Soldier No More Read online

  “I gave you his name,” said Roche.

  “So you did. But what do you expect us to do—to go asking questions?” The head moved again, this time interrogatively. “And we ask the wrong question in the right place—or the right question in the wrong place, which is no better—and then what? Someone asks questions about us—and then someone asks questions about you, maybe? And is that what you want, eh?”

  “I didn’t mean that. I mean … you must have something on him, damn it!”

  “On Audley? But why should we have anything on Audley?”

  Roche frowned. “But Sir Eustace said—“

  Sir Eustace said—

  “How long have you been in Paris then, David?” Sir Eustace Avery asked.

  “Nearly three years, Sir Eustace. Two years and ten months, to be exact.”

  “To be exact? You sound as though you’ve been marking the calendar.” Sir Eustace sat back, raising a cathedral spire with his fingers. “Don’t you like it there?”

  “It’s … a lovely city.” Roche decided to push his luck. “And the food’s good.”

  Sir Eustace regarded him narrowly. “But the work’s dull—is that it?”

  Chin up, Roche. “Mine certainly is.” Dull, dull, dull!

  “Even though liaison is an integral part of intelligence work?” The finger-tips at the point of the spire arched against each other. “And you’re in charge of communications too—“ Sir Eustace looked down at the open file in front of him “—and communications are your special skill, aren’t they?”

  My file, thought Roche despondently: aptitudes, test marks, assessments, with more bloody betas and gammas than alphas.

  But that wasn’t the point. The point was that the Eighth Floor didn’t muck around with communications—or with communications experts.

  “I mean, we got you from the Royal Signals, didn’t we?” Sir Eustace continued, looking up at him again. “In Tokyo, wasn’t it? During the Korean business?”

  Since it was all down there in front of him, in black and white, the questions were superfluous to the point of being both irritating and patronising.

  “I put down for the Education Corps, sir,” said Roche. “I was posted to the Signals.”

  “Indeed?” Sir Eustace raised an eyebrow over the file. “Let’s see … you’d already been to university … Manchester?” He made it sound like Fort Zinderneuf. “Where you read History—that was before you were called up for your National Service?”

  “French history mostly, actually.”

  “French history?”

  “It’s a well-established qualification to the Royal Corps of Signals,” said Roche, straight-faced.

  “It is?” Sir Eustace gave him an old-fashioned look. “But you volunteered for the RAEC nevertheless—did you want to be a schoolmaster, then?”

  “No, Sir Eustace.” Roche cast around for a respectable reason for joining the RAEC while not intending to go into teaching after demobilisation. He certainly hadn’t wanted to be a teacher then—that had been Julie’s idea later. Then … he hadn’t particularly wanted to be anything; and a degree in History, and more particularly a knowledge of French history, had equipped him with no useful qualification except for transmitting that otherwise useless interest to the next generation. And so on ad infinitum, from generation to generation—that bleak conclusion, as much as anything else, had turned him against teaching. The conviction that the later French kings had been not so much effete as unfortunate had somehow not seemed to him of great importance in the creation of a more egalitarian Britain, not to mention a better world.

  “Why, then?” persisted Sir Eustace.

  He met Sir Eustace’s gaze and, to his surprise, truth beckoned him once more. And not just truth, but also a sudden deeper instinct: these were the top brass, not the middlemen he was accustomed to report to—their rank and demeanour said as much, Thain’s obsequious departure said as much, and Admiral Hall’s portrait confirmed the message. They hadn’t summoned him here simply to give him his orders, they had other people to do that. He was here because they wanted to look at him for themselves, to see the whites of his eyes and—more likely—the yellow of his soul.

  It was his chance, and he had to take it. And he wouldn’t get it by answering ‘Yes, Sir Eustace’ and ‘No, Sir Eustace’ like the scared, timeserving nonentity he was.

  “I thought, if I fluffed the selection board, or I didn’t stay the course as an officer-cadet at Eaton Hall, then at least I’d end up as an Education Corps sergeant in a cushy billet somewhere,” he said coolly.

