For the Good of the State (42 page)

Quite deliberately, he let the bones grate again, and cried out in genuine agony.

Tom
honey! For God’s sake—!
‘ Willy’s anguished cry also came to his rescue.

‘He’s okay.’ Shirl’s voice was coldly matter-of-fact. ‘He’s just hurt his ankle—that’s all.’

‘Tom honey!’ With the hood of her anorak down and her hair out she was Willy. ‘I thought you were shot!’

‘I’m all right.’ She was going to fuss over him, and he liked the idea of that because it gave him time to think. ‘Honestly I am, Willy,’

‘Oh, Tom—you’re a mess!’ Her eyes were dark with concern, ‘You’re not fit to be allowed out on your own—that’s the truth!’

What Tom thought first, as she brushed his own hair out of his eyes, was—
I’m the only one who knows what really happened, in all its confusing completeness—

And then the thought betrayed him:
in the second place it wasn’t quite so confusing now—

But he looked at Shirley, with sudden knowledge conferring power greater than pain. ‘Is Audley all right?’

‘When I last saw him he was just fine.’ Shirley rewarded him with a look of undeserved professional approval. ‘I think he was quite enjoying himself, maybe.’

Tom tried to concentrate on her, to the exclusion of Willy’s perfume and her soft solicitous touch. ‘Enjoying himself?’

‘Yeah.’ Shirley shared one efficient minder’s secret with another less-efficient minder. ‘Dr Audley likes winning, Sir Thomas.’

‘W — ‘ Tom caught the word before it betrayed him, and turned it into a very different word. ’
Willy
… I love you, Willy.‘ But, as he changed the word, it became the absolute and ultimate truth. ’Do you love me, Willy?‘

Wilhemina Groot considered the wreck of Sir Thomas Arkenshaw critically. ‘I don’t know about
love
, Tom honey. But someone has got to look after you—
that
I do know!’

This was what mattered, in the third place, after knowledge and power. And, also, Willy Groot would know how to keep Mamusia in her place:. ‘Will you become the umpteenth Lady Arkenshaw, in Debrett’s, and Burke’s
Peerage
, Willy?’

The wind and rain swirled round them, and Tom felt the wetness of the puddle in which he was sitting chill his backside. But that was a minor discomfort compared with the importance of Willy Groot’s decision, which would decide Tom Arkenshaw’s fate—and possibly Dr David Audley’s fate, and the future of Research and Development, and that
preux chevalier
Colonel Jack Butler with it … and maybe even Henry Jaggard too …
but bugger all of them
! Tom Arkenshaw first—
first and last
!

Tom honey! I thought you’d never ask—‘

‘
Christ O’Reilly!
’ Shirley exploded. ‘We’ve got two dead men within spitting distance—and a Russian with diplomatic privilege just round the corner—’

‘Shut up, Shirley,’ said Willy. ‘
Yes
, Tom.’ She turned to Shirley at last. ‘Being married to Tom will never be dull: he’s a full-time job. He’s half-Polish, you see—half good Anglo-Saxon-Anglo-Norman, but half Polish. It’s a great mixture: half of him is steady and calculates both ends against the middle—but half is into charging the machine-guns on horseback … Isn’t that the truth, Tom honey?’

Tom thought of Sadowski, who had charged his last machine-gun in vain. But then he thought of David Audley, who had calculated everything exactly in the end—even including Tom Arkenshaw himself.

‘More or less, Willy—yes.’ But what he actually thought was …
being married to Willy Groot would never be dull either, although it might be uncomfortable at times; but then being married—professionally married—to David Audley would be much the same; but now they had both asked for his hand in marriage, and they both needed him, albeit for different reasons: so who was he to go against the vote of the majority
?

He smiled at Shirley. ‘I can give you a telephone number to ring, to clear up the mess. And I think I shall also need a stretcher, to carry me back to civilization.’

Or, anyway, what passed for civilization, in an age as dark as that of King Stephen and the Empress Matilda. And in so dark an age the prudent man must look to his own interests with the greatest care.

‘I’d like to talk to David Audley, too,’ he added. ‘There are things he needs to know.’

WINNERS AND LOSERS AND WINNERS

IN THE EVENT
, it was Garrod Harvey who began the inquiry into ‘The Exmoor Massacre’, not Henry Jaggard himself.

However (as Jaggard was at pains to explain very quickly), this was not because the whole thing had been his (Garrod Harvey’s) idea in the first place, but rather because his (Henry Jaggard’s) view of Research and Development was all too well-known; so that if justice was to be seen to be done (if not actually done), it would be far more distinctly seen to be so if it resulted from a recommendation from below rather than a simple act of joyful obedience on his (Henry Jaggard’s) part to a Ministerial and FCO ultimatum.

