Soldier No More dda-11 Page 17

  But now they were inescapable, because the bets were on the table—if he failed, then the Comrades would never forgive him this time. Only now the game was more complicated, with the Americans and the Israelites in it, with stakes of their own, and as yet he didn't even know why they were playing. And not to know that was very frightening. And the CIA, with all its unlimited resources, was even more frightening. And Mossad, with its limited resources but unlimited ruthlessness, was even more frightening still.

  It made him feel sick to his stomach, and he couldn't control the sickness, so that before he knew what he was doing he was throwing up the Lexy Special into the stubble of the field at his feet.

  For a moment he was bent double, swaying dizzily, his vision blurred with tears. Then he managed to steady himself, his dummy5

  hands on his knees, as he vomited again helplessly—he had lost his supper, and now his lunch was coming up.

  He focussed on the stubble again, and found that he had instinctively lurched a few yards away from the disgusting mess, to an unfouled piece of ground. Among the dead stalks at his feet there was a fresh green plant growing, its tendrils snaking out from a fissure in the dry earth. He frowned at it, unable to identify the plant—there was another similar one a few yards away, and another beyond that, and another . . .

  they were in a line stretching down the hillside towards the road, and there were others dotted over the field, apparently growing haphazardly, but actually in other lines like this one.

  They were young vines, of course. This cornfield had once been a vineyard, a little irregularly-shaped vineyard high on the ridge, penned in by woodland on three sides and by the road up from which he had climbed on the fourth; yet although the vines had been grubbed up, their deepest roots had escaped the plough and had endured the temporary conquest of the land by the corn to sprout again, unconquerable.

  Well . . . Roche bent down to take the tender shoot at his feet into his hand. . . well, he would beat the bastards yet, somehow; he would use them, and he would play them against each other— Genghis Khan against Clinton, and Clinton against Genghis Khan, and both against the Americans and the Israelis . . . and in the end he would go over to whichever of them looked like winning, whichever of dummy5

  them could best offer him safety and amnesty and oblivion, it didn't matter which— only survival mattered!

  "David!"

  Lexy was striding up the hillside towards him.

  "Any sign of her yet?" She paused for a moment, turning to survey the landscape below her, hands on hips, a splendid Amazon of a girl, Hippolyta to the life. "Drat the girl! This is absolutely typical—just typical!"

  Roche chose a non-committal grunt as a reply. From their vantage point he could see the road twisting down into the valley, and there was plainly no sign of Mossad on it.

  But he ought to pretend he'd been looking at something. "I was looking at these vines, coming up through the stubble ..."

  "Oh . . . yes!" Lexy's face was slightly flushed, and the dirty mark had enlarged itself. She looked as though she'd just got out of bed. "Tragedy, isn't it—corn instead of wine! But typical Peyrony avarice, we think . . . though she says she can't get the labour—all her boys have gone off—" she transmuted the words from BBC English into the aristocratic gawn orf "—gawn orf to the army, to get themselves killed in Algeria, she says. But we think it's the price of corn—I say, darling . . . you're as white as a sheet!"

  Roche was about to say that it must be something he'd eaten, but realised just in time that he would thereby be condemning the Lexy Special for what it surely was.

  "You must have caught a touch of the sun, darling," said Lexy dummy5

  solicitously.

  "Yes, I think I must have done," agreed Roche, who had never caught a touch of the sun in his life. "Mad dogs and Englishmen, and all that. . ." Maybe he had, though: a little sun and a lot of terror, and a Lexy Special: that was surely enough to turn the strongest stomach.

  "Well, then—it doesn't matter about Steffy bedding down with her mysterious boyfriend for extra time! You can't possibly go to the orgy like this, David—" Lexy's solicitude was positively enthusiastic "—Jilly can go on her own, and I'll stay and mop your fevered brow," she beamed at him.

  "Ah. . . no—no, I must go," said Roche quickly. Whatever Lexy had in mind—ministering genuinely, or even something much more attractive, he had to go to the orgy. In another life the opportunity would have been irresistible, but this life left no room for self-indulgence. "I have to go. And I'm okay now, anyway."

