together.

And I have a very strong presentiment that they're going to do it again, this time, between them.'

It was really very strange, very strange indeed, this almost fastidious abhorrence he had about violent death, thought Elizabeth. And it was strange not because this time she herself might be involved on the edges of it - that really wasn't strange at all - but rather because his whole ten-year civilian academic career, and his devoted hobby over the last ten years, involved the concentrated study of that 1914 -18 bloodbath in the trenches of France and Flanders.

'But it doesn't worry you, does it?' Calculation, only half-masked by curiosity, had replaced honest passion. 'Not one bit, eh?'

'Of course it does.' Normally she could lie more readily, and much more convincingly. But this time he caught her off-balance, in the middle of remembering another reason why his hatred of violence was so odd -

'No, it doesn't.' Calculation had taken over. 'Old Fatso's not so stupid - I'm the stupid one.

He's got your number right to the last decimal point, naturally: fitness reports, psychological profile, and all the little - nasty little - small print… all those bloody-minded, coldblooded naval ancestors of yours, of the flog 'em and hang 'em brigade, from the Nore and Spithead.'

What she remembered was that, when the chips were down, Paul himself had a natural talent for violence, instinctive and efficient. 'I really don't know. But then I don't really know what you're talking about, either.'

'No, you wouldn't.' He nodded mild agreement. 'And your old man, too - that's the special dummy2

beauty of it, from Fatso's point of view: not just the chance to up-anchor, and make sail, and put to sea… But a bloody-marvellous father-figure target to sink as well - right, Elizabeth Jane?'

The passion was back. It was deep-layered now, under that false mildness, and then under mocking calculation and curiosity. But it was there all the same, and she half-wished that it worried her more, instead of merely irritating her.

But then it was anger, rather than irritation. 'I don't see what my father has to do with this.'

The anger flared. 'Or with you.'

'Nothing to do with me.' He felt the heat. 'As of this minute I was never here, and we never met.' He straightened up, and gestured towards the door. 'And seeing as we haven't met, and I shall have to buy an alibi to prove that I was somewhere else - that I am somewhere else… or at least half-way there - ' He frowned suddenly, and made a silly face. 'When you gave David those jobs… what did you say you were doing? I mean…just curiosity - ?'

This time she wasn't off-balance, by one guilty half-second. But she couldn't tell him. 'You can take me with you, and put me off in Bond Street. I'll take a taxi from there.' But she mustn't leave him time to work that out. 'Only… you said, Paul, that when David and Debrecen got together - that when they came together - ?'

'People end up dead?' He nodded. 'And so they do.' Another nod. 'Back in '58 - there were two - two, if you count one in America, as well as one over here.' Pause. 'And in '83… well, there was one a few years before that, when the KGB hit someone up in Yorkshire.' Pause.

'But then there was '83, down in Dorset. About which I know no more than you do, because all I know is what is in the record.' Pause. 'And then there's '84… which was also in America. And which is also in the record, more or less.' This time the pause was so long that she had almost decided that he had finished. But then he nodded. 'But mostly less, rather than more. Because, for a secure file, it's still bloody non-committal, don't you think?

What David calls 'half-arsed' - whatever that means… 'Half-arsed', would you say, Miss Loftus?'

'What else does David say about it - about Debrecen?'

'Ah… now, as everyone keeps telling you, you'd better ask him, I think. And then draw your own conclusions. Because in my experience he never says quite the same thing twice.

So we should maybe compare notes some time - over dinner, say?'

She had to remember that he was still Paul. And not getting what he wanted only made him want it more: for Paul, failure was a beginning, not an end. 'He won't tell me the truth?'

dummy2

'That depends.' He pointed at the door again. 'I have to establish my alibi.'

'Depends on what?'

'On lots of things.' He swivelled on his heel, away from her, then towards her. 'David knows his duty. Do you know yours, Miss Loftus?'

'I know what I've got to do, Dr Mitchell.'

'Do you, Miss Loftus? And does it include scuppering David Audley to please Oliver St John Fatso- Latimer, pray?'

'No, it does not - '

'But are you sure of that, Miss Loftus? And is David Audley sure of it?' He held the pub door open for her. 'What you both want to ask yourselves is… do either of you really know what you are doing? As opposed to what you think you're doing?'

7

'Gorbatov — that is absolutely correct, Elizabeth.' Audley shifted his long legs in the Morgan's confined space. 'It all starts with him. Before Gorbatov, Debrecen was without light, and void, so far as we were concerned.'

For a man hypothetically cast as a prosecutor at his own court-martial, if not commander of the firing squad afterwards, David Audley had been just a little too relaxed, Elizabeth had thought.

True, he had protested briefly when she'd insisted on driving. But that had been more for form's sake than genuine desire, since they both knew that he was a bad driver, unable to keep his mind on the road at the best of times, and that this time she wanted his mind on other matters.

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