Sion Crossing (41 page)

Morris retreated into his almost-empty glass. “A bit of both.” He put the glass down empty, wiped his moustache, and signalled again to Harry. “But they did get a tip-off.”

“A tip-off?”

“Uh-huh. About
you
, old buddy.” Morris signalled again. “Not
me
, of course—I was as far up the creek as you were—out in the cold, and frozen in … I was conned, like you.” Morris nodded to Harry. “Same again, please.”

“And just in time, sir,” said Harry, unsurprised.

“Yes.” Morris came back to Audley. “The first word was that you were up to something on our patch, David—that you’d hired Mulholland to clear the way for you … And they thought your budget might just about run to him.”

“
I
hired Mulholland?”

“That was the tip. Meeting in London first. Then a rendezvous at Atlanta airport.” Morris nodded. “And we—
they
—do take you seriously … so they staked Atlanta to receive you.” With no glass, Morris was able to spread both hands. “You should be complimented. They wouldn’t do it for just anybody!”

A word formed on Audley’s lips, but Harry arrived with the drinks to forestall him.

“TIME, GENTLEMEN, PLEASE!” Harry winked at the American. “The clock’s five minutes fast, of course, sir. Take your time.”

“We are all drinking too much,” said Audley. “It may be good for the Chancellor of the Exchequer, but it’s bad for us. As of now—after this one—I shall go on the wagon for a week—or until next Friday, anyway …
But Latimer turned up—right?”

The extra minutes had perked up Morris. “Same old firm—trusted colleague …
senior
colleague—it fitted, you see.”

That was nasty, thought Mitchell.

“And Mulholland turned up, too.” Morris nodded. “Having left a trail from London a mile wide, for any fool to follow. And that was enough for our man, with a Fed breathing down his neck … Because we’re not supposed to trespass on
their
patch—it was already getting sweaty under the armpits by then—”

The FBI and the CIA treading on each other’s feet: Mitchell translated that into British English, and took the point, having on occasion experienced his own problems with the Special Branch.

“So Mulholland met Latimer—” Audley had no time for union demarcation disputes, typically.

“With the Iron Lady Lucy in attendance.” Morris lowered his face and raised his glass. “And that really screwed them up—Miss Lucy
Cookridge
—she made it
political
—huh?”

“Your people identified her?”

“Jesus Christ—what do you think, David!” Morris slammed the glass down. “Mulholland and Senator Cookridge’s daughter! That really slowed our people up—the same way it slowed you.”

That was exactly right, thought Mitchell: the Senator’s respectability and their fear of offending him had inhibited their reactions. And that, presumably, had been the intention of the plotters.

Morris weakened. “And by then they’d had another tip-off anyway.”

“Oh yes?” Audley pretended to drink. “And where were all these useful intelligences coming from?”

He wasn’t even asking what the tip-off was—because he knew that was coming: the truth was, drunk or sober, or midway between those extremes, they both knew their business and each other, these two.

“From a pay-phone—a call-box—” Morris corrected himself “—to the right number. Mulholland knew the form. That was what he was paid for.”

Audley waited.

“The word was that you were interested in Debreczen again, David. They couldn’t ignore that—not after they spotted Latimer in Atlanta.”

“So what did they do?”

“They started moving men in—by agreement with the Feds and the locals …” Morris pursed his lips. “It was getting kind of delicate, what with Mulholland and the Cookridge girl … and Latimer.”

“And Mr Robinson,” supplemented Audley mildly.

“And him, yeah.” Morris showed his teeth. “There was this Civil War parade going on in town. No one was quite sure what was happening, I guess.”

“Until Jack Butler told Hugh Roskill to start making waves?” Audley’s voice was still mild. “May one inquire further about Mr Robinson? Or are your lips sealed?”

Morris made a face. “Do you need me to put Robinson together?”

“I suppose not. He must have been a long-time traitor. Debreczen and before, even?”

“All the way back to the war, they reckon.” Morris nodded soberly. “He was OSS. Left the service and went into industry. Never touched politics until near the end of his career—a real deep-cover man … No one suspected a thing.”

