The Labyrinth Makers dda-1 Read online

  'And Steerforth?' Butler asked.

  'Steerforth was still in the cockpit,' replied Fred shortly. 'Now, gentlemen, as you will have read, our interest in this began by pure chance, when it was learnt that the Russians were interested in the missing aircraft. First there was the known agent, Stein. Then there was the military attache. And there was also the Belgian, Bloch, who claimed he had nothing to do with the others.

  'We couldn't touch the attache, of course, and as Butler has pointed out, we didn't get anything out of anyone. We came to a dead end.

  Officially Steerforth was a dead hero, who chose to crash at sea rather than hazard life on land. Unofficially he was a smuggler who'd picked up something so hot he didn't dare crash with it. You will note the references by the crew to the unauthorised boxes in the cargo space. Steerforth's property, apparently.'

  'But at least the other side didn't get anything either, so the matter dummy4

  was more or less shelved. Until the Dutch got in touch with us in 1956, that is.'

  He pushed three slim files across the table.

  'Ever since the war they've been busily reclaiming more bits of the Zuyder Zee, and in every bit they find wartime aircraft wrecks–

  German, British, American. They're very good about them. Very correct and dignified, with no sightseers or souvenir hunters allowed.

  'But one day they came to ask what was so special about Dakota wrecks. Every time they came across a Dakota they'd had all sorts of Russians sniffing around. Just Dakotas. British Dakotas. It didn't take much checking to decide which Dakota interested them.'

  Butler cleared his throat.

  'But we've got Steerforth's Dakota now.'

  'Indeed we have. We've got the Dakota, and Steerforth, and the mysterious boxes. But there was nothing in the Dakota, and nothing in the boxes either.'

  'Not exactly nothing.' Roskill unwound himself. He was a nonchalantly clumsy man who gave the impression that he hadn't finished growing, and that upright chairs tortured him.

  'Builder's rubble, that's what the boxes contained. Or perhaps I should say bomber's rubble, because the experts are more or less agreed it's Berlin stuff, vintage '45. Otherwise the Dakota was clean.' He grimaced. 'If you don't count a ton of mud.'

  'Had the boxes been tampered with?' asked Butler.

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  'The wood was pretty rotten, of course. But no–the lids were untouched. I'd say they were as consigned.'

  'Identification positive?'

  'Steerforth or the plane?'

  'Both.'

  'Oh, yes. No trouble there. Numbers for the plane, perfectly readable. Identity tags and teeth for Steerforth –and an old arm break. Absolutely no doubt.'

  'Cause of death?'

  'We can't be precise there. Drowning while unconscious is my guess. There was no evidence of physical damage.'

  Butler looked round the table.

  'And nobody spotted it for twenty-four years?'

  Roskill shrugged. 'It was out of the search area. Overhanging trees, thick weed. God only knows how he put it down there. And the weather was poor for a week or more afterwards, the worst sort of search weather. It's not so surprising–it's well off the beaten track.'

  Roskill added three more slim, identical files to those on the table.

  'It's all in there. Plus my estimation of the probable course of the aircraft–he must have made a much wider turn than was assumed after the crew and the passenger baled out. That's what put the search off the scent, apart from the low cloud they had to contend with. He would have crossed the coast again a good ten miles south of the direct route–if he hadn't put down in the lake. Which was a damn good piece of flying, as I've said.'

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  'Why did the plane crash?'

  'It's in my report,' said Roskill, with the smallest suggestion of asperity.

  Butler persisted. 'How well does it tally with what the crew said?'

  Roskill shook his head. 'It's going to be very hard to say. It was the port engine they complained about, and it took a clout from a treetop coming in. That and twenty years under water–it doesn't make the detective work easy.'

  He looked round the table. 'To be honest, we may never know.

  There can be a million reasons. If it's plain human error, like fuel mismanagement, we'll certainly never know now. They'd been losing height–we know that from the survivors; I've known cases where a pilot had an engine malfunction and simply shut down the wrong engine. Not even a DC-3 would stay up then, and at that height it would have been fatal. Or maybe he simply misread his altimeter. I tell you, there are a million ways it might have happened.'

