A Prospect of Vengeance

'Yes, Beirut.' He heard his agreement come out as a growl, and tried, and failed to put a face to that other name, of someone he'd never seen and never would see now, in the flesh: Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon, alias 'Marilyn Francis', dummy2

Mitchell? Your colleague who was careless at Rickmansworth — and at Thornervaulx too, maybe? Put a face to her for me, Mitchell: tell me about her then!

'Ian — ?' Mitchell was frowning at him suddenly. 'What's the matter?'

'Mr Mitchell — ' Jenny frowned also.

'Miss Fielding — pardon me — ' Mitchell cut her off without looking at her ' — Ian — ? What's the matter?'

'Nothing.' He blinked at Mitchell, and felt foolish: this too-long day, with its surfeit of information — re-animated experience, and experiences . . . and new faces and information — this long day was beginning to play tricks on him, stretching his imagination too far; and, on an empty stomach, the smell of little Mr Malik's succulent curries was making him light-headed.

'No.' Mitchell humiliated him further by seeming solicitous, as he had never done with Jenny. 'You look as if you've seen a ghost.' The next breath was worse than solicitous: it was understanding. 'But then, I suppose Beirut must have been pretty hairy, I guess!' He took the next breath to Jenny. 'You were both pretty damn lucky there, too.'

'No — ' Ian was all the angrier for not reacting more quickly.

There were other ghosts — newer ghosts — than Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon: even Jenny's Philly Masson was a week younger . . . and far more important; and Reg Buller was so newly-dead that he probably didn't even know how to haunt dummy2

the living properly yet. (Or, anyway, Reg would be too busy now haunting his hundred favourite pubs, trying to catch a last sniff of beer and sending shivers up the spines of his best-loved barmaids as they remembered him across the bar, horrified by the evening paper headlines — )

'What?' Jenny sounded irritated: Jenny didn't believe in ghosts.

He faced Mitchell. 'Audley, Mr Mitchell — Audley?'

All the expression went out of the man's face: it was like watching a bigger wave wash away every footprint in the sand, leaving it smooth again.

'If you work for R & D, Mr Mitchell — Paul. . .' What was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. So he smiled at Mitchell. 'If you're here to help us — if we need friends . . .

tell us about David Audley, then.'

Mitchell frowned. 'I'm sorry — ?'

'No.' Jenny reached out, almost touching Mitchell. 'Ian doesn't mean . . . tell us about him.' She touched Ian instead, digging her fingers into his arm — little sharp fingers.

'Because . . . obviously, you — can't do that, I mean.'

Mitchell shifted his position. 'No . . . Obviously, I can't do that.' He took them both in.

'Because he isn't even in England now, anyway.' Jenny added her total non-sequitur statement as though it explained what Mitchell had just said for Ian's benefit. 'He's on holiday, with his wife and daughter, at the moment, Ian darling — ' Then dummy2

she gave Mitchell her most dazzling smile ' — Spain, I gather

— ?'

Another wave washed across Mitchell's face. 'Spain?'

'From Parador to Parador!' She nodded, as though he'd admitted everything. 'Fuenterrabia, Santa Dominigo de la Calzada . . . which was next? Benavente, was it? And now the Enrique Two at Ciudad Rodrigo?' She took the nod to Ian.

'Paradors, darling — remember those lovely old state-owned hotels the Spaniards have?' Back to Mitchell. 'Paradors, Dr Mitchell — right?'

Mitchell stared at Jenny for a moment, and then seemed to relax, even as Ian realized that he'd just witnessed an event as rare as it was unfortunate: Jenny knew damn well who Paul Mitchell was — had known from the moment his name had been first mentioned, if not from the appearance of his face round the door; and she had just put her foot in her mouth, to forfeit that advantage prematurely with 'Dr'

Mitchell.

'Hold on, now.' It was a long time since they'd worked together like this. But the old rules still held good, and they required him to cause a diversion. 'Jenny — how come I'm the only one without a drink?'

'Oh darling, I am sorry!' She came in on cue instantly, contrite — when her normal reaction to such petulance would have been contempt. 'It's Mr Malik's genuine British-German Pils you like, isn't it — ?'

dummy2

'Yes.'

As she turned away, he looked deliberately at Mitchell. But the man was staring at Jenny's back with unashamed calculation. So all that he had gained for her was a little time, no more. But the charade still had to be played. 'You can laugh.'

'I'm not laughing, my dear fellow.' Mitchell scorned his game.

'I was just thinking that . . . your associate has been busy . . .