Soldier No More

Uh-huh. You see, Fred Clinton has these tame psychologists he sets great store by... and they said, after they'd had a bloody good look at you, that you had to be given something to divert your attention—like 'give him an interesting tree to study, and he won't see the wood itself, roughly. And I was dummy5

the tree.' Audley's eyes narrowed. 'So was I really interesting?'

'Interesting?' Roche lay back, and played for time. Audley had never really accounted for his presence here, ahead of the professional de-briefers. Nor, for that matter, was there any professional reason why he should pile up indiscretion on indiscretion like this . . . But, with Audley, there always had to be a reason.

'Just idle curiosity.' Audley patted his pockets, as though looking for a cigarette or his pipe. But he didn't smoke.

'I'm sorry?' Roche plucked at the coverlet with his hand, trying to win another minute.

'I'm wondering if the head-shrinkers were right, that's all, Roche.' He didn't smoke, and he was too casual, so the pocket-patting was to remind Roche about a certain letter.

'It's not really very important,' said Audley. 'I merely wondered what you'd dug up—if it was interesting.'

So there it was. And of all the things that were not important, this was genuinely unimportant. But everyone had an Achilles-heel, even Audley . . . and even though he'd challenged the world by hanging a picture of it on the wall of his home for all to see, as though it didn't matter.

'I didn't have enough time to put you together,' said Roche carefully. All the best lies were mostly truth, after all.

'No?' Audley only just failed to conceal his relief. 'Well, that was part of the strategy, of course. Clinton wanted to keep dummy5

your people a bit off-balance all the time. That's why we stirred Mike Bradford into the pot.'

Roche nodded. He could see now where he was safe. 'And all that stuff about Antonia Palfrey? But that wasn't all moonshine, was it?'

'Well ...' Audley bridled. 'Not quite all. Bradford's Hollywood people do want to dig her out—that's all above board and checkable.'

'And Antonia Palfrey?' Roche could feel the ground firm under him: a lot of valuable effort, both his own and that of the Comrades, had been devoted to Miss Palfrey. 'She's checkable too?'

Audley grimaced happily.

'So you really did write Princess in the Sunset!' Roche pretended to be not quite absolutely certain.

The grimace completed itself as Audley nodded. 'But that's not for public consumption, Roche. Because after the publication of The Winds of God next spring Antonia Palfrey is going to fade away gracefully . . . but permanently. Is that understood?' Audley simulated grimness.

'I'm not really in a position to argue, am I?' Roche led him on.

'Not really.' But Audley still hadn't got what he wanted. 'But what else did you discover—that was interesting?'

They had come to it finally, thought Roche. 'I discovered that your legal guardian—your former legal guardian . . .Willis—

dummy5

Wimpy?. . .that he can talk the hind leg off a donkey—that's what I discovered.' He sighed. 'But I couldn't understand much of what he was saying.'

'No?'

'No.' He shrugged painfully. If it meant so much to Audley, then the less said the better—as Wimpy himself would have put it! 'I never did come close to realising that you were already working for Sir Eustace Avery, if that's what you want to know.'

All the best lies were still mostly truth. And even the Comrades, with all their resources, had failed abysmally there, so he had no reason to feel ashamed.

'For Avery? Good God, man—I've never worked for him!'

Audley relaxed into derision. 'You were sent to recruit me—

don't you remember?'

'What?' But he couldn't have been further deceived, surely?

'Are you all right?' Audley half rose from his chair. 'Your dragon-lady nurse said I mustn't stay too long —?'

'No! Don't go . . .' Lies and truth swirled inextricably before him. 'I think I'm just beginning to feel totally humiliated.'

Audley perched himself on the edge of the chair. 'But ... my dear chap—you don't need to feel that. It wasn't your fault—

the odds were stacked against you. Actually, you did rather well, all things considered.'

'I mean ... I don't even understand what you're talking about any more.' Roche looked down, and saw his hand shake on dummy5

the coverlet.

'And I mean you don't need to be humiliated. I've never worked for Avery.'

There was no more time now than there had ever been to sort things out—lies from truth, doubt from certainty. 'But you did work for the British?'