“Except Bill Macallan,” murmured Audley.

“Except old Bill. But who was going to listen to him? In his day old Bill wasn’t even sure about the President of the United States—remember?”

“How could I forget?” A muscle twitched in Audley’s cheek. “Robinson’s going to be awkward for you—” He stopped suddenly. “Or is he?”

“Well …” Morris’s expression became bland. “It all depends on how things are at Sion Crossing right now. But there was this explosion in one of the out-buildings, like I told you … Sounds to me like that could have the makings of a tragic accident.” He shook his head. “When people get careless with explosives—say, when they’re experimenting … Lots of guys can get killed that way, David.”

For a moment Audley was silent again. “Yes … yes, I can see how that might happen, Howard.”

“Uh-huh. Seems there was a senior Russian official from the UN visiting him at the time, too. But he was lucky—like your Mr Latimer … They were probably walking in the grounds, admiring the magnolias or something.”

“Or something.” Audley nodded.

“Or something,” agreed Morris. “So they’ll both be going home very soon, I’d guess.”

“Like Coleridge’s wedding guest—sadder and wiser.” Audley looked round the empty bar suddenly. “I think it’s time for us to go—Jack will be worrying about us.”

Harry appeared magically, wiping a glass. “Will that be all, gentlemen?”

“Almost all, Harry.” Audley smiled at Morris. “We are going, but Colonel Morris will have one for the road on my slate—is that okay?”

“For you, sir—” Harry moved back towards the beer pumps.

“Just tell me one other thing, Howard.”

“If I can, old buddy.” Morris smiled back.

“Two things, actually … Bill Macallan must have kept up a lot of contacts—to suss out Robinson, and to know how to put his hand on Mulholland … It even looks as though he might have known about my little Debreczen tickle last year … He certainly knew a lot about
me
, it would seem—eh?”

Morris thought about the question seriously. “Certainly looks that way, I agree … He did have
friends.
Because there was always a school of thought said he’d been railroaded … And when he got really sick … people visited him. I guess maybe they talked too much.”

“Yes.” Audley nodded. “So just what is the official thinking—did he really get on to Robinson by chance, because of his Civil War studies? Or did he use his Civil War studies to cover his investigation? Which came first—the snake or the egg?”

Morris frowned. “Hell, David—that’s a hard one … And I’m not privy to official thinking—I’m pretty much in the doghouse.” He looked at Audley intently. “All I know is that he was a helluva smart guy. And he was bedridden. And he was dying.”

“Yes. And they do say that concentrates the mind wonderfully.” Audley nodded at Harry as the final pint appeared.

“It does, sir?” Harry cocked his head. “Would that be an income tax demand?”

“It would in your case, Harry.” Audley passed a twenty pound note across the bar. “Because you’re part of the black economy.”

“I’m not prejudiced, Dr Audley.” The note vanished. “It’s the colour of their money that counts, that’s all.”

“Very proper!” Audley turned back to Morris. “It was nicely done, anyway—however it was done.” He turned to Mitchell. “Let’s go to where glory waits, Paul—”

But outside he ignored the waiting car.

“Let’s walk. I need a little fresh air.”

The sound of the city was mixed with its smell: eternal traffic far and near, brick-dust and drains and carbon monoxide and the river, all accentuated by the warm darkness.

“It
was
nicely done,” said Audley. “Whoever did it.”

The river predominated. Not so filthy now, much of it recycled
via
the Thames Water Board from unmentionable sources, but mixed with an untainted fraction from the springs and water-meadows of Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire, far away.

“Whoever?” Mitchell realized that Audley was thinking aloud, buying time before he faced Butler.

“Yes.”

They were heading towards the nearest bridge.

“Yes. Because I can’t help trying to hope that
he
wasn’t as smart as that … That maybe we’ve been conned twice over …”

He?
Macallan—

“Macallan, David?”

