Gunner Kelly

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Germans and South Germans, Captain Schneider? Let’s see now . . . the North Germans are like the Southern English, aren’t they? Rather more anonymous than the ... it would be the Bavarians, wouldn’t it be? And the Bavarians are the Yorkshiremen of Germany? Or the Lancashiremen? And then there are the Prussians—I presume they rather frighten you, the way the Scots frighten the English . . . But the Ulstermen, who are really only transplanted Scots, frighten us even more—damn good assault troops, I’m told, but dirty in the trenches . . . And then there are the Welsh—far too clever . . . not intelligent, mind you—it’s the Scots who are intelligent—but clever. Good rugger players, though. And I always think a man can’t be all bad, who plays rugby, so there must be some good in the Argentinians . . . And the Rumanians—

and the Fijians . . . It’s not the colour of a man’s skin—it’s whether he plays rugger, that’s what counts, in my view. Black, white or khaki. Jehovah’s Witnesses, Freemasons, Frenchmen—you can always tell—tell at a glance.” He turned back suddenly. “Now, I don’t care whether you like the English or you remember Drogheda and Wexford every time you see one, and spit. You can have any prejudice you like—and if you want to believe that I think the moon is made of green cheese, you’re welcome. All I want to know is who wants Michael Kelly dead, and why. Nothing more, and nothing less.”

The Irishman had a curious expression on his face now, which seemed to Benedikt to be compounded of conflicting emotions, and was altogether incomprehensible to him. But his mouth stayed closed and the silence between them lengthened.

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The American stirred. “You could try giving him your word, David. That you’ll play straight.”

“Word of an Englishman?”

“Just your word. No generalisations—you’ve made your point there, I guess.” The American drew a slow breath. “Hell, man—he may have something which you can play your ‘Great Game’ with.

But it’s his skin that could end up nailed to the wall.”

Audley looked down his nose at the American. “I said there was no record. He said there was, not I.”

“So he doesn’t know you. Him and two billion others.”

Audley thought for a moment. “Very well . . . For what it’s worth, Mr Smith ... I haven’t met you today. I have no memory of you.

Your name— your face—will never be identified by me. You do not exist . . . You have my word on that.” He looked to Benedikt.

“Captain Schneider?”

Benedikt stiffened. “My word is as Dr Audley’s.”

The American looked at Mr Smith. “If the Captain’s word is good enough for David, it’s good enough for me, Jim.” Then he smiled.

“So who the hell is Michael Kelly, then?”

The Irishman looked at all of them in turn. “Who is Michael Kelly?

And you with your great machines that can count the nine billion names of God Himself? He’s nobody, that’s who he is ... He’s John Doe, and William Rowe . . . and William Smith and Wilhelm Schmidt, who never did any harm to anyone—that was all his own harm, and not the harm others gave him to do.” The Irishman spread his glance between them. “He was a British soldier, for his dummy1

sins—his father’s sins—” the glance fixed momentarily on Benedikt “—and probably killed a few Germans in his time, that he never set eyes on at all.”

“We know that.”

“You do? And he was a Bradford taxi-driver after that— you’ll know that, too? And no one looked twice at him, because no one ever looks twice at a taxi-driver, providing he’s there on time and doesn’t over-charge—eh?”

“We know that, too.”

“So you do ... Michael Kelly—John Doe, William Rowe, William Smith, Wilhelm Smith, Wilhelm Kelly, William Kelly, Aloysius Kelly—”

“Aloysius Kelly?”

“A common name. Two common names— Aloysius and Kelly . . .

Though maybe Aloysius is not so common hereabouts. But—”

“Aloysius Kelly.” Audley repeated the name quickly, as though he’d only just heard it the second before. “But he’s dead—” He looked at the American.

“Dead—so he is!” agreed the Irishman. “Dead and gone these six years—seven years?”

“Four years,” the American corrected him.

“Four years, is it?” The Irishman accepted the correction. “But you’re right—it was seven years they were after him, but it’s only four years since they caught up with him—you have the right of it as always, Howard. But dead and gone—four years, or seven years, or seventy years, it’s all the same: dead and gone with all dummy1

that was locked up in his head. And there are those that sleep a lot sounder for that, by God!”

Benedikt looked at Audley. “Aloysius . . . Kelly?”

“Yes.” Audley didn’t return the look. “What is Michael Kelly’s connection with him?”

“Ah . . . now that machine of yours is good, but not good enough—

eh?” The black-brown eyes dismissed the Kommissar as well as the British computer’s memory-bank. “The best connection of all, he had—the one that’s thicker than water, through the sister-son, which is one that counted strong from the old days.”