A Prospect of Vengeance

(Philip Masson maybe? Is that it, Jenny? Is that it?) The thought of Jenny made him want to look at his watch.

But he mustn't do that!

'Didn't you hear the car?' Combat Jacket was studying him just as carefully.

'No.' It was just possible that this man had saved his life. But, if he had done so, he had only been obeying orders, just like that Syrian major in Beirut. And it was Jenny who mattered now — and Jenny's orders. So he must keep his head and not let foolish sentiment get in the way of necessity. 'Who are you?'

'My name is Mitchell. Paul Mitchell — ' Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell took another look over the churchyard wall: dummy2

whatever Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell was, and whoever ... he was a careful man. 'Paul Lefevre Mitchell. Almost exactly three hundred years ago one of my Huguenot-Protestant ancestors fled from Louis XIV's France, to England . . . and just a minute or two ago I rather wished he hadn't, Mr Robinson.

But now, I think it's time for us to go, too.'

That was curiously interesting. Because a few years back (and after Jenny had vetoed the idea of it, in preference for the more saleable Middle East) he had proposed a book on that anniversary of King Louis' expulsion of his Protestants, which had given England the Bank of England and Laurence Olivier; and Paul Revere to the United States.

But that was all also quite ridiculously beside the point now: the point was ... he had to get to Abdul the Damned's Tandoori Restaurant. And to Jenny.

But the point also was that he mustn't seem to eager —

however desperate he felt. So he must ignore the more important second statement in preference for the first. 'You wished he hadn't, Mr Mitchell? Why was that?'

Mitchell raised an eyebrow. 'You are a cool one, aren't you!'

Then a hint of that original not-smile returned. 'But then, of course, you were a cool one in Beirut, weren't you? When they snatched your lady-friend, and you negotiated her release — ? That was cool — yes!'

Mitchell was Intelligence, not Special Branch: it might be MI5 (it could hardly be MI6) but it was one or the other, to know so much . . . even though he'd got it quite pathetically dummy2

wrong, about the coolness. But he mustn't spoil the illusion.

'Oh — ?'

'I wondered why you didn't duck down behind the nearest convenient cover!' Mitchell nodded. 'But, of course . . . you weren't surprised, were you?'

He had to get away from this total misreading of events. 'You seem to know a lot about me, Mr Mitchell.'

'I know all about you, Mr Robinson: Miss Fielding-ffulke asks the questions, and has the contacts, and negotiates the deals . . . and you sort out the sheep from the goats she brings you, and write the actual books. You are the brains, and she is the brawn . . . unlikely as that may seem.' Mitchell took another look over the churchyard wall. 'Shall we go, then?'

With Mitchell here beside him he was physically safe; that shot-gun, if not Mitchell himself, proclaimed that. So, with this Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell in a mood of indiscretion, he must forget Jenny and get all he could, while he could get it ... no matter how his guts were still twisting. 'If I'm 'the brains', Mr Mitchell. . . then I'd be obliged if you'd tell me what's going on — ?'

Mitchell cocked his head. 'Are you going to be difficult? After what has just happened — ?' Again he looked towards the Village Green. 'I think they've gone . . . But let's not push our luck — eh?'

dummy2

Because Mitchell wasn't happy, Ian began to feel unhappy.

'But I still don't know who you are, Mr Mitchell — any more than I know who they were, actually.'

'But you ran away from them?' Mitchell's mouth twisted.

'You are being difficult — '

'Not difficult — ' Actually, not difficult: for this instant he could be at least partially honest ' — who were they?'

Mitchell stared at him for a moment, as though deceived by that partial honesty. 'You don't know him? Well. . . maybe you don't at that! But. . . you ran like a rabbit, across the Green — ?' The moment of credulity faded into suspicion.

'Oh — come on, Mr Robinson! I've just gone through a very bad time on your behalf: this isn't when you should be playing silly games with me, for God's sake!' He lifted the shot-gun meaningfully across his chest — and then broke it, thrusting it towards Ian. 'See — ?'

What Ian saw was that the man's face was breaking up as he offered the gun for inspection, the mouth twisting bitterly.

'Empty.' Mitchell pushed the gun closer. 'See!'

Ian had to look at it.

'Okay?' Mitchell snapped the shot-gun together again.

'Father John — Father John whom you've met ... he lent me his gun. But he couldn't find any cartridges for it — not at short notice, he said — huh!'