The Memory Trap

regrets wouldn't put the clock back.

Mixed metaphors, he thought, also critically. But, trenches and Concordes and threadbare clocks aside, he must be gently encouraging now —

'I didn't mean that, Paul.' He could see the sea again. 'I know you're just obeying Jack Butler's orders.' But not the sea: this was Wimpy's Bay of Naples, still — it had to be. And . . . and there was even a road sign ahead —

Baia — Bacoli — Miseno —

dummy1

Not just Wimpy's bay: Wimpy's ancient Misenum, from which Admiral Pliny had heroically taken his fleet to succour the Vesuvius disaster-survivors of Pompeii and Stabia —

Damn!

'What I meant ... I don't see how anyone can know that I'm here — ' He almost added 'whereever I am'. But now he knew where he was, even if he didn't know why he was so far from Amalfi — 'except Peter Richardson — ?'

'And the Italians.' Mitchell accelerated after the police car in front. 'And the entire staff of the Palazzo Richardson — ?

And Uncle Tom Cobleigh and All, thereafter?' He nodded at Audley without taking his eyes off the police car. 'But chiefly Major — Peter — Richardson . . . yes.'

Suddenly everything was turned on its head, upside-down, in a way which he'd never even considered. But which, of course, Mitchell had quite naturally taken as a possibility from the moment he'd been saddled with his orders. 'Peter Richardson isn't a traitor, Paul.'

'No?' Slight shrug. 'Well. . . if you say not, David.' This time he managed a quick glance. 'After fifteen years — or more, would it be — ?' Now he was on the Miseno road. 'Are you willing to bet your life on that — never mind mine . . . which I still rather value — ?' Another shrug.

Audley waited.

'You're the boss.' Mitchell finally remembered the rest of his orders, but with an unconcealed air of resignation. 'And the dummy1

expert.'

There was more. And Audley wanted to hear it.

Shrug. 'Just so you remember that Kulik must also have reckoned no one knew where he was, David.'

That was the opening. 'I haven't forgotten that. But you told me that Peter Richardson is arranging this meeting. And you also told me not to worry, Paul.'

The police car ahead showed its brake-lights, and then turned off the road.

'So I did.' Mitchell followed suit. 'And so he has . . . more or less—yes.'

'More-or less' was like 'yes-and-no': as unsatisfactory as it was imprecise. Only now they were running out of road —

quite literally running out of it, as the final narrow stretch of tarmac ended and they bumped on to a pot-holed sand-swept track. And he could see the sea again, between a scatter of beach-cafes and kiosks, with a few parked cars and a jetty ahead: they had not only run out of road, they were running out of land, too.

Mitchell parked beside the police car, right on the foreshore.

'This is where we change horses, David. But you stay here for a moment.'

'Why?' The next horse had to be a boat. But there was no craft in view belonging to the police or the customs, let alone the Italian navy. Indeed, what he could see from here suggested that this wasn't one of the Baia-Miseno peninsula's dummy1

more fashionable anchorages.

'Because I say so.' Mitchell started to open his door, but then stopped. 'How much did Jack Butler tell you about Berlin, David? Apart from Kulik.'

Audley could guess what was coming. 'He said we lost a man.'

'That's right. Name of Sinclair — Edward Sinclair. I met him once.' Mitchell nodded. 'Big chap. Not specially bright. But big. And a fluent German-speaker. That was why Ted was in Berlin, probably.'

Audley couldn't place Edward Sinclair. But that merely confirmed what Butler had said. 'So what?'

'Big like you, David.' Mitchell paused, and looked around.

'Elizabeth will tell you in more detail. But when she got to the rendezvous, Kulik was already there, sitting at a table all by himself. And so was the man who shot him.' He stared at Audley. 'Do you get the picture? He was waiting for you, David.'

Audley stared back at him as the picture formed in his mind.

'Okay.' Mitchell nodded again. 'So I'm just going to have a quick look round. And then we'll take a boat trip. And we'll just hope Major Peter Richardson has got his act together properly, and that he hasn't forgotten all he was taught.

Okay?'

If there was one thing they could rely on, it was Peter Richardson's memory, thought Audley. But at that moment it dummy1

also looked as if it was the only thing. 'Where are we going?'

Mitchell grinned suddenly. 'We're going to be end-of-season tourists, David.' He swung his door open. 'How