For the Good of the State (25 page)

Tom turned the ignition key, and the engine purred sweetly at the first touch. ‘He didn’t look the part.’ He grinned back at Audley. ‘He seemed a rather inoffensive little fellow, actually.’ He engaged first gear cautiously. ‘Very polite, he was, David. In barely adequate English.’

‘Is that so?’ Audley looked around him curiously. ‘Well, I’m sure appearances are deceptive … We’re going on, are we?’

The wheels squelched and spun, and then took hold.

‘For a little way. Then we shall have to walk across the fields, I expect.’

‘You expect? You haven’t been here before, then?’

‘No.’ Tom caught a glimpse of a grey roof through the straggling hedge on his right, down the side of the hill.

‘You didn’t see Panin himself?’

‘No.’ More roofs, and a hint of yellowish-grey stone. And, in the left foreground, the ruin of an antique farm-tractor half-sunken on the verge beside the track, with the remains of last year’s dead nettles still entwined in it.

‘I see—’ Audley stopped suddenly as Bodger’s Farm presented itself to them at last, in all its agricultural squalor.

Tom decided against entering the farmyard morass, even though that would take him closer to what must presumably be the farmhouse itself, for lack of a more likely parking place: any vehicle with less than four-wheel drive attempting that yard might find itself a permanent resident—like the abandoned Rover, old but not yet vintage, which lay wheel-less on one side, to serve now (judging by its present occupants) as a chicken-house.

‘You did say … ’ Audley’s tone was gently hopeful, looking for confirmation rather than information ‘ … that we weren’t actually meeting …
here
…
didn’t you?’

‘Yes—no—’ Tom caught a flicker of movement at one curtained window in the blank face of the house ‘—I’ll just go and get directions, David. Okay?’ He opened his door, observing what seemed to be the farmer’s domestic refuse pile, which included non-biodegradable washing-up liquid containers among other unspeakable material which was already sodden and well-rotted. ‘If you’d like to go up there, towards the field—by that gate?’

He stepped out gingerly, into the mud in preference to the domestic midden; which, from its smell, included fish-heads as well as cabbage leaves; and thought, as he did so, that a high, dry summer might not be preferable on Bodger’s Farm, because this would be the kingdom of flies, and blow-flies, and all manner of winged insects then. But he must move, now that he was moving, before Audley could protest.

A large dominant cockerel, with bright red upstanding comb and jaunty tail-feathers, eyed him sidelong from its vantage-point on the roof of the Rover with bright reptilian certainty, regretting only that he was too big to be edible, then turning away and defecating nervously on the stained and pitted metal, which had once been some Sunday driver’s pride-and-joy.

Tom searched for something just slightly better than filth on which to place his good clean shoes, wondering as he did so what Audley was wearing (and, for God’s sake, what shoes Comrade Professor Panin and his minder might have laced up this morning, in all innocence!). But long before he reached the flagstones set in the overgrown grass in front of the farmhouse door he gave up the attempt, and walked through the muck regardless.

(The trouble was, he decided, that the farm was huddled into the hillside, halfway down on its own platform across which all the rainwater from the top evidently made its way, unregulated by anything so outrageously Roman or modern as a drainage system, so it seemed.)

There was no bell or button on the door, which had last been painted when King George VI (or maybe his father) had been on the throne. But there was nothing to push or pull, so he rapped on it with his knuckles instead.

No answer—no sound from within. But he had seen that movement at the low window on his left, with its half-drawn faded curtains. So he knocked again, more sharply than before.

(The incongruous ambience of this squalid place, he thought, was its clashing colours: against the old natural greens and red-browns and greys of grass and mud, and roof and wall, there was the garish yellow of the ranks of plastic drums outside the barn and the vivid orange of the plastic sacks he could see inside it; and the bright red of the brand-new tractor also inside it, beside the sacks—all probably paid for by the EEC, yet as out-of-place and unnatural as the empty
squeezee
Fairy Liquid and Palmolife pressure containers on the cabbage-stalk-fish-nead garbage heap through which he’d walked just now.)

The door-latch snapped behind him, making him jump just as he had reached Audley in his survey
(Audley stamping through the mud, oblivious of it!)
. But the door didn’t open, it only shivered as he turned back to it; but then the bolts inside cracked, and the key inside clicked, and the door began to open, scraping on the floor beneath it.

Tom composed his face into a mask of obsequious inquiry even before he could see anyone in the opening.

