Colonel Butler's Wolf

was too bland for it to have been a slip: they were promoting him. Just like that!

No! Not just like that—never just like that. On a real battlefield merit on occassion might receive its reward, but not on this battlefield. Here it was only a necessary step in whatever design they contemplated. A means, not an end. Colonel Butler frowned suspiciously.

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'He knows us too well, Bob!' Sir Frederick laughed. 'It's a genuine promotion, Jack—well deserved.

My congratulations. But I admit it does have a use on this assignment you've accepted.'

Butler remained silent.

'Colonel,' Stocker began again, slowly this time, 'you must understand that ever since the Rudi Dutschke affair we have had to move very delicately in the academic world. You may remember that there was a petition circulating in the universities not long ago—they seem to find it quite intolerable that the security services should keep an eye on them. Apparently they consider themselves above suspicion.'

'We had nothing to do with the Dutschke business, of course,' murmured Sir Frederick. 'If they'd asked me I should have told them that Balliol was just the place for him.' Butler held his peace. The Dutschke affair had been handled abominably—and Sir Frederick was a Trinity man.

'We're not going to put you into Oxford—or Cambridge,' said Stocker hurriedly, as though those ancient seats of learning had become lions' dens in which security men might be privily eaten. 'But we do need to give you some sort of cover where you're going—sufficient cover to last for a few days, anyway.'

'I don't think I could persuade anyone that I am an academic for more than a few minutes,' said Butler.

'I don't talk the language. And I don't look the part.'

'You look like a soldier, Colonel—and you talk like a soldier. That's understood. So we're going to capitalise on that. You see, you have a namesake in the Army List. He'll be going, on to the retired list very shortly—a certain Colonel John Butler. Your proper Christian name is John, isn't it?'

Butler winced. The first twenty years of his life had been lived under the name John—a decent, unexceptional name. It was a source of constant sadness, if no longer actual irritation, that he had been forced to abandon it for a diminutive he disliked. But now he had even learnt to think of himself as Jack.

'I was christened John. When I joined my regiment my first company commander happened to have the same name. To avoid confusion my commanding officer renamed me.'

'And the name stuck?' Stocker's left eyebrow lifted a fraction. 'How singular!'

'By jove!' Sir Frederick flipped open the file in front of him. 'It might very well be the same man—let me see— you were in the Royal East Lancashire Rifles, weren't you?' He ran a slender finger through the page of typescript. 'Here we are! 'R.E. Lanes. R'. The very same man! Now that is singular—and most convenient. Do you suppose he knew that—' He stopped suddenly, staring at Stocker with a smile on his lips.

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Stocker was examining a similar file. He looked up at Sir Frederick. 'I think it's very likely, sir. It's much too convenient to be a coincidence. But in any case it does give the confusion an extra dimension.

Very few people will be likely to know both of them.'

'Now wait a moment!' Butler strove to keep the anger out of his voice. 'If you are proposing that I should try to pass myself off as Major—I mean Colonel—Butler—' He spluttered at the notion of it.

'Why, it's ridiculous.'

The man, that senior Butler, had been a thin, taciturn officer, pursuing the minute faults of his subalterns with pedantic zeal. He had not liked the man who had stolen his name.

'I fancy there are very few people outside your regiment who know what he looks like, Jack,' said Sir Frederick reassuringly. 'He's been out of England these seven years. He was with the UN in Cyprus first, and then he was attached to the Turkish Army. And he spends all his leaves in—where the devil is it, Bob?'

'Adana, sir. Extreme south-eastern Turkey. He keeps very much to himself.'

Butler looked questioningly from one to the other of them.

'But he does happen to be an acknowledged authority on Roman siege warfare, Colonel,' Stocker went on smoothly. 'In fact what he doesn't know about—ah—Byzantine mechanical weapons really isn't worth knowing. He's written quite a number of papers on the subject. We have them all here'— he patted a despatch box —'including the proofs of an unpublished article on the siege train of Belisarius which you may find very useful.'

The drift of their intention was all too clear, and Butler didn't fancy its direction.

'We'll see that you don't make a fool of yourself,' said Stocker quickly, moving to cut off objections.

'I don't give a damn about that,' said Butler harshly. 'It won't be the first time. I don't mind risking that provided I know what I'm up to.'

Sir Frederick nodded. 'You shall, Jack—you shall. The object of this rigmarole is quite simple, you must see that: the people with whom you're going to mix for a few days mustn't question what you are, and they'll be far less likely to do that if they think they know already.'

'In a couple of days' time you're going up to a place called Castleshields House. It's up north, not far from the Roman wall—Hadrian's Wall, that is. It's a sort of study centre for Cumbria University, just the sort of place your namesake would go to if he came home.'

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'So you can read 'em the paper on Belisarius and then you can potter around to your heart's content.

What's he supposed to be studying, Bob?'

Stocker consulted the file again. 'The rotation of cohorts on Hadrian's Wall, sir.'

'The rotation—urn-—yes! You're studying that, so you don't have to know anything about it. That part's not important, anyway. You can swot it up in a day or two.'