Our man in Camelot

man 'ud want to knock down one little old RF-4c on a routine training mission over the Irish Sea.'

Harry Finsterwald stared at his feet. 'Well, it sure wasn't because they didn't want us to see something, because Davies wasn't on a fixed mission course. They wouldn't know where the hell he was going until too late.'

'Right. And if I wanted to keep something under wraps in that whole area I wouldn't turn it into an air-sea rescue zone.' Merriwether shook his head.

'And it wasn't just to screw us up, because they'd have taken out an F-lll, not an RF-4c.'

'Right again. So it has to be the crew—and the way young Collier checks out all the way down the line he wasn't the one. One will get you ten he was an innocent bystander. And for my money, one will get you a hundred that it was Davies, clearance or no clearance.' Merriwether looked round the hallway suspiciously. 'I can't put my finger on it, man, but there's something about this place that doesn't feel right. Like there's something I've missed.'

'They should never let aircrew live off base,' grumbled Finsterwald. 'They got every last thing they need there, for God's sake.'

'Except birds, maybe.'

'They got those too. With feathers and without.'

'But he was only interested in the feathered kind. He even used to walk down the runways spotting them.'

Their eyes met in perfect disbelief and perfect accord. What was too good to be true could never be safely accepted: it was the vacuity of Major Davies's personal file that was damning. Because like Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

nature, the CIA abhorred a vacuum. 'So we re-check everything,' said Finsterwald. 'Every last goddamn thing, man.' Merriwether smiled at his partner. 'Starting with the mail.'

Finsterwald bent down and picked up the packet.

Major David Davies,

USAF, c/o Rosemary Cottage,

Middle Green,

Paynsbury, Wiltshire.

He turned it over.

James Barkham & Son,

New, Second-hand and Antiquarian Bookseller,

7-9, Archdeacon's Row,

Salisbury, Wiltshire.

The buff-coloured, manila envelope was already ripped down one side, revealing the edge of a thin grey booklet. Finsterwald inserted his ringer in the tear and completed the job. He stared in wonder at the booklet. 'Oh, brother…' he murmured. 'Oh, brother!' Merriwether frowned. 'You got something?'

Finsterwald read the address again.

Major David Davies, USAF…

'Harry, what have you got?' Merriwether said sharply. 'What have I got?' Finsterwald looked up for a moment, then down again. 'I've got The Welsh Latin Chronicles: 'Annales Cambriae' and Related Texts.

By Kathleen Hughes. Sir John Rhys Memorial Lecture, British Academy 1973. Price 30p net. From the Proceedings of the British Academy, Volume LIX (1973) London: Oxford University Press. That's what I've got, Cal.'

Merriwether shrugged. 'So they sent him the wrong thing. He asked for Birds of Britain and they glitched the order. It happens.'

Finsterwald opened the pamphlet.

'I guess so… There's a letter here, anyway—and a bill—so whoever it was—' He stopped suddenly.

'Uh-uh, it's for real, because it's addressed to him— Dear Major, Herewith, as per your esteemed order, a copy of Kathleen Hughes's Rhys Memorial Lecture on the Welsh Latin Chronicles ...' He looked up again to meet Merriwether's frown. 'There's no mistake. This is what he wanted and this is what he got.

There's a lot of other stuff about it.'

'Okay, okay. So read the letter, man, read the letter,' said Merriwether.

'Well, there's nothing about birds in it—that's for sure.'

'So he'd gone off birds, that makes sense. Read the damn thing or give it me, for God's sake.'

'All right. Where was I?' Finsterwald bent over the typescript.

'You were up to Welsh Latin Chronicles.'

'I've got it—'

…Welsh Latin Chronicles… As I foresaw, it contains no information of special interest to you, except perhaps a passing reference to Badon on page 7, at the foot of paragraph one, Anthony Price - Our man in camelot