'I will indeed,' Butler snapped. 'You were right.'
It was a comfort to have been right about something, after having been fatally wrong once already today, thought dummy5
Audley.
'I was, was I?'
'Davenport. It came in just after you phoned.'
'He's started to move?'
'He's moved. And he damn near moved too fast for us. It's a mercy we'd strengthened the surveillance on him or he might have managed it.'
Audley half-smiled into the receiver at the typically Butlerian modesty. Butler had been right in his suspicions and Butler had strengthened the surveillance, but nothing would make him admit as much.
'What happened?'
'He'd established a route pattern to London over the past three days. But this morning he ditched his car in Staines and threw our tail. But our lad was smart—he switched the back-up straight to London Airport and put them on red alert there, it's only minutes from Staines, of course.'
'And that paid off, I take it?'
Butler allowed himself a small grunt of satisfaction. 'He had a flight bag waiting for him there, and a ticket to Holland.
The conflicting implications of what Butler was saying dummy5
suddenly began to jostle Audley, elbowing each other like a crowd which had smelt smoke in the auditorium. Digby was dead and Davenport had run for cover—and that escape kit at the airport made him a pro for sure. But, more than that, if the deed and the action were connected, he ought not to be running, he ought to be playing it cool; and if they were
But why should a professional run?
What did he think they could prove against him?
'What does he have to say for himself?'
'Precious little. He says his name's Donaldson, and he's an innocent American. And this isn't a police state, but he wants to phone his embassy just in case.'
Well, that was playing it by the book. And for a man in Davenport/Donaldson's position that was the only way he could play it, guilty or innocent.
But for his captors the options were more varied. There was no problem in holding him; even without the passport they had the Suppression of Terrorism Act, and with the passport they could probably make a legitimate meal of him at their leisure. But leisure was something they didn't have—he knew that, and Butler knew it too. And, for a guess, Davenport/
Donaldson knew it also: if the ticket waiting for him had dummy5
been for Holland, then he would look to be met there, or at least to announce his safe arrival. So the advantage they had in having taken him on the wing was a fragile one, and every moment wasted gave the enemy time to adjust his defences.
The old clock was still ticking and Butler was waiting for him to do what he was paid for: to out-think the clock.
And he still had to phone Weston, to admit what the Superintendent would never forgive, the squandering of a useful life. That wasn't a pleasant prospect, rendered no more endurable for that it couldn't be avoided.
What can't be cured must be endured.
What must be endured must be used—
'Jack . . . listen—this is what I want you to do—'
He waited while they searched for Weston. It occurred to him that he could still be entirely wrong, and he had already made mistakes enough to make that a fair bet for any honest bookmaker. And if he was wrong he would be raising the devil for himself now.
But that too was what they paid him for, to raise the devil.
'Audley?' Weston's voice was rough with accumulated tension.
And that was also part of the payment, the excitement of backing the judgement and taking the risk. It was a very odd sort of job satisfaction.
dummy5
'I'm sorry to bother you again, Superintendent. You've got your men, then?' He paused deliberately. 'But in pieces—is that right?'
'That's the way it looks.' The words came with an effort.
'You're sure?'
For a moment Weston didn't answer, but when he did the roughness had been smoothed away. 'No. It's too early to be sure of anything.'
