The Old Vengeful (29 page)

“Fourteen ships, to be exact, Mr Aske,” said the Professor pedantically. “Your old prizes of war from France, like the
Prothée
, from which Colonel Suchet escaped, and from the Spanish and Danish fleets … and your own old worn-out battleships—fourteen ships containing over nine thousand men … Wretched prisoners—embittered prisoners—all the men who had escaped and been re-captured, officers among them … desperate men, Mr Aske—Dr Mitchell … and also trained soldiers and sailors, with trained leaders among them.”

“And right there in the harbour,” Aske repeated. “Christ!”

“And on shore too—right there in the harbour,” said the Professor softly. “Behind the old Roman walls of Portchester Castle … another seven thousand men. And just across the water, in the prison at Gosport … thousands more. Over twenty thousand men in all.”

For a moment neither Paul nor Aske spoke, then Paul drew a deep breath. “Evidence, Professor?”

“For 1812—little as yet, Dr Mitchell.” The Professor shook his head. “As yet I have not had time, and I am guessing … But for James Burns’ earlier plans there
is
evidence—plans which were discounted at the time, in spite of all his powers of persuasion.” He paused. “He argued that the troops guarding the prisoners were of the poorest quality—the sweepings of the British army and navy, officered by pensioners and rejects … He argued that both the hulks and the land prisons were organised to keep unarmed men from breaking
out
—not to prevent a handful of armed and determined men breaking
in
…
To be precise, he asked for two hundred men, two hundred British uniforms, and a thousand muskets. After that he said he would capture what he needed, and burn what he did not want. And with that he could take Portsea Island, occupying the fortified lines across the isthmus, and would hold it until relieved by the invading armies.”

Aske looked at Paul. “It would have been a bloody massacre— either way.”

The Professor shrugged. “It would have been chaos and confusion, and death and destruction, of that there can be no doubt.” He wagged a finger at them both. “But it would have appealed to Colonel Suchet, of all men—that is important. Because he knew the hulks, and he knew Portsmouth. And even if he did not plan to land the invasion army at Portsmouth, he would appreciate the value of such a terrifying diversion—I am sure of that.”

Paul rubbed his chin, looking first at Elizabeth, then at Aske. “I think we have to go away and think about this one.”

Aske frowned. “What d’you mean, think about it?”

“Well, for a start … going to Alsace can serve no useful purpose, not now.” Paul thought for a moment. “We have to begin again with the
Vengeful
—how the devil can Chipperfield have got wind of any of this?”

“Perhaps he didn’t,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps Colonel Suchet was just trying to make sure … ?”

“Perhaps we ought to have another look at the
Fortuné
?” said Aske tentatively. “We could do that over here, with Professor Belperron’s help, maybe?”

“Professor Wilder could tell us about Portsmouth,” said Elizabeth. “He’s a tremendous expert on everything to do with its history—even Father admitted that.”

Paul nodded. “Wilder’s a good bet, Elizabeth.” He looked towards the little Frenchman. “If you could keep digging at this end, sir … if you could spare the time, that is?”

Belperron had been watching them curiously, his eyes darting from one to the other. “Well … if that is all that you want … there will surely be other documents, it is only a matter of knowing where to look, and what to look for, and how to look at it—“ He stopped abruptly as Paul stood up.

“Of course. Isn’t it always?” Paul started to shrug, then turned the shrug into a little bow. “And you have pointed us in a promising direction, Professor. We are indebted to you … But we mustn’t take any more of your time.”

“Yes.” Aske stood up in turn, taking his cue from Paul.

“Elizabeth,” commanded Paul.

“Yes.” She stood up obediently, but she was conscious that something had happened which she had missed, only she had no idea what it was.

Belperron stood up behind his desk, unnaturally tall. For a moment he seemed undecided as to what to say. Then he returned the bow. “I will be interested to hear from you, Dr Mitchell. We must keep in touch,” he said stiffly.

“Absolutely right—we must keep in touch!” Paul’s enthusiasm was as false as the Professor’s height. “Please don’t bother—we’ll see our way out—“

Aske was already opening the door. Elizabeth found herself sidling through it almost crab-wise.

“Most grateful, Professor—“ she heard Paul say as she collided with one of the chairs in the second ante-room.

Paul closed the door behind him. “Is there a back-entrance, Aske?”

“Christ! I don’t know!” said Aske.

“What’s happening?” said Elizabeth.

Paul went to the window. “There’s something not right about this.”

Aske nodded. “I agree.
Definitely
not right.”

“I don’t understand—“ Elizabeth heard her own voice crack. “What—?”

“Can you see anything?” said Aske. And then, when Paul merely shook his head, he turned to Elizabeth. “He didn’t ask enough questions—he gave us too much, much too easily—he was scared, if you ask me—“ he switched to Paul “—right?”

“And he’s not the only one, by God!” murmured Paul, still craning his neck at the window.

“Scared?” Whatever they’d seen, she hadn’t caught the slightest glimpse of it. But now she was joining the club to which they both belonged.

“There has to be a back-entrance,” said Aske decisively. “Let’s get out while we can, Mitchell … I’ll go first—that’s what I’m bloody-well paid for—“

He took two steps towards the door, but it opened before he could grasp the handle, and he skipped back as though it had tried to sting him.

