Soldier No More

'The Russians?' With the thirty-foot walls of his home behind him d'Auberon didn't appear scared.

But there was one sure way of changing that. 'The KGB.'

To his chagrin, he watched d'Auberon's face relax. 'The KGB? My dear Captain Roche—the Russians are the least of my worries! There might be some people who could misunderstand the situation . . . owing to the nature of my work when I resigned . . . but not the Russians—not them, of all people, Captain.'

Roche was already beginning to regret his idiotic moment of altruism. If the KGB didn't frighten the man, then nothing would.

D'Auberon was almost smiling. 'Obviously, you've never read my report— obviously!''

His report? But if that was the encyphered part of the papers weighing him down now . . . then the Comrades would have broken it long since, with all the advanced Enigma machines they captured in '45.

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'But you came to warn me—and on your own initiative?' The suggestion of amusement was suddenly tempered by an even more humiliating cast of gratitude. 'So . . . my people haven't ever told the British—in spite of everything?' In turn, gratitude became tempered by anger. 'Even in spite of my resignation?' Roche held his tongue.

'Oh yes, Captain—that was also part of it. It was mostly Algeria, but it was also the matter of my report, which should not have been withheld from your people in the circumstances—not in any circumstances, in honour—no matter that your Government had so shamefully withdrawn from the Egyptian operation—so shamefully.' He shook his head at Roche, the very incarnation of Bill Ballance's 'best Frenchman' sorrowing over a once-honourable enemy's declension into the role of dishonourable ally.

Roche wondered nervously about what Raymond Galles would be making of this exchange, even while not knowing what to make of it himself.

'So . . . it is still a matter of honour. But you have changed the rules now, Captain—because now it is I who owe you.

And if the Russians know everything, then it is only right that the British should know everything also, I think.'

This was going to be something Genghis Khan hadn't told him, thought Roche. But then no bugger had told him everything, but mostly as little as possible. It was this old-fashioned Frenchman's weird sense of personal honour—and his own equally inexplicable rush-of-blood-to-the-head—

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which was going to blow the gaff.

'You see, Captain, I handled all the special material from Moscow last year, from spring to late autumn—it came through the diplomatic bag, it was judged too important for any other method—and also too important to pass directly to the British. Commandant Roux and I made a digest of it for them.'

Good old Philippe! So that settled one outstanding problem very simply: Philippe had been the stage- manager.

'Then I was promoted, to take charge of our plans for the fortification of the Tunisian frontier, as a reward for my good work ...'

It had been promotion all round for the RIP beneficiaries of the 'special material' from Moscow, naturally— Eustace Avery and Etienne d'Auberon both!

'But then I started to think about it—all that had happened, and how it had gone wrong for us.'

That was where Avery and d'Auberon had parted company, thought Roche grimly: Avery had capitalised on his good work, and d'Auberon had started to think about it. And now, one step ahead of the Frenchman's debt repayment, he knew what was coming.

'I managed to draw the file out—nobody had any reason to question that, as I'd written most of it myself.'

Philippe Roux had been slow off the mark there.

'The truth is, Captain, we were 'taken for a ride', as the dummy5

Americans say. Everything we got from Moscow was correct—

it was genuine top-level material—but it was deliberately given to us to direct our policies in a particular direction, and we never questioned it. And, as a result, we gave the Russians a free hand in Central Europe . . . and ruined ourselves into the bargain. That was the report I wrote—you understand?'

Roche understood—he even understood more than d'Auberon was actually telling him. 'So what happened then?'

The Frenchman shrugged. 'It was not welcomed, I regret to say. . . And then there were other troubles, related to my new job.'

I'll bet there were! thought Roche. Philippe—good old Philippe!— couldn't abolish the report once it had been written, but he would have made up for lost time in every other way, by God! Etienne d'Auberon was much too smart to be allowed to prosper: short of killing him, which would have made too many people suspicious at the time, he had to be discredited. He didn't want to hear any more— he wanted to get away from here, and think about what he knew now, which he hadn't known before—

'There's no need to tell your people all that, though.'

D'Auberon looked at him a little uncertainly, as though the enormity of what he had let slip for honour's sake was beginning to come home to him. 'Get them to analyse all the transcripts of the joint discussions—we gave them a lot of dummy5

what we got. If someone really good does that, then he should be able to reach the same conclusions as I did.'