The Labyrinth Makers

his glance from Audley to Roskill.

'And you've got 3112 Squadron transfers?' Audley spoke this time, and the man's gaze came back to him.

'I beg your pardon?'

'3112, Squadron,' said Roskill. 36547–G for George. Pilot–Flight Lieutenant Steerforth, navigator–Flying Officer Maclean, second pilot–Warrant Officer Tierney. And radio operator–Sergeant Morrison.'

Morrison looked from one to the other uneasily.

'Who are you? What do you want?'

'We don't actually want a Dakota, Mr Morrison. We've got the Dakota. We've got Steerforth. And now we've got you.'

'Who are you?'

'In fact there's only one more thing we want, Mr Morrison, and you are going to tell us all about it. With no lies this time.'

Morrison took off his glasses and polished them furiously. Sweat glistened on the pouches under his eyes.

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'Please tell me who you are,' he pleaded.

Audley hated himself. 'We are not your old comrades, Mr Morrison,' he said brutally. 'And we've no time to waste arguing.

You brought it in to Newton Chester.'

Morrison's will crumbled like a piece of rotten wood.

'I–yes,' he mumbled.

Audley breathed out. Some men's defences could only be approached with all the precise formality and deliberation of an eighteenth century siege, with parallels and saps, gabions and fascines. Surrender was a mathematical certainty if the attacker had the force, the time and the patience. But others could be knocked off balance and taken by a coup de main before they could recollect their wits. Morrison was a weak man who had fallen to a crude surprise attack. A text book case.

'What was it?'

Morrison gestured unhappily. 'I don't know. I swear I don't know.

He never told me.'

' Steerforth never told you.'

The wretched man shied away from the name as though it would shrivel his tongue.

'What did Steerforth tell you?'

'It's such a long time ago–I don't remember.'

'You're in trouble, Morrison. We know perfectly well that you haven't forgotten. You read about the Dakota in the papers a few days ago. You haven't forgotten.'

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Morrison turned his head from side to side as though his collar was too tight.

'I think he said it was–incredible. But he wouldn't say what it was.

He just said it was worth the risk. He said it was priceless.'

The words tumbled out now as though Morrison couldn't get rid of them fast enough.

'And it was in the boxes.'

Morrison nodded. 'I suppose so.'

'How many boxes? Seven?'

'I think so.'

'Were they heavy?'

'I don't know. He–Steerforth–and Tierney carried them aboard. I just kept a look-out.'

That was all he was worth. Just a look-out man.

The shop door-bell rang. Audley turned to find an entire family trooping in, breaking the spell utterly, destroying the illusion.

Morrison sighed with relief.

'What time do you close, Mr Morrison?'

'Five-thirty.'

'We'll be back at 5.25. We can take our time then. I know you can remember a great deal more if you try.'

He turned to go, but the man's courage had risen in the presence of others.

'I didn't catch your name, sir.'

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Audley toyed with the idea of maintaining the element of uncertainty. But it would be embarrassing if Morrison then did the sensible thing and called the police. In any case, they had him now, and their official status would probably strengthen their hand rather than weaken it. He held his identification open for Morrison to see, just above the spotty face of the latest customer.