The Alamut Ambush

It was enough to know that the Foundation was vulnerable, for that could only mean one thing.

'Let's not pretend any more, Colonel. The Ryle Foundation is being used as a cover for illegal Arab activities. You might as well admit it.'

Havergal looked at him coldly. 'I don't have to admit anything, Squadron Leader Roskill. And as to so-called illegal Arab activities – like the national interest, they are a matter of definition.

I rather think I am as good a judge as you are of whit is illegal and what isn't, and for much the same reasons.'

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'But Archie – ' Isobel intervened ' — we can't have the Foundation used for that sort of thing. Hugh's absolutely right.'

'Isobel, my dear, there was a time when I would have agreed with you – and with Roskill,' Havergal said patiently. 'But the world has changed since then, and if the Foundation's still going to do a worthwhile job it has to change too – just to stay in being.'

'Then you condone what may be happening?' said Roskill.

'Condone it? Don't be a fool, man – of course I don't condone it. It threatens the Foundation. But I understand it – I knew that if I was an Arab I wouldn't be sitting around talking. Do you think the Foundation would last ten minutes in the Middle East today if we tried to crack down on it? We'd be finished.'

'So what exactly is it that's worrying you if you know all about it?'

'I don't know all about it,' Havergal shook his head. 'I wish I knew more, and what I've been trying to do is to keep it within safety limits. But what worries me is you.'

'I worry you?'

'Not you personally, but what you represent – the stupid, half-baked political shysters who direct you!' Havergal's control of his invective in Isobel's presence was remarkable. 'Weak when they should be strong, strong when they should be understanding.

Always talking about Britain's responsibilities – they couldn't distinguish a responsibility from a bottle of Worcestershire sauce!'

It was the ancient lament of the soldier over the politician's incapacity, and it roused a sneaking, service-bred sympathy in Roskill. Except that the soldiers always underrated the politician's dummy2

difficulties just as much as the politicians underrated the soldiers' –

so that the military dictatorships were every bit as grisly as the civilian variety.

But he was letting his reactions side-track him. What mattered was that Havergal didn't seem to have a clue about the present emergency: he thought the authorities were simply getting nosey.

'Shysters or not, Colonel, they can wreck your Foundation from top to bottom.'

'Hugh!' Isobel sounded like a fencing master who'd discovered that her two favourite pupils were using unbuttoned foils.

'It's perfectly all right, my dear,' said Havergal. 'Threats are part of Roskill's stock-in-trade. Mostly empty threats now, though. The Foundation's too widely based for them to do it any real damage –

they might even do it a bit of good in some quarters.'

He looked at Roskill shrewdly. 'And I don't think they would try anyway. Their hearts aren't really in the game these days – they don't care who kills who in the Middle East so long as the oil flows.'

So that was what had nerved Havergal to hold out for information without giving it: he'd reckoned any threat against the well-respected Foundation had to be backed by bluff only. And until two nights ago he'd probably have been right.

But now by giving him the information he wanted Roskill could win the game, not lose it...

'In the Middle East perhaps they don't care, Colonel. But at home they do.'

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Havergal frowned.

'The night before last we lost a man – a friend of mine – right here in London,' said Roskill. 'And we nearly lost another one. One of my bosses, as a matter of fact – one of your top shysters. I think you could say his heart's in the game this time. Just this once, Colonel Havergal, we mean exactly what we say.'

'A friend? Hugh – who was it?' Isobel's incredulous expression mirrored Faith's – to both of them death was always an unforeseen accident on the road or a hushed prognosis in the consulting room, never a deliberate act.

He'd meant to break it to her gently, choosing the time and place, but now he saw that her distress would serve to bring extra pressure on Havergal. In any case he had to tell her now: he could see her already conjuring up in her mind the faces of the friends of his that she'd met and liked – Jack Butler and Colin Monroe, young Richardson who had captivated her, even David Audley, who had rather frightened her. But it would be a worse shock than any of those.

'It was Alan Jenkins.'

'Alan!'

With Faith it had been shock, but with Isobel it was at once more than that. For Isobel alone knew about Harry, and being Isobel grasped all the implications of Alan's death instantly – they had talked Harry's death into the ground enough times.

Havergal gave Roskill a look of mingled distaste and curiosity: he knew that the play had been reversed, but he didn't quite know dummy2