  “You like cushy billets?” Sir Eustace pounced on the admission. “Isn’t Paris a cushy billet?”

  “Yes, it is—“

  “I don’t know a cushier billet than Paris!” Sir Eustace looked around him for agreement.

  “Or a duller one, either,” snapped Roche, seizing his opportunity before anyone could answer. “And I’m not a poor bloody National Serviceman any more either—and that’s also the difference. And I wasn’t conscripted from the Signals to Intelligence—I volunteered.”

  Sir Eustace met his gaze steadily for a moment, and then nodded slowly, not smiling, but at least acknowledging the point.

  “Yes … .” To Roche’s disappointment it was Clinton who spoke now. “And just why, in your considered opinion, is Paris so dull these days?”

  Roche transferred his attention to Clinton, and wished he knew something—anything—about the man beyond what the faint warning bells had whispered to him.

  He licked his lips and decided to play for time. “I handle the liaison traffic,” he began cautiously.

  “I know that,” said Clinton.

  Roche’s courage sank. Sir Eustace had digested the assessments in the file, yet was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. But Colonel Clinton had reached a different and hostile conclusion, and there wasn’t any time to play for.

  “They don’t love us, the French,” He had to find something to give Clinton, something which might impress him.

  “Go on.”

  “They don’t even like us… . Last year, for maybe six months—from the time Nasser seized the canal through to the landings—they tried to like us, but even then it was a bloody effort. But they tried.” He paused.

  “Go on.”

  “Now they don’t even try.” When he thought about it, the one thing he did know about Clinton was that he didn’t know anything about him. Which meant that he hadn’t been active in the Paris station. “They used to say that the Entente Cordiale was buried somewhere between Dunkirk and Mers-el-Kebir.” The words were Bill Ballance’s.

  “Where?” St. John Latimer cupped his ear.

  “Where we blew half their fleet out of the water in 1940, Oliver,” said Sir Eustace.

  “Oh—there …” St.John Latimer looked down his nose at Roche. “Oran, you mean.”

  Roche concentrated on Clinton. “Now they say the corpse has been re-interred beside the Suez Canal, somewhere between Port Said and Ismailia. And their next entente will be with the Germans, who are likely to be more reliable.”

  “So?” Clinton again packed tell me something I don’t know into the question.

  “So they don’t give us anything. Or practically nothing—in effect, nothing…But that’s fair enough really, because we give them the same in return—nothing, as near as damn it.”

  Clinton favoured him with a tiny nod. “So you’ve got nothing to trade—is that it?”

  Nothing to trade in more ways than one, thought Roche bitterly. Nothing to give dear old Anglophile Philippe Roux, who made up for his embarrassment with marvellous lunches, and nothing to give—or very little to give— to Jean-Paul either.

  “Is that it?” repeated Clinton. “Is that all?”

  The difference between Philippe and Jean-Paul was that Jean-Paul didn’t seem to mind. Indeed, not only was he neither disappointed nor worried by the lack of information, but he was rarely even much interested in what there was. It
was as though he knew it all already.

  And then suddenly, as he was about to admit that it was all—and enough to account for the dullness of Paris, if not to satisfy Colonel Clinton that Captain Roche was God’s gift to Intelligence—more of Bill Ballance’s ideas sprang into Roche’s mind. “No, sir.”

  Roche inspected the ideas first from the front and then from the back. They were fully armed and equipped, and their boots and buttons were shining.

  Clinton was waiting.

  “You asked me for my opinion, sir.” Roche used the extra seconds to re-inspect the ideas. It didn’t matter whether they were false or not—in fact, he himself was living proof that they weren’t false, really. But now that he was no longer on Jean-Paul’s side that didn’t matter. “And this is only my opinion, sir—I’m not in a position to substantiate it.” He allowed himself to glance uneasily at Sir Eustace for support.

  “Go on, David,” Sir Eustace encouraged him.