  'All right, then,' said Fred, heading off any further technical argument. 'How does this fresh information change your interpretation of the original conclusions, Dr Audley?'

  Audley looked up from his notebook to meet Fred's mildly questioning gaze, which in turn caused the other three men to look at him. He had been reflecting just a moment before, with satisfaction, that so far he had not said a word since arriving.

  But then he really had nothing yet to say–nothing, at least, which he could say in front of strangers. He certainly couldn't say 'What dummy4

  am I doing here, for God's sake?' at this stage in the proceedings.

  'Dr Audley?'

  It would be an interesting academic exercise to discuss the nature of an unknown object which was able to retain its value over so many years. No secret terror weapon, no list of traitors now in their graves or their dotage could last so long. Newer and far more terrible weapons had made the technology of the 1940s antediluvian. And a whole generation of younger and differently-motivated traitors had superseded the honest simpletons and rogues of Steerforth's day.

  And no single Dakota could carry enough mere loot to hold the Russians' interest down the years. Or in the first place, when they were bulging with German valuables.

  'I assume,' he said tentatively, carrying on his thoughts aloud, 'that the Russians are still interested. That's why we are here now, at this hour, without our breakfasts?'

  Fred smiled.

  'They are indeed, Dr Audley. In fact I'm afraid they were down at the crash site pouring beer down navvies and interviewing talkative aircraftsmen before we were. But I meant have you anything to add to the Steerforth File in the light of his reappearance?'

  Audley started to adjust his spectacles, and then stopped awkwardly. He had been trying to control that gesture for years, without real success.

  'I mean, are the Russians still interested, after having learnt that those boxes contained rubble? Did they learn that? It's an important dummy4

  distinction.'

  'Assuming that they did–what then?'

  'I should have to know rather more about Steerforth. There is a possible sequence of events, but I wouldn't like to advance it yet.'

  'Why not?' This was Stocker at last. 'You have a reputation for drawing remarkably accurate deductions out of minimal information. I'd very much like to hear what you make of this.'

  Audley felt a flush of annoyance spreading under his cheeks. It galled him that he had a reputation for understanding without reason. Intuition had its place, and was valuable. But only in the last leap from the ninth known fact to the inaccessible tenth, and never at the very beginning. And even at the last it was not to be trusted.

  He knew he ought to control his feelings, and hold the only real card he possessed. But he couldn't.

  'I'll tell you one thing I do know'–he tapped the Steerforth File with his index finger–'that Major Butler was more right than he knew when he said that this was non-information. I'd like to see the original file, for a start.'

  'The original?'

  Audley sighed. Maybe he did have that flair. It would be easier to admit an inspired hunch than to explain that he could look between the lines of this material to see the gaps in the narrative, the sudden thinness of the material, the changes of style, the tiny inconsistencies of editing. All of whi
ch suggested the removal of something too intriguing to be left to the common gaze.

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  He looked to Fred for support.

  'Quite right too,' said Fred. 'You shall see it. Stocker only wanted to know—'

  '—I only wanted to see Audley pull a rabbit out of his hat.' Stocker smiled, and was transformed by his smile from a faceless JIC man into a human being. Audley felt that he had been small-minded and pompous.

  'And you did pull a rabbit out. Only it was not the one I expected.

  I'm sorry to have played fast and loose with you. Sir Frederick warned me. But the missing bits don't concern Steerforth, I assure you. You'll still have to find out about him for yourself. Which I believe Sir Frederick is arranging for you.

  'On which note I will bid you good morning. It has been a pleasure to see you at work, even if only briefly. But I shall be seeing you again soon.'

  Audley could only blush, and shake the hand thrust out to him.

  Then Stocker was gone, and the atmosphere lightened perceptibly.

  Audley observed that both Butler and Roskill were grinning.

