Soldier No More

Now that he thought about it, Roche understood that Audley was running exactly true to form, and that any other reaction would have been out of character. So what he would expect in return was the authentic crack of Clinton's whip. Nothing else would do.

'We want the papers d'Auberon gave you for safe-keeping, naturally.'

“Of course!' Audley's smile acknowledged. 'And that's my dowry, isn't it? I sell you 'Tienne—my old friend 'Tienne—you know all about him, naturally!'

Roche nodded. The truth was that he didn't know enough about any of them for safety, but there was no time left for the normal precautions, only for half-truth and bluff.

'Naturally.'

'You know he saved my bacon?' Audley came back to him from miles I away. 'You know ... I was stuck in the middle of France in '44—and wet behind the ears, and hotter than a chestnut in a charcoal brazier . . . But 'Tienne helped to get me out, via the good Madame Peyrony and her private army.

Only I suppose you know all about that too, of course . . . God only knows how, but it's the sort of thing Colonel Frederick J.

Clinton would know, naturally.'

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Roche said nothing. They were far off the script now, with the news that Audley owed d'Auberon this old debt of honour. And yet, even if Clinton hadn't known about it, it was a reasonable deduction that Audley had to owe the man something, to be entrusted with that life insurance.

Audley was frowning at him. 'Only Clinton reckons I'd sell him out for a nice cosy job, organ-grinding . . .' he watched Roche narrowly for a moment, and then smiled—'A nicely-calculated temptation . . . but unfortunately an academic exercise now.'

The big man's sudden brightness struck a chill in Roche.

'What d'you mean?'

'What do I mean!' Audley beamed at him. 'I mean, my dear fellow, that for once Colonel Frederick J. Clinton has miscalculated. It's very sad really—here he is ... or here you are . . . offering me marriage—remarriage—with the old firm, and my past crimes forgotten . . . and maybe it is just possible that I might have sold dear old 'Tienne down the river in the process—who knows?' The smile became icy.

'But I must refuse—that's what I mean, Roche. Because I haven't got what you want.'

“You haven't got it?'

'That's right. Twenty-four hours ago we just might have done business. But not now. You're a day too late, old boy.'

Roche swallowed. 'You've given it back?'

'Right again. The trip to Cahors yesterday wasn't to chat up dummy5

my rugger-playing Frog pals, it was to open my safe deposit there. 'Tienne dropped the word yesterday morning, before you arrived on the scene. And I dropped everything and got it, and gave it back to him last night before I came back to the Tower. That's why I was late ...' the hands spread eloquently again '. . . we had a jar or two for old times' sake. And that's why I was half-stoned when we first made our acquaintance—

I usually manage to stay more or less sober until sundown.'

He paused. 'The funny thing is ... we don't actually like each other. In fact ... we hate each other as only an Englishman can hate a good Frenchman. He has elevated ideas of honour, and the ancestors to go with it ... whereas I like to think that I'm a pragmatic sort of bastard, you know.'

Bastard was right. The truth cut deep inside Audley, to confuse the Kipling-bred ideals.

'I can give you some idea of the contents, if that's what you want,' said Audley lightly. 'Free of charge, of course.'

'You've read it?' Roche was beyond astonishment.

'My dear chap—I may be a good Samaritan, but I hope I'm not a complete idiot! Besides which, when 'Tienne took me in back in '44 he picked my brains something horrid to make sure I wasn't doing la belle France down, so fair's fair . . .

And, also besides which . . . if I'm required by old times' sake to sit on a bomb I like to know what sort of bomb it is... So I took a quick peek at it.'

Roche could only stare at him.

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'The end part was still cyphered, or it may have been a report of some kind in a sort of appendix, I don't know. But the main body was a transcript—in French of course—of a series of meetings in the Kremlin . . . only it was all pretty much ancient history from last summer and autumn. Mostly Hungary, plus Suez.'

The key material of the RIP sub-committee exactly, in short.

'What I'd guess. . .'Audley pursed his lips '. . . is that the French have got one of the special advisers in their pocket—

one of the experts they wheel in—probably an Eastern European specialist by the look of it. Quite a smart fellow, too.'

'Yes?' said Roche huskily.

'Well, I didn't read the stuff carefully once I'd established it was private Franco-Russian history.' Audley waved a hand.

'And in retrospect it wasn't all that explosive ... It was just that the Russians were shit-scared of what was happening in Eastern Europe then, and particularly Hungary, and they reckoned the West knew all about it ... In fact, they reckoned we were stirring it in order to give ourselves a free hand in Egypt, and there wasn't a damn