'Oh aye?' Having goaded Audley into starting to answer, Mitchell wasn't offended by the comparison. 'But I got his job nevertheless, didn't I?' He even grinned knowingly at Elizabeth. 'We're both Audley-recruits, aren't we, Lizzie?
So ... we may not be as talented. But we're not quitters, are we?'
Elizabeth, who hated being knowingly-grinned-at by anyone, but particularly by Dr Paul Mitchell, became even more dummy1
Loftus-faced. 'Why did he resign, David? From Research and Development? And then the army, too? If he was so good
— ?'
That had been the question which had hurt Fred Clinton, when his potential star-pupil had graduated cum laude, and then turned his back on the services. But, if he —hadn't read A. A. Milne, he had known his Dryden —
'I can't say that I'm not disappointed, David. Not to say surprised, too . . . Although Neville says he warned me, with some rubbish about acorns and thistles.'
' Yes . . . but, then, it's the difference between "cold" war and
"hot" war, Fred — isn't it?' (That had been the first time he'd had to face what he already knew, but hadn't faced: that Fred was getting old now, and that the generation-gap between those who had felt the heat, and never wanted to feel it again, and those who hadn't, but who wondered endlessly about what it had been like, was becoming a problem to him.) ' It's like it was with my late unlamented father-in-law, Fred: so long as the guns were firing, he was a hero. But once they stopped, he began to get bored. And then he got up to all sorts of mischief —
"A daring pilot in extremity ..."
"... but for calm unfit ..."
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— so it's probably just as well. Because he'd have got up to all sorts of mischief, if he'd stayed with us.'
'Haven't we got enough mischief for him?'
' More than enough —1 agree!' (But that had been exactly the right moment to hit Fred with what he'd been worried about himself, at that time so long ago: that memory was still sharp, by God!) ' But he's the sort of chap who might get involved with politics, Fred. And . . . de-stabilizing the Government isn't what we're into — is it?'
'He isn't into that.'
' No.' (Fred wasn't over the hill yet. But he was no longer sitting on the top of it quite, either.) ' But some of the people he knows are ... or, let's say, I'm not sure about them, anyway. And . . . I have rather got the impression that intelligence research bores him — when we have to advise others when to risk their necks out there — ?'
That was it: whatever Mitchell might question as unlikely, he wouldn't argue with that. Because Mitchell and Richardson were brothers-under-the skin; only Richardson had been flawed, and Mitchell wasn't. 'He wasn't a research man, at heart.' And, also, there was that other difference — which would wound Mitchell deeply. But it would also stop his mouth, too. 'He was a soldier, you might say. And we didn't have a proper war for him. So that's why he resigned — from the army, as well as from R and D, Paul.'
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'Yes. He resigned.' Unexpectedly, Elizabeth hit him from the flank. 'But he also retired, David — from everything? Just like that — from everything?'
'Uh-huh?' Once the man had left R and D, that had been the end of him, was all he could recall. Fred had helped him back, of course: it had been Fred's influence which had promoted him from captain to major ... if not to keep him on his career-track, then maybe not to discourage their next recruit. So that had been merely prudent, never mind keeping faith with Richardson himself.
He shrugged. 'Well . . . that was afterwards.' All he could recall from afterwards was the office gossip in which he hadn't been interested. Peter Richardson — Major Richardson now — back with his regiment had been of no consequence whatsoever: he had smashed up one of his sports cars (and been smashed up in it, with it ... but that was no great surprise!); and then his adored Italian mother had died, on whom he had doted. (And that had been sad, maybe . . . but that was the way the world was: kings and queens and chimney-sweepers all had to die sometime; and so did mothers: mothers, and kings and queens and chimney-sweepers were dying all the time. And, anyway, the Principessa had died loaded with lire, to pay for a great big Italian hearse, drawn by four black horses through Amalfi, to solace her loving son in his grief in his inherited palazzo.)
'That was when he retired — resigned?' It was Elizabeth again, not Mitchell. But, where Mitchell had merely dummy1
questioned him about the sequence of events, Elizabeth was frowning at the events themselves.
So now he wasn't so sure of himself. But what he remembered wasn't in doubt, nevertheless. 'That was when he sent in his papers — yes. Because then he had all his inheritance to manage. All the family estates, up and down the coast, Elizabeth —' What made that doubly-sure was that one of Fred Clinton's criteria had been money, always: a man's politics and his sexual weaknesses were two things which mattered most, in those old days. But if he already had money, at least that ruled out arguments about his expenses allowance, when the budget was tight '— so ... that was old money, anyway.' And that was what Fred had liked best: old money. Apart from which, Peter Richardson had always loved his other country, as well as his mother: he had been almost as patriotic about the ancient Republic of Amalfi, which was more than half-a-thousand years older than Italy itself, than about his other Land-of-Hope-and-Glory.
But Elizabeth was still frowning at him. 'What's the matter, Elizabeth?'
She was still frowning. And so much so that even Paul Mitchell wanted to know what the matter was, also —
'Lizzie — ?'
'I think you should talk to Captain Cuccaro, David.'
Now they both looked at her. But Mitchell cracked first. 'Uh-huh? And . . . what did Cuccaro say, Lizzie? Does he want to dummy1
talk to the elusive Major, then? On his own account — ? Does he? Never mind the Russians?'
But she shook off Mitchell and all his questions then, together with her frown. 'It's the Mafia who want to talk to Major Richardson, Cuccaro says. And . . . and, I think that's what he wants to talk to you about, David — '
4
The Italians had not sent a boy to do a man's job: Audley had concluded that already from his brief meeting with Captain Cuccaro when he'd come aboard. But that, in view of what was surely in their records, was hardly surprising. Only close-up it was even more evident.
'Professore.'
'Captain.' Additionally, Cuccaro was what Mrs Faith Audley would have called "a fine-looking man", as well as an elegant one in his immaculate designer-jeans and expensive shirt (complete with a curious bronze medallion on a chain round his neck). All of which made Audley himself feel even more crumpled and unprepossessing. "Thank you for joining us, Captain. Your assistance is much appreciated.'
Cuccaro rolled easily with the boat's motion. 'I am here to facilitate your mission, Professore.' He gestured gracefully.
'And, of course, to ensure your safety as well as your success.'
There was no reason why the Italians should connect him dummy1
with events in far-off Berlin. But there was now the extraordinary Mafia intrusion to be explained. 'My safety?'