said at length. 'But I still don't quite understand why he's so worked up about it. Is there a chance he's going to defect?'
That possibility had already passed very fleetingly through Audley's mind, only to be rejected utterly. It was not so much unlikely as plain ridiculous. Defection was for the system's victims–for intellectuals like Kuznetsov and poor devils in the field like Khokhlov and Gouzenko. It wasn't for the men who made the system work, the coming men.
'Not a chance,' he replied flatly.
'I only asked,' said Roskill unrepentantly. 'The word is that with the Czechs and the Rumanians and the Chinese –and the Americans in Space–they're all at sixes and sevens over there. If I was one of
'em, I'd be looking for a cosy billet.'
But not Panin, thought Audley. The Russians were in an unhappy situation not unknown in the West: they had fallen into the hands dummy4
of a junta of second-raters, all jockeying for power. It might be a mere historical accident, or it might be a basic built-in defect of the one-party system, which admitted another Stalin as the only alternative. Either way the prospect was quietly terrifying.
But Panin was not a second-rater. More like a first-rate Father Joseph looking for his Richelieu. Or maybe a potential Richelieu himself. . .
'But you wanted to know what Morrison knew that might have been valuable, Miss Jones,' said Roskill, sensibly changing the subject. 'They might have wanted to know how far we'd got, of course. But more likely they wanted the addresses of the other crew members–Tierney the second pilot and Maclean the navigator. Right, Dr Audley?'
'Do you think they got them?'