The Memory Trap Page 2

  ‘That’s about the size of it, yes.’ Butler looked as though he was about to pull rank. With reluctance, of course (and especially with Audley, who had once been his superior officer; but with Kulik dead and thirty-minus-minutes at his back and a plane somewhere on the tarmac out there, if it had to be pulled, then he would pull it). ‘They’re working on him now.’

  ‘I’ll bet they are.’ Audley knew he would loyally do whatever Jack Butler wanted him to do. Because that was the way he felt about Butler, in spite of all appearances to the contrary: in an uncertain world, Butler had somehow become his sheet-anchor over the years, much to his own surprise. Only, in the meantime, he was going to have his pound of flesh, with or without blood. ‘But all they know as of now is that Kulik wanted me. And now he’s dead—?’ Flesh with blood, he decided. ‘And, of course, you didn’t offer me up for the slaughter … Was that the “error of judgement”, Jack? Because, if it was, then I forgive you for it—‘ He refused to quail before Butler’s displeasure ‘—was that the way it was, Jack?’

  Butler looked at his watch. ‘The way it was … was that I didn’t think I could get you back quickly enough from Washington.’ He looked up again. ‘Besides which, Jaggard said it was just a routine pick-up.’

  There was no such thing as a routine pick-up. ‘So you smelt a rat, did you?’

  ‘No. That was what Jaggard said. And I had no reason to disbelieve him.’

  ‘No?’ No excuses, of course. Where others would be looking to avoid blame, if not actually seeking credit for prescience when things went wrong, Jack Butler was accustomed to tell it how it was. ‘But Kulik did actually ask for me, you say. So what form did this request take? What did he want us to do?’

  ‘The message was passed at an embassy reception for one of our trade delegations. Low-grade technology—factory robotics for car production. And he didn’t really ask us to do anything. He just wanted to be met—by you, David.’ Butler pursed his lips. ‘It was your name that sparked Jaggard’s Moscow colleagues. They’d never heard of Kulik. But they had heard of you.’

  ‘Where did he want to be met?’ Audley brushed aside such doubtful fame.

  ‘In West Berlin.’

  ‘In West Berlin—‘

  ‘That’s right. He was getting himself across. He said that he had something of the highest importance. He gave his name. And he named the place and date and time of the meeting. Just that—nothing else. Except he wanted you to meet him.’

  Too bloody simple by half! ‘Where was the place?’

  ‘A restaurant beside one of the lakes. Well inside the city—nowhere near any crossing. And Jaggard said he’d have the place properly covered, so he didn’t reckon on any complications.’

  Audley felt the minutes ticking away. Maybe that “too-bloody-simple” had been hindsight. Because it did look reasonably simple, if not routine: Kulik himself had been doing all the risky work, and had in effect offered himself on a plate in the restaurant, free of charge and without advance bargaining. So, really, anyone could have picked the man up, since he had nowhere to go except further westwards after having come so far already.

  Then a cold hand touched him between the shoulder-blades as he found himself thinking that, although anyone could have gone, he would actually have fancied a nice easy trip to Berlin, to meet someone who wanted to meet him. He’d always liked Berlin, even in the bad old days.

  ‘And … Jaggard didn’t mind, when you refused to supply me?’ It occurred to him as he spoke that Henry Jaggard might have smelt a rat. In which case, if things went wrong, Jack Butler’s intransigence could be blamed.

  ‘I promised to produce you in due course, when they’d got Kulik back here.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He sensed that something was inhibiting Butler now. And it could be that, even if he hadn’t smelt that rat, Butler might well have smelt Henry Jaggard’s calculations, even though he would have despised them.

  ‘Yes … Well, I thought it might be as well for us to have a representative there, David.’ Butler scowled honestly. ‘Just in case Kulik really wanted to deal with Research and Development, not with anyone else.’

  The cold hand touched Audley again. But then he remembered gratefully that Butler had already reassured him about the casualty list. ‘A very proper precaution, Jack!’

  All the same, the coldness was still there, even while he grinned proper curiosity at Butler by way of encouragement. Because, with Kulik deceased (and no matter how frustrating that certainly was), there was nothing much anyone could do now. And yet here was Sir Jack Butler at Heathrow, like the mountain come to Mahomet. ‘So who did you send, then?’

