idea, which he sold to Kulik. And then they studied the form together, and came up with General Lukianov, who was angry and disaffected with life in general. And with the result of defective tactics in Afghanistan — defeat and the planned evacuation — in particular.' He nodded again. 'And who, additionally, was up for the chop, professionally if not personally . . . Only, with his Middle Eastern contacts from the old days, he then came up with a variation of Prusakov's idea, it seems.'
'Which was?'
Jake sighed. 'Well . . . that's what the Russians don't know, exactly. But it was selling something to Abu Nidal, we're pretty sure. Which, of course, isn't the same as doing business with you and the Americans, or anyone in the West
— that would have been treason, to Lukianov's way of dummy1
thinking.' He gazed at Audley in silence for a moment. 'But, unfortunately, they don't know what it is that he's selling.
Because Prusakov and Kulik between them have sabotaged the collective KGB/GRU memory bank, erasing whole sections of it — ' He shook his head quickly ' — don't ask me how. It wasn't supposed to be possible, with all the fail-safes and back-ups . . . And then there were the old-fashioned files
—'
'Files?' Audley knew about such old-fashioned things. Files were what he had once browsed through at leisure like a contented herbivore, and almost without let or hindrance in the days of Sir Frederick Clinton, who had come to take a relaxed view of his omnivorous habits. He had even done a bit of browsing that very morning, like in those halcyon days.
'They've gone, too. Shredded, presumably. And that was General Lukianov, for sure. Because Kulik and Prusakov wouldn't have had access rights to them.' Jake nodded again.
'Their job was to fix the computers, however that could be done . . . Which I frankly don't understand — whether they simply did some sort of demolition job, or left triggers behind to be activated by the right inquiry — I don't know.
Because all this new information technology is way over my head now.'
'I see.' It was Audley's turn to nod. The technology didn't matter: in this context computers were only glorified files.
But files were the beginning of everything — they were any organization's collective memory, and they were sacrosanct.
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'No wonder they're desperate — never mind what Lukianov himself is up to.'
'The Russians?' The Israeli grimaced at him. They've been running around in circles, trying to find what's been wiped out. Because they can't start trying to reconstruct what's gone until they find there's a gap. Then — in theory, anyway —
they can try to get on to the original sources of the information which might have been in it. But it's one hell of a job, even for the experts. And some of the stuff has probably gone forever — that's what our people reckon.' Jake's expression changed, becoming almost quizzical. The funny thing is ... or, 'funny' isn't the right word . . . our whizz-kids aren't exactly rubbing their hands — they're as worried as everyone else is. Because they've now got to make damn sure that our secret information retrieval systems are as fail-safe as the missile systems have to be — safe from human mischief as well as human error. Which is near as damn-it impossible, I'd say.' He finished his beer, wiped his moustache, and set his glass down. 'But which is the least of our problems at the moment, David.'
'Yes.' It wasn't their problem at all, thought Audley dismissively. 'Jaggard doesn't know any of this, you say?'
'Not yet. But he will know soon enough.'
'How?'
'The Americans will tell him. We have ensured that one of their sources will pick it up. At ... his own risk, of course.'
Jake sighed. 'He would have got it soon enough, probably.
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Because it isn't the sort of thing that can be kept under wraps long — especially as Lukianov will certainly have taken out more than he needed, just to muddy the waters.' He spread his hands. 'We don't know how much they've managed to reconstruct as of now. But they'll have started with him. And, of course, they know that you and Richardson are involved.
So it would seem a reasonable guess that everything that was ever on file about Messrs Lukianov, Audley and Richardson has been consigned to oblivion, whatever else may have gone.' One bushy eyebrow lifted mockingly. 'You should perhaps thank him for that, even though he did not intend you to enjoy the benefits of it?'
'Uh-huh?' But there were people enough over there who could quickly fill most of that gap, Audley concluded dispassionately. In fact, old Nikolai Panin could probably do the job single-handed from his honourable and well- deserved retirement niche in Kiev University.
'Flattering, too . . . when you think about it.' Jake played idly with the bottle-opener, as though tempted again by his remaining stock of Cotswold bitter. 'That he wanted to erase you personally, as well as your record —don't you think?'
Audley looked at his watch, and then at the window. It was almost dark enough now — and he had no time to gratify Jake's curiosity about the truth of Berlin. 'How bright is General Lukianov, Jake?'
'Bright?'
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'I know he's a gambler. But he backed two favourites which didn't stay the course — Afghanistan and Brezhnev's son-in-law. And before that ... the Middle East? Your home ground.'
'That's right.' Jake could hardly deny that. 'We didn't really overlap, though. My field's Egypt — as you well know . . . Or, it was. But his was Syria and Lebanon. With side trips to Libya and the old Barbary Coast.'
'The terrorists' home ground. And he liaised with them?'
