It must have been a trying day for Stocker as well. After the early morning Panin call, the hitherto subservient Audley had turned awkward. Then Panin had rushed him out of London at uncomfortable speed, only to find two disgruntled but unintimidated operatives doing nothing in particular.
'Not to worry, though,' Roskill reassured him, mistaking his silence. 'Butler showed him his map, all covered with meaningless red and blue crosses and lines and circles–Jack could snow the dummy4
recording angel if he set his mind to it. He went back to London happy enough, I think.'
'What about Panin?'
'Our Russian colleague?' Roskill cocked his head. 'The Professor–
that's how Stocker refers to him, by the way–is still very much with us. As a matter of fact he's sinking beer with Butler in the bar at this moment. But I don't think Butler snowed him: I've got a feeling he's a downier bird altogether. He doesn't say much, but Butler's talking cricket to him at the moment, so he hasn't had much opportunity yet anyway–when I left them Jack was just launching into his favourite story, about the time Bill Farrimond played for England and Lancashire Second.'
'Is he alone?'
'Oddly enough he is. Or he appears to be. But Butler and I are going to have a scout round after dinner. If he's alone then he's top brass, isn't he?'
'Panin's top brass, Hugh. No doubt about that. But tell me how you got on yesterday.'
'Wash-out, I'm afraid, sir.' Roskill shook his head sadly. 'We couldn't track one of 'em at all. And the other one shut up tighter than a clam.'
Then he smiled. 'Actually, I rather liked the old boy Ellis. He was regular RAF. Joined as a boy when there were still Bristol Fighters around and his last station was supersonic. He'd seen it all!'
'He wouldn't talk about Steerforth?'
'Oh, he talked. But he didn't give anything away. I think Ellis knew dummy4
every racket that'd ever been thought of. But he liked Steerforth–
said he was a gentleman, which means that Steerforth always paid the rate for the job in advance. And he practically told me I warn't a gentleman for checking on another pilot!'
'Then Butler appealed to his patriotism and he just laughed at us.'
Roskill's eyes flashed. 'He said that he knew his pilots, and patriotism was one thing and a bit of smuggling on the side was another. He said he's been on an air-sea rescue station where the Warwicks ran a regular service from Iceland with the lifeboats under their bellies full of nylons and whisky and ham. That'd stopped when they had to drop a boat to a ditched crew, and the chaps were picked up roaring drunk, but if Steerforth had put one over on us, so much the better. He was a splendid old boy!'
So there was no help there. Panin was waiting and his bluff was in danger of being called. When Roskill had gone he stood silent, staring at the dried shaving soap on his face.
Faith put her hand on his shoulder. 'No good, David?'
He shrugged. 'We're simply running out of time, Faith love. We never had much in the beginning. But instead of playing for it I've just speeded it up. I'm rather wondering now if it was the right thing to do.'
Faith held up Theodore's gift. 'Well, don't give up yet. The Fellowship of the Ring did just the same in The Lord of the Rings -
they forced the Dark Lord to attack before he was ready, and he came unstuck. Maybe Panin will come unstuck too.'
Audley smiled at her. Woman-like, she had committed herself with dummy4
her affections. Panin was the enemy now, the Dark Lord, whoever he was. And the least he could do in return for such loyalty was to play the game out.
He watched her in the mirror as he shaved, and Panin faded into immateriality. Not just Panin either–Stocker, Fred and all the rest as well. At some stage since Saturday night they had all changed places in importance with this girl. The longer he was with her, the closer he came to reality. And whatever happened, the real world was Faith struggling with her zip-fastener.
She turned towards him at last.
'Will I do, then?'
The long white dress, slashed in front from the ankle to the knee, was classically severe, but the heavy golden earrings and elaborate necklace were barbaric–no, not so much barbaric as pre-Hellenic.
'Take your glasses off.'
'But David, I don't see so well without them. Don't you like me in glasses?'
'I like you better in them. But not tonight.'
She slipped them off and stared vaguely at him: Steerforth's daughter to the life now, almost as her father might have dressed her. Except that the costume jewellery was from Bond Street, not Troy.
'Now you'll do very well. Very well indeed!'
'I hope so! But I've got butterflies in the tummy, David. Don't ask me to play the femme fatale ever again–this is positively the last time.'
dummy4
Audley shared the same stomach-turning mixture of excitement and fear as he followed her down the passage. He had nothing with which to face Panin except pure bluff. Yet Panin didn't know it was bluff. And this was the home ground, for all its soft carpets and heated air: 3112 Squadron's home ground, where the Russian had been beaten once before. The ghosts were on Audley's side here.
A subdued murmur lead them towards the bar. The swarthy waiter smiled unselfconscious admiration at Faith and honest envy at Audley before sweeping open the door for them.
They had their entrance, anyway.
For Nikolai Andrievich Panin.
But he had his back to them, engrossed in watching Butler cut an imaginary cricket ball down past gully and third slip for four easy runs. Roskill stood politely at his elbow in the act of raising a tankard to his lips.
Then the tankard stopped, the imaginary bat was lowered and Panin slowly turned towards them.
Audley had known what to expect; that face was in a dozen pictures in the file. Yet it was a sickening anti-climax nevertheless: Faith's Dark Lord was a very ordinary little man, totally without any aura of power or menace. The sheep-face with its bent nose was greyish and deeply-lined like an eroded desert landscape. It was the file brought to life, giving away nothing–not even a raised eyebrow for Steerforth's Trojan daughter.
Audley put out his hand.
'Professor Panin.'
dummy4
'Dr Audley.'
There was hardly a trace of an accent. Indeed, the foreign-ness of the voice lay in its complete neutrality.
'This is Miss Steerforth.'
Panin regarded Faith without curiosity.
'Miss Steerforth,' he repeated unemotionally.
Faith took the smooth, dry hand he offered her. 'Professor Panin, I'm afraid my father once caused you a great deal of trouble,' she said in a voice equally devoid of emotion. 'But I think it's rather late for an apology.'
The Russian considered her for a moment.
'Miss Steerforth, we are not responsible for our fathers. Mine was a sergeant in the Semenovsky Guards–the Tsar's guards, Miss Steerforth. And after that in the White army. But that was not my business, for I was a babe in arms. So you have nothing for which to apologise.'
He turned back to Audley.
'Major Butler has been instructing me in the finer points of cricket.
I know the theory of the game, but the fascination of a game lies in the finer points, would you not agree?'
'For the spectator, certainly. For the player it's winning that counts.'
'But you played rugby, I believe–and that is a game of brute force played by gentlemen. At least, so I have heard it described.'
'Whoever described it for you obviously never played in Wales, Professor Panin. I might just as well describe yours as a dirty dummy4
hobby for scholars.'
'A dirty hobby?' A note of puzzlement crept into the voice. He hadn't expected to be insulted.
'Archaeology, Professor.' It was comical to see Butler relax.