War Game

'No.' Audley shook his head. 'Nothing serious I hope?'

'Concussion and fractures. And it was their fault, it seems.

You didn't know about that?'

'Why should I? We never proved anything against them—or Colonel Butler didn't. And if Ratcliffe didn't look for them ...'

Audley spread his hands. 'We'd pulled our people off them the day before, anyway. All except Frances—I told her to keep her eyes open for Gates and Bishop. And Paul Mitchell kept a sharp eye on Davenport all the time.'

'I know. ... So what it amounts to finally is that Charlie Ratcliffe tried to do something for himself for once, and made a balls-up of it.'

'It looks that way,' Audley agreed. 'He should have stuck to revolutionary journalism. It's safer.'

'Very well.' Clinton leant forward and extracted the piece of paper from under the file again, tore it in two and dropped it into his wastepaper basket. 'I accept your report.'

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'Thank you, Fred.'

Now for it.

'And now, David, let's stop chasing around and get down to the real facts. Weston's a damn good copper, his chief says—

and I'm an old copper of a sort too. . . . And you, as you have already admitted, are a liar.'

'So what does that mean?'

Clinton pointed a finger. 'It means that you came to some sort of arrangement with the CIA—with that young man you so promptly allowed to get away afterwards, Davenport or Donaldson, or whatever his name was. Which I don't like at all, but which I just might be ready to forgive, in the circumstances.'

'You would?'

'I might.' Clinton's voice was suddenly cold. 'But killing is another matter, David. If you're getting a taste for that as a quick way out of your difficulties then I have to know about it. Because you're no use to me like that.'

'You really think I killed him, Fred?'

Clinton stared at him. 'Weston said you were after blood—he says he recognises that now.'

'I see.' Audley nodded back slowly. That was fair enough on Clinton's part, because killing was as much an acquired taste as duelling, and there was only one way a successful duellist could reassure himself that he was still on the top line.

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'The truth now, David.'

What was the truth?

'All right. I didn't kill him, Fred. He killed himself.'

'But you knew he'd kill himself?'

'I hoped he would. And I did my best to ensure he did.'

'Then where's the difference?'

'The difference ... the difference is that it was up to him. If he was willing to kill—then he died. If he wasn't— then he was home and dry. It was his choice.'

'That's pretty shaky morality, David.'

'Okay. So next time a terrorist blows himself up on his own bomb you weep your crocodile tears and I'll stick to my shaky morality, Fred.' Audley made as if to get up. 'Is that all, then?'

Clinton waved his hand irritably. 'Sit down, man, sit down—

if there was a fault it was mine, in letting you loose.'

Audley sat down.

'How did he blow himself up?' asked Clinton.

Audley smiled. 'With what they call a 'Judas'.'

'Who call?'

'The CIA. When they lost all those fifteen-minute sabotage pencils in Vietnam they were pretty pissed off. And then one of their dirty tricks specialists thought of a simple way of getting even. They withdrew all the existing stocks and doctored 'em for instantaneous detonation, then they dummy5

shipped them out to Vietnam again on the quiet to add to the other stocks. Which is why there have been so many terrorist accidents of late, I should guess.'

'And you . . . acquired one from your friend Davenport?'

'Could be.'

'But—you picked up that information in Washington?'

Clinton's tone was hostile suddenly.

'I picked up a lot of information in Washington.'