Which was the truth, up to a point.

By then the mortal remains of Major-General Gennadiy Zarubin—the victim of a tragic heart attack while
en route
to a tour of the Westland helicopter works at Yeovil—were themselves
en route
to Moscow, accompanied by his grieving comrade, Professor Nikolai Andrievich Panin. And the Gorbachev appeasers in the FCO, who knew exactly what had happened to the General’s heart, had expressed ‘I-told-you-so’ delight at the Soviet Embassy’s friendly desire to hush up the whole affair, subject only to the punishment of whoever had been responsible for such lax security on the British side; which quite properly pointed to the serving up of David Audley’s head on a platter, suitably garnished with a lettuce leaf, two radishes and a carrot
Julienne
, in the Nouvelle Cuisine manner.

So the outcome of the inquiry was cut-and-dried, and every prospect was pleasing on the surface. But in retrospect Henry Jaggard still shuddered at the risks he had taken in going along with Garrod Harvey’s lateral thinking, for he was by nature a belt-and-braces man. And, also, he had wind of certain rumours which were going the rounds beneath the surface, which most disconcertingly combined outrageously inaccurate elements with disturbingly accurate ones; so that it was to these rumours that he turned the conversation first, when Garrod Harvey came back from his exploratory interview with Colonel Jack Butler, following his final de-briefing of Sir Thomas Arkenshaw …

‘Yes.’ Harvey pushed a chair across the carpet towards the desk, and lowered himself into it gingerly, as though in pain. ‘Well, there are basically two of them, with variations: there’s what might be called “the Irish joke” and “the Polish joke”.’ He flexed his shoulders cautiously. “The Irish joke appears to have emanated from somewhere in the Special Branch, and is simple and circumstantial, and quite amusing. But wildly wide of the mark, in more senses than one.‘ He paused for an instant, in order to concentrate on his right shoulder. ’Whereas the Polish one is much more ingenious, Henry. But not nearly so funny, because it is substantially true, I rather think.‘

It was reassuring that Garrod Harvey had done his homework properly as usual, thought Jaggard. ‘And that’s the one David Audley himself has put abroad, I take it?’

‘Well … actually … no. I rather think his was the Irish one.’ Harvey stopped flexing his shoulder. ‘He has quite a few friends in the Branch. In fact, although he has a lot of enemies, he does also seem to have a surprising number of friends, Henry. Particularly in Grosvenor Square.’

‘Indeed? Well they’re not going to be able to help him now.’ Special Branch friends or American friends, he must expect Audley to take defensive measures. ‘But you have the truth from Tom Arkenshaw, Garry?’

‘I … have an undoubtedly true account of what happened.’ Harvey’s answer carefully amended the question. ‘And I’ve had a little talk with Colonel Butler, He was really extremely affable—’

‘Affable
?’ Affability had never been one of Jack Butler’s faults in the past.

‘Helpful, then.’ Harvey stretched again. ‘I’m sorry, Henry: I played squash with a purveyor of the Polish non-joke last night, and he beat the hell out of me—I’ve been in agony ever since … No, what I mean is that Butler admits quite frankly that this wasn’t David Audley’s finest hour. And so does Audley himself, apparently.’

‘He does, does he?’ Now Henry Jaggard’s suspicions were fully-armed, so that he was more than ever determined to settle his doubts first. ‘Tell me the Irish joke, Garry.’

‘The Irish joke? Okay, then: it’s apparently a version of the Connaught Ranger’s defence, when he was accused of murdering his corporal—back in the Duke of Wellington’s time, during the Peninsular War: he said he hadn’t
really
murdered the corporal, because he’d been aiming at his sergeant, but his musket threw the ball wide by a yard.‘ Garrod Harvey looked a little disappointed. That’s a joke, Henry.’

‘Thank you for telling me. I’m laughing inside.’

Garrod Harvey started to shrug, but then his squash-playing injury hit him again. “The word is that the Irish—the INLA—have had Audley on their list for years, ever since that fellow O’Leary was shot, up north somewhere. And there was an old IRA man named Kelly who was killed more recently, down in Dorset somewhere—‘

‘Audley had nothing to do with his death. Neither did we.’

‘This is the
rumour
, Henry. Which is that Audley’s worked his way to the top of their hit-list. So they were waiting for him when he met Zarubin on Exmoor.’

