The Alamut Ambush

'I wondered whether you'd ask that,' said Howe. 'I didn't think you would, you know.'

'But I have.'

'Indeed you have!' Howe laughed shortly. 'Well, they know about you, old boy – chapter and verse.'

'I never doubted it.' God damn them to hell.

'Then I won't bore you with the details. It states that Ryle turns a blind eye for the sake of the children and the better to pursue his own fancies. What might be called 'a civilised arrangement', relying on the good sense of all parties. I congratulate you, Hugh –

you appear to have got the best of both worlds...'

Or the worst of both worlds, according to what sort of worlds one found desirable...

Roskill walked thoughtfully back up the street, pausing only to pick up the slides and the little projector from the car boot before dummy2

heading for the flat. It hadn't really surprised him that his liaison with Isobel was known. From the very beginning they had been careful, but never secretive – their precautions had been designed rather to avoid embarrassment than to deceive the world in general and John Ryle in particular.

John, of all people, had no cause for complaint: he had virtually propelled Isobel into Roskill's arms, or if not Roskill's, then those of some other member of the squadron. Yet it sounded suspiciously like John who had supplied the chapter and verse on them; perhaps the eye he had turned had not been sightless.

He shrugged to himself as he pressed the buzzer. At all events it would have taken no special investigation to establish that they were more than good friends. More than mere friendship was probably what had decided the Department in its quest for quick results.

He was still testing that probability when Isobel opened the door, more desirable than ever to him now that there was a hint of distress beneath that celebrated composure.

'Hugh, darling —'

'Is Havergal here?'

He pricked his ears and then relaxed before she could answer. It was a question rendered unnecessary by her greeting: he would never be a darling in Colonel Havergal's hearing.

'He's phoning, Hugh – from the box down the street.' She searched his face. 'I know I shouldn't ask you what you're doing, but when Archie won't phone from the hotel and won't phone from the flat –

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Hugh, what are you doing? And what's Archie doing?'

'Did he ask you about me?'

'Only how long we'd known each other and where we met.'

Nobody's fool, certainly. He hadn't bothered to ask her questions she couldn't answer, and hadn't risked any phone that might be suspect in order to ask somebody who could. And he'd know who to ask, sure enough. The question was – how full would the answer be?

'He was checking on you, wasn't he?'

Roskill reached out for her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. It was enough to discompose anyone, having their carefully segregated public and private lives suddenly mixed. A mixture like this one could be downright explosive, too.

He smiled at her. 'Of course he was checking on me, Bel – and I've been checking on him.'

'And I can't ask why, can I?'

'Not really. But it's nothing to do with us – or with John. So there's nothing for you to worry about.'

'But it has to do with the Foundation?'

The buzzer cut of his reply: Havergal had done his checking quickly enough.

Isobel's eyes were still troubled and her lady-of-the-manor's competence which was a joke between them seemed altogether to have deserted her. Yet Roskill knew instinctively that it wasn't this emergency that had thrown her, so much as his own appearance in dummy2

it, in the wrong place and out of character. Anyone else, any stranger, she would have taken in her stride.

He squeezed her hand again. 'Don't worry, Bel – just be Lady Ryle to both of us. Let her cope.'

Lady Ryle was the armour in which the real Isobel lived: beautiful, damascened armour, in the latest style and perfectly fitting, reflecting the wealth and good taste of the wearer but only hinting at the vulnerability beneath it. Poor Isobel! With him at least she had learnt to do without it, and now he was urging her to put it on again.

She looked at him, reading his thoughts. 'All right, Hugh – Lady Ryle for you both. But don't think you can pull the wool over Archie's eyes too easily – he's good at seeing through phonies.'

This echoed what Howe had said, Roskill warned himself – and it was substantially his own first impression. Havergal might be full of years and whisky, but he was still as tough as old boots and sharp as the bootmaker's awl. It would be as well to stay on his good side.

But the prospect of that dimmed the moment the old man entered the room. Either the check-up had proved unprofitable or it had occasioned second thoughts, for the eye that settled on him was distinctly jaundiced – what it saw it didn't like. Before such an eye a generation of red-necked British subalterns and raw Arab levies had undoubtedly quailed.

'Good evening again, Colonel Havergal,' said Roskill carefully. If it was to be war he wasn't going to fire the first shot.

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