'What d'you mean?'
In the end, it was Jake Shapiro's advice he was taking, Audley realized. Henry Jaggard might be sitting on his hands, practising a wait-and-see policy; and even the Russians themselves, hampered presumably by a similar dummy1
need to avoid embarrassing trouble in England, also appeared to be playing for time. But Jake had been scared, and it had been Jake's fear which had disturbed his own sleep last night on the ancient and uncomfortable camp- bed in Sophie's attic. And, apart from all of that —and even if Jake's fear proved to be unfounded — what he was doing would irritate Jaggard most satisfyingly.
'This is supposed to be a preventative operation.' He turned on Mitchell haughtily. ''No trouble' is what everyone keeps telling me. But we've already lost three days saying 'No trouble' to each other, it seems to me —three days since Berlin, and thirty-six hours or more since Capri, and we're still saying 'No trouble', as though nothing happened there.
And Lukianov's still free as air.' He observed a little red umbrella blossom beside the Vauxhall. 'So, okay then! 'No trouble', is what I'm trying to ensure, by spreading these poor devils all around here as obviously as possible right now, in the rain, to slow Lukianov up if he's here — ' And now Richardson himself was coming to join them: and 'No trouble' probably wouldn't suit him at all. But the hell with Peter Richardson! ' — or, if he isn't — '
'If he isn't, there'll be hell to pay, David. Taking over the British Army, as though you're God Almighty — ' Mitchell shook his head helplessly ' — that is, if they're fools enough to be — ' he stopped suddenly ' — Christ!'
'To be taken over?' Audley swung towards another new sound, even though he recognized it instantly from his long-dummy1
dead youth: the trucks were disgorging their unhappy occupants in the rain. He turned back to Mitchell and the others, who were staring wide-eyed past him at the explosion of military activity he had caused. 'Well, it would seem that 'Aid to the Civil Power' still works, anyway. Even if it is only the Territorial Army. But that'll do for a start.'
'The Territorial Army — ?' Words failed Mitchell.
'What's going on?' Richardson looked from side to side as two pairs of stony-faced Territorials doubled past them down the road, old-fashioned FN rifles at the high port, equipment squeaking and clanking unmusically.
'You may well ask, Peter.' Mitchell paused as one of the soldiers stopped beside his car. 'It would appear that we're being protected from General Lukianov and his Ay-rab legions — presumably with empty rifles ... Is that what they are supposed to be doing, Dr Audley?'
That was actually somewhat embarrassing now, Audley decided as he watched the two men who weren't guarding their cars disappear into the hedgerows on each side of the road. But it looked very much as though the sergeant-major had assumed that his order had involved an instant emergency, however incomprehensible, while they must still be a mile or two from the Maerdy Castle turning. 'How near are we to where you found the crashed van —and the spade, Peter?'
Richardson shrugged. 'It's just up the road from here, I think.'
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'You think?'
'Yeah. I think.' Richardson gave him a disinheriting look. 'I don't expect they've erected a momument there, but I reckon I'll know the place. It was on a blind corner near a farm track, where the road dips down. A damn dangerous place if you're not careful. That was why I stopped originally, and hung on there. It was . . . this was my old shortcut from Hereford via Pen-y- ffin, to Monmouth and the Forest of Dean. I always liked to drive through the forest, to Gloucester, off the main road . . . if I'd had a few drinks with
— with the person I used to visit.' He looked around morosely, with the rain already plastering down his frosted black hair. 'I used to admire the scenery. God only knows why!'
The motor-cyclist's engine roared into life, re-directing Audley's attention up the road, towards the sergeant-major, who was returning with his officer at last.
He squared his shoulders and moved to meet them.
'What the hell!' exclaimed Mitchell loudly behind him. 'Get away from my car, damn you — !'
Mitchell's explosive anger spun him round on his heel, so that he caught the whole sequence of movement together: the TA man opening the driver's door of the Porsche — and, another soldier appearing round the back of the truck — the fresh-faced corporal who had been so uselessly polite —
Only now he wasn't being polite.
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'Halt!' The corporal's sub-machine-gun, as well as the corporal himself, barred Mitchell's way. And there was something about both of them that backed the command brutally, turning the world upside down as it stopped Mitchell in his tracks.
'You will come now.' The voice of the hypothetical sar'-
major/British Telecom supervisor was like that of the polite corporal
