A Prospect of Vengeance

'Was he?' Jenny picked up her private bottle again. 'And yet . . . there was that man — the man with the contract. And now we're not safe, even here?' She applied the bottle to her glass. 'Even here?'

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'You're not safe anywhere. Not with MacManus after you—'

''The big league' — yes! So you keep saying.' In spite of her best efforts, glass shook against glass. 'And yet, you don't know why — ?' She got the wine into the glass at last. 'You only know that David Audley had nothing to do with Philly Masson's death, back in 1978?'

'Yes.' Mitchell watched her drink. 'And — yes, I don't know why. If I did I'd know better what to do next. All I know is, I'll be able to think a lot straighter if I don't have to worry about you two.' He looked from her to Ian, and then back to her.

'Just for a few days, anyway?' Deep breath. 'For your own sakes, if not for mine — ' He looked at Ian almost pleadingly.

'For God's sake, man . . . MacManus isn't just a name in the index of some book, he's real. And he's got your name in his own little book, which he keeps in his head — your name until he crosses it out!' Back to Jenny. 'Maybe he hasn't got

' The Honourable Miss Jennifer Fielding-ffulke' in it yet. But there has to be big money on Ian's head. Because MacManus is taking a big risk to earn it, I tell you. Because . . . there's a warrant out — Christ! There are half-a-dozen warrants out on him — in half the countries in Europe, Ireland included ...

So neither of you are safe, as of now.'

The dishes were still clattering downstairs. And Paul Mitchell might be a good actor — he probably was a good actor. But (as in Beirut) Ian knew that he himself was a clerk at heart, not a man of action. And Jenny was looking at him.

'I think they call it 'Protective Custody', darling.' She smiled dummy2

at him. 'But we can consider it as part of the rich tapestry of life's experience — one of the hazards of 'investigative journalism' in a free society?' She turned the smile on Mitchell. 'And it'll look jolly good in our book eventually, won't it? How the Security Service protects the citizen —

even the fearless writer? The fearless inconvenient writer — ?

We could make a fortune out of your solicitude for our safety, Dr Mitchell. And maybe they'll promote you — ? I could have a word with Daddy . . . and Daddy can drop a word in the Prime Minister's ear.' Having inserted the knife, she couldn't resist turning it. But then she pretended to return to Ian.

''Protective Custody', if not 'Durance Vile' — shall we be good citizens ... if only for 'a few days, anyway' — and for our

'own' sakes — ?' Then she spoilt it by not waiting for him to agree. 'Very well, Paul! So ... what do you want us to do?'

For a moment Ian thought she might have overdone it.

Because anyone who knew Jenny when she was as brittle as this wouldn't trust her an inch. But Mitchell didn't know her, he saw instantly: Mitchell only knew that she ought to be frightened, as he had intended her to be, and deluded himself consequently that she was hiding her fears behind her banter.

'You stay here, for the time being.' Mitchell was infinitely relieved by her surrender, so that he insulted Ian by not even looking at him.

'You mean ... we are safe, under Mr Malik's protection?' She was so sure of herself now that she prodded Mitchell dummy2

unmercifully.

'This is your secret place, is it?' Mitchell was still relaxing.

'Nobody knows about Mr . . . Malik — ?' For the second time Mitchell tasted what was in his own glass, which he had hardly touched hitherto.

'Yes.' Suddenly she wasn't quite so sure.

'Yes. Well . . . there's a term we have for that: it's called

'Making pictures'.' Mitchell nodded, and tasted his drink again. 'Which means, believing what we'd like to believe.' He wanted to drink more deeply, but he resisted the temptation, and looked at his watch instead. 'So . . . maybe you've got another hour or two, at best.' He looked up from his watch.

'But you let me worry about that now. And when I come back . . . then we can maybe make a deal — okay?' He started to turn away, towards the door.

'Paul — wait!'

Ian agreed with her: now it was all happening too quickly.

' Mitchell — ! '

Mitchell turned. 'This is your secret place — isn't it?'

Jenny drew a deep breath. 'What's the deal?'

'How do I know?' He shrugged. Then he concentrated on them both. 'Well . . . let's say ... if I have to throw David Audley to the wolves . . . then you can be the wolves — how's that, for starters — ?' He paused for a second — two seconds

— while Ian's mouth opened, but before he had time to look at Jenny. And then he opened the door and was gone dummy2

through it before they could exchange faces. And then it was too late.