  “Well, sir …” He came back to Clinton. “I think we’re well-advised to restrict the traffic. Because I strongly suspect the Russians have got the French Special Services buttoned up from top to bottom. I think they already know what the French are giving us, for what it’s worth—which isn’t much. And I think most of what we give them goes straight back to Moscow—“ he let himself break off, as though afraid he had gone too far.

  “Yes?” Sir Eustace leaned forward.

  Roche shrugged. “Well… there’s a lot of talk about their reorganising at the moment. But that isn’t because they believe they’ve been penetrated, it’s because the present set-up can’t handle the Algerian war, and holding on to Algeria is their Number One priority at the moment. In fact, if anything, they think they’re secure at the moment—“

  This time the break was genuine, as it occurred to Roche that the next thing Sir Eustace—or more likely Clinton—would ask him was for the source of his suspicions, unsubstantiated or not, and since he could hardly admit he was parrotting Bill Ballance, that put poor old Philippe in the cart, than whom no one was more truly red-white-and-blue and the soul of honour.

  “I rather think there’s someone high up who’s sold that as the official line, and they’re sticking to it, anyway,” he added belatedly.

  “Where did you get this?” asked Clinton.

  “It’s pretty much rumour, sir.” Roche felt himself slipping.

  “But you believe it?” Sir Eustace prodded him. “Obviously—you do, eh?”

  Obviously—he had to. “Yes, sir. I think they’re blown.”

  “Have you talked about it with your contact?”

  There was no escape. He had to have a source, and the source had to be Philippe. And, no matter with what regret, the choice between the careers of Commandant Roux and Captain Roche was no choice at all.

  “In—in a roundabout sort of way, Sir Eustace.” In a very roundabout way, actually. Because it had been British security, not French, that they had been talking roundabout, in effect.

  “And what did he say?”

  Au revoir, Philippe. “He said … he said that people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. Or words to that effect.”

  “What words?”

  Roche rocked on his chair. “He asked me if we knew yet who’d tipped off Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean, among other things.” There was no denying Philippe had said that, even if the context had been subtly different.

  “Who is your contact? Is he reliable?” Sir Eustace frowned down at the file, and finding nothing there, frowned up.

  “I’ve no reason to think not.” But he had to go, nevertheless. Because now that the possibility of a leak had been aired, then the possible unreliability of Philippe Roux not only demonstrated his own shrewdness but also accounted for any small leakages which might otherwise now be traceable back to David Roche. So—adieu, Philippe. “But…”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just got a bad feeling about him. Nothing I could put my finger on—just a feeling.” The feeling was guilt, but in his present scale of priorities Roche thought he could handle it.

  “Who—“ Sir Eustace broke off as he caught the expression on Colonel Clinton’s face. “Yes, Fred? You think David has made his point?”

  The corner of Colonel Clinton’s mouth had twitched, but not with anything approaching amusement judging by the expression on the rest of his face.

  “He’s made his point right enough.” Clinton nodded. “But I was thinking of Roux, as a matter of fact.”

  “Roux?”

  “His contact—their liaison man. Philippe Roux.”

  “You know him?”

  “Not personally. But he was in Berlin about three years back, before my time. And he was on Gehlen’s Red List then as a probable KGB contact.”

  “That is good,” said Genghis Khan. “He gave you Roux—and he gave you Gehlen.”

  “Damn it—I gave him Roux!” The thought of Philippe Roux being no better than David Roche—and not only no better, but also not so good professionally speaking, if the West Germans had penetrated his cover— had been somehow shocking as well as disturbing. He had had Philippe down as true blue.

  “So you gave him only what he already knew, and in all innocence. And now you have told me, and I know—and that is good too,” Genghis Khan nodded approvingly. “And, what is more, I will do nothing about it, I assure you. Roux must take his chances—you are more important than Roux, David.”

  That was highly reassuring, but he couldn’t help looking at Genghis Khan interrogatively nevertheless.