  ‘I sent Miss Loftus.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ In matters of intelligence research, Elizabeth was razor-sharp. But her field experience was necessarily limited by her length of service. ‘A good choice.’ And, on the face of it, that was what it must have seemed to be—for Henry Jaggard’s “routine pick-up”. Only from the granite-faced look of Mount Butler now, it evidently hadn’t been. ‘She’s okay, is she, Jack?’

  ‘Yes—‘ The VIP cordless phone on the low table beside Butler began to buzz, cutting him off but not startling him. ‘Hullo?’

  Audley took refuge in the echo of that reassuring “yes” for a moment as Butler stared through him while receiving his phone-message. Then the departure/arrival flight monitors on the wall behind caught his attention. They gave him a choice of Stockholm, Athens, Naples or Madrid, but not Berlin, or even Frankfurt—there were no immediate German destinations at all, in fact.

  ‘Thank you.’ Butler replaced the receiver.

  It was just possible that they’d chartered a plane just for him, decided Audley, permutating the scheduled alternatives in order of possibility and then rejecting them all as unlikely. But then, since old Jack was quite notoriously tight-fisted with his Queen’s revenue, a chartered plane was either out-of-character or another disturbing indication of extreme urgency.

  Butler nodded at him. ‘Your flight’s on schedule, David. They’re boarding now.’

  Audley’s eye was drawn to the monitor. If it was one of, those, then it would be Stockholm, with a Berlin connection, the boarding warnings suggested. All the rest were too far away to make sense, so far as that was possible. ‘You said Kulik was heading for West Berlin. How far did he actually get?’

  ‘He got to the restaurant. He was killed there.’

  ‘Christ!’ Audley began to make connections. There was a Catch-22 about old-fashioned field experience, rather like fighter-pilot’s combat-time: the more you had, the safer you were. But that meant surviving to become safer. ‘So Elizabeth was on the spot, you mean—was she?’

  ‘Very much on the spot.’ Butler bit on his own bullet. ‘Kulik wasn’t the only one killed in the restaurant. Jaggard kept his word—he arranged for an escort from Berlin station, to look after her. And the West Germans had the place properly staked out—the Verfassungsschutz special squad was covering every exit. All the liaison procedures were observed: Jaggard played it by the book.’

  Audley nearly repeated his previous blasphemy. ‘Who else was killed?’

  ‘Our Berlin station man.’ Butler shook his head. ‘You don’t know him, David. But … he was killed alongside her, anyway.’

  Some “routine pick-up”! ‘And what the hell was the Verfassungsschutz doing—?’ What made it worse was that the special squad was good—not to mention well-armed. ‘Enjoying their lunch?’

  ‘They killed the assassin. He only got off two shots: one for Kulik and one for our man.’ Butler shook his head again. ‘It’s no good blaming the Germans, David. But I’m not going into any of the detail now. Miss Loftus will put you into the picture soon enough.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ What made it worst of all was that it didn’t fit properly—in fact, it didn’t damn-well fit at all at this moment. But that had to wait, with the way Butler was looking at him. ‘So now I go to Berlin to clear up the mess, do I?’ He frowned at the departures monitor. The Stoc
kholm boarding warning had gone off, and the remaining destinations were incomprehensible. ‘Or—what?’

  ‘You go to Naples.’

  ‘Naples?’ If it had been Timbuktoo, it would have made no better sense.

  ‘Paul Mitchell will meet you—he’s already there. And Miss Loftus will also be there by the time you arrive. They will each brief you. But you are in charge, they know that.’

  ‘I should damn-well think so—‘ A disorderly crowd of questions jostled Audley’s brain, pushing in through the hole Naples had made in his concentration ‘—What’s Mitchell doing in Naples?’

  ‘His brief is to watch your back. But at the moment he’s looking for someone I want you to talk to. Someone you know, David.’ Butler stared at him. ‘Do you remember Peter Richardson?’

  The disorderly crowd stopped jostling as Naples suddenly became at least partially explicable. ‘Yes, I remember him.’ He decided to leave it at that with his Neapolitan boarding light winking at him behind Butler.

