The Memory Trap

'You didn't lose him. He didn't turn up.' Butler's jaw set firm.

'And with the Russians there too, as well as those Arabs, that was just as well.'

Good old Jack! 'He's still loose, is he? Old Peter — ?' That was the real worry. 'The Italians were locking all the gates when I left.'

Butler drew a breath. 'They think he's off their patch now.'

Audley relaxed. Richardson under Italian lock-and-key might have made things easier. But Richardson still free strengthened his own position right now. 'Why do you think that?'

'Someone answering his description chartered a plane at Rome late yesterday afternoon, just before they closed things up. An American businessman, with a good American passport. Name of Dalingridge.' Butler frowned slightly at him. 'The Americans don't know anyone of that name . . . Do you?'

The name had caught him so much by surprise that he'd let his face show it. 'Where was he heading?'

'You know the name?'

It was too late to deny it. But, also, it was altogether too good to be true . . . unless Richardson had intended it to be exactly that. 'I might — yes.'

'From where?' Butler was past doubting that Mr Dalingridge dummy1

was Major Richardson. So now it was far too late to deny it.

'Christian name . . . 'Richard', by any chance?' And it was fair enough, anyway: old Jack had given his orders and had taken all the responsibility for what he'd done (and not done), with no recriminations. So he deserved a bit of good news.

''Richard Dalingridge', Jack?'

Butler nodded. 'That's a name he would have used, is it?'

Then he nodded the question away as superfluous. 'And he'd expect you to know that, would he?'

Old Jack was smart, and quick with it, as well as loyal, the new question reminded Audley. But that, of course, was why he deserved to be where he was, as well as accounting for it.

'He would — yes. Where did he go?'

'Mmm . . .' Butler was doing his arithmetic. 'He went to Lyons. And that's all we've got so far.'

It was enough, anyway. By high-speed train 'Mr Richard Dalingridge' could have been soon enough in Paris. And then it would have been time for another passport, from his professional smuggler's stock, prudently acquired for such a rainy day. And what would that name be? 'Hugh Saxon', maybe . . . becaue 'Hugh Dallingford' would sound a bit too much like 'Dalingridge' — ? Or . . . maybe he'd reckon that one signal from Italy, where it would be sure to be picked up, would be enough.

He grinned at Butler. Once the shock of that retirement dummy1

criminality was assimilated, it came as no surprise that Peter hadn't forgotten any of his lessons — or anything else from the old days. Yes . . . Peter, of all people, by God!

But his grin wasn't being returned. 'Is there something I should know now, David?' Butler glanced towards the door.

'I can't keep them waiting much longer.'

Audley disciplined his face. There really wasn't any reason to keep grinning, anyway. Not in view of all he still didn't know . . . which, apart from Peter's most likely intention . . .

included almost everything else that mattered. 'Not really.'

He hardened his heart against Butler in his own interest.

'We've still got the inside track on Richardson . . . But then there's this terrorist business.' He looked at his feudal lord accusingly. 'You didn't exactly come clean about that yesterday.' But he mustn't know too much about that. And, anyway, it was more than likely that it had been Henry Jaggard who hadn't come clean wih Butler. 'Or didn't you know that, Jack?' Better to let old Jack off the hook altogether. So he shrugged. 'The Italians seemed to think there was a connection. Even after Comrade Zimin appeared on the scene. But they weren't very forthcoming after that.

They just wanted to get shot of me as quickly as possible after they'd decided that I wasn't going to be helpful.' He cocked his head at Butler. 'There is a connection, I take it?'

Butler's lips tightened. 'I think you'd better hear what Jaggard has to say. Then we can decide what to do.'

So that was the way the land lay. This was Jaggard's dummy1

business, not theirs — they had merely been 'helping out'.

And, whoever was to blame (or, as the case might be, whoever finally carried the can, justly or not) for Berlin and Capri, Butler wasn't going to be caught twice.

But that wouldn't do at all — not now! 'I don't see that we have any choice in the matter, Jack.' He took a step towards the door.

'Choice?' Butler didn't move. 'It isn't your job to run Henry Jaggard's errands. And it isn't my job to waste your time.'

In another moment Butler would be telling him he was also

'a bit long in the tooth'. But it wouldn't do to get angry: if there was one thing he'd learnt during his long years with Fred Clinton it was that a good salesman tailored his sales pitch to the customer. 'No, of course. But. . . I'm the only person with whom Peter Richardson is likely to make contact.' He gave Butler a sly look.' 'Mr Dalingridge'