Sion Crossing (33 page)

The door opened behind him. Joe must have been waiting for his call, to come so quickly.

“That is what you think?” The Man didn’t look at Joe. “And do you know what I think, Mr Latimer?”

What Latimer thought was dust and ashes: his last card had been no better than all the others.

“I think that you have told me a good story.” The Man didn’t expect an answer. “Even, perhaps, in other circumstances it might have been good enough—a beautiful story … But then, I would expect no less from David Audley.”

“From—?” Latimer felt his mouth open.

Oh, sweet Jesus Christ! Now, simultaneously, he knew everything and he knew nothing
—
he knew only that he was lost
—
that he had been already bought and sold from the beginning!

“From who?” The story about the chicken running round the yard after its head had been cut off was true: he could still form words, even though he had nothing to say.

“We expected Dr Audley. So you confused us for a little time, Mr Latimer.” The Man separated Joe’s message from Latimer’s belongings. Then he looked up again. “But not for long.” He touched the passport. “Though I am perhaps a little surprised that you travelled on your own passport. It would hardly have changed matters … but it did make them easier for us.”

The facts in the man’s statement clicked in Latimer’s brain like the tumblers in a combination lock, one after another.

They had expected Audley. (And, if there was nothing else that he really understood, at least he could account for that, damn it!)

They knew who he was. They had not known it at first, but now they knew it exactly. And it had taken them less than half an hour to obtain that direct knowledge. And that, in the peculiar setting of Sion Crossing—and even though he still couldn’t guess the reasons for his betrayal—narrowed the field to a dreadful near-certainty.

But somehow he had to fight, even though he had no weapons.

“I know Dr Audley. I’ve served on two committees with him.” His voice seemed to come from a long way off. “But he’s …” He frowned. “Surely he’s … ?” It wasn’t really difficult to feign incomprehension: even if it wasn’t believed it was nonetheless the truth.

“He’s … ?” As The Man trailed off Joe fidgeted as though tired of the charade.

“He works for the Ministry of Defence.” It was no good denying what was already known. “I suppose it’s no good me saying that I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“No good at all. Dr Audley works for RD3, and he is your colleague, Mr Latimer.” The Man regarded Latimer intently. “Indeed, if our information is correct, you will shortly be more than that. In which case I must congratulate you, Mr Latimer.”

Latimer stared back at him.
The Americans?

The Man smiled. “A well-deserved promotion, to be sure!”

The Man was being polite again. In fact—
dear God
!—in fact The Man was almost deferential!

So The Man was, for a near-certain guess, a senior KGB controller on the American circuit. Only the Russians could know so much and transmit it so quickly and securely!

Latimer’s hold on reality weakened. The Americans would not have been so polite—they would have been justifiably angry with a poacher on their estate. But it would not have been a killing matter for them—
as it must be for this polite and deferential man
—

He must not panic. Indeed, perhaps he had another card to play after all—

“Your information is … as good as always, shall we say?” He almost bowed. “But, as regards Sion Crossing—”

The Man cut him off. “Don’t disappoint me, Mr Latimer! For you to have come here … and with the exact cover story that we expected from Dr Audley … perhaps that was admirable, but it was also very foolish—very foolish!” He chided Latimer with a shake of the head. “You could have come to harm, believe me—very grave and permanent harm.” Another shake. And then he looked up at Joe. “You have a reliable man?”

Joe and Latimer exchanged the same incredulous glance for half a second. “I can mebbe find someone.”

“Find him.” The Man regarded Joe uncompromisingly. “He must see that Mr Latimer comes to no harm—is that understood?”

Joe looked as though it wasn’t understood at all, but he nodded nevertheless.

The Man looked at his watch. “It is ten minutes to the hour. Your man will take Mr Latimer to the old boathouse by the river. If Mr Latimer attempts to escape, or makes any hostile gesture, he is to be killed. If he does not … then he is to be released in exactly two hours from now—
unharmed
.” He studied Joe. “
Unharmed
—you understand?”

Joe shrugged. “If that’s what you want … okay.”

