For the Good of the State (34 page)

It would have been better to have reached this point earlier on, when Audley wasn’t making faces at him from the car. ‘What do our records say about him—about Zarubin?’

‘About Zarubin?’ Jaggard had been expecting an answer, not a question—and particularly not after his express order to the contrary. So, for a moment, he was close to answering. ‘What the hell are you playing at, Arkenshaw?’

‘I’m not playing at anything. What have we got on Zarubin?’

‘What—? Man, we’ve got what you’d expect: he’s officially a senior officer of the Red Army, ex-Warsaw Pact headquarters secretariat, seconded to the Foreign Ministry with effect from January 1985. With a list of decorations to match.’ Jaggard’s cool bent, but didn’t crack. ‘He’s career KGB, Second Directorate, with the rank of general, dated December 1984.’

‘We don’t have the name of his father?’

Pause. ‘We don’t have the name of his father. Or his wife. Or his wife’s father. Or his wife’s uncle’s second cousin. Or his mother’s aunt—’ Caution suddenly ‘—what’s his father got to do with him coming to Exmoor?’

That was an unlooked-for gift. ‘Just about everything, according to Panin. Because Zarubin’s father was born in a fisherman’s cottage on Brentiscombe Head. On the day Mafeking was relieved. Mafeking Day—May 17, 1900.’ Tom resisted the temptation to add that Audley himself had supplied the exact date after Panin had supplied the event. ‘Brentiscombe Head is up the coast from Lynmouth, towards Ilfracombe. Zarubin’s father’s name was
Roberts
… Or maybe his Christian name was
Robert—
Panin’s not too sure about that … at least, not as sure as he is about the cottage on Brentiscombe Head, anyway. Because Zarubin took his grandfather’s name—’ He could allow himself this satisfaction, anyway ‘—that’s to say, his mother’s father’s name … Do you understand?’

No hint of understanding came down the line. Which would have been gratifying if Audley hadn’t wound down his car-window to draw his attention to time’s winged chariot. So he nodded at Audley and re-applied himself to the telephone. ‘What he says is that Zarubin’s father was an Englishman—that he joined the Royal Navy straight from school, in 1914. And he served in HMS
Goliath
, in the Dardanelles in 1915. And then, finally, he fell overboard, from HMS
President Kruger
, in the Caspian Sea in 1920—’

‘
Where—
?’ Jaggard gagged on the Caspian Sea, without ever reaching HMS
President Kruger
, as well he might, thought Tom; even Audley had done a second take on that—as well
he
might, too: a child born in 1964 could have been sunk by the Argentinians in the South Atlantic in 1982, but it took too big a stretch of the imagination to have him fall off HMS
Adolf Hitler
the year after, in any conceivable war, never mind in the landlocked Caspian Sea where the Royal Navy had no obvious business.

‘Yes, sir. In the Caspian Sea … serving with the Royal Navy Caspian Squadron, in support of Dunsterforce.’ He couldn’t resist playing
Dunsterforce
for all it was undoubtedly worth. ‘We had a combined operation in Iran—in
Persia—
after the First World War, to keep the Turks first … and then the Bolsheviks … away from India, sir. And it was commanded by a man named Dunsterville—Major-General Lionel Dunsterville. But it all came pretty-much unstuck, because of lack of support. Typical Foreign Office foul-up, probably.’

An indeterminate sound came down the line. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Arkenshaw?’

You may well ask, sir
! ‘Zarubin’s father was taken prisoner by the Bolsheviks … somewhere off Astrakhan, at the mouth of the Volga in 1920, after he fell overboard. Or, Audley says he may have deserted … because there were some mutinies in the navy, about that time. That would account for the Bolsheviks not shooting him, anyway. Or maybe he was just a fast talker.’ He couldn’t repeat Audley’s theory that
Able Seaman Roberts
had developed an upper-class taste for caviare which only membership of the Communist Party could satisfy.

Another strangled growl reached him. ‘This sounds like Audley talking. Is this what he’s saying?’

‘No, sir.’ The lie came quickly, because he was half-ready for it. But there was also half-truth in it. ‘He’s extremely suspicious of the whole story: he says it could be all true, but he doesn’t like it. That’s what I’ve been trying to say, sir.’

‘Why doesn’t he like it?’ Jaggard couldn’t avoid the obvious question.

‘He says it’s just the sort of damned cock-and-bull story Panin would dream up for him.’

‘It’s all hogwash, is it?’

