Sion Crossing (11 page)

But he hadn’t drunk out of his new pint yet, Mitchell observed. He had merely put a line of froth on his moustache.

“You weren’t just drinking last evening.”

Howard Morris considered that statement for several seconds before answering. “I sure as hell wasn’t hunting either.” He considered Audley also. “Within the meaning of the word, old buddy.”

In turn, Audley considered his friend. “Then I’d like to know what you were doing … old buddy.”

Several more seconds. “If I said it was private—”

“It wouldn’t do.” Audley was no longer angry, he seemed almost sad.

“I didn’t think it would.” This time Morris took the beer-level down two inches. Then he flicked a glance at Mitchell. “Presence of young chief mean old chief under orders, huh?”

Against his natural inclinations, Mitchell was suddenly sorry for them both. They had once both been very formidable, and influential too. And, given the right circumstances, they still could be, though Howard Morris was—at least temporarily—out of favour in Grosvenor Square, and David Audley increasingly didn’t give a damn either way in Whitehall and elsewhere. But they were also mutual friends of long standing, and old allies longer than that; so, not for the first time, he had probably misapprehended the reason for Audley’s recent bloody-minded mood.

“I don’t know about the old chief—” it was useless to attempt to sound sincere, for neither of them would believe that; and it wouldn’t have been truly true anyway “—but this young chief is certainly under orders.” He looked at the American, and then shrugged. “And you were at the Oxbridge Club last night, Colonel Morris. And you did meet our Mr. Latimer.

Morris nodded slowly, well knowing that it was useless to deny. “So I was. And so I did.” Mitchell’s intervention didn’t ease the situation, it merely suggested that the young chief was running the show. “And if I stuck at that—?”

“That wouldn’t do either,” said Audley quickly. “We’d have to make trouble for you then, Howard. And … the way things are … we wouldn’t want to do that. But we could. And we would.”

“Even if I told you I don’t really know anything?”

“We’d have to be the judge of that.” Audley had no choice but to be merciless now. “Old buddy … we’ve already taken the Oxbridge apart—I’m a bloody member of the club, for God’s sake—you know that!” He moved his head slightly, looking away from the American, but not quite reaching Mitchell. “Old buddy … I’m sorry … But that’s the way it is.”

It was nicely done, thought Mitchell admiringly. The signal between friends, confirming what the American had already guessed; and the regret—that was probably genuine. And both together somehow validated the bluff about the Oxbridge, which they hadn’t yet had time to take apart; though, of course, it wasn’t really a bluff, because with Audley’s weight behind them the club was no problem, so this was merely a short cut to the answers. But it was always an education to see David at work under pressure.

And, come to that, it would be an education to see how the American reacted to that pressure, for Howard Morris was a great pro also, who had counted coup on worthy enemies and had their scalps to prove it; and now that he was up against a friend it would be interesting to observe where friendship’s markers were planted. Altogether, it was an educational occasion.

Morris had taken another deep pull at his beer. And that was the word on him now, and it was sad and cautionary: that, even allowing for the fact that he had a great capacity for beer, Colonel Morris was drowning his sorrows somewhat too deeply these days.

Morris put his glass down. “‘We could. And we would’—sounds like a threat.” He grinned at Audley. “But they say that you can die of old age, being threatened.”

“They do. But they also say that those whom the gods wish to destroy they first comfort with foolish clichés to encourage carelessness.” Audley shook his head sadly. “The Oxbridge, Howard—why not the middle of Piccadilly? Or even Whitehall—that would have been relatively less public. And then we might not have had to oh-ho each other like this. Not so quickly anyway.”

Morris grimaced at Audley. “Well … that was where the old bastard wanted it. I warned him.” Then he cocked his head, as though suddenly curious. “It hasn’t occurred to you that if I
was
up to something … or maybe if
he
was … then we’d have gotten up to it less publicly?”

The old bastard?

“It did cross our minds—yes.” Audley showed no sign that he too was wondering who “the old bastard” might be. “But no doubt you all had your reasons, we decided.”

“Oh, sure.” There was an edge of irritation in the American’s voice. “He didn’t want to be late for dinner with His Royal Highness.” He gestured abruptly. “His goddam’ dinner!”

The barman materialized in front of them. “Yes, sir?”

“What?” Morris blinked at the man.