  Lexy appeared crest-fallen. "But, David darling. . . it'll be so boring— if you're feeling a bit fragile ... I mean, David—David Audley—spouting endlessly on—on barbarians and things ...

  on history, and Arabs, and Russians, and . . . and on whatever comes into his head . . . and they'll all get drunker and drunker . . . and I shall go to sleep, and my mouth will fall open and I shall snore horribly—and Jilly and Steffy will become even more intelligent . . . and then you'll never speak to me again, and I shall be desolate!"

  Lexy had cooked her own goose. In that other life . . . but this dummy5

  life belonged to David Audley, and especially David Audley drunk and talkative—that was a particular Audley he needed for his collection, and perhaps even the final one he required to complete the set. Even if he'd been half-dead he couldn't have missed such a chance.

  "Lexy, I'm sorry. But I've got to sleep somewhere eventually, remember. And I am okay now, really." He grinned at her. "I don't want to be a bother, either."

  "Oh—phooey!" She rejected the grin. "The trouble with nice men is, they always have to be noble and unselfish and brave, damn it!"

  "I'm not being any of those. I'm only being logical." And the trouble with women, thought Roche, was that (all except Julie) they were none of those things. "Besides which, Jilly said Madame Peyrony wouldn't like me to hang around you three ladies."

  "Huh! That's just where you're wrong! We've just had a message from the old witch about you—La Goutard's already been on the phone and La Peyrony is desperate to meet the young English colonel—"

  "I'm not a colonel, for God's sake! I'm only a captain—"

  "Well, she made you a colonel, so you jolly well have to stay promoted while you're here . . . And I made you a paratroop colonel too, with a chestful of medals—"

  "But—"

  "But nothing! Those two old witches have both got nephews dummy5

  serving with the paras in Algeria, under some colonel or other who appears to be a cross between Napoleon and Joan of Arc, the way they talk about him ... so she's promoted you and I've—what's the word Father uses?—seconded?— I've given you a parachute, anyway," she shrugged, utterly unabashed. "So you'll have to jump now, when you meet La Peyrony."

  Roche regarded her reproachfully. "You didn't have to make me a paratroop colonel—that's overdoing it a bit."

  "Not at all! 'Never tell a little fib if you have to lie', Father always says. Tell a whopper and make a proper job of it'—

  that's what he says." Lexy brushed at her hair, and then turned the gesture into a vague, unrepentant wave. "You're lucky I didn't make you a general—French para generals jump with their men, Etienne says."

  "Etienne?"

  "A friend of David's—Etienne d'Auberon—or d'Auberon-Something-Something, terribly aristocratic ... I mean, not like me, but really aristocratic, like from St. Louis and the Crusades, and all that. . ." Lexy turned the vague wave into an even vaguer sweep, as though 'all that' included the ownership of everything in sight, with the appropriate feudal rights and privileges. "A French friend of David's," she added unnecessarily. "Anyway, you'll probably meet him tonight, if you're set on going to the Tower. He often turns up ... mostly to argue with David about the Hundred Years' War, so far as I can make out ..." she trailed off, apparently losing the dummy5

  thread of her own butterfly monologue.

  Etienne d ' Auberon-Something-Something? That would b
e another name for Genghis Khan, when he could get Jilly to decode the 'Something-Something' part of the Frenchman's name anyway, thought Roche grimly. Because, as of now, everyone connected with the Tower was under suspicion of being an enemy until proved otherwise, even Frenchmen. It was their country, after all.

  Meanwhile mild interest was in order. "Lives round here, does he, this Etienne?"

  "He does now. I mean, he always did, after a fashion, in the family chateau—like Mummy and Daddy retire to freeze in the Cotswolds from time to time . . . But he used to live in Paris, in a fearfully smart flat near the Bois, when he was working for the Government there. . . Only then he had this absolutely frightful row over something—Algeria, I expect. . .

  they're always having rows over Algeria—but it was one of those awful rows the French have, all about honour and France, and things like that—honestly, you wouldn't credit it!