  “Clinton trusts you. He gave you Gehlen—and he has been with the Gehlen Organisation for the last two years, liaising with them.” Genghis Khan nodded again. “So he gave you Roux, and he didn’t need to—and that is even more pleasing.”

  Roche wished that Genghis Khan could show his pleasure more obviously, but the face was still as expressionless as a waxwork.

  “I rather got the impression he didn’t like me much.”

  “Liking is not necessary. In any case, it is not you he dislikes, it is Sir Eustace Avery—and the man Latimer, he will be disliked too. I would guess that you are their choice, and they are thrusting you on Clinton. But at least he is disposed to make the best of you.”

  The way Genghis Khan was talking, estimating the likes and dislikes of the British top brass, suggested that he himself was above half-way up the ladder. And it also suggested that Genghis Khan had decided to emulate Colonel Clinton in trusting the eminently trustworthy David Roche with his confidences. And that happy state of affairs had to be capitalised on while it lasted, to help him play both sides against the middle as required. “I think you’d better explain that—‘thrusting me on Clinton’.” On second hearing it didn’t sound so flattering, either. “Why do they dislike each other? Just what is happening?”

  The pebble-eyes bored into him. “What is happening… what is happening is that they are each survivors of the great disaster which has befallen your service in recent years. Do you understand?”

  “No. Not really. Tell me.”

  Genghis Khan looked at his watch. “There is not time, not now. It is enough that they are two of the survivors—Clinton has survived because he was absent at the right time, so he was lucky… or perhaps he was prudent, perhaps it would be safer to assume that—and Avery has survived because he was also lucky, but in a different way … and because he has the right connections—because he is a political animal and not a pure professional like Clinton—indeed, he is a great survivor … And that is also why they dislike each other.”

  It was going above Roche’s head, but Genghis Khan was right: they were running hard on time.

  “So now they must build again, with what they have—“ Genghis Khan looked hard at him “—and what they can get.”

  And what they have is me, thought Roche, and that’s one measure of the disaster, by God!

  “You obviously have some special qualifications they need, I am thinking,” said Gen
ghis Khan speculatively, “to get them what they want.”

  What they want.

  “So now I think you’d better tell me about this man Audley,” said Genghis Khan.

  III

  “NO, ROCHE, I cannot tell you anything about this fellow Audley that isn’t in the file,” said Major Stocker brusquely. “What I know is in the file.”

  Major Stocker wore a Royal Artillery tie beneath a face which was weathered like a block of Blenheim stone cruelly exposed to the elements over several centuries.

  “What I know is in the file,” repeated Major Stocker, as though to pre-empt any feeble Roche-protest, “because I compiled the file.”

  And Major Stocker also frightened Roche in the same way as Colonel Clinton had done; perhaps not quite so much, allowing for rank, but almost as much because—according to Genghis Khan’s informed guess—he was Clinton’s creature, and had therefore been quarried from the same hard strata.

  Yet, nevertheless, he didn’t frighten Roche quite as much as Genghis Khan had done, and that made all the difference.

  “But there must be something—“

  “Of course there’s something, man!” They had had two minutes together, but already Stocker had no time for Roche, that was plain: Captain Roche in Major Stocker’s battery would have led a dog’s life. “That’s why you’re here, damn it!”

  “I mean, something you know that isn’t in the file—about what sort of man he is—damn it!” Fear hardened Roche into resistance.

  What sort of man he is: David Longsdon Audley—

  Oliver St.John Latimer didn’t like David Longsdon Audley—had never met him, had never sat the same exams, had never packed down in the same scrum (the idea of Oliver St.John Latimer stripe-jerseyed for a game of rugger was beyond imagination), never eaten in the same mess (the idea of Oliver St.John Latimer crammed into the same tank was equally beyond imagination)—but Oliver St.John Latimer didn’t like David Longsdon Audley, and that was a fact if not a fact in the file. Because he’d said so. “He’s a tricky blighter, if you ask me,” said Oliver St.John Latimer, eyeing Sir Eustace Avery coolly, equal to equal, and then David Roche pityingly, superior to inferior.