Tomorrow's ghost

protection of high-risk targets that there was always too little left over to do the better job of eliminating the risk; that was the penalty which inflation imposed on internal security and law enforcement alike along with the stresses it inflicted on the mortgage repayments and the groceries bill. So there was a certain logic in the analogy of Paul's

'big convoy' theory, she could see that.

But it was also an appallingly cold-blooded logic,

because for all his high-flown naval history in reality they were doing no more than set an old-fashioned domestic mouse-trap, with three human beings as the piece of cheese.

'You're deliberately using them for bait, for God's sake!'

'Oh no we're not, Frances dear.' Paul shook his head decisively. 'The Chancellor wanted to give the Minister his degree, it wasn't our idea. And the Minister wanted to come - and the Lord-Lieutenant wanted to be there to talk to them both about the latest Government initiative in Ulster. We didn't set them up.' He shook his head again. 'The security hazards were pointed out to them too - in writing. I saw the departmental minute myself.'

There was a lump of ice in Frances's stomach: that was the absolute give-away, the written warning which the top security bureaucrats issued to protect themselves when they weren't sure they could protect anyone else. She could protest now until she was blue in the face that the ceremony should have been delayed, if not vetoed altogether, but it wouldn't do any good. What was more, Paul knew it, and had known it from the start.

This was the moment, ordinarily, when she might have been tempted to a small controlled explosion of anger, which Paul would shrug off as a piece of feminine temperament, male chauvinist pig that he always pretended to be in her presence. But she did not wish to give him that satisfaction; and besides, the lump of ice had a decidedly cooling effect on her responses.

'I see. So everything in the garden's lovely.'

'As much as it ever can be. At least we've got enough men and equipment for once, so we won't fail for lack of resources.'

Resignation again. Basically, Paul Mitchell was quite a cold fish under the boyish charm.

'And yet I'm required as a reinforcement? Doesn't that strike you as odd?'

He shrugged and grinned. 'The more, the merrier. Not that Fighting Jack is exactly merry at the moment. In fact, he's decidedly feisty at the moment, is our Jack.'

'Colonel Butler's in charge?' Frances had never operated under Colonel Butler's direction, and when she tried to conjure him up in her mind's eye all she could manage was the memory of two other very blue eyes registering disapproval. Either the Colonel didn't approve of young women in general, or (since he could hardly disapprove of her personally) he objected to women in this type of work in particular; neither of which conclusions suggested that he would welcome Mrs Fitzgibbon with open arms as a reinforcement.

She realised that Paul had nodded to the question.

'But he's not satisfied with things?' That would be an understatement, I suspect.'

'What things?' Frances remembered also that the formidable Dr Audley, who was one of the department's heavyweights, had a high opinion of Colonel Butler; and a choice between David Audley's opinion and Paul Mitchell's was no choice at all.

'Oh, he doesn't say - not in front of the hired help. Fighting Jack's a bit old-fashioned that way. Not quite 'Damn your impertinence - do your duty, sir', but near enough.'

'He sounds rather admirable. A pleasant change, even,' said Frances tartly.

Paul thought about the Colonel for a moment. 'The funny thing is ... that he is rather admirable in many ways. He's got all the old pre-1914 virtues, you might say. Like ...

he'd never pass the buck to anyone else, it wouldn't even occur to him. And he'll ball you out to your face, and then defend you behind your back - real officer-and-gentleman stuff.' He smiled at her. 'Except I suspect he wasn't born to it.'

'What d'you mean?'

'Well, there's the faintest touch of broad Lancashire under his Sandhurst accent I rather think. Not quite out of the top drawer, is our Jack.'

Frances grimaced at him. 'I never knew you were a snob, Paul.'

'I'm not. Nothing wrong with dropping your aitches - Field Marshal Robertson 'adn't got a 'haitch' in 'is vocabulary, and 'e was none the worse for it. It's the same with Fighting Jack, except that he's learnt the language better. But he does seem to be playing a part.'

'Aren't we all?' Frances looked down at Marilyn's platform shoes on her feet. Against all her expectations she'd found them easy to wear. Indeed, when she thought about it, she'd found everything about Marilyn disconcertingly easy, almost disturbingly easy.

'Oh, I know. 'All the world's a stage' and all that. But just a minute or two back you were disapproving of this university lark of ours, and it's my belief that Fighting Jack feels the same way. Only the difference is that if he'd got really bolshie about it he might have scuppered the operation.' Paul kept his eyes on the road ahead, but he was no longer smiling, Frances noted. 'But he didn't,' he concluded grimly. 'He didn't.'

This was the true face concealed behind the front line fatalism and the naval tactics, thought Frances. With Colonel Butler playing a 1914 Colonel, Paul had naturally chosen a 1914 subaltern as his model. Yet beneath the role the real Paul didn't like the situation one bit either.

'Why didn't he?'

He shrugged. 'I suppose ... because his idea of Colonel Butler is of someone who obeys and gets on with the dirty jobs that other lesser breeds and bloody desk-wallahs wouldn't touch with a barge-pole. Which is a noble thought, but maybe not really what the late 1970s require.' As though he'd suddenly realised that he was giving himself away he glanced quickly at her and grinned his subaltern's grin at her. 'So instead he just exudes disgust and disapproval at the world, and bites my head off every time I open my mouth. I suppose I'm just not his type,