“Same again, sir?”

Morris looked at him. “Why not? Okay, Harry—‘Through the bottle’s dazzling glare I see the gloom less plain’.” He nodded at the barman. “‘And that I think a reason fair to fill my glass again’.” He grinned at Audley and raised his glass. “My namesake wrote that, you know, David? So here’s to Captain Charles Morris, of the army of His Britannic Majesty King George the Third, God bless him.” He drained the glass and handed it to the barman. “Though I guess the Captain’s tipple was port, more likely.”

Dinner with His Royal Highness? That certainly reduced the options in an identification of one old bastard among so many who fitted the description.

“Yes …” Audley lifted his untasted glass of sherry and then put it down still untasted. “But dinner wasn’t one of the reasons we were seeking you, Howard—any more than we’re interested in King George the Third and the Revolutionary War. It’s Mr Lincoln’s war we’re curious about, aren’t we?” He regarded Morris quizzically. “The War Between the States?”

Morris grimaced again. “Hell, David! I told you it was private—”

“Not any more, it isn’t—”

“I mean, you don’t have to ask
me
, goddam’ it!”

“I don’t see anyone else around to ask.”

“You don’t? For Christ’s sake—all you have to do is ask—” Morris stopped abruptly, staring at Audley. “
Oh God
!”

The barman reappeared, with another sherry and another Guinness as well as Howard Morris’s umpteenth pint.

“I’ll put it on your slate, sir—right?”

“Yeah, Harry. On my slate.” Morris continued to stare at Audley, but did not speak again until the barman had retired. “Is he all right?”

“He—who?”

“Don’t shit me around. Is Latimer all right?”

“So far as we know.” Audley looked at Mitchell for confirmation, then back to Morris. “Is there any reason why he shouldn’t be? The War Between the States is over, isn’t it? I thought the shooting stopped at Appomattox Court House in 1865, didn’t it?”

“Where is he?” If Howard Morris was lying, then he was a beautiful liar, thought Mitchell as the American spread the question between them with a frown. But then he would be a beautiful liar, of course. “Is that it? He’s gone? And … he’s gone, and you don’t know where?” Morris drew a breath. “That bitch!”

That bitch?

Now they had an old bastard and a bitch. And a Royal Highness. And that ought to triangulate matters well enough.

“Not exactly.” Audley ignored the bitch. “That is to say … he has gone. And we only have an approximate idea of his whereabouts.” Audley smiled suddenly, almost disarmingly, with one of those rare sweet smiles of his. “It’s funny, really.”

“Funny?” The American said the word, but Mitchell echoed it within himself.

“Ironic.” Audley paused. “We’re not a department with a lot of rules, as you know … We have to have room to breathe in—space for a little freedom of action … even a little eccentricity, you might say—eh?”

Neither Mitchell nor the American said anything, for Audley was usually the one who needed that sort of room.

“About ten years ago … ten years, it would be—Cathy was a new baby at the time … I went abroad with her and Faith. It was just a whim—” Audley shrugged diffidently “—mostly just holiday, to show Faith the Roman parts of Rome, not those dreadful baroque monstrosities … But I did want to check up on something—” another shrug “—and … there was a bit of quite unforeseen difficulty with the locals there. Quite unforeseen—otherwise, of course, I’d never have taken Faith and Cathy, you understand?”

There was some truth there, as far as Audley’s wife and child were concerned. But there was also some considerable understatement, Mitchell suspected, relating to events which had occurred a year or two before he himself had been seduced from the scholarly safety of the 1914–18 War-to-end-all-wars.

“Anyway … the point is that I had somehow omitted to tell anyone where I was going, so when things blew up at this end … which they did with a vengeance … there was a certain amount of ill-founded concern, which Master Oliver St John Latimer did his best to transform into departmental panic, for all the world as though I was absconding with the petty cash.” Audley finally nerved himself to taste one of his sherries. A strange expression crossed his face and he scanned the array of bottles behind the bar just as the barman returned. “They changed the rules after that.”

“Everything okay, sir?” inquired the barman.

“Thank you, Harry!” Audley smiled again. “A most unusual sherry. Bulgarian, would it be?”

The politeness of the question reassured the barman. “I expect so, sir. It comes out of a barrel.”