‘Good morning—’ (Could the farmer be Mr Bodger? But could
anyone
be Mr Bodger?) ‘—sir … I’m sorry to bother—’ (or should it be
bodger
? he thought insanely) ‘—to bother you, so early in the morning, sir.’

No answer, not even a grunt. Only the shadowy presence of someone taller than his own ceiling, therefore stooped under it, and a waft of smell composed of innumerable elements, in which damp walls predominated but paraffin and unwashed clothes and fried bacon fat also played their parts, among other things which he could not even guess at.

Tom tried to continue without breathing in too much of it. ‘Do you mind if … ’ The incongruity of the request enveloped him, like the smell ‘ … if I go to see your castle, sir?’ The incongruity increased beyond his imagination as he thought of Gilbert de Merville riding to Mountsorrel Castle this way, on his iron-shod
destrier
, eight hundred years ago—
eight-and-a-half hundred years ago—
in this same mud, if not this same world.

The presence shook itself. ‘Cross the fields. Follow the track. ’Bout ‘alf a mile. You can’t miss it—church is on t’other side, opposite.’

Tom was overwhelmed by gratitude and relief, so that he felt in his pocket willingly. ‘There is a charge, I presume?’

‘No charge.’ The presence also seemed relieved, as though he had expected someone worse, in direct descent from Joscelin himself, demanding money rather than offering it. ‘Jus’ make sure you shuts the gates … ’cause I’ve got beasts up there, that way.‘

‘Of course.’ Tom remembered Panin, and offered what was in his hand nevertheless. ‘I have two friends—two foreign gentlemen—who are also coming shortly … If you would be so good as to direct them … This is for your trouble, sir—’

The door started to close, with the bank note ignored. ‘No trouble. Jus’ so they closes the gates, that’s all.’ The words just managed to escape as it snapped shut, and as Tom turned away he heard the key click in the lock and the bolts rattle back top and bottom.

He crossed the yard diagonally, through a mixture of what looked like one part of Exmoor mud to three parts of cow-dung, to where Audley stood unconcernedly in a clump of dead nettles beside another antique farm-gate which was secured to its post by a loop of bright orange plastic rope.

The old man regarded him quizzically. “This is the right place, then?‘

‘Yes.’ As he unhooked the gate he observed that Audley’s shoes were only slightly less mud-and-dung encrusted than his own. But they were stout heavy country shoes, and Audley didn’t seem to mind, anyway; if anything, he sounded much more polite and friendly than earlier, when he’d been in relative comfort. Perhaps the sight of all the piles of refuse reminded him of his beloved compost heaps. ‘This way—about half a mile.’

‘Indeed?’ Audley waited while he closed the gate. ‘Now, tell me, Tom … what gave you the idea of this particular rendezvous? Rather than any other?’

Tom winced. It had seemed an innocently interesting idea, both in his head and on the map, after reading Panin’s note the night before. ‘I was rather hoping you weren’t going to ask that.’ He studied the deeply-rutted track with distaste. ‘Shall we walk on the grass?’

‘Yes. That would be the sensible thing to do,’ agreed Audley. “I rather approve of it, that’s all.‘

‘Approve of it—?’ Tom failed to avoid a rich new cow-pat, and slid dangerously in it for a second before he regained his balance.

‘Ye-ess. In the open, and nice and private, like he wants. But make the bugger suffer a bit for his privacy. Yes … I
like
it, Tom.’ Audley beamed at him. ‘So now you tell me why you’re so happy—or why you
were
so happy first thing, if not now … Right?’

They had already topped a minor corrugation in the side of the valley, so that now a small lateral re-entrant lay below them. But there was no sign of Mountsorrel on the spur ahead. ‘I had a visitor last night, David.’

‘A visitor?’ Audley was striding out on his long legs, his pale raincoat flapping, as though he knew where he was going. Or as though, even if he didn’t know, he was confident of getting there.

The memory of Willy cheered Tom, restoring his happiness in that instant. ‘A girl I know. A very pretty girl, too.’

‘Well, well!’ Audley didn’t miss a step. ‘Now
that
is cunning such as I love to hear. Or uncommonly good management, anyway … Or quite exceptional good luck—which will do just as well.’ He sniffed, and then chuckled throatily. ‘Give me a minder who’s lucky—then I’m truly safe, by golly!’ He threw a grin over his shoulder. ‘Perhaps that fellow yesterday really was aiming at me. But with you beside me he never had a hope, eh?’

