'Wasn't it the Duke of Wellington who asked to be preserved from 'gallant officers'?' Latimer cast a lazy glance in Colonel Clinton's direction. 'I suppose military bravery is in the nature of a communal activity — the urge to conform multiplied by the bloodlust of the hunting-field, would you say, Fred?'
Clinton shrugged. 'I'm not an authority on it either, Latimer.
I can't say I've ever thought about it.'
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'But he was a cavalryman of some sort, wasn't he?'
'He served in an armoured regiment, if that's what you mean,' said Clinton evenly.
'The Royal . . . something Dragoons . . .?'
'West Sussex. He was with them in Normandy.'
'But not for long, if I remember correctly?'
Was this being staged for his benefit, Roche wondered — or did they always spar like this?
'They didn't last long. They were practically wiped out in the bocage country, south of Caumont.' Clinton paused. 'If I remember correctly.'
'In the best British cavalry tradition,' agreed Latimer. 'It was a smart regiment, I take it?'
'It was a good yeomanry regiment,' said Clinton icily.
'That's what I mean—sons of the local squires in pretty uniforms—gold braid and magenta-coloured breeches, and all that.'
Magenta was their colour, yes.'
'How ghastly! Doesn't go with anything, magenta—I should know, because it's my old college colour too,' murmured Latimer. 'And it was after that debacle you met him first, wasn't it, Fred?'
Suddenly Roche began to watch them both much more carefully.
'Briefly,' said Clinton, equally briefly.
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'Yes. And that's where the book of words starts to become rather sketchy,' nodded Latimer.
So it wasn't for his benefit—they were fencing with unbuttoned foils, decided Roche.
Latimer had done his homework on Audley, no matter what he pretended—even down to knowing that the regimental colour of the Royal West Sussex Dragoons was magenta, which was a dead giveaway to the depth of his research. But, nevertheless, there was still a lot that he didn't know about Audley—and therefore a lot that wasn't in the file—for which, even for any unconsidered titbit an irritated Colonel Clinton might let slip, Latimer was now unashamedly fishing.
But, much more to the point, 2/Lt Audley had met Clinton in 1944, and although obviously still very young had been involved in intelligence work thereafter.
So ... they didn't just want Audley as a recruit—they wanted him
'So then he went to work for you,' confirmed Latimer obligingly.
'Not for me,' Clinton shook his head.
'For us, then.' Latimer waited for a moment or two. Then, when it became clear that Clinton wasn't going to elaborate on that piece of negative intelligence, he turned to Sir Eustace. 'What exactly did he do? Beyond causing a lot of trouble to a lot of people, if I read between the lines correctly?'
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Sir Eustace smiled almost genially, as though he didn't want to offend Latimer. 'It isn't really grist to our mill any more, Oliver. It's all water under the bridge—'in another country, and besides the wench is dead', and all that.'
'You mean—still classified?' Smiles didn't fool Latimer.
'If you like. But also unimportant now. You've seen his fitness reports.'
'Unfitness reports, more like,' amended Latimer. 'Oh yes, I've seen them. And I've talked to Archie Forbes at Cambridge too, and he pretty much confirmed them.
Arrogant, selfish, indisciplined, bloody-minded, ruthless and cunning.'
'He's matured since then, Oliver.'
'Or hardened.'
'So much the better.' Sir Eustace's voice roughened. 'At all events, Oliver—and David—I want him. And I want him quickly.'
Latimer gave Roche a quizzical look, almost as though he was seeing him for the first time. 'Well, you're welcome to him.
But I say he's a tricky blighter—'
'So he worked for them.' Genghis Khan did not appear either particularly surprised by the news, or embarrassed by the fact that it was news. 'And then left them.'
'And you've got no record of him?' Roche made no effort to dummy5
conceal his disappointment.
'Nothing?'
