The Memory Trap

Jake thought for a moment. 'Nobody liaises with them — not in the way you're seeming to imply, anyway.' He shook his head sadly. 'You British do not understand the nature of terrorism — Ireland, the Middle East... the old Empire before that.'

This was dangerous ground, which must be skirted now just as it had to be in the old days. 'And neither do the Russians?'

'And neither do the Russians — no matter what they think —

' Jake also felt the ground quiver beneath him ' —

Lukianov . . . was perhaps marginally safer there than any of your people, or the Americans, might have been. But that was more because the Russians have a heavier-handed response; no publicity or public muscle-flexing, just an old-fashioned eye-for-an-eye operation, without fuss. So that protected him in his dealings with all sorts of people.'

'Some of whom he's dealing with now?'

'That's certainly the way it looks, yes.'

'He must have something pretty damn-good to offer them.'

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Audley couldn't help speaking aloud to himself, banal though the thought which everyone had been thinking for days undoubtedly was. But no wonder everyone was scared!

'In answer to your question, old friend — ' Jake didn't bother to agree with him, he simply succumbed to temptation. But then Jake's capacity for alcohol-without-impairment had always been enviable. ' — no, not ultimately intellectual-bright . . . Crazy-bright, like a good soldier.' He flipped the metal top off, 'Or . . . tactical- bright, rather than strategic-bright . . . like a good Spetsnaz graduate — which he is — '

He considered Audley across the top of his Cotswold bottle '

— if he hadn't ever got hooked into the Brezhnev nepotism malt-whisky-smoked-salmon-ballerina-girlfriend circuit he might never have got past field-rank. He'd have stayed at the sharp end, with his old Spetsnaz comrades, in Afghanistan.'

He poured slowly, until froth oozed just above the rim of the glass. 'He'd have been like your Kipling-characters only on the other side, with his Cossacks instead of Gurkhas and all your other mercenaries . . . You and your 'Great Games'! 'A plague on both your houses' to that, now.' He raised his glass mockingly. 'But I do not think you can afford to play games now, great or otherwise.'

'No.' He could see that it was dark enough outside.

'You want to go.' Jake observed his glance. 'And quite rightly, too. Because what you must bear in mind now is not what Lukianov was, or what he may have been, but what he is, old friend. Because, as an old Spetsnaz man he was trained for dummy1

the big show-down — to fight and cause havoc far beyond his own lines, and single-handed if things went wrong. So now perhaps he has guessed that Berlin and Capri did not go quite as he planned. But that will not stop him going ahead, and doing what he planned to do. He will merely move that much quicker, by instinct: he will want to clinch his deal, and then fade away.' He grinned suddenly. 'It is like my old landlady in Crofton Park used to say, when I was a student here, and I stayed too long in bed. 'You must bustle, Mr Shapiro,' she would say. 'You must bustle!' So now you must bustle old friend. Or you will be too late —' But then he held up a calloused palm warningly ' — except that, first, I will make sure that the coast is clear for you, eh?' He put down his glass and picked up the phone beside the bed. 'Can I have the bar, please?' He nodded at Audley. 'I have minders down there . . . and elsewhere outside, you see.'

'Jake —'

'It's all right. . . hullo? Please, you have a red-headed gentleman at the bar, drinking, I think? A Mr Pollard — yes?'

He grinned at Audley. 'A red-headed Jew? Who would have thought it, eh?' Then he concentrated on the phone again.

'Hullo, Angus. Any visitors?' He paused. 'Indeed? Is that a fact? Thank you, Angus.' He replaced the phone. 'And a red-headed Jew named 'Angus', too! A Scottish Jew — such a clever boy.' He nodded at Audley. 'Your also-clever Dr Mitchell has a new girl-friend, he says. And Angus admires his taste, I think . . . Okay, David? The back entrance, is it?'

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'No.' There was only one way they could have got here so quickly, on his heels. So there was no shaking them off, if the car was bugged (as, when he thought about it, he should have expected, anyway). Or ... there were two ways, actually.

Because Jake would provide a private car. But the other way was better. And, anyway, he wanted to know if there was anything new from London, which fitted in with that way.

'No, Jake. I'll go down and talk to them. Don't worry yourself on my behalf.'

'Very well. You know best.' Jake went to the door, to unlock it. But then he touched Audley's arm, hesitantly yet deliberately all the same. 'But don't forget what I said, David old friend — eh? Lukianov ... I do not think, perhaps, that he is interested in you now ... or your Major Richardson, for whom all your people are also looking, I hear — yes?' But he didn't wait for an answer to that. 'However ... he is a hard man. And his Arab clients — they do not care for anyone, even themselves ... at least, those who do their bidding do not care, eh? Remember that the original 'Assassins' — the Hashasheen . . . they were one-way ticket holders. You remember?'

'How could I forget.' He couldn't bring himself to return the grin. 'Just like old times? Thanks, Jake.'

Jake patted his arm. 'Go with God then ... as they say.'

The blast of warmer air rising up the staircase, mixed with the early evening sounds and smells from the bars below, did dummy1

nothing to dispel the cold which had spread from that uncharacteristic touch. In all the years he could not ever remember Jake touching him deliberately like that — or even touching him at all, since that first original handshake so long ago. Jake wasn't a toucher, he was almost Anglo-Saxon in his fastidiousness. Even, when in the past he had