Our man in Camelot

'Depends how long the delay could be.' Mosby looked around the room. 'I can think of worse places to be… delayed in.'

Again that thin smile. 'It's where you wanted to be.'

'Where I wanted to be? I don't get you.'

'Camelot.'

'Cam—' Mosby frowned. 'There's no such place.'

'There was no such place.' Sir Frederick shook his head. 'So one place is as good as another, and this place is as good as any. If King Arthur is alive anywhere he lives here, you might say.'

'You're still not getting through to me.'

'I'm not?'

' Est summum nefas fallere,' murmured Audley.

Sir Frederick laughed. 'There—now David doesn't believe you!'

Mosby gave Audley an angry glance. 'Frankly, I don't give a damn. I'm not interested in Camelot and I wasn't looking for it. Camelot and Badon Hill are two plain different things— which David knows damn well.'

'Of course,' agreed Sir Frederick soothingly. 'But Billy Bullitt and Badon are not two plain different things, you would agree I'm sure.'

'Billy Bullitt?' Involuntarily Mosby found himself looking up at the coat-of-arms. 'You mean this is—'

'Red dragon of the Britons, white dragon of the Saxons,' Sir Frederick nodded. 'The College of Heralds let old Professor Bullitt have them as—ah—'supporters', I think is the correct term, in 1928 when he quartered the Imberham arms of his mother's family. And you can see what they let him have in the bottom left quarter, eh?'

Mosby examined what looked like a shaggy dog, but was obviously a heraldic bear.

'Up until 1924 this was Imberham Manor. But that was the year he published his famous 'Britain in the Dark Ages', and he renamed the manor in honour of his obsession. So you might say that Billy Bullitt grew up in Camelot.'

'And he's been looking for the Holy Grail ever since,' murmured Audley. 'Or his own version of it.'

'Following in grandfather's footsteps, naturally. Right down to grandfather's motto, which you will observe just below the shield—'What I seek, I know'. Apparently a line from Matthew Arnold's

'Memorial Verses': All this I bear, for what I seek, I know. The College of Heralds enjoyed the 'bear' pun, heraldic sense of humour being what it is.'

'Is that a fact?' Mosby overlaid his unease with feigned interest. The last time someone had taken for granted his ability to equate bears with King Arthur had been in the hall at St Veryan's, and the someone had been Howard Morris. It made him wonder, if the British knew so much about what was going on, whether they were not also well aware of Operation Bear. 'And does this mean I'm going to get to talk to Group Captain Bullitt after all?'

'If you still want to talk to him. And always supposing he wants to talk to you.'

Mosby cocked his head on one side. 'Why shouldn't he want to talk to me? Is Badon Hill some kind of top secret, maybe?'

'That's the general idea—you're catching on at last, Captain.' Sir Frederick nodded. 'Plus the fact that Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

he's taken rather strongly against the CIA—doesn't care for you at all at the moment.'

Mosby stiffened. 'But I'm not CIA, for God's sake—I thought we'd got that straight.'

'We only have your word for that.'

'And their word too,' Mosby played his deuce with all the confidence of a man convinced he had an ace. 'Isn't that worth anything? I thought your security people worked hand in hand with ours—?' He broke off lamely as he saw the expression on Sir Frederick's face. 'Uh-huh—I get it… Blood isn't thicker than water any more…' He spread his hands helplessly. 'Well, then there's no way I can prove I'm not what I'm not, I guess. Except if I was I suppose I'd have some smart way of proving that I wasn't.'

Sir Frederick turned towards Audley. 'Well, David. Over to you.'

Audley considered Mosby silently for five seconds before speaking. 'I told you: I'd need time. And you say we haven't any.'

'Today's Thursday. The deadline is midday Friday for Sunday—and that was a personal favour to me.'

Whose deadline?

'Not even with a D-Notice?' Audley shook his head, rejecting his own question before it had been answered. 'No, that wouldn't hold them this time. You couldn't make it stick.'

'I wouldn't even try. The Government wouldn't wear it if I did—we'd be tarred with the same brush, and so would they. They wouldn't wear it, and they'd be right: we'd just be trying to hold the lid down, and it would blow us to kingdom come. If not in our own press, then for sure in the foreign press—including the American. They'd make a meal of it.'

The two Englishmen gazed at each other, oblivious of Mosby.

Finally Sir Frederick nodded. 'So it's your way or no way at all.'

'I get whatever I need?'

'Just ask. If anyone talks back to you refer them to me. I shall be on the end of a phone.'