“Just so!” Audley turned back to Morris. “They tightened up the rules after that, and Oliver St John Latimer is a great one for rules. So I don’t doubt he’ll be ringing in again some time … And, in the meantime, I’m not one to make a crisis, let alone a panic, out of a transitory problem. That’s the irony, if you like.”

Mitchell studied the American closely, and was not reassured by what he observed, since the American himself was drinking again. He reached for his second Guinness.

Morris put his glass down, and wiped his moustache delicately with a single finger. “That’s just the little irony, old buddy. There’s a bigger one than that.”

“Tell us, Howard.” Audley spoke gently. “Because we’ve got two men on each of the exits, and another in the car outside, and as they’re all probably on overtime—if not overtime-and-half, on a Saturday evening—I would like to send them home, for the taxpayer’s sake.”

“Huh!” grunted Morris. “But I’m buying the drinks on my private slate.”

“Are you? But then everything you seem to be doing these days is private, isn’t it?” Audley leaned across the bar and waved at the barman. “Private meetings—private reasons—private drinks … Harry, could you dispose of these Nicaraguan sherries, and bring me a pint of Colonel Morris’s best bitter?”

“Pint coming up, sir!” Harry waved back.

Morris pointed accusingly at Audley. “You think we’re up to something—you do, don’t you, David?”

“I don’t think any such thing. Mitchell here thinks that—I don’t.”

“Mitchell.” Morris zeroed in on Mitchell. “You know what they say about you,
Doctor
Mitchell?”

That was a challenge not to be ducked. “That I know too much? That’s what I’m always being told, Colonel.”

The reply crest-felled the American. “They say you’re a smart-ass, Mitchell.”

The pint arrived, but the barman looked at Mitchell. “Anything more, gentlemen?”

The barman knew his job, and Mitchell liked men who knew their jobs.

“I’ll have another Guinness. And you can put a pint in for Colonel Morris—and for my friend here.” He nodded at Audley.

The barman studied Mitchell for a moment. “I know you, don’t I, sir—?”

“You do, Harry.” Mitchell watched Howard Morris.

“Yes …” Harry grappled for a moment with his professional memory. “
The Dominoes League
—Mister … mister …
Paul—
? Paul?”

“We beat the home side. I had a damn good partner—remember?”

Harry beamed back at him. “That’s right, sir—Mr Procter and Mr Mitchell … And your ladies did just as well in the darts match—and your lady was a Miss Elizabeth, right?”

Touché
, thought Mitchell. “I wish she was, Harry.” But there were other matters in hand now. “And put one in for yourself while you’re about it.” He put a note on the bar. “You see, Colonel, I’ve been privatized too. This pub’s in my territory, that’s all.”

The Colonel nodded slowly, adding Mitchell to the full reckoning for the first time.

“But you’re right—and David isn’t quite right.” They had to hit the American hard from both sides, now that he was in a vulnerable salient.

“Oh … yeah?” Morris shied away from another ‘oh-ho’.

“Yes. I do know too much. And I don’t
think
you’re up to something … although by ‘you’ I don’t necessarily mean you personally.” Mitchell smiled. “I mean … with the old bastard and the bitch … We’d like you to put our minds at rest, Colonel.”

That was the old military rule: if you don’t want to destroy your enemies completely, because you may need them as allies in the next campaign, then leave them one road open on which to retreat from the stricken field in good order.

Howard Morris looked from one to the other of them, and then at the cheerful Saturday evening occupants of the bar in general. Perhaps he was reviewing the celebrated Special Relationship between his United States and their United Kingdom. And perhaps he was also remembering his own Special Relationship with David Audley, his long-time friend and longer-time official ally. But it was more likely, thought Mitchell, that he was thinking about the heavies outside the two exits.

Harry arrived with the drinks, including his own. And, having swept Audley’s sherries from sight, he raised his glass to Mitchell. “It’s
Doctor
Mitchell—that was a good win you had that night Doctor! Cheers!”

Morris fixed a jaundiced eye on him. “Harry …”

“Yes, Colonel?”

“Have you ever heard of
Catch-22
, Harry?”

Harry thought for a moment. “No, sir. Is it a drink?” He raised an eyebrow. “A cocktail, is it?”

“Yes,” said Audley. “It has a hemlock base. Do you have any hemlock?”