  'I really cannot understand,' said Fred, 'why the JIG always produces threat reactions in you people–even in you, David.'

  There was no point in suggesting that Fred himself had formalised the conference in Stocker's presence by dropping all the Christian names he usually affected. He probably intended to foster the JIG

  mystique, not reduce it.

  'It has a perfectly reasonable co-ordinating function, which you all know perfectly well. But no matter. Have you any more immediate dummy4

  questions?

  Roskill stirred. 'One thing–only I don't quite know how to put it.

  This Russian interest, after all these years–couldn't it be just a case of bureaucratic obsession?'

  'And we could be making a fuss about nothing? Or something that has become nothing? It could be, Hugh, it could be. But if it isn't–

  then it could be rather interesting. Weighing the possibilities, I think we have to go ahead, at least for the time being.'

  'Have you got any more questions, David?'

  'I have–yes. But not about Steerforth. First, if it is decided that I must attend his funeral–I must assume it is his funeral–I must be allowed to have my breakfast first. I cannot go to a funeral on an empty stomach. Second—'

  Fred held up his hand.

  'David, I do apologise. You shall breakfast with me in a few moments. Mrs Harlin has the matter in hand. And then you will be going to the funeral–you've got the transport laid on, Hugh?'

  '8.45 from here, Sir Frederick. It's a good two hours to Asham.

  We'll pick up the other car in Wantage.'

  'Very good. And you're concentrating on locating the original cast, Jack?'

  Butler nodded. 'Mostly routine, but it may take a little time. They may be all dead, except the Joneses.'

  'I hope not for all our sakes. In the meantime, gentlemen, I have some explaining to do, I believe, for Dr Audley's benefit. I'll excuse you that.'

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  The departure of Roskill and Butler cued in Mrs Harlin, with breakfast. And breakfast conceived on a scale which shattered Audley. The condemned man's meal, or at least one designed to give an elderly vicar strength to go out to evangelise the Hottentots.

  Before they had even sat down Fred moved to forestall argument.

  'I know you're not a field man, David. But I don't see this quite as a field assignment. More an intellectual exercise in human archaeology.'

  'But I deal with words, Fred, not people. I'm no good at interrogating. I don't know how to start.'

  Fred snorted.

  'Absolute nonsense. You interrogate our people all the time.

  Extremely closely, too, if what I hear is true.'

  'I know them. That makes it different. Get me the reports on this as they come in. I'll do the job just as well that way–probably better.

  But why me, anyway? I'm a Middle East man.'

  Fred lowered his knife and fork.

  'And a damned unpopular Middle Eastern man, too.'

  Audley stopped eating too. Here was the truth at last.

  'Did it ever occur to you, David, that you might annoy someone with that recent forecast of yours–before the Lebanese business?'

  Audley bridled. 'It was true.'

  Fred regarded him sadly. 'But undiplomatically packed. It didn't leave anyone much room to manoeuvre in.'

  He cut off Audley's protest. 'Damn it, David, it wasn't a report–it dummy4

  was a lecture. And an arrogant lecture, too. You're a first-rate forecaster who's stopped forecasting.'

  'I've never twisted the facts.' Audley could sense that he was digging his heels into shifting ground. 'That forecast was accurate.'

  'If anything, too accurate. If you were a gambler I'd say your cards were marked. And you're too far in with the Israelis.'

  'I've used Israeli sources. I don't always believe what I get from them though.'

  'You lunch with Colonel Shapiro every Wednesday.'

  'Most Wednesdays. He's an old friend. But so are Amin Fawzi and Mohammed Howeidi. I meet a great many people.'

  Fred sighed, and started eating again.

  'I don't give a damn, of course. As far as I'm concerned you can have your own old boys' network. You can poke your nose anywhere, as it suits you. But that last report was the final straw.'

  Good God, thought Audley: he was being taken out of circulation.

  Banished to the Steerforth File, where he could not cause any annoyance except to four ageing members of the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve.

  Yet Fred was smiling, and that didn't fit.

