A Prospect of Vengeance

'Paddy — ?' Check Coat's name was suddenly like a lump in Ian's throat, which had to be swallowed as he thought of Check Coat out there somewhere in the gathering dark of a London night. So he swallowed the lump. 'Still — ?'

'You'd better believe it.' Mitchell nodded. 'It's just like your books, Ian: fifty per cent advance on signature of contract —

is that it, for you? And then the rest on publication?' He paused to let the terms sink in. 'Which, in this case, will be the publication of your obituary. And failure to deliver, after signature, is bad for business — right?'

Ian looked at Jenny, and caught her drawing in her breath.

'We're safe here, Dr Mitchell.' She deflated with the words.

'You're not safe anywhere, Miss Fielding-ffulke.' Mitchell's voice grated on his reply. 'What you don't seem to understand is that you're in the big league now, Miss Fielding-ffulke: you're not just messing with old fuddy-duddy British Intelligence — not with chaps like me, who've got so shit-scared of their own shadows, in case they step out of line, that they swan off without protection, and have to borrow weapons from the local vicar.' Mitchell swung towards Ian. 'For Christ's sake, man: suppose Father John hadn't borrowed that shot-gun himself, to shoot those pigeons that were crapping on his bells in the belfry — ? Or ...

never mind he wouldn't find the shells — in case I actually shot anyone, even in self-defence — ?' His mouth twisted. 'So dummy2

where the hell would you have been now?' He shook his head. 'Because I sure-as- hell wouldn't have gone out there to point my finger at that bastard, and said ' Bang-bang!' — '

Mitchell brought his hand up as he spoke, and squeezed his eyes shut as he pointed his finger. 'Because that's the way to get dead, forever after.' Then he focused again. 'You're in the big league. And the first mistake you make in that league is to think you're cleverer than the opposition. And that's the only mistake you make.'

Ian had been conscious of Jenny all the time Mitchell was speaking, drawing in breaths to interrupt; but first failing to get her words in edgeways, and then failing altogether as Mitchell concentrated not on her, but on him, because he was more receptive to the message after their shared experience of Lower Buckland.

'But why us, Dr Mitchell?' She seized the first moment of silence between them. 'If you're not trying to stop us . . .'

There was still doubt in that: she still wasn't giving him the whole benefit of doubt, even now — '. . . then who is?'

'Who?' Mitchell gave her his full attention. 'I wish I knew, Miss Fielding-ffulke!' He shook his head. 'I tell you — you were just a bloody inconvenience, as of forty-eight hours ago . . . Asking all your questions, in the wrong places — '

'About Audley — David Audley — ?'

'Forget Audley!' Mitchell shook his head. ' Philip Masson —

d'you think we haven't been asking questions about him, too?

Ever since he turned up — ?'

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She stared at him obstinately. 'Only if you don't already know the answers . . . about him — ?'

Mitchell stared at her for a moment. Then he looked at his watch again. Then he looked at her again. 'Miss Fielding-ffulke — Jenny — ?'

'Very well.' She nodded. 'Tell me about Philip Masson.'

Suddenly Ian felt like a fly on the wall, ignored by them both.

They were each making terms now, and no longer pretending; and whatever Mitchell thought he could get, Jenny herself was as excited as she ought to be at the prospect of having someone on the inside, who was willing to trade with her.

'We don't know any of the answers.' Mitchell drew a matching breath. 'We didn't expect Masson to turn up.

But . . . when he did ... we didn't think Audley had anything to do with it — ' He shook his head slowly ' — because it's not his style . . . And, he hasn't the resources, anyway — '

'The Americans?' She cocked her head as she cut in. 'Or the Israelis — ? He's been kissing-cousins with both of them for God knows how long! Since Suez — ? Or, since the Seven Days' War, anyway: wasn't he the middle-man then? When the CIA double-crossed the State Department — ?'

Mitchell's mouth opened. 'My God! That was long before my time!' The mouth closed tight-shut. 'Who the hell have you been talking to? That's — for Christ's sake — !' He frowned at her.

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'Ancient history? Medieval history?' She paused. 'Or modern history — modern secret history?'

Ian knew exactly what she was doing: if the man was here to make a deal, she wanted him to be under no illusions about the strength of her position, which he had been trying to weaken with his emphasis on the danger that threatened them. So now it was her turn.

'You said it first, Paul.' He nodded as to an equal. 'She's been busy.' And that crack of Mitchell's about 'investigative journalism', couldn't be left unanswered: it had to be nailed once and for all. 'It's what we 'investigative writers' have to do, to earn our money: we have to earn it by being busy. And, because we're self- employed, we are busy: it's what Mrs Thatcher calls 'Private Enterprise'. And the emphasis is on both words equally. So we can't afford to waste our precious time.'

Mitchell gave him a something-less-than-friendly look. But at least that was better than being regarded as part of the furniture of the Shah Jehan private dining room.

'But you were wasting your time today.' Mitchell looked like a man who found himself where he didn't want to be. 'And mine.'