Our man in Camelot

Now why the hell did I say that? he thought bitterly as he saw the change in her expression. It was like Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

scratching an itch that was already raw with stupid scratching.

'Don't kid yourself. It's me I'm worried about, honey, not you,' said Shirley.

'Well, that's a start. And you're beautiful when you're mad —did anyone ever tell you that?'

Even quarrelling with her was better than nothing.

'Only guys who didn't get the message first time. But I need you on the top line at the moment.'

'Message received. 'Is Captain Sheldon combat-ready?' as General Ellsworth would say… Answer: affirmative. Don't fret, honey. I'm a real killer today.'

'You'd better be. You're having tea with Group Captain Bullitt this afternoon.'

'Uh-huh? More cucumber sandwiches?'

She stared at his reflection. 'Aren't you surprised?'

'Not a lot.'

'Or even interested how we got the invite?'

'Not particularly. Audley's a great fixer, otherwise he wouldn't be where he is. So he fixed it.'

She examined herself again. 'Actually it was Sir Thomas. A friend of his turned out to be a friend of Bullitt's.'

'Same thing. Audley knows someone who knows someone who knows Bullitt. Just a mathematical progression, like back at home. That's part of the reason why we got him on our team—he knows the right people.'

'Always supposing Billy Bullitt is the right people.'

Mosby stared up at the ceiling. The blank white expanse of plaster challenged him, like a screen waiting for its pictures.

'He's the right people.'

'Harry tell you something, then?'

'Some… but not that.'

'But you're very sure of yourself.' She appeared to concentrate on her eyelashes.

'Uh-huh.'

'Even though it's like hitting the jackpot first pull?'

The screen was still blank. 'Could be the machine's been fixed that way, honey.'

'You mean they haven't told us everything?'

Mosby sneered at the ceiling. 'Remember what Harry Finsterwald said: I have to be my age… But in the meantime, knowing how Billy Bullitt ticks could be half the battle.'

'And has Harry helped you there? It sounds a tall order— one English air force colonel. You only gave him a few hours to take him to pieces and put him together again.'

'Uh-huh… But I told you last night: if the British had a special file on him—one that Audley remembered—then there was a chance we had one too. We got a lot of files on a lot of people.'

'Mmm…' She brushed at the sooty-black lashes. 'Which means we do have one?' No praise and no apology. 'He flew with the USAF in Korea.' ' With the USAF?'

'There were some RAF pilots attached to our F-86 squadrons for combat experience. The British didn't have anything could stand up to the MiG-15.' 'So he had a security clearance, obviously.' 'Straight 'A'

right down the line. World War Two veteran, and what was better, he had a record of fighting the Communists afterwards—British Military Mission to Greece '45-'48, Malayan emergency '48-'50.'

'Sounds our sort of guy.' She was no longer fixing her face, her hands were resting on her lap. 'And Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

Korea after that… He really must have been hooked on fighting by then… It makes you think.' 'Think what?'

She swung round towards him. 'You know he was a student at Oxford in 1939—what do they call them

—an undergraduate?' 'Think what?'

She shook her head slowly. 'I didn't spend all the morning in dress shops with Faith, Mose honey. David took us straight off to this college, Sir Thomas's one—and he asked us if we'd had breakfast, for God's sake, would you believe that?'

'Just an old Anglo-Saxon custom, maybe?' 'And then he took us to this other college—that was what he said, but they all look the same to me—and up these staircases, like a rabbit-warren. And there was this room full of old books and papers and dust, and this old, old man. Dr Morton—Dr Oliver Morton. He looked like he was a hundred years old, and he was dusty like the books. And he asked us if we'd have breakfast too.'

'Beats hell out of cucumber sandwiches.'

'It was spooky, honestly. I saw into the bedroom through the open door, and it was full of books too—in piles, on the carpet. Sir Thomas said afterwards that they get to clean his rooms maybe once or twice a year, and then they have to put everything back exactly where it was, otherwise he complains that people have been messing about with his things— he knows where everything is, right down to the last cobweb.'