Tomorrow's ghost

'It wasn't Tom Stocker, was it?' The question mark at the end wasn't a question mark: it was Paul's way of emphasising a statement of fact.

'It wasn't Tom Stocker because Tom Stocker is in an oxygen tent at King George's,'

said Paul. 'And his job's up for grabs.'

So that was the Ring of Power waiting for a new finger.

And it was very surely a Ring of Power, no doubt about that: Sir Frederick's Number Two ... chief-of-staff, deputy managing director, first understudy - first lieutenant - and confidant. And more than that, too ... All the doors opened to Brigadier Stocker, and all the files unlocked themselves for him. Liaison with other departments and other agencies passed through him, on his signature. He had the day-to-day patronage of hiring and firing and promoting.

He did all the work, including the dirty work.

It should have been Brigadier Stocker's voice out of the darkness in her garden.

'He failed his physical four months ago,' said Colonel Shapiro.

God! thought Frances: the Israelis always knew everything. No wonder the Russians were so suspicious of their Jews; and that was more than half the reason why David Audley had given her his homily on cultivating them - why he had openly boasted to her of co-operating with Mossad unofficially. It had even sparked one of his rare moments of crudity: I'd rather have them inside the tent, pissing out, than the other way round!

'He should have resigned straight away,' said Shapiro. 'He already had bad chest pains, even before the physical... But the man they had lined up for the job wouldn't take it. Turned it down flat on them.'

'David Audley,' said Paul. He glanced quickly at Shapiro for confirmation. 'It was David, wasn't it?'

'Correct.' Shapiro didn't take his eyes off Frances. 'We have a copy of his refusal telegram - he'd just started his tour in Washington. Clinton was dining with the Provost of St. Barnabas at Cambridge that night, David's old college. And David actually sent the telegram en clair just to let Clinton know he didn't give a damn - typical David. But he also recommended Butler for the job while he was about it.'

Paul gave a half-laugh. 'Typical David indeed! But he was quite right, of course - on both counts. He'd be an absolute disaster in that job, would David. An absolute disaster!'

Shapiro gave him a sharp look. 'Why d'you think that, Mitchell?'

'Paper-work and public relations? Talking to Ministers of the Crown? Ex-trade union bosses? David has a streak of mischief a mile wide at the best of times. He'd talk down to them quite deliberately - he'd try to make fools of them, and he'd end up making a fool of himself.'

He was wrong, thought Frances. Or at least half wrong. David didn't suffer fools gladly, but he had learnt to suffer them. The private fight which he waged endlessly -

and lost endlessly - was between duty and selfishness. He had refused the job simply because it was no fun.

'He was right about Butler, though,' said Paul dogmatically. 'One hundred and one per cent right.'

Shapiro lifted one bushy eyebrow interrogatively, silently repeating his previous question.

Paul nodded. 'Oh - he's not a genius, is Fighting Jack - our Thin Red Line... He's damn good, but he isn't a genius.'

'But he knows his duty?'

'That's one strike for him, certainly. He doesn't want the job, but he'll do it.' He bobbed his head. 'And he'll do it well - and he'll win his coronary ten years from now like poor old Stocker. The crowning glory of a life spent above and beyond the call of duty: one oxygen tent in King George's, with a pretty little nurse to special him on his way out.'

Shapiro nodded.

'But that isn't the real qualification,' said Paul. 'I mean, it is the real qualification from our point of view - ' He nodded to Frances ' - General Sir Ralph Abercromby and all that

... ever-watchful to the health and wants of his troops. Princess: when he sends us over the top, the wire will be cut ahead of us, and the reserves will be ready just behind - you better believe it!

'But no... His real qualification is that the bloody politicians won't be able to resist him.

Ex-grammar school scholarship boy, risen from the ranks by merit - son of a prominent trade unionist, a friend of Ernie Bevin's - still with a touch of Lancashire in his accent, too. Which he can turn on when he wants, when he needs to ... no Labour minister can resist that. Not for the power behind the throne in Intelligence, by golly!

'And if the Tories have a hand in it ... by God! all he'll have to do is grunt at them, and all the other qualifications work for them too. They'll see him as a true-blue Tory, risen from the ranks - the very best sort of salt-of-the-earth Tory. Even the fact that his Dad was one of Ernie Bevin's friends will count for him - the Tories dine out on Ernie Bevin's famous last words - The Buggers won't work! - epitaph on the Welfare State! A perfect Intelligence profile, either way, for the late seventies - a man for all seasons!'

He nodded again at Shapiro. 'But you're right really, in the end ... about Duty. So they'll all take one look at him, and they'll trust him on sight.' He shrugged and grinned at them both, almost as though embarrassed. 'Bloody hell! Come to that, / trust him -

even though he hates my guts - I trust him!'

Well, well! thought Frances, in astonishment. Well, well, well, well, well And yet -

well again! - all that made the whole thing even more inexplicable.