A Prospect of Vengeance

conversation with one of the Spanish civilians; and the shapeless wreck of the little 2-CV was smoking now, rather than burning.

She felt quite empty. He hadn't mentioned a country, let alone a name. And of course he never would. And it didn't have to be a Russian name, or any one of half a dozen of their East European surrogates. Or it could be an Arab name. Or even an Israeli name. Or it could just conceivably be some clean-cut, crew-cut American. Or, as an ultimate possibility, a Savile-Row-suited Englishman.

'Are you saying that he's dead, Dr Audley?'

'No, Miss Fielding. That's a lie I'm not prepared to tell you.

Because we're not into that sort of vengeance: it's not what we're hired for.'

She remembered what Reg Buller had said. 'You don't do dummy2

wicked things like that — ?'

A curious expression passed across his face. 'No, Miss Fielding. We don't do wicked things like that. Killing is too simple for us: we want more than that. Killing wouldn't give us our proper satisfaction.'

'More?' She couldn't read his face at all. 'Proper — ?'

'Oh yes. When you've been deceived — as we were deceived . . . and for a long time before Philip Masson was killed — the trick is to continue the deception. But you turn it round the other way.' He smiled with his lips. 'It's like, if you find a traitor in the ranks, there's no point in arresting him.

He'll only get a successor — probably someone you don't know. So you leave him where he is.' The not-smile widened.

'Ideally, of course, you turn him around — that's what Masterman did during the war, with his Germans . . . But that's very risky these days, when a man can be ideologically bent ... So you leave him. Or you promote him, even: you make him even more successful, even more valuable to them . . . But this wasn't quite like that — ' He raised his hand. ' — no, Miss Fielding! That's as far as I can go there. So don't ask.' The not-smile became even uglier. 'Our first problem was to make them think that we were still deceived, back in '78 — or '79, as it soon was ... So we put out rumours that the wicked Dr Audley had maybe had your godfather pushed off his little boat, suitably weighted. And had then stifled any sort of investigation by pretending to investigate the matter himself.' He nodded. 'All to ensure Jack Butler's dummy2

promotion, of course . . . And you, of course, duly came upon those rumours . . . nicely matured by the years?'

She nodded. But the devil in the back of her brain leered at her. 'But I mustn't believe them now — is that it? Because I must believe you now?'

'You must believe what convinces you, Miss Fielding.' His mouth set hard.

She had cut deep, justly or not. 'I believe that Philly — that my godfather was murdered nine years ago, Dr Audley. And I also believe that John Tully is dead. And I need a much better answer to John Tully.'

'Ah . . . that's fair enough.' He agreed readily, almost like a judge taking an objection. 'As to poor Mr Tully, I can't answer you with any certainty — I can only hazard a guess there, Miss Fielding.'

'A guess?' The devil shook his head warningly.

'Yes ... I think maybe we've not been as clever ... or as clever for as long ... as we thought, perhaps.' He made a face.

'Nothing lasts forever. And . . . we've been running our Masson deception for a long time, now.' One huge shoulder lifted philosophically. 'They may have tumbled to it . . .Or, they may suspect, honestly I don't know. But I rather fear I'll be working on that when I get back to London — while my dear wife and daughter are spending my money in Paris — ?'

The great once-upon-a-time rugger-playing shoulder rose again. 'Did they teach you seventeenth-century poetry at dummy2

Roedean, Miss Fielding?'

'Poetry — ?' The man was dangerous.

'No! It was biology, wasn't it!' Audley grinned. 'I remember ...

No — there was this seventeenth-century poet, writing his love-poem to chat this girl up — Andrew Marvell, it was . . .

And he said, when you can't delay things, then you ought to hurry them up: ' Thus, though we cannot make our sun stand still . . . yet we will make him run' — or something like that — ?' He blinked disarmingly. 'It could be that they want to make a dirty great big scandal of it now, with questions in the House of Commons — ? Because we're not going to reveal what we've been doing — never in a month of Sundays! So ...

your Mr Tully was a paid-up member of the National Union of Journalists. And you can kill soldiers, or you can kill

'innocent bystanders' . . . But when you start to kill journalists — paid-up NUJ freelances, no less! That really puts the cat among the pigeons, Miss Fielding.' He raised an eyebrow. 'And your Ian would have been worse than Tully.

Because he's well-liked ... So 'Heads, we don't win — tails we lose'?: the media will love another Intelligence scandal too, after Peter Wright and Spy-catcher. And the other side's disinformation- people know just how to feed in a tit-bit or two of genuine scandal. Plus our original rumours, too. And, of course, the word will be out that Jennifer Fielding is preparing a shock-horror revelation — right? But not Ian Robinson — ?'

He was playing dirty. So she could play the same game.

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'Whereas in fact you were very clever? Is that what I'm supposed to say?'

He looked down at her, almost proudly. 'Not very clever, Miss Fielding. But we did