The Memory Trap

at them at this minute no more accounted for those whitened knuckles on the hands of the steering-wheel than did the little car's gearbox account for that bruising start.

'Uh-huh?' If Paul Mitchell was frightened, then perhaps Jack Butler was right — and perhaps he ought to be properly frightened too. But fear was in itself a debilitating influence, so whatever was scaring Mitchell, a display of Audley-temperament would serve no useful purpose.

'Uh-huh?' As Mitchell turned to him he just had time to compose his own expression into what he hoped was one of innocent inquiry. 'Is he safe and sound, Paul?'

Mitchell frowned at him, as though such unexpected mildness was just another burden, and a rather unfair one. 'I think . . . so far as I know he is — yes.'

It was going to be very hard to keep up this Butler-like equanimity. And, in any case, overdoing it would only worry Mitchell more. 'You think — ?'

Activity ahead mercifully distracted Mitchell. The police seemed to have convinced the army that they were not terrorists making their getaway, and barriers were being variously raised and moved.

Audley braced himself, but this time Mitchell recovered his Porsche-driver's skill, launching them after the lead car as though they were at the end of a tow-rope, yet still leaving dummy1

himself half-a-second in which to grimace at his passenger.

'You know that all this has been happening rather quickly, David — hoicking you back from the States and me from . . .

where I was — ?'

Where Mitchell had been was probably Dublin, thought Audley. And that wasn't a place for rest and recreation. So, until he'd met Elizabeth, he might actually have been cheering up. But after that he might suspect that he'd exchanged the frying pan for the fire. Only that wasn't what he was about to enlarge upon. 'Something's already gone wrong, you mean.' He tried to sound resigned to such an accustomed turn of events rather than angry.

Mitchell made a face at the thickening traffic ahead. 'There was a misunderstanding, let's say.'

'Oh yes?' Resignation was actually more appropriate: since no one yet understood what was happening, what else could be expected? 'Go on.'

'London sent an SG to Rome, warning them that I was coming — and that you were also en route, and that you wanted to talk to Major Richardson.' Mitchell massaged the steering-wheel. 'To be fair to them in Rome, David ... the SG

wasn't all that explicit. It didn't specify any sort of emergency in asking them to locate Richardson.'

'It didn't mention Berlin, you mean?' That was hardly surprising. 'So what did they do?'

Mitchell half-shrugged. 'They had his address in Amalfi of dummy1

course. And a bit more than that, seeing he'd been in the business himself in the old days. So they didn't think twice about picking up the phone and calling him up with the good news that you were about to drop in at his palazzo — ' He glanced at Audley ' — is it really a palazzo — ?'

'They mentioned my name?' Audley brushed the question aside.

'They didn't at first — ' The slipstream of an enormous lorry made the little car shudder ' — they didn't actually get through to him, only to some servant at the palazzo . . . what do palazzos have? Butlers — ? Major-domos?' The vision of a sun-bathed palace on the Amalfi coast, complete with a uniformed staff, animated a curiosity tinged with envy in Mitchell. 'And it's the old family place too, isn't it? His mum was a marchesa or a principessa, or something, wasn't she?'

'They mentioned my name?' There was no particular reason why Mitchell should know anything about Richardson.

Except that Mitchell always knew more than was good for him.

'Only when he played hard to get. I think they rather thought he must be an old buddy of yours, David. And when the . . .

major-domo, or whatever . . . when he kept telling 'em the Master was busy, or otherwise-engaged, and could he take a message per favore . . . then I'm afraid they did name-drop.'

'And what happened then?' Audley still couldn't put that 'yes-and-no', 'no-and-yes', together.

dummy1

'Then I arrived — in Rome. And I had a little talk with Jack.

And, of course, he told me to play it by the book, and tell the Italians we were on their patch, looking to have a chat with an old comrade.'

Audley's heart sank again as he imagined what the Italians would have on file under Audley, David Longsdon. It would have been all right if old General Montuori was still alive, albeit in well- earned retirement. But with no one to explain the truth between the lines recording his one-time Italian activities Montuori's successor would inevitably expect trouble once that name re-appeared on his blotter — just as Peter Richardson might also have done.

Damn! 'Are you about to tell me that Richardson is now missing, Peter?'

'Yes — yes-and-no, David —'

'And just what the hell is that meant to mean?' As he turned on Mitchell the car plunged into a tunnel, startling him as it bathed everything in garish orange light.

'It's not quite as bad as it seems, maybe.' The orange light flickered eerily on Mitchell's face. 'The Italians got a bit uptight at first.'

Surprise, surprise! 'They did?'