The Memory Trap

'Christ!' Audley began to make connections. There was a Catch-22 about old-fashioned field experience, rather like fighter-pilot's combat-time: the more you had, the safer you were. But that meant surviving to become safer. 'So Elizabeth was on the spot, you mean — was she?'

'Very much on the spot.' Butler bit on his own bullet. 'Kulik dummy1

wasn't the only one killed in the restaurant. Jaggard kept his word — he arranged for an escort from Berlin station, to look after her. And the West Germans had the place properly staked out — the Verfassungsschutz special squad was covering every exit. All the liaison procedures were observed: Jaggard played it by the book.'

Audley nearly repeated his previous blasphemy. 'Who else was killed?'

'Our Berlin station man.' Butler shook his head. 'You don't know him, David. But ... he was killed alongside her, anyway.'

Some 'routine pick-up'! 'And what the hell was the Verfassungsschutz doing — ?' What made it worse was that the special squad was good — not to mention well-armed.

'Enjoying their lunch?'

'They killed the assassin. He only got off two shots: one for Kulik and one for our man.' Butler shook his head again. 'It's no good blaming the Germans, David. But I'm not going into any of the detail now. Miss Loftus will put you into the picture soon enough.'

'Oh yes?' What made it worst of all was that it didn't fit properly — in fact, it didn't damn-well fit at all at this moment. But that had to wait, with the way Butler was looking at him. 'So now I go to Berlin to clear up the mess, do I?' He frowned at the departures monitor. The Stockholm boarding warning had gone off, and the remaining destinations were incomprehensible. 'Or —what?'

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'You go to Naples.'

' Naples?' If it had been Timbuktoo, it would have made no better sense.

'Paul Mitchell will meet you — he's already there. And Miss Loftus will also be there by the time you arrive. They will each brief you. But you are in charge, they know that.'

'I should damn-well think so — ' A disorderly crowd of questions jostled Audley's brain, pushing in through the hole Naples had made in his concentration ' — What's Mitchell doing in Naples?'

'His brief is to watch your back. But at the moment he's looking for someone I want you to talk to. Someone you know, David.' Butler stared at him. 'Do you remember Peter Richardson?'

The disorderly crowd stopped jostling as Naples suddenly became at least partially explicable. 'Yes, I remember him.'

He decided to leave it at that with his Neapolitan boarding light winking at him behind Butler.

'I have his service record here.'

Audley accepted the buff envelope automatically. But then he found he could no longer leave it at that after all. 'What has Peter Richardson got to do with Kulik? He retired years ago.

And he wasn't with us long, anyway.'

'Kulik gave us Richardson's name before he died. His name and your name again, David.' Butler continued to stare at him. 'Is there anything you know about Richardson that we dummy1

ought to know — ' He glanced down at the envelope ' — that may not be on record?'

So that was why he was here: to ask the old 64,000 dollar question!

'Without looking at the record . . .' Then he shrugged.

Obviously there wasn't anything of significance in it, otherwise he wouldn't have been given it. And the only thing he did know about Peter Richardson which wouldn't be in there had nothing to do with security matters, but was well covered by his own word of honour. 'But ... I can't think of anything. Only, I haven't set eyes on him for years. Not since he up and quit on us. And that would be ... '74, was it? Years ago, anyway. And I didn't know him all that well, even then.'

He lifted the envelope. 'Isn't that clear from the record?'

'He once pulled you out of trouble, in Italy.'

'He did — yes.' No use denying what was on record. 'And he was there up north, on that job of yours at Castleshields. But I still hardly knew him — he was Fred Clinton's man, not mine.' It was Kulik's word against his, it seemed. 'Fred's man

— Fred's mistake, wasn't he?' That would also be in the damn record, even if Sir Frederick Clinton himself was honourably dead-and-buried, so he didn't need to labour the point. But Kulik's word was final, of course: there was no arguing with a dead man. 'So you want me to talk to Peter Richardson. So I'll talk to him.' All the same he was still more than puzzled.

'You didn't sweat all the way from the Embankment just to ask me if I knew more than was in this rubbish — ' he held up dummy1

the envelope again ' — did you?'

'I want you to bring him in, David. We can't force him to come. But I think he may be safer under wraps for the time being. And he may listen to you, of all people.'

There was a sharp knock on the door. And, on cue, the Neapolitan boarding light had become desperate.

' Wait!' Butler gave the man outside his old Army voice.

'When I said that it could have been you in Berlin I meant it.

That's why I'm giving you Mitchell to watch your back. And your front, too.' The parade-ground volume had