  ‘I have his service record here.’

  Audley accepted the buff envelope automatically. But then he found he could no longer leave it at that after all. ‘What has Peter Richardson got to do with Kulik? He retired years ago. And he wasn’t with us long, anyway.’

  ‘Kulik gave us Richardson’s name before he died. His name and your name again, David.’ Butler continued to stare at him. ‘Is there anything you know about Richardson that we ought to know—‘ He glanced down at the envelope ‘—that may not be on record?’

  So that was why he was here: to ask the old 64,000 dollar question!

  ‘Without looking at the record … ‘ Then he shrugged. Obviously there wasn’t anything of significance in it, otherwise he wouldn’t have been given it. And the only thing he did know about Peter Richardson which wouldn’t be in there had nothing to do with security matters, but was well covered by his own word of honour. ‘But … I can’t think of anything. Only, I haven’t set eyes on him for years. Not since he up and quit on us. And that would be … ‘74, was it? Years ago, anyway. And I didn’t know him all that well, even then.’ He lifted the envelope. ‘Isn’t that clear from the record?’

  ‘He once pulled you out of trouble, in Italy.’

  ‘He did—yes.’ No use denying what was on record. ‘And he was there up north, on that job of yours at Castleshields. But I still hardly knew him—he was Fred Clinton’s man, not mine.’ It was Kulik’s word against his, it seemed. ‘Fred’s man—Fred’s mistake, wasn’t he?’ That would also be in the damn record, even if Sir Frederick Clinton himself was honourably dead-and-buried, so he didn’t need to labour the point. But Kulik’s word was final, of course: there was no arguing with a dead man. ‘So you want me to talk to Peter Richardson. So I’ll talk to him.’ All the same he was still more than puzzled. ‘You didn’t sweat all the way from the Embankment just to ask me if I knew more than was in this rubbish—‘ he held up the envelope again ‘—did you?’

  ‘I want you to bring him in, David. We can’t force him to come. But I think he may be safer under wraps for the time being. And he may listen to you, of all people.’

  There was a sharp knock on the door. And, on cue, the Neapolitan boarding light had become desperate.

  ‘Wait!’ Butler gave the man outside his old Army voice. ‘When I said that it could have been you in Berlin I meant it. That’s why I’m giving you Mitchell to watch your back. And your front, too.’ The parade-ground volume had gone, but it was still Colonel Butler speaking, not Sir Jack. ‘Until I’m satisfied that that second bullet didn’t have your name on it I can’t be sure that there isn’t a third bullet still unfired, with Richardson’s name on it. So you must exercise due caution in Naples, David. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Jack.’ Or, as everyone was so fond saying, See Naples, and die! But, in the meantime, he had a plane to catch.

  2

  THEY WERE waiting for him at Naples too, of course: they took him off the plane ahead of everyone else. Only this time, even though the stewardess treated him like a VIP, the rest of them were in two minds about him—even those who heard him addressed as Professore—

  ‘Professore Audley? This way, if you please, Professore.’

  Everyone had looked at him when he’d arrived last and late. Now, regardless of the Italian custom of upping even the most cobwebby doctorate to professorial status, the suspicious expressions on the faces of those passengers nearest to him suggested that they were mentally bracketing him with Professore Moriarty, as another master-criminal caught at last.

  But after that it was simpler, with no Heathrow labyrinth to negotiate, only a car waiting for him, with Paul Mitchell standing beside it.

  Or, rather, three cars—

  Or, rather … half the Italian army?

  ‘Hi there, David.’ In dark glasses and open-necked shirt Mitchell looked like any late-season English tourist, in striking contrast to Audley’s Italian escort, whose shiny crumpled suit had shouted ‘Policeman’ in confirmation of those recent passenger-suspicions. ‘Good flight?’

  ‘What are all those soldiers doing?’ Audley pointed past Mitchell.

  ‘Don’t worry. They’re not your reception committee.’ Mitchell waved an acknowledgement to shiny suit, who was hovering beside the rearmost car. ‘There’s some sort of anti-terrorist scare in progress … although they’re calling it “an exercise”, like the SURE one you must have seen at Heathrow.’ He re-directed the wave to the front car. ‘So everyone’s being screened and searched.’ Now he opened the passenger door. ‘Everyone except us, that is … Get in, David, there’s a good fellow … No, we’re cleared to go out by the back entrance, with these special branch types for protection.’

