The Memory Trap

What was it that they shared, from the old days? Or ... if they didn't share it (as he increasingly suspected; because, if they'd shared it. . . then why had he no slightest clue to what it might be —?)... no, if they didn't share it . . . what had Fred Clinton given Peter Richardson to do, about which David Audley had had no inkling . . . but which was a good and sufficient reason for David Audley and the man Kulik to die, in Berlin — ?

He reached the statue at last, coming out on the highest point — on to a wide stretch of gravel low-walled on its cliff-side and with white ornamental railings above the tiers of ruins on the island-side, with the whole of Capri beyond, and an ugly little chapel at his back. But it wasn't a statue of the Emperor Tiberius at all, presiding over the tremendous wreck of his palace, as it ought to have been by right and by reason. He'd been quite wrong in his assumption —

Wrong?

Even as he frowned up at the statue he was aware that he wasn't alone on the top of the Villa Jovis (and, if he'd thought more about it, he'd have placed Jupiter himself up there, if not Tiberius. But he would have been wrong there, too, dummy1

wouldn't he!)

Wrong!

So now there were two men away to his left, over by the railings, admiring their view of Capri from peak to peak.

But ... two men in suits? ('That won't do,” Mitchell had said.) But, anyway, neither of them was Peter Richardson —

He realized, as he stared at them, that one of them was returning his stare: a stocky, almost chunky, man. Whereas the other man was still admiring the view, quite unconcerned. But then he moved slightly, away from his chunky friend, no more than two or three steps, running his hand along the top rail lightly as he did so, yet still not turning full-face towards Audley.

But those steps were enough, even without full-face. Even the steps weren't necessary. What was necessary now was to decide what he himself was going to do. Except that decision predicated choice. And he really didn't have any choice now.

He walked towards the railings, listening to the sound of his shoes on the gravel, crunch by crunch, and not looking at the chunky man any more.

'Beautiful view.' This close his last hope evaporated. But it had never really been a hope, anyway. Because, with some people, recognition had to be face-to-face (and, anyway, he wasn't good with faces). But with others it was how they stood that was unforgettable, with each part of their weight always distributed ready for action, even when they were at dummy1

rest.

'Very beautiful.' The man turned to him.

The movement was fluidly casual. Zimin had been a soldier, and a good one — a trainer as well as an honours graduate of Spetsnaz. But he would also have made a damn good rugby player in the three-quarter line of the club lucky enough to recruit him: that was what Audley had thought, that one and only other time.

'We were admiring the view last time we met, I seem to remember, Colonel.' For the life of him, he couldn't smile this time. But then Zimin wasn't smiling now, either. 'New Zealand House — the sixteenth floor?' Zimin definitely wasn't smiling: he looked tired and drawn under his tan, as he had not done that evening, when they'd watched the lights of London go on together. 'What was it? The Wool Secretariat reception — ?' Indeed, it was perhaps time to react innocently to such lack of friendliness. 'It is Colonel Zimin, isn't it?'

'Yes, Dr Audley.' The man was almost frowning at him. 'It is Dr Audley, isn't it? The . . . celebrated Dr Audley?'

That voice was also memorable, with its curiously Germanic inflection. And, of course, he had discovered the reason for that in his subsequent check: Zimin was on record as having the gift of tongues, but German was his second language, just as Germany had been his Spetsnaz speciality. And he had learned his English as a German-speaker for that reason, no doubt. And probably his Italian and all the rest, too. That was dummy1

how Spetsnaz worked.

'Not very celebrated at the moment.' He felt a trickle of sweat run down his face near his ear, which could have been caused by the un-English October sun, but which was more likely the muck-sweat of fear. 'The over-heated Dr Audley, Colonel.' He managed to produce some sort of smile at last, even in the knowledge that Zimin's chunky minder was now almost out of view behind him. 'I have very poor temperature control. Typical Anglo-Saxon — or North-West European, maybe . . . Although, of course, my other Norman ancestors did rather well in these parts, actually. So maybe it's just me.'

'Is that so?' On the surface, Zimin was humiliatingly cool-and-calm, just as the rest of him still seemed to hang loose.

But Audley sensed that inside he was dancing on his toes and wound up clockwork-tight: the whole joke — no joke! —

might be that he must be assuming 'the celebrated Dr Audley' would be even-better-protected here, so far from home.

'Oh yes!' After that chance meeting at the New Zealand House reception Zimin would have done his homework too, if he hadn't done it before (and, indeed, if it had been such a chance meeting on his part, also). And that was what he himself must hold on to now — if only to stop this embarrassing sweat-of-fear which was running off him: that the Russian must be putting two-and-two together logically, when the real mathematics of the situation were such a hopeless mess. 'All these parts —from here to Sicily — were dummy1

once Norman territory, long ago. And they made a better job of running them than anyone has since.' Smile, Audley! 'And long after that, in Nelson's time or thereabouts . . . there was a British garrison here. Only, then the French threw us off.