The Old Vengeful

that was a mistake. We should have taken the hovercraft and the autoroute. But when I do come to the Aisne, this is what I do—and this is what I'm doing.'

'And what makes you think we need a cover?'

'That's right, Paul,' Elizabeth agreed with Aske uneasily.

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'David Audley said we'd be safe over here.'

'And we are safe, Miss Loftus,' Aske reassured her. 'Nobody can possibly know where we are, except those who need to know. So unless Dr Mitchell left your flight plan lying around

—'

'The flight plan was doctored,' said Mitchell testily.

'Then no one knows. Because no one followed me, I assure you.' Aske giggled. 'No one follows me when I don't want to be followed, I promise you—not without my knowing, anyway . . . And, for the record, no one's following me now.'

'The French know,' said Paul.

'Two or three dim fonctionnaires on a tin-pot air-strip half the size of my pocket- handkerchief? Oh, come on!'

'Don't underestimate the French.'

'I don't. I know they've got a smart computerised system for checking up on mauvais sujets who intrude into their privacy. But the great and good Dr Mitchell surely isn't lumped in with visiting Libyan assassins, is he?' Aske paused. 'Or is he?'

Paul said nothing.

'You don't mean to say you've got a record here?' Aske appeared more amused than frightened. 'In the line of duty, naturally—?'

'I am known here,' Paul came dangerously close to pomposity. 'Both in the line of duty, as you put it, and in the dummy3

line of military history. And that's why we're going to Vendresse—because if they do by any chance pick me up on their radar I want to be well dug-into that second line.'

'Ah . . . well now I'm with you!' Aske nodded. 'So what are you doing in Champagne? I rather thought Picardy was your stamping ground—the Somme and the Hindenburg Line, and all those awful places?'

'This is where trench warfare started for the British—in September 1914, at the end of the battle of the Marne.'

'Indeed? And so what are we doing, then? We're strictly 1812

experts . . . we don't know anything that happened after the battle of Waterloo.'

'In my case I've got a typescript of unpublished material on the origins of trench warfare—it was the basis of the opening chapters in the Hindenburg Line book. If you both read that you'll know enough.'

'How very jolly! All about lice and phosgene?' murmured Aske. 'Well, that's awfully clever of you—and we shall become experts on lice and phosgene, and gas gangrene and mud, Miss Loftus . . . did you hear that?'

It was six of one and half-a-dozen of the other, thought Elizabeth. The truth was that when men weren't comrades they were children— and not-very-nice, potentially savage children too.

'Very clever . . . that ridge ahead must be your 'Ladies'

highway', Mitchell,' continued Aske, still mock-admiringly.

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'Except that we're not actually here to study all those charming 1914 facts, we're here to sort out something which occurred in 1812, or thereabouts. So ... even allowing that you're scared of the French ... on account of heaven only knows what past misdeeds ... we are rather going out of our way now, aren't we? Or are we?'

'Just drive, Aske,' said Paul.

' 'Just drive'?' This time the mildness in Aske's voice was paper-thin. 'No ... I know I said 1812 was fascinating . . . but don't you think it's about time you explained to me why it's so important?'

At the best of times that would have been a bad question to put to Paul Mitchell, reflected Elizabeth. But just now, and coming from Aske, it was like a spark in the powder-magazine.

'Paul—'

'I know I'm only one of the lesser breeds, Mitchell—I know that I don't have the confidence of the legendary Dr Audley . . . I'm only here to do for you ... or die for you, as required, like a one-man Light Brigade, and you just point me towards the Russian guns.' Aske peered ahead. 'And if this is your famous Chemin des Dames I must say that it's rather a non-event. . . But I would prefer to be pointed at the right guns in the right century—even if it is the nineteenth century—'

'For Christ's sake—shut up and drive!' spat Paul.

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'There's no call to be offensive—'

'Oh yes there is.' Cold rage almost choked Paul. 'You are now driving, Aske—' he spoke slowly and clearly '— across ground over which real men charged real guns . . . Germans and Frenchmen and British . . . and . . . if you make one more silly crack then that will be the end of this fascinating trip for you. Understood?'

This time Humphrey Aske said nothing, and Elizabeth cringed in her seat, all her own questions equally stifled not only by the order and the threat, but also by the suppressed passion with which both had been delivered, for all that they were camouflaged under clarity.