War Game

'If they thought the profit and the risk matched up—I know of one such.' There was an edge to Matthew's tone. 'Though now you're showing such a laudable interest in Spanish-American economic history, am I entitled to hope that he's going to be in trouble?'

'You're not entitled to hope for anything, Matthew.'

'Pity. But what you really need is an expert historian, my friend.'

'I know. I suppose you don't happen to have one in your counting-house, do you?'

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'Not bloody likely. But I can give you a name.' Matthew chuckled again. 'You won't like it though, I tell you.'

'Why not?'

'Why not? Hah—well you remember that long streak of wind-and-piss on our staircase at Cambridge—the one who got a First despite everything his tutor could do? The one who read The Times aloud at breakfast?'

'Nayler?'

'Professor Stephen Nayler to you, you hireling. He's transmogrified himself into a Fellow of St. Martin's, and he's also by way of being a television pundit on matters historical for the BBC. But I expect you've seen him on the box, haven't you? Or do you just watch the rugger and Tom and Jerry?'

'What's Nayler got to do with Charlie Ratcliffe's gold, Matthew?'

'Why—everything, dear man. The blighter's going to do a programme of some sort on it. A sort of on-the-spot re-enactment, complete with young Charlie dressed up as his revolting ancestor. ... So if you go crawling cap in hand to the great man himself he'll surely help you.'

'I should very much doubt it. We never got on with each other.'

'Got on? Dear man, he hated your guts —you were the ghastly rugger-playing hearty who nearly pipped him for the senior scholarship. And that's precisely why he'll help you, if you abase yourself suitably. Where's your psychology?'

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Matthew Fattorini clucked to himself. 'No, he won't be your problem. . . . It's young Charlie you want to watch out for.'

'Indeed?' If Matthew was fishing, this was one time he'd find nothing on the hook.

'Indeed and indeed.' Fattorini gave a grunt. 'Oh, yes—I know what you're thinking: you play with the big rough boys, and he's just a juvenile revolutionary. But I mean it all the same, David.'

'You know him?'

'Never met him in my life. But I know he's a man with a lot of gold.'

'Gold—meaning power?'

'Not just power. Gold changes people, believe me.'

'You should know, Matthew.'

'I do.' Fattorini's voice was serious. 'But my gold is all on paper. Ratcliffe's is the real thing, and it's all his. And what's even more to the point is he's handled it —a lot of it. They say you're never the same after that, it turns little pussycats into tigers. Remember Bogart in 'Sierra Madre'? Don't you forget that, David....'

Audley picked up the remains of his money and walked back to collect the beer and the pie, his reward for being right about Matthew Fattorini's usefulness.

He sat on the grass, swigged the beer, munched the pie and dummy5

thought about how much Matthew must dislike the anonymous source of Charlie's present credit. That in itself was interesting.

But Nayler was something different. All he could remember was a spotty face, uncombed hair and a long, lanky body.

Plus, of course, the voice which had driven Matthew and himself from the breakfast table all those years ago. But if he'd got that senior scholarship he could hardly be stupid, anyway.

He swallowed the last fragment of pie, washing it down with the last draught of beer, and sighed deeply. It had been a bonus that Matthew had known as much as he did, confirming the Brigadier's information about the fund- raising. And Matthew had even produced the right reaction at his interest in the subject. But in the meantime, here and now and in the sacred name of duty, he was going to have to undertake some cap-in-hand crawling.

He retraced his steps unwillingly to the phone box, piled up his coins again, and obtained Nayler's college number from directory inquiries.

There was always hope that the man was out. Or even that he wasn't up at all, since term had nowhere near started, and every self-respecting don would be away from college until it did. Or even that he was happily and fruitfully married, and was taking his wife and his seven ugly and precocious daughters to Bournemouth for a prolonged summer holiday.

Then he could honourably get someone else to do this job.

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But he knew even before the Porter's Lodge answered that it wouldn't be so. All the laws of chance decreed that anything anyone didn't want to happen as much as that had to happen, no matter what the mathematical odds against.

'What name shall I give, sir?' inquired the Porter politely.

'Audley. David Audley.' Audley closed his eyes. 'We were ...

up ... together many years ago, you might remind him.'