“Twice …” It was almost as though Audley wasn’t listening to him. “Say … if the CIA had known about Robinson for a long time, but now they’d decided they had to close him down … But they didn’t want the Russians to know how long they’d been on to him … So
they
sent us up the road towards the 88—maybe?”

He?
Robinson
—

“I don’t know, though—” Audley crossed the road towards the bridge without looking either way “—I just can’t see Howard Morris sending me up the road … It isn’t his
style—
”

Michell had to run to keep up with him. “But he didn’t, David—he sent Oliver.”

“So he did.” The name made Audley miss a step as he reached the safety of the riverside pavement. “He sent
Oliver
—but he couldn’t have known Oliver would go, could he?” He shook his head. “No … on balance, I think Howard’s in the clear: he just smelt a rat, and did his best to scupper the plan … but without offending Cookridge. Only he didn’t quite scupper it, that’s all.”

They were close to the bridge now.

“So that just leaves Macallan, David.”

“Yes.” Audley paused to look over the parapet at the dark water below. “Just Macallan.”

Mitchell waited. Audley’s face was invisible in the light of the nearest lamp, and his expression was distorted by unnatural shadow.

“Just Macallan … He must have followed my career, such as it has been … And when they knew he was dying his friends would have talked more frankly, I suppose.” He nodded at the water. “And then he got word from that researcher of his, about the mysterious Mr Robinson of Sion Crossing.”

The river smell came up strongly. “And the researcher was killed, David.”

“Yes …” Audley shivered suddenly. “I’m getting old.” Then he squared his shoulders. “‘The baked meats of revenge are best eaten cold’, they say … It certainly would have been a beautiful revenge—sending me to my death to prove that he’d been right … He knew he was making his own crossing to Sion—he’d be there on the other side, waiting for me, when I made my own crossing—on his instructions … I
like
that … that’s damn good revenge, it really is!”

There was no understanding David Audley in this mood: all his thoughts were on Macallan and they were admiring thoughts. Poor old Oliver didn’t come into the reckoning at all.

“I’d like to believe that,” said Audley. “It would be nice and neat—
Sion-
bloody
-Crossing
!” He started walking again. “I wonder whether there really
is
any treasure there—” He threw the thought over his shoulder at Mitchell “—if there is, it was perfect … and if there isn’t I’ll bet he’d salted the evidence nicely, to lead me on … But even if that didn’t work, he knew I’d be hooked by his name—and hooked by the memory of Debreczen … He’d have got me one way or another—whatever I found out would have merely led me on.” He chuckled suddenly. “That’s cunning for you—in a good con trick your victim always helps you … In fact, it’s so good … it’s almost a pity it failed, by God!”

That was too much. “It didn’t altogether fail, David. He got Robinson. And it sounds as though he nearly got Oliver.”

“So he did—so he did!” There was no hint of sympathy, let alone gratitude in Audley’s agreement. “In a way we have all benefitted, in fact—we all have our glittering prizes.”

“What?”

“My dear fellow … Jack Butler thinks the better of you—and of James Cable … And he thinks no worse of me than he did before.” Audley nodded to himself. “And I have made the acquaintance of Lady Alice Marshall-Pugh, through whom I shall in due course make friends with Senator Thomas Cookridge. And that will prove very useful, I have no doubt.”

God almighty! thought Mitchell. “And Oliver?”

“Oliver?” Audley lengthened his stride. “Oliver St John Latimer has derived the greatest benefit of all, my lad. He has what he needs most, I suspect.”

“Oh yes?” The irony would be lost, but he must attempt it. “You mean … he’s still alive?”

Audley thought for a moment. “That is a benefit, certainly … For him, if not for us.” Then he shook his head. “But … no …”

“What then?”

“Experience.” Audley patted the parapet. “Experience at the sharp end—which he has never had … The next time Oliver St John Latimer reads a report, or writes an order, he will know that there’s flesh and blood at the other end of it.” He patted the parapet again. “Being frightened in an experience you can’t buy. I’d guess that he has discovered that in Sion Crossing.”

They were almost across the bridge. Up-river the lights twinkled on the Thames like jewels, all the way to Westminster.

The End