These people have still to be told what to do, you know. Those damned shop stewards up in Westminster may have thrown the Empire away,
but we still have our responsibilities.” Steven changed the Purdey shotgun from one arm to the other, carrying it in the crook of the arm, the gun broken open and the shining brass caps of the cartridges showing in the breeches. Government only by those fit to govern.” Steven enlarged on that for a few minutes.
Then suddenly Steven fell silent, almost as though he had suddenly decided that he had spoken too much, even to somebody as trusted as his own younger twin. Peter was silent also, trudging up the curve of the hill with his boots squelching in the soft damp earth. There was something completely unreal about the moment, walking over well remembered ground in the beautiful mellow sunlight of an
English spring afternoon with a man he had known from the day of his birth and yet perhaps had never known at all.
It was not the first time he had heard Steven talk like this, and yet perhaps it was the first time he had ever listened. He shivered and Steven glanced at him.
“Cold?” A “Goose walked over my grave,” Peter explained, and
Steven nodded as they clambered up the shallow earth bank that marked the perimeter of the Roman camp.
They stood on the lip under the branches of a lovely copper beech,
resplendent in its new spring growth of russet.
Steven was breathing hard from the pull up the hill, that extra weight was already beginning to tell. There was a spot of high unhealthy colour in each cheek, and little blisters of sweat speckled his chin.
He closed the breech of the shotgun with a metallic clash, and leaned the weapon against the trunk of the copper beech as he struggled to regain his breath.
Peter moved across casually and propped his shoulder against the copper beech, but his thumbs were hooked into the lapels of the duffle coat, not thrust into pockets, and he was still in balance, weight slightly forward on the balls of his feet. Although he seemed to be entirely relaxed and at rest he was in fact coiled like a spring,
poised on the brink of violent action and the shotgun was within easy reach of his right hand.
He had seen that Steven had loaded with number four shot. At ten paces it would disembowel a man. The safety catch on the top of the pistol grip of the butt engaged automatically when the breech was opened and closed again, but the right thumb would instinctively slip the catch forward as the hand closed on the grip.
Steven took a silver cigarette case from the side pocket of his coat and tapped down a cigarette on the lid.
“Damned shame about Magda Altmann,” he said gruffly, not meeting
Peter’s eyes.
“Yes, Peter agreed softly.
“Glad they handled it in a civilized fashion. Could have made it awkward for you, you know.”
“I suppose they could have,” Peter agreed.
“What about your job at Narmco?”
“I don’t know yet. I will not know until I get back to Brussels.”
“Well, my offer still stands, old boy. I could do with a bit of help. I really could. Somebody I could trust. You’d be doing me a favour.”
“Damned decent of you, Steven.”
“No, really, I mean it.” Steven lit the cigarette with a gold Dunhill lighter and inhaled with evident pleasure, and after a moment Peter asked him: “I hope you were not in a heavy position in Altmann stock.
I see it has taken an awful tumble.” It’s strange that,” Steven shook his head. “Pulled out of Altmann’s a few weeks ago, actually. Needed the money for San Istaban.”
“Lucky,” Peter murmured, or much more than luck. He wondered why Steven admitted the share transaction so readily. Of course” he realized, “it would have been very substantial and therefore easily traced.” He studied his brother now, staring at him with a slight scowl of concentration. Was it possible? he asked himself.
Could Steven really have masterminded something so complex, where ideology and self-interest and delusions of omnipotence seemed so inextricably snarled and entwined.
“What is it, old boy?” Steven asked, frowning slightly in sympathy.
“I was just thinking that the whole concept and execution has been incredible, Steven. I would never have suspected you were capable of it.”
“I’m sorry, Peter. I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“Caliph,” Peter said softly.
It was there! Peter saw it instantly. The instant of utter stillness, like a startled jungle animal but the flinch of the eyes,
followed immediately by the effort of control.
The expression of Steven’s face had not altered, the little frown of polite inquiry held perfectly, then turning slowly, deeper into puzzlement.
“I’m afraid you just lost me there, old chap.” It was superbly done. Despite himself Peter was impressed. There were depths to his brother which he had never suspected but that was his own omission.
No matter which way you looked at it, it took an extraordinary ability to achieve what Steven had achieved in less than twenty years, against the most appalling odds. No matter how he had done it, it was the working of a particular type of genius.
He was capable of running Caliph, Peter accepted the fact at last and immediately had a focal point for the corroding hatred he had carried within him for so long.
“Your only mistake so far, Steven, was to let Aaron Altmann know your name,” Peter went on quietly. “I suspect you did not then know that he was a Mossad agent, and that your name would go straight onto the Israeli intelligence computer. Nobody, nothing, can ever wipe it from the memory rolls, Steven. You are known.” Steven’s eyes flickered down to the shotgun; it was instinctive, uncontrollable, the final confirmation if Peter needed one.
“No, Steven. That’s not for you.” Peter shook his head.
“That’s my work. You’re fat and out of condition, and you have never had the training. You must stick to hiring others to do the actual killing. You wouldn’t even get a hand on it.” Steven’s eyes darted back to his brother’s face. Still the expression of his face had not altered.
“I think you’ve gone out of your head, old boy.” Peter ignored it.
“You of all people should know that I am capable of killing anybody.
You have conditioned me to that.”
“We are getting into an awful tangle now,” Steven protested. “What on earth should you want to kill anybody for?”
“Steven, you are insulting both of us. I know. There is no point in going on with the act. We have to work out between us what we are going to do about it.” He had phrased it carefully, offering the chance of compromise. He saw the waver of doubt in Steven’s eyes, the slight twist of his mouth, as he struggled to reach a decision.
But please do not underestimate the danger you are in, Steven.” As he spoke Peter produced an old worn pair of dark leather gloves from his pocket and began to pull them on. There was something infinitely menacing in that simple act, and again Steven’s eyes were drawn irresistibly.
“Why are you doing that?” For the first time Steven’s voice croaked slightly.
“I haven’t yet touched the gun,” Peter explained reasonably. “It has only your prints upon it.”
“Christ, you’d never get away with it,
Peter.”
“Why, Steven? It is always dangerous to carry a loaded shotgun over muddy and uneven ground.”
“You couldn’t do it, not in cold blood. “The edge of terror was in Steven’s voice.
“Why not? You had no such qualms with Prince Hassled Abdel
Hayek.”
“I am your brother he was only a bloody wag—2 Steven choked it off, staring now at Peter with stricken eyes, the expression of his face beginning at last to crack and crumb leas he realized that he had made the fateful admission.
Peter reached for the shotgun without taking his eyes from his brother’s.