‘Some of it’s true, apparently—about “Dunsterforce”, and HMS
President Kruger
, anyway.’ He had to avoid even looking towards Audley now. ‘But he says Panin would expect him to know about it. Because everyone knows he’s dotty about Rudyard Kipling—Panin included.’

‘Rudyard Kipling?’ The sudden growl in Jaggard’s voice, which overlaid its incredulity, suggested that everyone included him. ‘What the blazes has he got to do with Zarubin—or his father?’

‘Just about everything, sir. “Dunsterforce” was commanded by Lionel Dunsterville. And Dunsterville was Kipling’s best friend at the United Services College at Westward Ho!—just down the coast from here, outside Bideford—Dunsterville was Kipling’s actual model for Stalky in
Stalky &Co-
’

(‘“ Your Uncle Stalky is a Great Man”.
’ He heard Audley’s voice inside his head. ‘
And Dunsterville was, of course: eight languages, including Chinese and German and Persian, never mind all the Indian dialects. Crammed into the Indian Army from the United Services College—dreadful place
…
But crammed by Cormell Price, who was a great headmaster. And not an imperialist, even though USC only existed to supply the Empire with dedicated servants
—
he was “Prooshian Bates, the downy bird” in “Stalky”, Cormell Price
…
Friend of Swinburne, and William Morris, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and Burne-Jones
…
Kipling should never have been in that school—he wasn’t going into the army. But Cormell Price was the perfect headmaster for him, nevertheless
…
But the hell with that, Tom! See how that son-of-a-bitch has ambushed me again! I’ll bet he bloody-well knows I’m wasting time telling you about Cormell Price!
’

‘All right, all right! I get the drift, man. Panin claims Zarubin is half an Englishman, by blood if by nothing else. And Audley knows that this could be true—and we haven’t got anything to say that it isn’t … ’ Jaggard trailed off for a moment. ‘But Panin can’t know for sure what we don’t know about Zarubin, or what we do know. So maybe it is true, damn it! So where does that leave us?’

‘It’s why Zarubin’s coming here.’ Tom shook himself free from Kipling and Cormell Price. ‘He’s always wanted to see his father’s birthplace. He’s never made any secret of it, apparently. And this is the first time he’s had the chance.’

‘Hmm … ’ The silence at the other end suggested that Jaggard was running through Zarubin’s
curriculum vitae
again. ‘There’s nothing in his record to suggest filial piety. Or any other kind of piety, come to that—he’s a bloodthirsty Dzerzhinsky Centre-trained honours graduate, with a lot of scalps hanging outside his tent. Including your Father Jerzy’s, Arkenshaw, among all the others. In fact … he’s the sort Gorbachev shouldn’t be promoting now … if anything, that’s rather surprising. Except he’s the right age, I suppose.’ Pause. ‘What does Audley say?’

‘Maybe it’s just curiosity—on Zarubin’s part.’

‘Well, it’s damn dangerous curiosity, if there’s a hit-squad waiting for him down there,’ growled Jaggard. ‘It’s full of holes. It stinks, Arkenshaw, it stinks.’

‘Yes, sir—I agree. And that’s why I think we should abort.’ Tom’s heart lightened. ‘If you can intercept Zarubin … then I can warn Panin off. After all, he is playing games on our ground.’

Another growl. ‘Oh yes? And then someone puts a bullet into Zarubin outside the Dorchester one night? Is that it?’

‘We can send Zarubin back home. And Panin with him. Let them solve their own homegrown terrorism and leave us in peace.’ But Tom felt his argument weakening even as he made it: sending Zarubin home would be an unfriendly act, never mind an admission that the UK couldn’t protect a fully-accredited diplomat in her own backyard, even though that was sadly true.

Again the silence lengthened, as Jaggard made the same connections. ‘What does Audley say? Is that what he wants?’

The son-of-a-bitch has ambushed us
, thought Tom bitterly, knowing what he must say, and then exactly how Jaggard would come back to him. ‘He says that either Panin’s up to something nasty, or Zarubin is. But he wants to find out what it is.’ He glanced towards the car, but the old man looked as though he’d given up and gone to sleep. So probably he was dreaming of Kipling and Dunsterville arguing about the pre-Raphaelites with Cormell Price on the windy beaches of Westward Ho! in the 1880s, before fame and Empire and the Caspian Sea overtook them. ‘But what about that shot someone took at Audley yesterday? And what about Basil Cole?’ This time, as he spoke, he decided to get stroppy, with desperation cancelling Jaggard’s huge seniority. ‘Someone has to have come up with something there, for Christ’s sake! Or am I on my own down here, and no one gives a damn what I’m doing—?’

