The Alamut Ambush

packets in its gutters, a place altogether out of place in what was otherwise a rather smart district. Even the people who lived in it seemed ashamed of it, for he had rarely seen any of them coming or going; presumably there were back entrances which let into what were now more salubrious mews, leaving their front doors to visiting dustmen.

All that could be said of it now was that it looked better by night, by the barely adequate street lighting.

The trouble was the Bunnock Street had three advantages which in dummy2

the past had always triumphed over his distaste. It invariably offered parking space, as though those of its residents who had cars were unwilling to trust them to it; it was discreetly placed in relation to the Ryles' flat, which was a good five minutes by road, but only an eerie two-minutes' walk through St. Biddulph's churchyard; and, since discretion was all that was normally required, it had a phone box conveniently sited at its junction with King's Row. No adulterer could ask for more.

After he had carefully turned the car round and located it beside one of the lamp posts, Roskill made himself comfortable in the passenger's seat and sat for a time staring down the curving street, as he had done so often before when waiting for Isobel. The waiting then had had a meaning which cancelled out the beastliness of the view, but now it was duty and not even the excellence of the Ryle Foundation's whisky could prevent it from being depressing.

After a time he looked at his watch. It was nearly forty-five minutes since he had left the reception and now half an hour since he had phoned the Department – but that, too, had been depressing with its odds-against encounter with someone who knew him well

– and who now almost certainly knew him even better.

'... Archibald Havergal? You must be joking!'

Howe's Etonian-Oxonian drawl had packed a world of patronising incredulity Into the words.

'Do you know him?'

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'Know him? My dear old Hugh – I can't even believe in him! I didn't know they christened anyone 'Archibald' since Queen Victoria's day – but I suppose he could date from her times –

Colonel Archibald Havergal – marvellous!'

'Just get me his record and a security clearance on him, you idiot.

And – ' he had steeled himself to say the name ' – a clearance for Isobel Ryle, too. Sir John Kyle's wife. R-Y-L-E – '

'You don't need to spell it out, old boy. I've seen the Lady Isobel from afar. Strictly Horse of the Year Show, Crafts and Good Works – a dishy piece in a do-gooding sort of way, but a bit long in the tooth for you and me .... Not to worry, though! Your name's back on the V.I.P. card again, so we'll put a girdle round the world for you in thirty minutes if you like – was it thirty minutes? It'll take us half an hour, anyway, Hugh. It's not the facts, but the clearance – we have to find the decision milkers for that...'

Roskill had been squirming by then, and he was squirming still.

Even the certainty that Howe himself would probably be vastly embarrassed when what he'd said in jest caught up with him. didn't help. It might have been better if he'd tried to get straight through to Stocker, but the evening had been disastrous enough without being quizzed on it wliile it was still fresh in his mind and before it could be suitably edited on to paper.

But now he couldn't delay the evil moment any later: Howe had had his half an hour and Havergal would soon be at the flat.

He opened the door on the passenger's side to step out on to the pavement, only to discover that it just failed to clear the lamp-post.

It was just that sort of night, he warned himself...

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As he feared, it was Howe chastened almost into seriousness who answered his call.

'Havergal's straight up-and-down and true blue – absolutely to be trusted. When he came back from Hadhramaut in '64 -he'd been somewhere back-of-beyond north of Saywun – they wanted him to work for us out there. But he's nobody's fool and he wasn't having any. He said the sun had set on the Empire and he was too old to be out after dark. Also he rather likes the Arabs, warts and all. That's why he agreed to help the Ryle Foundation – though he made damn sure it was above board first: he checked it out with us.'

'And it was above board?'

'It was then. No doubt you know better now. Apparently you should have been shown the file on it this afternoon, but it was snarled up in the works somewhere. I'll have it sent round to you tonight if you like, together with all the stuff in your in-tray you were supposed to collect this morning.'

Howe knew he wasn't at home and was gently fishing for his precise location. Roskill peered down at one of the lines of graffiti on the wall: it was meticulously done in Latin. Home was never like this. 'I shan't be home until later. I'll give you a ring then if I want anything. What about Lady Ryle?'

Howe didn't answer at once, whether from delicacy or a lingering shred of embarrassment it was impossible to gauge.

'Lady Ryle is considered a good risk, at your discretion. Nothing's known against her, as far as the Foundation is concerned.'

As far as the Foundation was concerned. Howe was relying on his dummy2

discretion – or appealing to it. Or perhaps he didn't think he had the gall to inquire further.

In ordinary circumstances that might not have been a miscalculation, Roskill told himself ruefully. But as it was it didn't take into account the trauma of the past twenty hours and sordidness of Bunnock Street. Discretion no longer mattered, only the pretence that this could be regarded as a legitimate question.

Such an opportunity might never occur again. 'And just what is known about her?'

The delay was briefer this time.