'Miss Franklin . . . what are you proposing? What ... is 'not enough', please?'
She nodded gravely, not triumphantly. (And, humiliatingly, Jake was wrong: the old ones weren't the best ones, by God!) 'The Arabs are not a problem you said?' She didn't even wait for the Russian to nod. 'And Lukianov — ?'
Zimin actually slumped slightly. 'He is no problem either, Miss Franklin. But. . . what are you proposing — ?' He touched his own wrist, where his own watch lay. And that, for a guess, was because whatever he might be thinking about all of this, what was certain beyond all of it was that he was in a far country now, and far from home.
'No problem?' Not an inch — not a metric centimetre, or even a millimetre: she merely massaged her wrist-watch on her even-tinier wrist. 'Why not?'
'Because we have him.' No 'Miss Franklin' this time —never mind 'Madam': she wasn't giving him time to dig himself in, with his own little all-purpose spade.
'Where?'
'Not here —'
'Where?' No time even to cut the first sod of the next fox-hole!
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'In France, Miss Franklin.'
France was always the clearing-house. Even 'Mr Dalingridge' had headed for France first: if you weren't a French problem, then you had twenty-four hours — or even thirty-six. But if you were . . . then you'd already run out of time!
'So we're safe, here?' Even beyond certainty she was inexorable. 'Very well, Colonel Zimin — ' Only the briefest nod, beyond certainty ' — you must leave at once — ' The nod included what was happening beyond the door and the dirty kitchen window ' — How soon will you be away, with your . . . property?'
No trouble! thought Audley, with a mixture of relief and bitterness: the days of Audley were gone.
Zimin nodded: the days of Zimin were the days of Jaggard.
'Before nightfall, Miss Franklin ... If there are no obstacles to our passage — ' But then a hint of remembered doubt intruded ' — Dr Audley — ?'
It was like the poet had foretold — not with a bang, but a whimper! Yet all this, after they had taken Lukianov, had only been because they had feared that 'the celebrated Dr Audley', once roused, might have nosed out their Spetsnaz dump.
'That's the way it is, Colonel.' He tried to make it sound the way he would have once said it. But it still tasted like ashes.
'For what it's worth . . . you have my word on it.'
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For a time, after Zimin had gone, no one said anything. Not even Peter Richardson, who was full of unsaid things.
Then, when the last sound outside had faded into the rain, Mitchell went to the window and peered out of it.
'Phew!' He looked at Audley. 'Your word's good, is it?'
Audley could only look at Mary Franklin. Not-knowing was where he'd started, so not-knowing at the end turned full circle. 'Well, Miss Franklin — ?'
As though suddenly domesticated, she was exploring the filthy kitchen. She had found a packet of tea, and there was a half-full bottle of milk and a bowl of lumpy sugar already on the table. And now she'd discovered an old-fashioned electric kettle, with a frayed lead still connected to a switch in the wall, which was itself at the end of a crudely-stapled wire running out of the ceiling.
'What — ?' She turned towards him as she filled the kettle at the sink.
'What happens now?' Mitchell let the curtain fall on the silence outside. 'They have a clear run, do they?'
'Yes . . .' She scanned the kitchen. 'What I want is a teapot.
And some cups . . .' She wrinkled her nose at the mess in the sink '. . . can you see any, Dr Mitchell?'
'They have a clear run?' Richardson snarled the words at Audley. 'Things have changed since I worked for Fred Clinton, by God!'
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'So they have.' Mitchell opened a cupboard door. Then closed it, and opened another one. 'You're still alive, Major
— Peter ... Be thankful for that!' He reached into the cupboard. 'It's
