'Did it ever occur to you, David, that you might annoy someone with that recent forecast of yours–before the Lebanese business?'
Audley bridled. 'It was true.'
Fred regarded him sadly. 'But undiplomatically packed. It didn't leave anyone much room to manoeuvre in.'
He cut off Audley's protest. 'Damn it, David, it wasn't a report–it dummy4
was a lecture. And an arrogant lecture, too. You're a first-rate forecaster who's stopped forecasting.'
'I've never twisted the facts.' Audley could sense that he was digging his heels into shifting ground. 'That forecast was accurate.'
'If anything, too accurate. If you were a gambler I'd say your cards were marked. And you're too far in with the Israelis.'
'I've used Israeli sources. I don't always believe what I get from them though.'
'You lunch with Colonel Shapiro every Wednesday.'
'Most Wednesdays. He's an old friend. But so are Amin Fawzi and Mohammed Howeidi. I meet a great many people.'
Fred sighed, and started eating again.
'I don't give a damn, of course. As far as I'm concerned you can have your own old boys' network. You can poke your nose anywhere, as it suits you. But that last report was the final straw.'
Good God, thought Audley: he was being taken out of circulation.
Banished to the Steerforth File, where he could not cause any annoyance except to four ageing members of the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve.
Yet Fred was smiling, and that didn't fit.
'For a devious character you are sometimes surprisingly transparent, David. If you think that you are going to be put out to grass, you are mistaken. You ought to appreciate your value more clearly than that. What you need is a dose of reality. You've been leading a sheltered life for too long.
dummy4
'In any case, you surely don't think the JIG would send one of their troubleshooters here at such a godforsaken hour just to watch you being cut down to size?'
Audley remembered the edited Steerforth file and felt a pricking of humiliation. He had gone off at half- cock.
'And you can thank your rugger-playing past for this. too. Or rather your impact on Dai Llewelyn–you remember him?'
Audley frowned. There had been quite a number of Welshmen in the old days. Mentally he lined them up, and Dai Llewelyn immediately sprang out of the line-up–an exceptionally tough and ruthless wing forward for the Visigoths. A far better player than Audley had ever been, older and craftier.
'He remembers you rather well. He says you were a blackhearted, bloody-minded wing forward, and not bad for a mere Englishman.'
'He was the black-hearted and bloody-minded one. If I've got the right Llewelyn, he was a rough player.'
Fred nodded. 'He's still a rough player for the Arab faction in the Foreign Office. But he seems to have a certain regard for you. He said your talents ought not to be wasted –provided you didn't play against his team. He has a marked weakness for sporting metaphors.'
Audley remembered Llewelyn well now. Almost a stage Welshman, all rugger and Dylan Thomas, until you crossed him.
Then you had to look out.
It was on the tip of his tongue to protest that he hadn't been playing against anyone. But it wasn't quite true, and the thought of dummy4
Llewelyn marking him again was somehow a shade frightening.
He sensed that it would do no good any more to protest that he was a Middle Eastern specialist.
Fred shrugged off his objection.
'David, you're like a good many thousands of ordinary British working men: you are going to have to learn new skills. Or rather, you must learn to adapt your old skill in a new field. And I think you'll find the new field gives you greater scope. You've got the languages for it. You'll just have to catch up on the facts.'
Fred reached over and rang the buzzer.
'You wanted to know what had been taken out of the Steerforth File . . . Mrs Harlin, would you get me the Panin papers?'
Audley jumped at the Harlin presence at his shoulder. She moved as stealthily as a cat. Then the name registered.
'Nikolai Andrievich Panin. Does that name ring any bells?'
The tone implied that he was not expected to know very much, if anything, about Nikolai Andrievich Panin.
'Didn't he have something to do with the Tashkent Agreement?' he said tentatively.
Even that was too much. Fred raised his eyebrows and pushed himself back from the table.
'How in the name of God did you know that?'
