'And I can have Roskill and Butler as long as I need them?'
Stocker smiled. 'But of course–and anyone else you need. Roskill and Butler have got German and Russian–but then you're quite a dummy4
linguist too, aren't you?'
Audley couldn't make out whether he was being superior or matter-of-fact. Fred was always matter-of-fact because he never needed to be superior.
'I read them. I've got no ear for languages.'
'No matter. I'm told the professor speaks perfect English. Anyway, you've got until Tuesday to wrap it up. He comes in on the scheduled Aeroflot flight at 11.30. And for the record — just what have you got on Steerforth?'
Audley looked at him bleakly. 'He took something and hid it. If Panin thinks it can be found we must agree with him, I suppose.'
Stocker got up. 'In that case I suggest you find it first, Audley.
Then all your troubles will be over. If you need any help just ask for it–I'll see you're not held up.'
When he had gone Audley sat staring despondently at the file. In the past he had stood as an adviser on the fringes of operations which had seemed to him ingeniously simple or hopelessly devious. Or brilliantly complex. Or plain stupid. Whatever Panin was about, it wouldn't be stupid. And this time he was in the barrel.
V
'There's the place,' said Roskill, pointing down the street. 'Two small boys with their noses against the window.'
Audley followed him through the dense Saturday crowd, many of dummy4
whom seemed bent on playing chicken with the motorists. The pavements were hardly less dangerous than the road, with mothers bulldozing their way ahead with prams and pushchairs from which children peered through ramparts of cornflakes and soap powder.
Roskill adroitly slipped into the wake of one of the most aggressive pram-pushers and Audley skipped after him.
The crowds parted left and right before the woman's advance, which continued providentially to a supermarket just beyond their destination. There she slewed the pram inwards with superb timing and Audley and Roskill were able to join the two small boys unharmed.
'I dunno wot it is,' said one boy to the other. 'They got the red, white an' blue wrong way round too.'
'Which one?' asked Roskill.
The boys looked round in surprise. Then the smaller pointed to one of the numerous model aeroplanes on display.
Roskill peered down. 'Bristol Blenheim Mk IV,' he said. 'Those are Free French markings–the French who were on our side in the war.'
He straightened up. 'Morrison's had this shop for twelve years,' he said, indicating the legend above the shop window, The Modeller's Shop. The large off-white letters needed repainting, as did the shop itself. 'Not exactly a gold mine, apparently.'
Audley took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Ahead and just above him an enormous yellow-nosed Stuka was just beginning its dive: on every side colourfully illustrated boxes advertised the progress of half a century's war in the air. To most dummy4
of them he could not put a name with certainty: bright, barbaric little biplanes and triplanes and more familiar modern British aircraft in respectable green and brown camouflage. And–yes–an Israeli Mirage swooping down on a hapless Egyptian MiG. No mistaking those two!
'Can I help you, sir?'
The thick mousey hair of 25 years ago had thinned and retreated.
The nose had reddened and sharpened and spidery gold spectacles sat on it now. The whole face had aged prematurely and less gracefully than Jones's, a sagging and unhealthy version of the filed photograph.
'Are you two gentlemen together?'
Odd how obscene the innocent statement sounded these days–a commentary on the times!
'We are, Mr Morrison.'
'Yes, sir. What can I do for you? We've got one of the finest ranges of models in Southern England. Planes, ships, cars, armoured vehicles, British and foreign. Working models too.'
'Planes we're interested in, Mr Morrison.'
Morrison was obviously trying to place them both, and having no success.
'You're in luck, sir, then. We've just got the latest Airfix range in—'
'Dakotas.'
'Dakotas? Yes, we've got Dakotas.' The little man turned, scanned the shelves behind him and selected a box. 'This is by far the best dummy4
Dakota model, sir. The Airfix one. It's been on the market for several years, but it's very popular. With alternative American wartime transfers, or Silver City civilian ones.'
'We're after a Royal Air Force Dakota, Mr Morrison.' Roskill was joining the game now–a cat and mouse game when played like this, but one which might be over quicker this way.
'Well, sir, in that case I should buy the Airfix model and then some RAF transfers separately.' Morrison shifted
