The Memory Trap

'I am here alone, Colonel Zimin. I have help . . . further down.'

That actually raised the Russian's eyebrows slightly. Then he snapped an order at Chunky, in fast Russian vernacular.

Chunky vanished behind Our Lady's statue, and Audley was left with his familiar problem with modern languages, in which the difference between the written and the spoken word was always a source of humiliation.

Or maybe it was because he couldn't believe his ears — ?

'What was that, Colonel — ?' It was the verb which eluded him, among the rest. But, after having guessed at it, he still couldn't believe it.

'You are either very brave, Dr Audley. Or you are very stupid.'

Zimin considered him dispassionately for an instant. 'After what happened in Berlin.' Then he seemed to decide to give Audley the benefit of the doubt, as from one genuine soldier to one temporary one (but one from a real war before the Colonel's time nevertheless, which therefore demanded recognition).

'Oh — yes?' In less pressing circumstances Zimin's wrong choice from those alternatives would have been as interesting as it was wounding to his already damaged self-esteem. But meanwhile the sense of that command, if he understood it correctly, had to be resolved. 'That order of yours, Colonel Zimin — to your man ... I'd be obliged if you would explain it dummy1

to me, nevertheless.'

'Obliged?' The word seemed to throw the Russian.

'Yes.' Audley realized that the word wasn't to blame: Zimin was waiting now for his instruction to be carried out, and until it had been then even the celebrated Dr Audley could not hold his attention absolutely. 'Obliged, Colonel.'

Zimin's lips tightened. 'It was not for your former colleague, Dr Audley.'

'I know that.' The man's waiting was infectious. 'Or ... I gathered that.'

'Then you also know that he is in great danger.'

If the Russian had been concentrating on him fully he would be amending 'brave' to 'stupid' now. But he was boxed in by his own doubt, just as Audley himself was by his own stupidity. 'Indeed? But not from you?'

Almost as though against his will, Zimin forced himself to attend to Audley. 'We do not want him dead, Dr Audley. As others do.'

Audley held his face steady. Tell them to kill the Arab was undoubtedly what Zimin had said, although 'kill' hadn't been the word he'd used: what he had just said made that certain, never mind the untidy events in Berlin.

'And we do not want you dead, either, Dr Audley. We do not want any . . . unnecessary violence in this matter. All we want is Major Richardson.'

So Berlin had been as much a disaster for the Russians as for dummy1

the British, albeit a different sort of disaster: in so far as that made sense, it made much better sense. Only he mustn't let his relief show, any more than his ignorance: anger was what he must show now. 'The correct word is 'kidnap', I believe, Colonel.'

'He will not be harmed. Nor will he be held very long.'

'But he will have been kidnapped. And my Government —'

The scream took them by surprise equally, with its throaty mixture of mortal agony and terror: he saw Zimin's eyes widen as the sound rose from below to their left, among the trees, only to be cut off instantly, as though by a switch, leaving them staring at each other.

Then Zimin's mouth opened in a silent swear-word, that something which should have been accomplished equally silently had been bungled so noisily.

For a moment there was no sound at all: the very lack of sound mocked them both. Then it was shattered by another scream — but a very different one: a high-pitched cry punctuated by breath, ululating unstoppably.

That was a woman's scream! The certainty raced through Audley's brain as he thought also of Elizabeth disobeying him. But then the scream hiccoughed into hysterics; and . . .

Elizabeth wouldn't scream — wouldn't have hysterics . . .

and, anyway, it wouldn't be Elizabeth who disobeyed him —

Zimin was staring at him, ready-tensed as though the sound had tightened up his spring.

dummy1

Audley relaxed himself slowly and deliberately. Once upon a time, maybe, he might have chanced a forward's weight against a three-quarter's speed at this distance. But that time was long gone, and the Russian had far too many years'

youthful advantage. So all he had now, to steady his fear, was the echo of the man's words — no unnecessary violence? —

and his own wits.

The scream ran out of breath at last, degenerating into sobs.

But now a man was shouting, somewhere down among the ruins.

He drew a deep breath. 'I rather think — ' Embarrassingly, he had to clear his throat ' — I rather think your men have queered both our pitches now, Colonel. . . I'm afraid.' He spread his hands as eloquently as he could, and shook his head.