Our man in Camelot

brotherly love. But at least they were bad enough in a known way: it was like meeting two tigers on his first trip in a foreign jungle where the larger predators usually remained deep in the undergrowth—just plain bad luck.

But Arthur and Badon were something totally different, totally unexpected. The pile of books on the table directly ahead of him was a reminder that up until now he'd managed to rationalise them, so that they had become part of his cover and a way of manipulating Audley, fundamentally no different from any other disguise or deception plan. Yet now, after what Morris had revealed, they were no longer the means to some unknown end; they were somehow part of the end itself.

Morris waved a hand towards the occupants of the room. 'Dick Schreiner—State Department. Cal Merriwether—Harry's other half.'

'Mrs Sheldon—Captain.' Schreiner was too well schooled by his trade to look at Mosby with envy.

But it was Merriwether who caught Mosby's eye. He couldn't place the coloured man at all, not even when he'd mentally replaced the sober grey polo-necked pullover and well-worn blue jeans with uniform.

He frowned with embarrassment. 'The BRU configuration crew? I'll place you in a minute—'

Merriwetber grinned hugely. 'You ought to, Doc. You had me in your chair three-four weeks back.'

'I did?' Mosby's embarrassment began to turn to annoyance with himself. 'The name's familiar. If I could see inside your mouth there'd be no trouble, I tell you. I never forget a mouth.'

'How about this, then?' But instead of opening his mouth Merriwether abruptly changed his expression from one of lively amusement to sullen vacuity. 'That help you any, sir?' 'The car pool—you're a driver… and I did fillings on your lower left—posterior four and six—right?' Merriwether signalled success by restoring his face. 'I hope I didn't hurt you,' said Mosby. 'I didn't feel a thing, Doc. You've got the magic touch.' He bowed towards Shirley. 'Mrs Sheldon.'

'Looks like we're going to need a magic touch,' said Shirley.

'Audley'll need it too—to find Badon Hill,' said Mosby. Schreiner glanced at Morris quickly, then back at Mosby. 'It really is impossible?'

'Nothing's impossible—at least, according to General Ellsworth.'

'Your base commander at Wodden?' 'That's the one and only.' Mosby nodded towards Finsterwald.

'You know the Holy of Holies?' 'Huh?'

'Harry, Harry—the General's reception office. Where he keeps his flags and his model planes—and the desk you could land a B-52 on.'

Finsterwald returned the nod unwillingly, as though he'd been too busy smartening his salute in Ellsworth's presence to notice whether the General had a desk or a brass bedstead.

'Well, there's a plaque on the wall right behind his chair—an oak plaque with gold lettering, remember?'

The flicker in Finsterwald's eyes indicated that the plaque had registered. Which figured, because it was fixed just six inches above the General's head, and that was where Finsterwald would have looked.

Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

Finsterwald and most everyone else, to be fair; so it was probably the way the General intended.

' No Mission is Impossible—remember?'

'Sure, I remember.' The nod was more confident. 'Matter of fact I go along with the idea.'

'Great.'

'A man says a thing can't be done he usually means he can't do it.'

'Is that a fact? Well, maybe you should be looking for Badon Hill, not Audley.' Mosby turned back to Schreiner. 'Let's settle for improbable, then.'

'But there is such a place—that's definite?'

'There was.' Mosby ran his eye over the table, and from there to the pile of books beside Shirley's chair.

'By your foot, honey—the little dark blue book.'

The pages fell open obediently at the marked passage. 'This is the earliest thing there is— On the Destruction of Britain. Written by a monk named Gildas in the middle of the sixth century. 'Gildas the Wise' they called him, but he's really rather a pain in the ass.'

'A history book?' asked Shirley.

'The hell it is! It's about as much a proper history of Britain as the collected Washington Post editorials on Richard Nixon are to a history of the United States. Gildas wasn't interested in history—he was in the business of denouncing the rulers of Britain as a bunch of rat-finks who were letting the country go to the dogs. They'd won the war against the Saxons and now they were losing the peace—the old story.'

'So where does Badon come in?'

'Ah—it comes in sort of incidentally when he's preaching about the good old days of Ambrosius Aurelianus, 'the last of the Romans'—a sort of George Washington who started the war of liberation against the Saxons. It's like he's reminiscing on the side…' He scanned the page for his pencil mark.

'Here it is:

…nowadays his descendants in our time have declined from the integrity of their ancestors…

—that's typical Gildas—

…From then on the citizens and the enemy were by turns victorious, so that God might