'
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
'Who, sir?' asked Butler.
'Zeller,' said the doctor aloud, staring right through Butler. 'Henri Auguste Zeller. The Saviour of Hanoi.'
There was an expression on his face that suddenly frightened Butler. 'A general, sir?'
De Courcy focussed on him. 'A general? Yes—a general.' He glanced at Driver Hewett. 'But not a
'Then what—' the words were dried up in Butler's mouth by the wild thoughts which were beginning to come together in his mind.
De Courcy's eyes turned back to him. 'It was the Zeller Institute, Corporal,' he said. 'That's where they went —L'Institut Zeller.'
There came a sharp, crunching sound from the hole in the wall. 'That's right, sir,' said Audley.
'L'Institut Zeller, rue des Cannes—and let's get to hell out of here on the double!' He began to scramble out through the hole.
De Courcy pushed past Butler and seized the subaltern's arm. 'David—in God's name—what is in there?'
Audley faced him. 'What do they do in the Institut Zeller, Doctor— you tell me!' He paused. 'Medical research, eh?'
De Courcy clenched his teeth. 'It is one of the main centres in France for microparasitical studies, David
—'
'Micro—what the hell is that?' snapped Sergeant Winston.
'Germs,' said Audley shortly. 'Germs, Sergeant.'
'Bacteriology and virology,' said De Courcy. 'Yellow fever and cholera—I know they were working on influenza vaccines and—and
'Plague!' Audley's lip twisted. 'Chandos Force, by God! Someone's got a very pretty sense of humour, I'll say that for them—let's get out of here, then. Come on!'
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
Butler looked uncertainly from Audley to the American, who was still watching Sergeant Purvis like a hawk.
'Tell the man, Lieutenant—and tell me too, for Christ's sake,' growled Winston out of the corner of his mouth.
'In there?' Audley pointed into the hole, his voice rising. 'In there? You really want to know what's in there— you really want to know?' His voice cracked insanely.
Butler heard the sound behind him a thousand years too late.
A thousand years too late. And if he lived another thousand years he would never forget that voice.
Butler held his breath as Audley stared past him.
'That's good. Now—put down your weapons
The subaltern's chin lifted in that characteristically obstinate movement Butler knew so well. 'Nobody moves,' he said hoarsely. 'Nobody moves.'
The Sten was sweaty in Butler's hands and his back crawled.
There was a scrape of boots behind him.
'Well, bless my soul!'
The other voice—the voice which had frozen him once before, under the bank of that sandy island by the Loire.
'Bless my soul!' repeated Major O'Conor. 'Now ... let that be a lesson to you, Sergeant-major—'
How could they have been so careless, thought Butler brokenly: to stand here gabbing as though they had all the time in the world, so wrapped up in the hole and its contents that they hadn't even bothered to set someone on watch—how could they have been so careless?
'—Never underrate a friend when you ask him for a favour!'
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
'Sir?' The same neutral sound he had first heard by the stream in the bocage of Normandy.
Butler's finger tightened on the trigger.
'Yes ... I asked Chris Sykes for a good man, and he gave me one, don't you see?' The major's tone was curiously sad. 'And a German prisoner into the bargain too. You've done well, young Audley—I'll say that for you. And it took some doing, I shouldn't wonder, eh?'
Butler stared at Audley's blackened face and felt the subaltern's will weaken.
