A Prospect of Vengeance

does he fit in with Audley?'

'Audley?' The name made her demote Frederick Joseph Clinton, so it seemed for an instant. Then she concentrated on him. 'If what I've been told is right, Audley was his blue-eyed boy — his pupil, and his beneficiary . . . Only, it didn't quite work out like that, apparently.' The frown came back.

'What d'you mean?'

'I'm not quite sure yet.' The concentration became almost disconcerting. 'But I think we could — just could — be on to something rather interesting in its own right, even apart from Dr David Audley . . . although he is part of it — very much part of it, in fact . . .'

She trailed off, and this time he waited patiently, because he recognized that look from old. Normally, in their strange symbiotic partnership, she was the one who brought in the new information which could not be obtained by conventional and straightforward means, which she scavenged from all sorts of unlikely and — to him —

inaccessible places and people; and it was his job not only to combine it with his own research and render it presentable and saleable, but also to crack its bones and extract the marrow within. But sometimes — rarely, but sometimes —

she could do a lot more than that.

She looked at him suddenly. 'Quite a lot of people know David Audley — and about him, too ... in a way. And you know what they say, Ian?'

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He knew what Reg Buller had said. But that had been private. 'No— ?'

She nodded. They say ... 'Oh he's something in Intelligence, isn't he?' Or even just 'Old David, darling? In one of those MI-somethings — always popping down to that awful secret place at Cheltenham, with all those initials.'' She paused, closing her eyes. ''But he does have the most delightful wife and daughter — both perfect sweeties, darling. Whereas, he's a great bear of a man — a perfect Caliban, compared with them, don't you know'.'

That sounded more like one of 'Mummy's' friends than

'Daddy's'. But that, of course, was exactly what 'they' had said, word for word, from memory. Given a notebook, Jenny would have either broken the lead in her pencil or supplied herself with a dead ball-point pen; or, if she hadn't, then she wouldn't have been able to decipher her hopeless handwriting. But the gods, to make up for that deficiency, had given her total recall of anything that was said to her, down to the last emphasis.

But she was looking at him again.

'He was connected with that fearful man Clinton.' The concentration was back. 'That I know. And Clinton was 'in'

Intelligence — very much in. But he was never one of the directors of any of the big departments — MI5, or MI6, and all that. Because everyone knows who they were . . . Yet he was a bloody-big wheel — a power in the land. That's for sure, too.'

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Was that 'Daddy', being indiscreet long ago with his little darling? Or that source, being infinitely more indiscreet, for some other reason? But he could see that there was more to come.

'Clinton got a successor, at all events. Name of Butler.

Christian name James, but always known as 'Jack'. Ex-career soldier in some little line regiment. And not too successful even in that, because he went on the General List as a major when he was quite elderly. Then he was made up to half-colonel, and in — in — Intelligence, apparently. But not military intelligence: 'one of Fred Clinton's lot', thereafter.' Her face seemed to sharpen as she spoke. ''Nice chap, but rather dull'.' Sharper still. 'Which just could be an unreliable assessment, because he's just got his 'K' — Sir Jack now . . . Just like Sir Fred, before him.' She nodded wisely. 'Like you're always saying, darling — pattern: 'Look for the pattern' . . . okay?'

She wanted to be jogged — or maybe reassured? 'So now he's Audley's boss — ?'

'Yes. But boss of what?' Now she was really there. 'So . . .

remember what old Reg said — 'research and advice'? And when Reg picks up vibes, then they're usually right, aren't they?'

She had asked him to remember. So, once again, he remembered what Reg Buller had said out of her hearing.

'Reg is good — yes.'

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'But not quite accurate this time.' Scoring a point always pleased her. 'Because I think the official title of the Clinton-Butler organization is 'Research and Development' .

Although, of course, that doesn't really mean anything — it's just a useful bit of jargon, to put you off. Because everyone's got an 'R & D' section now — it's like having a 'computer facility', with a 'systems manager', even if you're putting beans into tins — all flumdiddle, darling.'

'Flumdiddle' must be a new word in Jenny's circle. But.

nevertheless, he was beginning to smell the marrow from the broken bone. 'So what does it mean, then?'

'Well . . . I'm by no means quite sure, darling — as I keep saying.' Knowing him, she was properly cautious still, in spite of all her certainties. 'But suppose — just suppose . . . that alongside all the little old secret services that we know and love by their initials and numbers . . . alongside all of them, there was another one, that we didn't know was there. Like, say, a sort of parallel world, in those science- fiction stories, almost — ?' She cocked an eye at him. 'Not very big — really rather small — ? But more secret, more exclusive — ? Say . . .

just responsible to the Prime Minister — the Cabinet Office?

Of the Intelligence Sub-Committee of the Joint Chiefs? Or —