Gunner Kelly

see the evidence for that.”

Audley smiled. “Oh . . . culturally, perhaps you have some inkling of them. I’m not decrying what the cultivated German tourist observes, even though he probably relishes romantic notions of the pre-urban society . . .just as you are inclined to see Britain in somewhat idyllic Dickensian terms—”

“Now you are patronising me, Dr Audley—”

“Then I’m sorry! But I don’t mean to, I assure you. Would it help if I admitted that the British have no worthwhile insights at all about foreigners? You at least see something—we see nothing at dummy1

all... It’s the curse of insularity . . . No matter how many millions of us go abroad, we’re still the most cretinously ignorant nation in Europe—I admit it.” He smiled again, disarmingly. “And I admit quoting your Nobel prize-winner Boll—Heinrich Boll—at you.

But at least I didn’t suggest he lived in Ireland for tax reasons—

you must admit that, Benedikt.”

How Father would love to cross swords with this man! thought Benedikt. At least it would be a fairer and more rewarding match than Audley’s Cromwell against Father’s deadly 88s.

“No . . . what I meant was that it’s Gunner Kelly we’re up against

—not Michael Kelly.” Audley shook his head. “He was a Royal Artilleryman longer than he was an Irishman in Ireland, you know.

And on a time-span, he’s twice as English as he is Irish.” Another shake. “Apart from which, what he did tell Becky was . . . that his problem was nothing directly to do with ‘the ould country’ . . .

whatever that means, and if we can believe it—”

The words stopped suddenly, and the open expression on Audley’s face closed in the same instant as he stared past Benedikt.

“My dear How—” Audley bit off the rest of the name as though it had burnt his tongue. “Hullo, there, cher cousin!”

“David.” The mid-Atlantic voice came from behind Benedikt, almost lazily, encouraging him to turn towards it without any indication of surprise.

It was the good-looking young man in the well-cut suit who stood at the CIA man’s shoulder. Only, close-up the suit was even better-cut, as only the finest English tailor could mould a suit, and the dummy1

man inside it wasn’t quite so young, with crow’s-feet corrugating the corners of the eyes which were as dark brown and as wary as had ever focussed on him.

“Dr Audley.” The eyes flicked to the Englishman, and then came back to Benedikt. “Captain Schneider.” God in heaven, thought Benedikt. Another Irishman!

VIII

Audley studied the Irishman for a long moment. “You have the advantage of us ... Mr—?”

“Smith.” The Irishness of the voice was there, but it was unobtrusive, only just across the median line between the two countries. “But I doubt that, Dr Audley. For I have heard tell of you.”

“Indeed?” Audley’s eyes moved to the American.

“I have asked my friend to stay,” said the Irishman. “For the record.”

Audley came back to him. “But there is no record.”

“There’s always a record.” Under its softness the voice was hard.

“But. . . shall we say . . . you have a friend with you, who wasn’t in the small print. So now I have a friend, too.” The man’s expression concealed the same contradiction as his voice, decided Benedikt: beneath its superficial amiability there lay distrust as well as apprehension.

dummy1

The American’s shoulder lifted slightly in apology: those, plainly, were the Irishman’s terms, and they could take it or leave it.

“I see.” Just as plainly, the terms were not to Audley’s liking, even though he could hardly refuse them.

“Do you, Dr Audley?” One corner of the Irishman’s mouth lifted.

“You know . . . they say you have no liking for my country—and its inhabitants. And is that the truth, would you say?”

Benedikt was torn by the need to watch the Irishman while checking on Audley’s reaction to such baiting.

“ ‘They say’?” Suddenly Audley’s voice was as soft as the Irishman’s. “I would say . . . that if you paid a ha’penny for that information you were shamefully overcharged, Mr Smith.”

“Is that so?” The man seemed perversely pleased by the denial.

“And yet, is it not a fact that you’ll take no job across the water?”

He cocked his head knowingly at the Englishman. “That when they put you down for Dublin once, it was a letter of resignation that they got back? What would you say to that, now?”

Audley looked at his watch. “I would say that I am at last beginning to get an inkling of why they beatified Pope Innocent XI in 1956, Mr Smith. And I’m grateful to you for that, because it’s rather been preying on my mind.”

“What?” Mr Smith frowned.

“It simply has to be because he rang the bells of Rome to celebrate Protestant King Billy’s victory over Catholic King James—1688

and all that.” Audley turned towards Benedikt. “Do you spend a lot of time discussing the relative merits and