‘Ah!’ Jaggard had heard that: the Irish were being blamed for the Exmoor Massacre, but he had not picked up the exact details. ‘A case of poor marksmanship, do you mean?’

This time Garrod Harvey’s pain wasn’t physical. ‘Mistaken identity, actually. Because it seems that Audley and Zarubin are about the same build. And they were both wearing Burberry raincoats. So this Connaught Ranger shot the corporal instead of the sergeant, Henry. And then Zarubin’s escort went after him, and also got shot. But the Americans had two of their people on hand—two
women
actually, so the story goes … And one of them shot the Paddy before he could correct his mistake. End of Irish joke.’

It sounded like an inside story—but not quite. ‘Nothing about those two “Irishmen” in the house at East Lyn, whom we had to bury? Or about their Polish passports, and all that “Sons of the Eagle” literature that was found there? Or is that in the Polish joke—?’

Garrod Harvey didn’t move his aching shoulders. ‘Nothing about them. Or about poor old Basil Cole, either—no! But there is some good Special Branch corroborative detail, all the same, Henry. Which isn’t so funny, actually.’

Actually …
Basil Cole
wasn’t so funny, thought Jaggard. ‘What detail?’

‘It seems …
it seems
…
that the INLA took a shot at Audley just the day before, down in Sussex. And missed, so rumour has it.’ For a moment Garrod Harvey looked into space above Henry Jaggard’s head. ‘It is certainly a well-known fact that there were road-blocks out over half Sussex on that day, with the police and the Special Branch as thick as bees in June … or whenever bees are thick.’ He gave Jaggard a blank look.

That was nasty. ‘I thought that was merely an anti-terrorist exercise, Garry?’

‘Yes.’ The look was still blank. ‘But one about which David Audley might have had certain suspicions, in the end.’

That was enough. ‘Tell me the Polish joke. Or non-joke—?’

‘Non-joke. And Audley doesn’t really come into it—Professor Nikolai Panin has the leading role. And Viking very nearly has another leading one.’

That was even nastier. ‘I can see that it isn’t a joke. Go on, then.’

Garrod Harvey stared at him, like a man trying to remember a joke, but afraid that he hasn’t got the punchline clear in his mind. ‘It begins with General Zarubin becoming surplus to KGB requirements … or surplus to alleged Gorbachev needs, anyway … ever since they killed that Polish priest so incompetently—’ He focused on Jaggard ‘—this is still the
rumour
, Henry. It’s not what
I’m
saying, you understand—?’

‘Of course.’ But there were limits to credibility. ‘But I don’t see how that was a KGB problem—if that’s what you mean—?’

Garrod Harvey continued to stare at him, but no longer blankly. ‘Zarubin was Panin’s problem. But he also had another problem, Henry—just as you did, actually.’ He cocked his head slightly. ‘In a way it’s almost a mirror-image situation—almost exactly.’

‘A mirror-image?’ Now that he thought about one of his worries, Jaggard could see the force of the analogy. ‘How’s that?’

‘Well … it seems that they knew they had a problem, in the London Embassy—just as you suspected.’ Garrod Harvey adapted himself to Jaggard’s frown. ‘They knew they had a leak somewhere. So Panin decided to use Zarubin as the expendable bait in a trap: he let slip certain information at certain levels, and waited to see how it all turned out.’ He nodded. ‘And Viking picked up his bit, and passed it on to us.’

Jaggard experienced his own twinge. But it was of excitement, not of pain. ‘But we didn’t act on it, Garry.’

‘We didn’t—you were absolutely right—’ Harvey almost stuttered over his agreement ‘—right to give them Audley instead of Viking, that is.’

That wasn’t how Jaggard wished to remember his decision. ‘That wasn’t quite what we did.’ It was on the tip of his tongue to remind Harvey that he’d backed Audley against Panin himself. ‘But go on, Garry—?’

Harvey nodded enthusiastically. ‘So
we
didn’t tip him off
But the Americans did—right
?’ Another nod. ‘
Their
man in the Embassy tipped
them
off … And they sent down the 7th Cavalry—or the daughters of the 7th Cavalry—to look after him. And thereby blew their man—do you see, Henry?’

Henry Jaggard saw. And also saw many beautiful advantages from his vision, like a flower blossoming in slow motion, as Viking obtained a longer lease of life from the CIA’s error. But, at the same time, his less-sanguine self saw innumerable predators and parasites attacking his flower. ‘Oh yes? And just where—where
exactly—
do the “Sons of the Eagle” come into this? I grant you they weren’t Irishmen, Garry. But whoever they are, they are now extremely
dead
. So who were they, then?’