The Man gave Joe a terrible cold look, which chilled Latimer at second hand. “You misunderstand. It is not what I ‘want’—it is
an order.
So … the one way, or the other, is how it will be. And on your head. Is
that
understood?”

Latimer watched Joe shrivel.

“Yes sir,” said Joe.

Unharmed
—
?

The Man switched to Latimer just as the unbelievable sweetness of the word was percolating from surprise to belief in his brain. But even with belief—
relief—
there was a swirling incomprehension—
why
—?

“We are not barbarians.” The Man seemed to read his thoughts. “And you have heard my order, Mr Latimer. So that should be enough for you.”

It was—and it wasn’t, thought Latimer. Because they
were
barbarians. But they weren’t stupid … and now, at least, he did not intend to be stupid either.

“Yes.” It was more than enough: it was a reprieve from a death sentence for an unknown crime which he had not committed—it
was life
!

“Good.” The Man drew the telephone on the desk towards him. “Then … farewell, Mr Latimer. I think we shall not meet again.”

It was life
—

Latimer retraced his way across the landing towards the staircase, with Joe behind him.

But was it really life?
… . The presence of Joe at his back made him suddenly less certain. Because … because they
were
barbarians … and that exchange could have been a rehearsed play to make him more tractable—

He started to descend the staircase.

But … they were
not
fools, on the other hand: to kill someone as senior as he was now—and as they knew he was—without overriding necessity would be an act inviting counter-sanction, and therefore one requiring the highest clearance, surely?

He turned the corner of the staircase.

Surely?
He had to repeat the thought in order to stop his legs folding under him. Because there was nothing he could do to prevent whatever was going to happen—

But why?

There was a clatter of something falling beyond the back door ahead of him. As he reached the foot of the staircase he turned towards Joe, uncertain of what was required of him.

Joe opened his mouth exactly as the door opened, and his eyes left Latimer, and no words came out.

The change in Joe’s expression jerked Latimer’s attention back to the doorway.

Kingston
, naked to the waist—Kingston grinning his melon-grin, as ever—Kingston holding a tray of groceries awkwardly—naked to the waist and grinning—was framed in the doorway in that slow-motion fraction-of-a-second—

“Mull—”

The word from behind Latimer was swallowed up in a fierce
thump-thump
which seemed to come out of the tray of groceries, which almost simultaneously lifted and scattered itself in a suddenly accelerated blur of motion.

The echo of the word, and the
thump-thump
, and a crash of sound behind him were all part of the same continuous noise, which ran together, and then merged with the individual sounds of the groceries hitting the floor—the sharp
crack
of tins and bottles among cardboard packets of cereals and washing powder—with the louder and sharper
crack
of something striking the treads behind him and bouncing down and skittering past him and across the floor in front of him—

It was the Ingram machine-pistol—!

“Okay, Oliver—” Kingston fielded the Ingram like Gary Sobers in the slips, with the hand which didn’t hold the silenced pistol “—let’s move it, then—”

MITCHELL FUMED OUTSIDE
the block of flats for a full five minutes, until Audley arrived. And even then it took Audley a couple of extra minutes to decide what sort of tip his taxi-driver deserved, and then to find it among the coins in his pocket, which appeared to be foreign to him.

“David—this is bloody unpardonable!” Mitchell fired first, and fired low. “This is my show—and you’re coming damn close to pulling rank on me … and when you really haven’t got any rank to pull, actually.”

Audley looked at the coins remaining in his hand. “You know … I think I gave the blighter too much—you saw the way he perked up just then? I think I must have slipped him one of those utterly unspeakable pound coins, you know—and that would be
damnable
—”

“David—”

“Yes?” Audley put the coins back in his pocket, and peered at Mitchell owlishly. “Yes … you are quite right, dear boy.” He adjusted his spectacles. “That is … quite right that it is your show. And also quite right that I haven’t any rank to pull on you any more … But if you want to play the game like that, then that’s the way I’ll play it too. Only I must warn you … there is a drawback.”

