Soldier No More

'He's your controller—Stocker?'

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'No—I don't know . . . I'm to report back to Colonel Clinton when—'

'Clinton?' The eyes and the face remained expressionless, but the voice moved. 'Frederick Clinton?'

'Yes—?'

'He was there? At your meeting—on the Eighth Floor?'

'Yes. But—'

'And you are to report back to him—not Avery? Or Latimer?'

Genghis Khan pressed the question at him like a spear.

'Clinton?'

'Yes.' It was disturbing to see his own fears reflected in Genghis Khan's evident concern. 'Is that bad?'

'You. . . are to report back to. . .Clinton. . . about this man Audley?'

Audley, David Longsdon. Born, St. Elizabeth's Nursing Home, Guildford, 10.2.25. Only son of Major Nigel Alexander George Audley (deceased), and Kathleen Ann, nee Longsdon (deceased), of The Old House, Steeple Horley, Sussex . . .

He didn't even bloody well seem interested in Audley, David Longsdon, damn it!

'Yes. What about Clinton?'

'This man Audley, then—' Genghis Khan ignored the question again, as though it hadn't been asked. But it was no good thinking of him as Genghis Khan, and letting him ride dummy5

all over David Roche as though over a helpless Muscovite peasant: he had to be Johnnie, and he had to be resisted.

'What about Clinton?'

The pebble-eyes bored into him. 'He frightened you, did he?'

'If he did?'

'He should. He's good, is Clinton.'

'He frightens you, does he?'

'No. But he does interest me.' The Slav features failed to register the insult. 'He is an interesting man, I think.'

'He interests me even more. Because I have to report back to him, and you don't.'

Genghis Khan, refusing to be Johnnie, inclined his head fractionally to accept the truth of that. 'Maybe later. But not yet—not now. You tell me about Audley now, David.'

That was probably as much as he could expect to get about Clinton, decided Roche, since Clinton was evidently a wild card in the pack. But Audley was another matter.

'I thought you would be able to tell me about him.'

Genghis Khan almost looked disappointed, as near as he was able to indicate any emotion.

'I gave you his name,' said Roche.

'So you did. But what do you expect us to do—to go asking questions?' The head moved again, this time interrogatively.

'And we ask the wrong question in the right place—or the right question in the wrong place, which is no better—and dummy5

then what? Someone asks questions about us—and then someone asks questions about you, maybe? And is that what you want, eh?'

'I didn't mean that. I mean . . . you must have something on him, damn it!'

'On Audley? But why should we have anything on Audley?'

Roche frowned. 'But Sir Eustace said—'

Sir Eustace said—

'How long have you been in Paris then, David?' Sir Eustace Avery asked.

'Nearly three years, Sir Eustace. Two years and ten months, to be exact.'

'To be exact? You sound as though you've been marking the calendar.' Sir Eustace sat back, raising a cathedral spire with his fingers. 'Don't you like it there?'

'It's ... a lovely city.' Roche decided to push his luck. 'And the food's good.'

Sir Eustace regarded him narrowly. 'But the work's dull—is that it?'

Chin up, Roche. 'Mine certainly is.' Dull, dull, dull!

“Even though liaison is an integral part of intelligence work?'

The finger-tips at the point of the spire arched against each other. 'And you're in charge of communications