The Memory Trap

that it — Que culo d'angelo! — was also undamaged.

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'Huh!' And even now Mitchell wasn't altogether happy: he wanted to take in the other side and the front as well. 'Well, you've led us a pretty dance, David! To this godforsaken place!' But then he remembered his duty and his manners.

'Major Richardson, I presume?'

'Mr Mitchell?' Richardson was superficially much more relaxed. And, even though Mitchell wasn't even a name to him, his unfailing memory of what Audley had said the night before pinpointed the identification beyond doubt. 'It is a pleasant car to drive. But you should try a Ferrari. Or a Lamborghini, Mr Mitchell.'

'Oh yes?' Mitchell had decided to dislike Richardson on first sight even more than in absentia. 'It's 'Dr Mitchell' actually, since we're into meaningless titles, Major.'

'Oh yes?' The wet wind ruffled Richardson's hair as he looked away, pretending to study the glorious wreck of Tintern Abbey across the road. 'Not a Doctor of Divinity, evidently.'

He nodded towards the ruins. 'Only godforsaken in godforsaking times, perhaps?' But then he couldn't resist looking directly at Mary Franklin beyond Mitchell's shoulder.

'Franklin, Major Richardson.' Mary Franklin wasn't impressed either. But she let Richardson take her hand nevertheless.

'Miss Franklin.' Richardson shook her hand like an Englishman, and then noted the absence of rings on its fingers, like an Italian. 'You are another of my successors in Research and Development, I take it?'

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'No, Major Richardson.' She studied the man coolly. 'But don't let it worry you.'

'I am not worried, Miss Franklin. I have nothing to be worried about — at least, not in England.' He glanced at the abbey ruins again. 'Or, is this Wales — on this side of the river?'

'Except illegal entry.'

'Travelling on a false passport.' Mitchell supplemented the charge.

'You might find that hard to prove, Mr Mitchell — Dr Mitchell . . . Miss Franklin.' Richardson studied them in turn.

'But does it matter, now that I'm on your team again? And by ... invitation, shall we call it?' He settled on Mitchell. 'It was you that David here phoned last night, wasn't it, Dr Mitchell? To give you your orders? Oughtn't you to be reporting to him now — rather than wasting time with me?'

Mitchell breathed in deeply. But then controlled himself.

'David —'

The rasp in Mitchell's voice had sounded too much like steel leaving its scabbard. 'All right, Paul.' But Audley knew he had to make allowances for what must have been a long night.

'Major Richardson will be with us, for the time being.'

'He still needs me, is what Dr Audley means.' Richardson had evidently recognized the sound too, but was making no such allowance. 'So you must make the best of it... for the time being. After that . . . we'll see, eh?'

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'Yes.' Mary Franklin took centre-stage diplomatically before Mitchell could accept that challenge. 'But, in that case, Major, why are we meeting here, and not in London? Is this

'the best of it'?'

'Good question, Miss Franklin. The best — and perhaps the worst.' The wind ruffled Richardson's hair again. 'This is fine country — the borders, the Welsh marches. My country, it used to be, I thought ... I used to come this way, up from the south, where my regiment was stationed after I left Sir Frederick Clinton's service — your service, Miss Franklin?

No?' He shook his head. 'Never mind! I used to come this way to visit friends at Pen-y-ffin up the road, en route to Hereford, when I was cultivating old SAS friends there, to get a transfer to them — ' he cocked his head at her this time ' —

SAS headquarters being at Hereford, you know? And all this being one of their stamping grounds, where the English and the Welsh used to raid each other in the olden times —

The mountain sheep are sweeter,

But the valley sheep are fatter;

We therefore deemed it meeter

To carry off the latter.

Do you know the poem, Miss Franklin? It gets very bloodthirsty after that. Did you bring General Lukianov's dummy1

picture with you, like Dr Audley asked?'

'Yes.' But she didn't move. 'What's he got to do with it?'

'This could be his country too. But I won't know for sure until I see his picture.' Richardson put out his hand. 'Please — ?'

She took a stiffened envelope from her shoulder-bag. 'This is a recent photograph, Major.'

'Of course.' The wind fluttered the photograph as he slid it out. 'I'll make the same allowances as I do for myself, when I look in the mirror.'

They all waited.