The obvious drawback, thought Mitchell, lay in the differences between them: Audley was not only considerably older, and more experienced, and richer … but he was also unhampered by ambition. Or … he was only hampered by the ambition of continuing to do what he liked doing. But even that was really more a self-indulgence than an ambition.

“You think you’d win all the time?”

“Not
all
the time.” Audley smiled. “Most of the time. But that wasn’t what I was thinking about. I was thinking … if you want to hitch your wagon to Oliver St John Latimer’s star you really ought to make sure that he’s still alive first.”

If that was what Audley thought, then there was no time to reject the slander. “You think he isn’t?”

“I think we’ve been taken for a ride, is what I think. Although I still don’t know where we’re going.”

“Is that what Colonel Butler thinks?”

“Ah … now, I haven’t actually consulted Jack on the matter.” Audley bridled slightly. “I found a message from young James waiting for me, informing me where you were going … And I got to thinking about everything we’ve been doing since Oliver took wing.”

“Shouldn’t you be taking wing, talking of wings?”

“Yes … pretty soon.” Audley nodded, and looked at his watch. “It would be dreadful if I missed that plane, wouldn’t it? That would get me into hot water with Jack, I shouldn’t wonder …”

Poor old Jack! thought Mitchell. In the terms of the Industrial Relations Act, David Audley was already long past his First Verbal Warning, and innumerable Written Warnings, far beyond First, Second and Final: his penchant for disobedience was as legendary as his instinct for elusive truths no one else had seen.

“Maybe I’ll still catch it. But if I don’t it won’t be your fault, anyway.” Audley smiled again. “So shall we go and talk to Lady Marshall meanwhile, Paul?”

They went into the building.

It was a very expensive block of flats: it had something like a hotel reception, but with the extra security which went with the expense.

“Dr Mitchell and Dr Audley for Lady Alice Marshall-Pugh,” said Mitchell.

The porter behind the desk sized them up, and for once Mitchell tried to look as though his doctorate was medical, brought here via Harley Street.

“Yes, sir.” The sizing up and the appointments book didn’t quite give them the
nihil obstat.
“Dr Mitchell for Lady Alice—” The porter gave Audley a hard look “—Dr Audley?”

Audley’s call to James Cable had come—must have come—after James had set up this meeting. But the porter’s suspicious scrutiny of him took Mitchell by surprise.

“Yes.” He considered David himself. It was certainly true that he didn’t look like what he was, with that battered face of his. And his shirt was somewhat crumpled, and his tie was old and had been knotted in anger (and the porter could hardly be expected to recognize its exclusive rugby club colours, which probably accounted for the battered condition of the face).

The man came back to him. “Dr Audley, sir?”

Mitchell decided on half-truth. “Dr Audley is my senior consulting colleague,” he said stiffly.

“Just so, sir.” Like all good porters, the man wasn’t overawed. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment—?” He retreated into a cubicle to his left, even though there was a phone right in front of him.

“He doesn’t like the look of me, does he?” murmured Audley. “And … not that I blame him … what’s so special about Lady Alice Thingummy?” He glanced sidelong at Mitchell. “And it’s Lady
Alice
, is it—not Lady … Thingummy—Marshall-Pugh?”

“She was a duke’s daughter.” Mitchell watched the porter watch them both as he spoke into the phone in the cubicle. “She married Marshall-Pugh before he was knighted.”

“And who the hell was he?”

“Fertilisers—” Mitchell just had time to hiss the word as the porter emerged from his sanctum.

“Ah!” Audley gave the porter a haughty look. “In the shit, of course—she married money! Where there’s muck there’s brass, as they’re always saying.” The look focussed on the porter. “Now, what seems to be the trouble?”

The porter gave Mitchell a bleak look. “If you’d care to take the lift on the right, sir. It will open when you reach your destination.”

They went to the lift.

Audley shrugged. “It’s a commentary on the state of London, I suppose … when it’s almost as hard to get into Lady Alice’s pad as it is to see Jack Butler.
O tempora, o mores!”

The lift doors opened.

There was one important thing, thought Mitchell—and there was one more important thing—

“How have we been taken for a ride, David?”