  'For a devious character you are sometimes surprisingly transparent, David. If you think that you are going to be put out to grass, you are mistaken. You ought to appreciate your value more clearly than that. What you need is a dose of reality. You've been leading a sheltered life for too long.

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  'In any case, you surely don't think the JIG would send one of their troubleshooters here at such a godforsaken hour just to watch you being cut down to size?'

  Audley remembered the edited Steerforth file and felt a pricking of humiliation. He had gone off at half-cock.

  'And you can thank your rugger-playing past for this. too. Or rather your impact on Dai Llewelyn–you remember him?'

  Audley frowned. There had been quite a number of Welshmen in the old days. Mentally he lined them up, and Dai Llewelyn immediately sprang out of the line-up–an exceptionally tough and ruthless wing forward for the Visigoths. A far better player than Audley had ever been, older and craftier.

  'He remembers you rather well. He says you were a blackhearted, bloody-minded wing forward, and not bad for a mere Englishman.'

  'He was the black-hearted and bloody-minded one. If I've got the right Llewelyn, he was a rough player.'

  Fred nodded. 'He's still a rough player for the Arab faction in the Foreign Office. But he seems to have a certain regard for you. He said your talents ought not to be wasted –provided you didn't play against his team. He has a marked weakness for sporting metaphors.'

  Audley remembered Llewelyn well now. Almost a stage Welshman, all rugger and Dylan Thomas, until you crossed him.

  Then you had to look out.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to protest that he hadn't been playing against anyone. But it wasn't quite true, and the thought of dummy4

  Llewelyn marking him again was somehow a shade frightening.

  He sensed that it would do no good any more to protest that he was a Middle Eastern specialist.

  Fred shrugged off his objection.

  'David, you're like a good many thousands of ordinary British working men: you are going to have to learn new skills. Or rather, you must learn to adapt your old skill in a new field. And I think you'll find the new field gives you greater scope. You've got the languages for it. You'll just have to catch up on the
facts.'

  Fred reached over and rang the buzzer.

  'You wanted to know what had been taken out of the Steerforth File . . . Mrs Harlin, would you get me the Panin papers?'

  Audley jumped at the Harlin presence at his shoulder. She moved as stealthily as a cat. Then the name registered.

  'Nikolai Andrievich Panin. Does that name ring any bells?'

  The tone implied that he was not expected to know very much, if anything, about Nikolai Andrievich Panin.

  'Didn't he have something to do with the Tashkent Agreement?' he said tentatively.

  Even that was too much. Fred raised his eyebrows and pushed himself back from the table.

  'How in the name of God did you know that?'

  'I just know he's a sort of troubleshooter–someone like Stocker, I suppose, except that he usually deals with internal affairs,' said Audley, trying to gloss over what appeared to be a gaffe. 'Once he dummy4

  was an archaeologist, or something like that. A professor, anyway.'

  He hadn't said anything in the least funny, but Fred was laughing nevertheless.

  'Like Stocker? I must tell Stocker that. He'd be flattered. And he'd also be impressed, because you seem to know quite a lot for a Middle Eastern man. It was his idea that we should give you Panin, too. If you can do half as well with him as you have with Rabin and Mohiedin, there'll be no complaints.

  'But you wish to know his connection with Steerforth. It's quite simple: he's only been in England once, and that was to look for Steerforth 25 years ago. He was the fly-by-night attache who turned up at the Newton Chester airfield.

  'When he became more important he was edited out of the Steerforth file, which is an open one.'

  Mrs Harlin entered noiselessly, carrying a red folder as though John the Baptist's head rested on it.

  'Actually,' continued Fred, 'we know very little about the man. But we do know that every year he spends a month in the spring excavating a site in ancient Colchis. Keeping his hand in, as it were. It's the only sacrosanct date in his calendar.

  'Or it was sacrosanct.' Fred stared at Audley. 'This year he packed in after only four days and flew back to Moscow the day before yesterday. And for once we know why.