  I mean, can you imagine Jilly rowing about honour! Or Cousin Roland pitching into his Minister about England? But they do—the French—honour and France, and probably Liberty, Equality and whatever the other one is ... Fraternity, that's it! Fraternity my eye! According to David . . . 'Tienne was all set for fraternal pistols at dawn in the Bois over whatever it was—and they were all set to put him up against the wall for a firing squad!" She shook her head in disbelief at dummy5

  her own story, cornflower-blue eyes wide. "Which is ridiculous, isn't it—because, I mean, Cousin Roland didn't exactly celebrate over that ghastly Suez business last year, he got so stroppy in the end that they had to pack him off to Scotland to let off steam shooting grouse to get it out of his system . . . But with 'Tienne, it was like they were about to put him in the Tower of London under close arrest."

  Etienne d'Auberon Something-Something was becoming very interesting mdeed. But if the scandal had reached such serious proportions, even allowing for Lexy's weakness for hyperbole, why hadn't he heard of it? thought Roche.

  "It was all hushed up in the end, of course." The blue eyes narrowed knowingly. "David Audley says de Gaulle spiked their guns somehow, but Jilly thinks it was because Tienne knew too much, and they were scared he'd spill the beans about whatever it was ... I mean, if it was as awful as that, then there must have been an awful lot of beans to spill, wouldn't you think, David?"

  "Mmm . . ." agreed Roche cautiously.

  "But you must have heard about it, darling, surely?" The vague blue eyes blinked at him.

  That was what was beginning to disturb him. Because if Etienne d'Auberon had been involved in a big Government scandal and he hadn't picked up a whisper of it—and Philippe Roux hadn't dropped the slightest hint of it—even the fact that d'Auberon's name rang no bells could mean that he was a well-covered backroom boy . . . then the scandal had dummy5

  been very efficiently hushed for once. And that meant it was big—

  "I'm just a simple soldier, Lady Alexandra." And, for that matter, how simple was she? For, while her style and vocabulary were debutante, since when did debutantes chatter knowledgeable asides on Suez and Algeria and de Gaulle? Or was all that simply what had rubbed off frorn Audley and Jilly and Cousin Roland?

  He had to know. "What makes you think I've heard about it?"

  I didn't, darling—Jilly did. Just before I came up here she said I ought to tell you about Tienne, anyway . . . because he might turn up at the orgy. He does sometimes." She shrugged. "And you move in those sort of circles."

  "What sort of circles?" So it was a Jilly after-thought!

  "Oh—hush-hush ones. You know!"

  But that joke had gone far enough. "I told you—I'm just a simple soldier."

  "Simple my eye! Simple soldiers don't make friends with our Jilly. . . and they don't make phone-calls either. They make passes at me, is what they do. I'm an expert on simple soldiers, darling—and you don't fit the pattern, believe me!"

  Roche realised that he was on a hiding to nothing on Lady Alexandra's own ground so long as he tried to play the game his own way. Jilly had given him better advice than she could imagine, but so far he'd made too little use of it.

  "Tell me more about this fellow d'Auberon then—if I'm not dummy5

  simple," he challenged her directly.

  "Why d'you want to know about him?" Now she couldn't help being suspicious.

  "Because I'm not simple. I like to know all about the opposition before I make my pass, Lady Alexandra."

  "Oh ..." She was vastly relieved by his frankness. "So that's the way the wind blows! And I've been stupid again, haven't I!"

  "A bit. But tell me, anyway."

  "There's nothing to tell. He's much too honourable—and high-powered—for me . . . He's just an acquaintance of David Audley's, that's all—high-powered, like David . . . and also weird . . . also like David—"

  "Weird?"

  "Funny."

  "Funny?"

  "I don't mean funny ha-ha . . . but sort of ... contradictory."

  She nodded into the valley. "Like, he's mad about rugger—

  he's gone all the way to Cahors today to talk about rugger with these Frenchmen who are also bonkers about the silly game." She looked at Roche suddenly, and he realised that she'd shifted from the Frenchman to Audley. "And that's pretty weird, isn't it—the way these Frenchmen in the south play rugger—I never knew that until I met David Audley."

  "Indeed?" He shrugged. "But I don't quite see how that's . . .

  dummy5

  contradictory. Lots of people play rugger."

  "Ah!" She pointed at him quickly. "But you don't play rugger, do you? Hockey's your game, you said?"