  Audley regarded the small battered Fiat with distaste.

  ‘Yes … well, I’m sorry about the transport.’ Mitchell grinned ruefully at him. ‘Only, I wanted to drive you, so we could talk. And this was all they could find at short notice. But … it is unobtrusive. And I have put the seat back as far as it’ll go, anyway.’

  ‘What about my bags?’ Mitchell’s rather strained cheerfulness was almost as irritating as the Fiat. ‘And where’s Elizabeth?’

  ‘Elizabeth is chatting up the local cops and the Guardia di Finanza.’ Mitchell circled the car. ‘She’ll be meeting us along the coast. And your bags are being held at the airport. Don’t worry.’

  So that was the last of his luggage, thought Audley. But, although he couldn’t see what the Italian customs service had to do with Peter Richardson, it was perhaps as well that Elizabeth was elsewhere, because there certainly wasn’t room for her in the back of this car. ‘I’m not worrying. Just tell me about Peter Richardson.’

  The car started with a jerk which banged his knees against the dashboard.

  ‘Damn! Sorry!’ Mitchell struggled with the gear-box. ‘This isn’t exactly what I’ve been used to—it drives in Italian … or maybe Neapolitan—ah!’

  Mitchell’s pride and joy at home was a second-hand Porsche, which he had got cheaply for cash after the stock market crash, Audley remembered. Tell me about Peter Richardson, Mitchell.’

  ‘Major Richardson—?’ Mitchell flogged the car to catch up with the unmarked police vehicle ahead. ‘I thought you were the expert on the elusive Major, David?’

  Audley’s heart sank. So far from being an expert, he still thought of Peter Richardson as Captain, not Major. But, of course, that last promotion had been Fred Clinton’s work at the time of the fellow’s departure, as a sop to their mutual feelings of still more-or-less friendly regret. But that wasn’t what mattered so much as the adjective Mitchell had added. ‘What d’you mean “elusive”? Haven’t you found him?’

  The Fiat juddered to a halt, within inches of the leading car which had stopped at what was now a heavily defended exit, complete with a brace of light tanks.

  ‘Yes … well … “yes-and-no” is the answer to that, David.’ Mitchell peered through the dirty windscreen, watching the Italian s
pecial branch arguing with the Italian army. ‘Or, rather, “no-and-yes”, more accurately.’

  Audley felt his temper begin to slip, but then checked it. Of all his colleagues, apart from Jack Butler himself, he knew Paul Mitchell best. So now he could recognize the tell-tale signs under that accustomed casualness, for all that the man’s eyes were concealed behind sunglasses. And the 30-millimetre cannon which was more or less pointing at them at this minute no more accounted for those whitened knuckles on the hands of the steering-wheel than did the little car’s gearbox account for that bruising start.

  ‘Uh-huh?’ If Paul Mitchell was frightened, then perhaps Jack Butler was right—and perhaps he ought to be properly frightened too. But fear was in itself a debilitating influence, so whatever was scaring Mitchell, a display of Audley-temperament would serve no useful purpose.

  ‘Uh-huh?’ As Mitchell turned to him he just had time to compose his own expression into what he hoped was one of innocent inquiry. ‘Is he safe and sound, Paul?’

  Mitchell frowned at him, as though such unexpected mildness was just another burden, and a rather unfair one. ‘I think … so far as I know he is—yes.’

  It was going to be very hard to keep up this Butler-like equanimity. And, in any case, overdoing it would only worry Mitchell more. ‘You think—?’

  Activity ahead mercifully distracted Mitchell. The police seemed to have convinced the army that they were not terrorists making their getaway, and barriers were being variously raised and moved.

  Audley braced himself, but this time Mitchell recovered his Porsche-driver’s skill, launching them after the lead car as though they were at the end of a tow-rope, yet still leaving himself half-a-second in which to grimace at his passenger. ‘You know that all this has been happening rather quickly, David—hoicking you back from the States and me from … where I was—?’