Our Man in Camelot (28 page)

They wouldn’t even know who had besieged who—whether there’d been Saxon horse-tail standards waving up there or the banner of Our Lady. Whether the Saxons had been trapped and starved into the open to be caught by one great scything charge of Arthur’s fabled horsemen, or whether the Britons had been trapped and saved at the last by an epic Arthurian ride-to-the-rescue.

They’d never know, and it didn’t matter a damn because that was how it ought to be: a matter of faith, not fact. Because the enduring value of Arthur existed not in the elusive truth of his historical victory and defeat, but in the vision each generation had of him. Even in Billy Bullitt’s crazy vision.

For the first time Mosby was utterly sure of himself. This was the place, not Wodden. And this was where they would come for him.

He wondered, strangely without rancour, whether Schreiner and Morris had envisaged anything remotely like this—whether the strict assignment to hunt Badon Hill, and not the agents of the
Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti
as he had been trained to do, had been carefully calculated to achieve the same result.

But that was another thing which was no longer important.

“That’s great,” said the photographer. “Now look back the way you’ve come. Admire the view.”

Mosby turned to the huge open landscape.

This was the place. But not the place which fitted in with the KGB’s plans, so they had invented a whole new piece of history—

… usque ad annum obsessionis Badonici montis qui prope Sord’num hostium ex Durnovaria Arturo habetur…

—which enabled them to work at their leisure on their false Badon, free from the worry that anyone might disturb them.

“Now look down towards the road,” commanded the photographer.

Mosby didn’t want to look down. The horizon was so close he could almost reach out and touch it, as though it was a painting. A bird swooped past him, banking away at the last moment.

Davies the bird-watcher.

Davies the Arthur-hunter, the Badon-hunter.

The sun came out from behind a big, fleecy cloud, blinding him even through his dark glasses.

The only person we can trace he ever spoke to was the bookseller.

That was Merriwether.

He insisted I should never contact him at the base.

Billy Bullitt’s statement.

But there was something else in the back of his mind— something the Englishman Roskill had said, but about Mosby himself.

It made us wonder whether you were who you said you were.

Simple.

Liddington Hill—the real Badon?

Wodden—the false Badon.

Davies—the bird-watcher.

Davies—the Badon-hunter.

Just as there had been a false Badon, so there had been a false Davies. Any loner among the pilots would have done. Davies just happened to fit best. But so long as there was a general resemblance it didn’t matter, because there weren’t going to be any witnesses left around long enough to argue the difference. Once the real Davies was dead, the false one automatically ceased to exist, leaving only his lies behind him.

It was as gloriously simple as the sun in his face was blinding.

He never even heard the car.

Captain Finsterwald
and A1C Merriwether

CAPTAIN FINSTERWALD WALKED
across the tarmac to where Airman First Class Merriwether stood watching the heavily-laden transport preparing for take-off.

Merriwether sketched a salute. “Everything okay, Harry?”

“It’ll do. They’ll never love us again, but they don’t hate us any more.”

“And those two Russians they picked up?”

“What Russians?” Finsterwald shaded his eyes.

The transport’s engines roared.

“That Sheldon’s a lucky son-of-a-bitch,” shouted Finsterwald.

“Because he’s going home and we’re still here?” Merriwether shouted back. “Don’t fret, man. We’re going to be on one of those big birds ourselves pretty soon. I got the feeling we are now surplus to Air Force requirements… If not pos-it-ively unwanted.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No? Well, you can’t mean his state of health, with those ribs cracked like he’s been kicked by a Georgia mule.”

The transport jerked forward.

“I was thinking of that woman of his.”

“Uh-huh? Well, he’s not going to enjoy any of that, the way he’s strapped up… not for a while anyway.” Merriwether watched the transport with a professional eye. “That guy’s going to need a lot of runway, the way he’s taking his time.”

Finsterwald showed no sign of having heard the last sentence. “The way she was fussing him, I wouldn’t bet on that,” he said, finally.

Merriwether considered the proposition. “Could be you’re right at that… Funny thing, though…”

“What?” Finsterwald cupped his ear.

“Nothing really. But he always used to look at her like he was a dog hoping to get scratched behind his ears, and she never took one damn bit of notice of him.”

The roar of the engines was fading.

“So what?”

“So when I saw them just now it was right the other way round, that’s all.”

Finsterwald shook his head. “So he’s learnt to play it cool. I never said he wasn’t a smart son-of-a-bitch as well as a lucky one.” He turned back towards the car.

Merriwether watched the transport eat up the last yards of old runway and lift into the air, up and out over the site of Windmill Knob towards distant America.