The old man was in good shape, in spite of his cold, thought Tom, lengthening his stride. And in good heart now, apparently. Or was this just an old war-horse—on this track an old
destrier—
snorting at the prospect of what he’d been trained for, with his iron-shod hoofs?

‘Not any of those, I’m afraid—’ The ground at the bottom of the re-entrant was boggy, with grass mounds standing out of water; but it might have been Trafalgar Square for all the notice the old man took of it: he splashed through it regardless ‘—she works for the CIA, David.’

‘
Ah!
’ Audley checked and turned as he reached firmer ground beyond the bog. ‘Now, that’ll be the new chap, Sheldon—Mosby-Something-Sheldon?
Major, USAF
when I first met him, but always “Doc” to his associates. And “Mose-honey” to the girl he had in tow last time I met him … and
she
was a very pretty girl too—and she worked for the CIA too, as I have good reason to recall.’ He cracked another grin, but this time it wasn’t a real one. ‘He’s quite a good chap, actually. Sound Virginian Confederate stock, is our major.’

‘He’s a colonel now.’

‘Is he so? Well, they would have had to promote him.’ Audley turned away, up the hillside. ‘He’s a dentist by profession—one-time profession, anyway. Which proves his patriotism, if nothing else. Because I’ll bet he could make a lot more money “hanging out his shingle”, or whatever they do, and building expensive bridgework, than hanging out the flag … and sending pretty girls to visit you late at night.’ He gave Tom a sidelong look. ‘So what did she have to tell you? And what did she want in exchange?’ Sniff. ‘And what—w-what did you give her—?’ The sniff turned into a giant sneeze, which occasioned a desperate search for the reserve handkerchief. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask?’ The old man blew his nose. ‘Damn blasted cold!’

Tom blessed the cold for giving him time to straighten his thoughts and his face. ‘She says you’re in trouble.’

‘Huh!’ Audley tossed his head and breathed in deeply. ‘That’s nothing new. What have I done this time?’

‘You’ve offended some politician or other, she says.’

‘Oh …
that
?’ Audley shrugged. ‘It wasn’t anything personal. He just needs to tighten up his department, that’s all. Serve the bugger right!’ He gave Tom another sidelong look, but this time he winked as well. ‘I’ve got any number of enemies in high places, boy. But I’ve got one or two friends as well—and maybe in higher places, too. So no need to worry about
that
.’ The eye which had winked became fish-cold. ‘What else?’

‘She said Panin was also in trouble.’ It was no good passing on the ‘cut-and-run’ advice: Audley would just laugh at that. ‘The Americans are quite surprised he was let out to talk to you.’

‘Ah … ’ Audley stumped up the hillside in silence for a moment or two ‘ … now
that
is interesting. Even if it’s hardly surprising.’ He grimaced at the grass beneath his feet. ‘Although that’s the sort of thing, properly elaborated with chapter and verse, which Basil Cole could have explained … ye-ess … But now he can’t, can he?’ He stopped suddenly, and turned again, stone-faced to match the cold eyes. ‘So we shall have to live on my fat, pending nourishment from elsewhere, for the time being.’ The eyes looked through Tom, and then past him, but not at anything, quite unfocused. ‘If
he
is in trouble, so you say … ’

In spite of himself, Tom had to turn, even though he was close to the crest now. But there was nothing behind them: Audley was looking at things inside his head, which pointed from the past into the present. ‘She said, David.’

‘
She
said—yes … ’ The look continued ‘ … and I said “friends”—so
I
said.’ The old man blinked, and snapped back to him. ‘Perhaps I delude myself when I say I have
friends
… So perhaps we are both in trouble—as
she
says.’ The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘But what we have to remember is that Panin lives in a different world from ours, in which “trouble” has a different meaning.’

It was a statement, not a question. But it seemed to be looking for an answer, nevertheless. ‘His trouble could be terminal, do you mean?’

Another twitch. ‘It’s hard to say now. Basil Cole could have told us.’ It was the right answer, all the same, the twitch suggested. ‘But
he
has no friends—not even with a “perhaps”. He just has success or failure—and then a fresh lease or bankruptcy, as the case may be.’ He nodded suddenly. ‘But you’re quite right, Tom: he has the advantage on us because we’re only playing games, but he’s playing life-and-death, maybe. So he plays harder, always.’