The Old Vengeful

its gun-ports open and its guns run out and double-shotted, ready to blow her out of the water with one broadside.

'But. . . But haven't you told David Audley all this, Paul?'

'Oh . . . I've told him, Elizabeth—I've told him!' He paused.

'I told him last night, when I was guessing—remember?—

and he told me to obey orders—remember?' Another pause.

'And I told him tonight, too . . . And he pulled rank on me—

he told me to do my fff ing duty—and David only swears like that when he intends to, when he doesn't want any argument, and there isn't going to be any argument. . . But what I ought to be doing is pulling you out of here tonight, and running like hell for safety—that's what I ought to be doing! Because there's been something wrong with this operation from the start. And I don't like it.'

His vehemence frightened her into silence.

'Because if I'm right the Russians will be doing something pretty soon—something to make us believe we're on the right track, to confirm what Novikov did—anything to keep us from looking in the right direction . . . That's why you must keep your door locked, Elizabeth—do you see?'

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Now she wasn't merely warm, with that delicate trickle at her throat: she was clammy with his fear, which was more infectious than his unhappiness.

'Have you told this to Humphrey Aske, Paul?'

He drew in a breath. 'I haven't told him that I think David Audley's making a fool of himself—and us ... if that's what you mean. But I've put him on second watch, keeping an eye on your door and mine from three-thirty onwards. And it's

'Stand-to' for both of us at seven—' his voice rearranged itself as he spoke, as though he had belatedly realised the effect he was having on her '—don't worry, dear—we'll watch over you between us. You can sleep soundly tonight.'

That was one thing she wouldn't be doing. But now everything was unreal, and the prospect of what sleep might bring was as scary as not-sleeping.

'I'll go, then.' The silhouette moved from the frame of the window into darkness.

'No!' The thought of being alone panicked her.

'You'll be quite safe. We'll be watching—I told you.'

'No.' She could see the outline of him clearly, dark against almost-dark, at the end of the bed. 'Don't go.'

Silence.

'Very well. I'll stay here . . . there's a chair here somewhere

—' the darker outline moved as he felt around blindly '—you go to sleep, Elizabeth.'

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'No—I didn't mean that—' But what did she mean? And if he did stay she would snore, and he would hear her snore '—I mean . . . couldn't you be wrong, Paul?' But that wasn't what she meant, either: the truth was that she didn't know what she meant. 'I mean . . . David Audley said there wouldn't be any danger—that we would be safe over here, in France—?'

'Yes.' He bumped the end of the bed, and the tremor ran through her. 'Yes, he said that, Elizabeth.'

She simply didn't want him to go, that was it: she was lonely, more than afraid, and she didn't want to be alone, as she had always been. That was it.

'So you could be wrong.' She didn't want him to go, and she didn't want him to sit down in the darkness in the corner of the room, and she didn't want him to stand up like Death at the end of her bed.

'Yes, I could be wrong.' He sounded far away. 'I've been wrong before—yes ...'

He had been wrong before—but that wasn't what he meant now, his voice said.

'I was wrong once before, Elizabeth.' Just in time he saved her from saying something pointless. 'There was this girl I knew— woman, rather . . . colleague, rather—Frances was her name, and she was damn good ... in fact, she was better than Novikov and Aske and me rolled into one—she was good . . . and pretty as a picture with it, and I adored her, Elizabeth.'

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The darkness shivered between them.

'Which is dead against the rules—and against all commonsense as well, which is what rules are all about:

'gladiator, make no friends of gladiators' is the rule—and it's a good rule.'

She saw now why he had reacted against what she had said about David Audley's feeling for him.

'She didn't know, of course. Nobody knew . . . She didn't know, and they didn't know . . . because everything I ever said to her was the wrong thing to say— and it was . . . like, I was always trying to jump into bed with her . . . and I was, too—I couldn't think of anything cleverer to do, I suppose—

and she couldn't stand the sight of me.'

Silence.

'But I could stand the sight of her—any time.'

Silence.