A Prospect of Vengeance

'We're talking about Philip Masson — and David Audley, of course.' Having been offered an olive branch, the Honourable Miss Jennifer Fielding-ffulke hit Mitchell in the face with it.

'Or is this another Christmas-cracker joke?'

Ian saw Paul Mitchell flinch as the branch slashed him — just as the Syrian major in Beirut had done, when he'd been expecting gratitude and had received the rough side of her tongue instead; the only difference was that the Major had saved her life, whereas Paul Mitchell had only saved his —

'Jenny! For heaven's sake!' He saw Mitchell unflinching. But that didn't blot out Major Asad's pilgrim's progress from incredulity to bitterness, which had soured their comradeship into contempt at the last. ' Jenny — '

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'No, Ian.' Jenny shook her head obstinately. 'Don't be wet.

He's starting to bull-shit us now.'

'No I'm not.' Mitchell's jaw tightened. 'You asked me why I followed Ian. I followed him because you had been asking questions — and you asked one too many, of the wrong person. And about the wrong person.'

'Meaning Audley?'

'So I drew the short straw. Meaning Ian here. Fortunately.'

Mitchell ignored the latest question. 'Because it would seem that you actually flushed out someone else from the undergrowth with your questions — someone who really doesn't want any questions being asked.' He stared at her for a long moment. 'I don't know what the hell you've been doing today, Miss Fielding. But, if our experience is anything to go by, you've been bloody lucky, anyway. Because you're still alive.'

Jenny licked her upper lip, and a trick of the light revealed to Ian that there were beads of sweat above it. Which, since she knew about Reg Buller, was fair enough: whether Mitchell knew as much or not, those last words of his had hit her where it hurt.

Then she resisted the blow. These other two men — the ones who followed you, Ian — ' but she wasn't interested in him: it was Mitchell she was looking at ' — you know them — ?'

'I knew one of them.' Mitchell frowned at him. 'God! You really didn't tell her much, did you?' He shook his head. 'Yes, dummy2

Miss Fielding — Jenny: I knew one of them, from the old days. And that makes us all lucky — and maybe Ian and me luckiest of all. Because Paddy MacManus was a hard man when I knew him ... Or, more accurately, knew of him, back in Dublin in the late '70s. A real hard man — even too bloody hard for the boyos, in the end, when they started to wonder who he was working for.' He drew a breath. 'You see, when you keep a tiger, you've got to feed him regularly, because he gets hungry . . . And when he's a man-eater, and he gets the taste for it ... that's okay when you're in a killing-phase, because then you can feed him. But when you want to lower the profile — maybe for political reasons, or just for public relations in America, for financial reasons, say . . . then you've got a problem — ' Mitchell opened his mouth to continue, but then closed it. 'Mmm . . . well, let's put it like this: when the postman comes up the drive, then he's delivering letters. And when you start asking questions, then you're thinking about writing a book — or writing for the newspapers ... or both.' Another breath. 'But when you see Paddy MacManus striding towards you in the middle of nowhere . . . then he isn't writing a book. And it's not the post he's delivering. Will that do?'

Jenny breathed out, as though she'd been holding her breath.

'He works for — ? The IRA?'

'No. At least, not any more.' Mitchelr shook his head, almost regretfully. 'He's privatized himself: he's strictly a contract man now — that I do know . . . I'm really rather out of that dummy2

scene, in so far as I was ever into it.' He shrugged. 'I'm more like Ian here — a writer. I arrange other men's flowers, is what I mostly do now.' He turned to Ian. 'A much underrated job, not to say unglamorous. But very necessary. And also agreeably safe.'

'I see.' Jenny moved quickly, as though to discourage any idea of writers' solidarity. 'So you work for Research and Development, now?'

The unexpected question caught Writer Mitchell unprepared, in the midst of offering Ian false friendly sympathy, freezing his smile. 'I beg your pardon, Miss Fielding? I work for — ?'

'Jack Butler.' Having achieved her desired effect, Jenny herself brightened into innocent friendliness in her turn. 'Sir James . . . but always Jack, of course?' Even a sweet smile now. 'Why didn't you say so straight away, Paul? It would have made things so much easier!'

Paul Mitchell's desperately-maintained smile warned Ian to attend to his own expression. But neither of them was looking at him, they were concerned only in each other.

' Such a charming man!' Jen was the Honourable Jennifer now, claws sheathed in velvet. 'One of the old school, my father always says — and those enchanting daughters of his ... Which is the one who's with Lovett, Black and Porter —

Daddy's quite adorable lawyers — ? Is that Sally? Or Diana —

or Jane?'

In the car Mitchell had wondered what she'd been up to, dummy2

while they had been having their own adventures — and so had Ian himself; and, latterly, they'd worried more than that, each of them, as they'd progressed agonizingly through the evening traffic into London. But now they both knew.

'Jack Butler was in Korea, of course.' She nodded knowingly.

'Daddy never met him — not there . . . not until long afterwards, when he came back from Cyprus.' The nod, continued, became conspiratorial. 'But he says — Daddy says

— that his MC on that river there — where was it? But . . .