A Prospect of Vengeance

in turn. 'I have a very fair dossier on Philip Masson. And there won't be any comeback.'

That was going to cost them, thought Ian. Because, although Tully's own highly-computerized filing system was pretty damn good in its own right (and expensive to get into, also), it still couldn't match the better newspaper libraries. But newspaper librarians wouldn't come cheap either, those of them who could be bought. Or their assistants. Or whoever had access, down the line. But more than that, and regardless of expense, Tully was very certain of himself today: certain, although this had been contractually no more than a quick reconnaissance of a possibility, that he had Fielding and Robinson as fullblown clients again.

He examined them both with professional interest: the well-laundered, Winchester-tied Tully, very confident; and the crumpled, smelly old Buller, no less a pro, albeit in his own dummy2

distinctive style. But now, although Buller had given him the gypsy's warning, they were both equally excited at the prospect of profit and enjoyment.

'Yes.' Tully looked at him, and he realized that all three were looking at him, willing him to show enthusiasm. Even Buller, after what he'd said, was willing it. 'I don't think you need to worry too much about the newshounds at the moment, Mr Robinson.'

'Why not?' In a position of strength he could afford to be awkward.

'Well . . . firstly, because of the timing, I rather think.'

'The timing?'

'Of Masson's death. It occurred at the very end of the Wilson-Callaghan era, in 1978. So they can't pin this on the Tories, in general — or on our present dear Prime Minister, in particular. If there was a cover-up, that is . . .' He smiled thinly. 'That takes some of the fun out of it, you might say.

And the urgency with it.'

There was a flaw in that reasoning, thought Ian: pre-Thatcher shenanigans in British Intelligence could always be dressed up as 'destabilization', post-Spycatcher. But he didn't know enough about Philip Masson yet to undress that possibility.

'And none of them are on to Audley yet.' Tully bowed slightly to Jenny. 'Your ace in the hole is still safe, Miss Fielding.

You're way ahead of them all.' Then he remembered Ian. 'If dummy2

you want to proceed, that is.'

Ian was glad that he had resisted the temptation to look at Buller, whose buttocks were still firmly seated on that unpalatable information about the watchers outside, which would prick Tully's bubble of complacency explosively. But that in turn presented him with an immediate dilemma: because someone was alongside them already, if not actually ahead of them, and that was a damn good reason for exercising his veto, and proceeding with the book they had planned to write, which presented no great problems, reasonable (and certain) profits, and absolutely no Beirut-remembered dangers.

So this was that 'moment-of-truth' Jenny always made him face up to, when they had to decide to go ahead with a project after the first reconnaissance, or to cut their losses and start on something else. Only this was different from all their other investigations — and not different just because of those two men outside in the rain: it was different also because it seemed to matter personally to her, not just financially. So, if he said 'no' she'd not only never forgive him, but she might also go ahead on her own account, without his protective presence — ?

He couldn't have that, no matter how much against his better judgement, not after Beirut.

'I think I'll get that drink now. Dry sherry for you, John?' He didn't need to look at Tully.

'Beer for me.' Reg Buller beamed at him. 'One of those little dummy2

bottles of that German beer? Have you got any of them?'

He didn't need to look at her, either: for her there was their

'moment-of-truth' custom. All he saw was the pile of papers he'd taken out of the study that morning, slightly disarranged as Buller had left them. So now the future of British education would have to wait until this matter of the past of British intelligence had been resolved, he thought sadly.

It was all conveniently in the fridge — John Tally's Manzanilla, Reg Buller's Kolsch, and Jenny's celebratory bottle (even though he didn't feel like celebrating).

'Oh Ian darling!' She pushed through the door just as the cork popped, and the champagne overflowed the glasses messily. 'Thank you, darling!'

'Don't count your chickens, Jen.' He watched the ridiculously over-priced stuff subside. 'I still don't like it. And I think we could be risking our necks.'

'Of course, darling. But . . .' She swayed towards him, both hands full but still holding the door half open with her shoulder. '. . . but — ' her voice dropped to a wide-mouthed whisper, enunciated as though to a deaf lip-reader ' — I-have-got-promises-of-absolutely-marvellous-deals . . . from . . .

Clive Parsons . . . and Woodward — Richard Woodward?'

She read his expression, and nodded triumphantly.

Ian reached out to push the door fully open, knowing that that triumphant nod would have had to be the clincher if he dummy2

had been genuinely still in doubt: with Woodward controlling the serializations on the front page of his heavyweight Sunday's supplement, to coincide with publication, and Parsons' publishers' clout in the American press, they had the necessary ingredients for another best-seller before he had put one word on paper; and if Jenny's rarely mistaken nose for a winner didn't let them down they stood to make a small fortune. Or even a large one. And that was more than could be expected from British education.

'John — Reg — ' She took the two untasted glasses in with a glance ' — I've just been twisting Ian's arm unmercifully — '

She raised her own glass ' — so I think we can now drink to ...