  "Yes. But—"

  "But you know about it. And you know about cricket and soccer and tennis—who's good, and who's playing who, and all that sort of thing ... I know, because I've got all these cousins—Roland's got a rowing blue, and Jimmie played for the Occasionals, and Jake had a county cricket trial last year

  —"

  The Perownes come up like mushrooms . . . positively hordes of cousins—

  "—I hate sport, personally," continued Lexy vehemently. "It's boring, and they all get drunk and sing dirty songs. And all I get to do is cut sandwiches and serve tea. But I know what they're like—it's all balls—"

  Roche fought to hold in position whatever expression was on his face.

  "—balls, balls, balls—just so long as they can kick them, or hit them, or throw them—big ones, little ones, white ones, red ones, all shapes and sizes ... it doesn't matter which is their special sport—if they're mad about one sport, they know about the others, what's what, and who's who . . . the British do, anyway . . . Roland does, and Jimmie and Jake—

  and you too, David—" she drew a quick breath "— but David Audley doesn't!"

  dummy5

  He couldn't maintain his look of polite interest any longer.

  Incredulity and incomprehension had to take over.

  She observed his discomfort. "You haven't the faintest idea what I'm getting at, have you, darling?"

  "Not a lot—no," admitted Roche.

  She nodded. "I'm not surprised. It takes one to spot one."

  "One—what?"

  She laughed. "You know, when Mike was up at Oxford he played everything. I mean, when he was at Harvard, before that, he played football—American football, where they all dress up in the most extraordinary way and do even more extraordinary things to each other . . . But when he came to England, he played English games—rugger and cricket, and suchlike, and if you give him the chance he'll talk about them non-stop. All about deep square legs, and kicking for touch . . . it's ghastly to hear the way he goes on—it's so boring. But they're all like that, I tell you—all except David Audley."

  A surfeit of sporting cousins had clearly scarred Lady Alexandra for life. "I'm still not with you, Lexy."

  "No? Well, you just watch David Audley's face when anyone else talks about sport. He gets that glazed look of his."

  Lexy herself usually had a slightly glazed look, as though she
didn't quite understand what was happening to her, or what had just happened. But also she had already put on record that 'it takes one to spot one', whatever that meant.

  dummy5

  "Darling—he hates sport, just like me—that's what I think.

  Even rugger, which is the only game he plays—I honestly think he's bored with that too . . . and as for all the rest... he simply doesn't care to know anything about them. It's all a great big façade."

  "Clubbable?"

  " Yes and no ... And I rather think I mean 'no' —"

  And then Stocker had gone off at a tangent, without trying to answer what he didn't understand, into the equally unsatisfactory labyrinth of Audley's finances.

  " Anyway—" Lexy grabbed the word with special emphasis, as if she was using it to haul herself away from her own private experience "— anyway, that's David all over: he just never quite fits... like, he absolutely hates the army, but he's terribly proud of the Wesdragons—the regiment, Father's regiment . . . and he hates the jolly old Establishment even more—that's the only time he swears, when he talks about them—but when Davey— Davey Stein—when Davey pitches into the British Empire, because of Palestine, and all that, David gives him both barrels and waves the flag like my Great-Aunt Maggie, who was in Amritsar when they shot all those Indians, and still swears by General What's-his-name who gave the order to open fire—it's positively hilarious . . .

  and yet, at the same time, he likes the Arabs—And then, to dummy5

  top it off, he thinks the Israelis are really rather super, the way they give everyone the two-finger sign—including all Mother's State Department friends in Washington. Oh—and he likes the Egyptians—he's terribly unfashionable there—"

  "And the Russians?" The sixty-four thousand dollar question.

  "Oh . . . they're the New Barbarians, darling—just inside tanks instead of on innumerable little shaggy ponies. You'll hear all about them tonight, I shouldn't wonder," Lexy waved away the whole might of the Red Army with a slender and very dirty hand. She stopped abruptly as she focussed on her own hand. "My God! just look at me . . . I'm absolutely filthy again—I don't know where it comes from, but I seem to attract dirt!" She lifted her face towards him. "Is my face dirty, David?"