And then, forty years later, a fraction of the loot had travelled West again, to finance another risky but potentially profitable operation. . . .
Audley superimposed the reality on the lie and came to the instant conclusion that the lie was more convincing. If Spanish gold, the gold of King Philip's Americas, had to end up in the kitchen garden of a great house in England, it should more likely have come via the son of a Devon sea-dog than by the order of a nameless Russian bureaucrat in some dusty office in Dzerzhinsky Street.
But, by the same token, when the KGB could summon up a man who could twist English history to his own use—and even the CIA could conjure up an agent who knew the difference between New England and Old England—then the English themselves ought to be able to screw them both into the ground.
dummy5
I elect myself for that job, decided Audley dispassionately.
And I shall break the rules to do it, if that's the only way it can be done.
Davenport was looking at him with a mixture of hope and expectation in his expression—the hope of freedom and the expectation that the legend would justify his reputation. It would be wrong to disappoint him.
"Well, Master Davenport, you've messed us up properly—I can tell you that for free," he said.
Davenport's lip drooped. "Once I was out you would have been given everything we had."
"But you aren't out. And we thought you were Charlie Ratcliffe's action man, maybe. So who is—can you give us that?"
Davenport blinked. "Sure. If it's a trade, that is."
"Part of a trade. You're not in a good trading position, but I'm inclined to be generous. I wouldn't like to see Howard Morris sent back home on the next plane." Audley smiled.
"Okay. He has two guys to hold his hand."
"In his—ah—his regiment?"
"No. In one of the militia regiments."
Well, well!
"David Bishop and Philip Oates, I presume?"
Davenport looked crestfallen. "You know them already?"
dummy5
"Confirmation is always helpful. No one else?"
"I don't think so. But they're good operators—very careful. I'd guess they have instructions not to let him do anything, which pisses him off some I suspect."
"He sees himself as a man of action, eh?"
Small shrug. "He's been playing things close to his chest ever since Swine Brook Field, doing what he's been told. But I think you've shaken him up a bit this last week, with what you've been doing."
"Doing nothing isn't to his taste, eh?"
"Right."
So the editor of The Red Rat was pining to be a power in the land, the well-informed scourge of the enemies of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
"And where does Professor Stephen Nayler figure in this grand design?"
"Oh, he's just window-dressing. Give him a TV programme and he'll kiss anyone's ass." Davenport's contempt warmed Audley's heart. "He's a punk, but he's clean—we looked him over good."
That was almost the last loose end tied up, thought Audley.
All he had to do now was to tie all the ends in a new knot somehow.
"Well, that almost makes the trade, Master Davenport," he said.
dummy5
"I'm glad to hear it." Davenport breathed out. "I shall be sorry to miss Standingham though. That should be quite a show, and I've gotten to enjoy the Double R Society—there are a lot of good people in it."
Audley smiled. "Oh, but you're not going to miss it—almost a trade, I said. I'm going to lose your extra passport and forget the breaking of our agreements, but there are things I need you to do first . . . after I've phoned Colonel Morris and talked to one or two other people. Nothing very difficult, certainly nothing very dangerous. But I want you there on the battlefield, preaching the revolution. It wouldn't be the same without you now, would it?"
He skirted the crowd unobtrusively, weaving in and out of the cars parked under the trees and the picnic groups among them. It surprised him, how many people there were, often whole families, able and willing to spend a whole weekday afternoon watching a cricket match. A rugger crowd he could understand, that was a contest of mind and muscle he enjoyed himself; and a football crowd, that was a statistical fact to be accepted, so there had to be more in it than met his eye. But cricket, that was a pleasant surprise.
His pulse quickened as he spotted Weston's car in the shadow of the trees beyond the old bandstand, and then Weston himself standing very still in the angle of the steps and the wooden balustrade of the stand.
The Superintendent was, if not the only unpredictable factor dummy5
left, the last of the tools he required to handle Charlie Ratcliffe at Standingham. At a pinch he could probably do without Weston, but then he would have to give Weston's task to someone from the Department, and that might enable someone within it to ask awkward questions afterwards.
Whereas if he had Weston and Frances and Davenport all doing their own different things— the police, the Department and the CIA— it was an odds-on certainty that they would never be in a position to exchange notes, and would never therefore be in a position to understand what they had done between them.
Weston was looking at him now. . . . Well, to be honest with himself, they might each of them suspect. Frances possibly, Davenport probably, and Weston . . . Weston, being Weston, for sure, but without proof—only Charlie Ratcliffe would be able to supply that, and that was the one thing Charlie would be in no position to do.
But that thought armed him now for what he had to say. It was better to have
Weston doing something for him than to leave him to his own devices. After what had happened to Sergeant Digby and with what he might already suspect, a copper like Weston would never rest quiet and easy.
The look on Weston's face confirmed his fear. There was no mistaking the policeman for any tinker, tailor, schoolmaster or country doctor now: advancing on that look he knew how Prince Rupert's cavalry had felt when they saw the sun glint dummy5
on the swords of Cromwell's Ironsides.
"Weston."
"Audley." The courtesies were minimal. "You've got a lot of explaining to do, I'm thinking."
"No." Audley shook his head. "Not to you."
The jaw squared. "If not to me, then to my chief."
"Not to him either. Sergeant Digby died in the execution of his duty while questioning two suspected terrorists who subsequently blew themselves up by accident. That was nothing to do with me— now or ever. The case isn't closed for me because it was never open."
Weston stared at him in silence for a moment or two, then took a sheet of paper from his breast pocket.
"Read it." He held out the paper. "Read it, Audley."
Audley opened the sheet. It was close-typed on cheap official paper, the words cutting across the faint blue lines beneath.
'Right worshippfule Sir, Whereas of late have I suceeded to thee Estate wherof mine Fathyr was seised there cameth into myne possessioun alsoe a certeyne quantitie of treasure the whych did my Faither take from a certeyn Papisticalle shippe.
But wheras at thatte tyme for inasmuch as his Majestic hadde mayd treatie and peace with thee king of Spayne it beseemed to hime not opportune to advertise thee whych and he caused itte to be hydden and to noo manne tolde he of it bethynking himme that as tyme showld shewe dummy5
himme when and uppon what occasion he sh'd makke it knowne but he feeling thee comyng nighe of Dethe did tell mee of it.
And as nowe thee Lorde, to whom bee al prayse, hathe shewn unto mee the waye of righteousness and that Parliement doth strive mightilie in Hisse cause ageynst the wrongdoyng and persecution of the righteous by thee evil counselours of his Majestic it seemeth too me that trewe Religion and thee cause of Parliement requireth of mee that I sh'd place this treasyre atte the disposal and use of thee Lord's true servents as so vast a tresure the whych I doe assure Your excellencie nor never in the tyme of her late Grace did come into thisse realm beying twoe thousande pounds weght of golde.