No answer. And the old man in the Cortina across the road was settling himself more comfortably, no longer worried either about time or Panin—or even that he was parked on a blind corner; which only served first to increase Tom’s sense of desperation and isolation as he thought
either he’s stupid or he trusts me; but he isn’t stupid, so he trusts me: but if he trusts me, then he is stupid—

‘Apart from which Dr Audley is waiting for me,’ he continued harshly. ‘And that’s what he thinks I’m finding out. So I have to have something to tell him …
sir
.’

‘Yes.’ After
no answer
the answer came smoothly now. ‘Don’t worry about that business at Audley’s house. We have that in hand, and it has nothing to do with what you’re engaged in, Tom.’

So it was
Tom
again now. ‘What d’you mean—?’ A hideous thought struck Tom between the shoulder-blades, coming appropriately from behind and stopping him in mid-protest. ‘I mean … what about Basil Cole, then? I’ve got to tell him
something
, damn it!’

‘That’s not so straightforward. Because … the accident seems fair enough, on the face of it. Because, with all the trampling around there, there wasn’t much evidence left. But he wasn’t really very drunk at the time, it seems. Or not morning-drunk, from the stomach contents.’ Pause. ‘And it appears someone got the wife out of the house on a wild-goose chase, at the material time. Which would have given someone else a free run there, when she was away.’ Pause. ‘So that does look like murder, we think.’ Pause. ‘Though whether it was your “Sons of the Eagle” or the Other Side, we don’t know yet.’ Pause. ‘So you just give him that, and embroider it a bit … Cole’s wife helps out at a hospital there, running relatives to visit their next-of-kin when it comes to the last rites. And she was given an urgent address by someone—someone they can’t trace, at the wrong address. That’s the strength of it, and we’re working on it. But … for the rest—’ Jaggard’s ingratiating tone dropped away from his voice, like a drop-tank from an old-fashioned fighter-plane as it zoomed into combat ‘—if that’s what Audley wants, then he’s in charge, Arkenshaw. And your job is simply to keep him in one piece. How may times do I have to spell it out for you?’

How many times, indeed
! But then, even beyond the recurrent memory of his promises to Audley’s wife and daughter, Jaggard’s crude image conjured up the man himself squelching through Farmer Bodgeir’s yard not half-an-hour previously—Audley sobered by his own responsibility for Tom Arkenshaw as he thought of blown-up legs and arms and heads
joining together on the latter day
. ‘You’re going to have to spell it out every time you talk to me. Because I didn’t like the odds yesterday, and I like them even less today. I think we’re going to be in trouble before we’ve finished down here. And I want to put that on record.’

Silence.

Tom took a deep breath. ‘Someone tried to kill Audley yesterday. They may try again.’

‘Oh … ’ It sounded not so much like anger as exasperation ‘ … oh, all right, Tom—have it your way, then! Let me think, now … ’

Tom didn’t require an order, he was surprised enough not only with Jaggard’s second thought, but also with his almost-confirmation of that knife-thrust of suspicion.

‘All right, then—’ Now Jaggard was his old self again ‘ … I’m not going to call out the anti-terrorist squad, or the Special Branch, to line every hedgerow. There probably isn’t time, and we as good as promised Panin’s people that we wouldn’t interfere with his business with Audley … Apart from which we might scare off these “Sons of the Eagle” of his, which would only make matters worse, undoubtedly.’

That sounded suspiciously like ‘any aid, short of actual help’. Indeed, it sounded even more like Jaggard covering his flank against awkward questions in some future inquiry. But what else could he expect? ‘Yes, sir?’

‘But I’ll do what I can for you—I’ll put what I can scrape together on the road. They’ll be just over your skyline in a couple of hours. And you’ve got the contingency number.’

‘Yes.’
Not good enough
. ‘Yes.’ Tom came to a decision. ‘I’ll call you as soon as we’ve got anything.’ He had the contingency number. And he also had another number. ‘Goodbye.’

Audley was mercifully still wrapped in dreams, or daydreams, as he dialled the other number.

‘Green Man Hotel—can I help you?’

I hope so
! ‘Room 12, please.’

‘Room 12—putting you through, sir.’

Tom’s conscience pricked him, but only slightly.

‘Hullo there?’