The Old Vengeful

As always, Audley was disconcertingly well-informed. 'First World War naval matters. I hardly think—'

'That will do very well! There was a Vengeful at Jutland—

sunk, of course . . . but then Vengeful s tended to have a submarine tradition— the last of them was actually a submarine, I believe. But fortunately it was transferred to the Greek navy before anyone could submerge it permanently . . .

But the First World War will do well enough, for a start.'

dummy3

Mitchell sensed the job closing in on him, like the infantry subaltern who had volunteered for the safety of the RASC in 1915, because he knew how the internal combustion engine worked, and found himself commanding one of the first tanks on the Somme.

'What is it that you know, that I don't know, David?' That was the crucial question—the tank question!

'Some of it you do know: the PM went to Washington a fortnight ago.'

Mitchell knew that: the Marine band had played on the lawn outside the White House, and the BBC had transmitted the sound of the music and the platitudes.

'They got on rather well—they exchanged gifts—the special relationship was renewed.' Audley closed his eyes for a moment. 'The PM gave him cruise missile promise, and the okay on Poland . . . And the President gave us a top secret—

an ultra-secret—from the CIA's inside man in the Kremlin, whom they've just pulled out one jump ahead of the chop—a Politburo-KGB liaison officer, no less.'

That was more like it: now they were into the real business of the Research and Development Section, which had nothing to do with routine security checks on long-retired and palpably innocent naval heroes and everything to do with hot potatoes which no one else wanted to touch.

'It seems that some time back their man got a sight of a list of KGB projects to which the Kremlin was giving operational dummy3

approval.'

'Projects?'

Audley nodded. 'Just the names—no details. But of course project names are the real thing. And we know these are the real McCoy because there were six of them, and the Americans have confirmed their five as being in progress.'

'And the sixth was British?'

'The sixth was British.'

Mitchell thought for a moment. 'How long ago is 'some time back'?'

'You can assume that ours is in progress too.'

He thought again. 'But if the Americans have identified theirs . . . and pulled their man out since . . . everything he ever handled will be compromised by now, I'll bet. In which case won't they abort?'

Audley shook his head slowly. 'The received wisdom is that they won't. They always accept higher risks than we do ...

besides which they may not have twigged yet—the man hasn't been out long, and the Americans did try to cover his departure in confusion. So we may have a little time in hand.'

More thought. It was certainly true that the Russians took greater risks, partly because their resources were so much greater and they could afford to squander them, and partly because of the dominance of military men among the planners, who subscribed to the Red Army's belief that no dummy3

defensive position could be held against attackers who were ready to pay the price for taking it.

'What was our project name?' The jackpot question was overdue.

'I'll come to that in a jiffy.' Audley smiled at him, and the smile hinted at an odd mixture of satisfaction and apology.

'There are some complications to this one, Paul.'

First the bad news, thought Mitchell. And then the worse news. 'I can see that. If the President gave this to the Prime Minister as a gift, then she'll want results—she won't want egg on her face. No wonder no one else wanted it!' That last was a guess—but no guess really: this was what R & D was for, and Audley himself was notoriously attracted to eccentric and dirty jobs—they were what he got his kicks from.

'Oh—of course that. . .' Audley waved a hand vaguely '. . .

that goes without saying. But there's an internal political angle to this one. Which I ought to explain to you since it will affect you, Paul.'

'Oh, yes?' The reason for that apologetic cast was on its way.

'Master Oliver St John Latimer wanted this job, you see—'

Audley's unlovely features became unlovelier '. . . he's consumed by this strange compulsion to shine for our masters ... or our mistress, in this instance ... to shine—and he has a strong competitive instinct.'

What Oliver St John Latimer had was ambition: with the noble, honest and decent Colonel Butler as acting- Director of dummy3

Research and Development, the Director's job was up for grabs, and Oliver St John Latimer wanted it.

'And you don't want to shine, of course?' said Mitchell nastily. 'You don't want to be the next Director?'

'I don't give a stuff, either way—no.' Audley was impervious to nastiness. 'I don't want to be the next