Elizabeth was simultaneously aware of Aske jumping back, and Paul turning from the window towards the open door, and of her own frozen immobility.

And of what was in the doorway.

“Nikki!” exclaimed Paul. “What a delightful surprise!”

EMERALD GREEN
—emerald green was by any reckoning a dangerous colour for a woman to attempt.

But this woman could get away with it, with her pale complexion and the flaming red hair—except that it wasn’t red, thought Elizabeth enviously, but that painter’s colour which stopped the man who’d been talking to you in mid-sentence and made him lose the thread of what he was saying.

“
Nikki
!” The second time Paul managed to substitute pleasure for surprise. “How delightful!”

The woman in the doorway gave him a cold smile. “Captain … Mitchell, is it?” The eyes took in Aske, and dismissed him; and then took in Elizabeth, and lingered on her for just half a second longer— the eyes were green too, damn it!—and then dropped her, coming back to Paul. “It’s been a long time, Captain—six years?”

“Seven, more like—since Hameau Ridge, Nikki—far too long!” He wasn’t pretending his regret: even the best liar couldn’t electrify his lie so well. “We should have contrived a Hameau Ridge Old Comrades’ Reunion ages ago.”

Mid-thirties, decided Elizabeth critically. But still almost flawless, and seven years ago didn’t bear thinking about.

“But what brings you here?” This time there was a slight loss of conviction in Paul’s voice.

“You do—as you well know.”

“
I
do?” He frowned. “But why? What am I supposed to have done now?” The frown deepened. “You’re not going to tell me that this is …
official
?”

“Official—what?” said Aske. “What’s going on?”

“What indeed!” Paul gestured helplessly. “I’m sorry, Humphrey—and Elizabeth … but this, apparently, is Mademoiselle Nicole MacMahon, of the French security service—which bit of it I’m not quite sure.” His voice tightened as he spoke. “But if this is official business then I don’t need to introduce my friends to you, Nikki, because you’ll already know who they are … Only, as for what’s going on—I’d like to know that, too.”

Mademoiselle MacMahon looked at each of them in turn again. “Captain Mitchell—“

“No. Not ‘captain’. That was strictly acting and temporary—and unpaid, as it happens. If you want to be formal, Nikki, it’s ‘Doctor Mitchell’ now—PhD, Cantab.” He shook his head suddenly, as though to dispel unreality. “Only I just don’t see why it has to be formal.”

She looked at him, almost sadly so it seemed to Elizabeth. “Very well—Paul.”

“That’s better!”

“It isn’t better. I had hoped you would not be tiresome, Paul. That is why they sent me—because we know each other, and you wouldn’t try to play the innocent.”

“I’m not going to be tiresome, Nikki. But this is one time when I can’t avoid being innocent. Because that’s what I am—what we
all
are.”

Nikki MacMahon sighed, and then indicated the table. “Sit down, please.”

They sat down facing her, examinees again.

“So you are innocent, Paul. Which means that you are not in France in a professional capacity, concerned with any matter of security?”

“No, I didn’t say that.” Paul’s face was expressionless. “I am in France professionally. And I
am
concerned with a security matter.”

“What?” The delicately-pencilled eyebrows rose.

“A matter of the greatest importance to my country, in fact… in 1812, that is.”

Nikki MacMahon’s lips compressed into a tight line.

“In 1812, Nikki … if what Professor Belperron back there says is even half right—“ Paul jerked his thumb over his shoulder “—your little Corsican Tyrant was planning to do our dear old Farmer George a terrible mischief. That’s the security matter we’re interested in— and I’m interested in it as a professional historian. And that’s the beginning and the end of it—ask anybody—ask Miss Loftus here … It’s her father’s book I’m commissioned to finish, you see.”

“I know about the book, Paul.” Nikki MacMahon had recovered from that brief moment of irritation when she’d been outmanoeuvred. “I know about your escaped sailors at Coucy—I know about Colonel Suchet—I know about all that.”

“Well, then—“ Paul spread his hands “—if you know about all that, then what the hell are you doing here?” Then he frowned again. “You must have talked to my friend Bertrand Bourienne? Yes … well, I hope you didn’t frighten the life out of him, that’s all! But if you talked to him … and I suppose you were listening in the back there to what was said in Professor Belperron’s study—of course you were!” He shook his head at her. “I
thought
there was something funny about that—it just never occurred to me what it was … But—
okay
—I hope you enjoyed what you heard! So ask poor old Bertrand, and ask Professpr Belperron anything you like too. But I’m afraid they’ll only be able to tell you the truth, plain and simple, Nikki.”

Whatever the truth was, it wasn’t plain and simple, thought Elizabeth. And yet it
was
also the truth, that was the twisted strand of irony in Paul’s display of injured innocence—the truth which he himself could make no sense of.

“I see.” Nikki MacMahon’s smile was halfway into a sneer. “So it is merely the year 1812 in which you are interested?”

“1812, yes. And maybe 1813 and 1811. And I could throw in 1805 and 1779 now, I suppose.” Paul shrugged, then turned to Elizabeth. “We shall have to replace that whole chapter, of course. But we’ve got something much better already. And if I can argue Nikki here into clapping us in jail for a few days I shouldn’t wonder but that we might have a best-seller, Elizabeth.” He came back to the Frenchwoman almost lazily. “The Press would like that—on both sides of the Channel, Nikki … how you caught your wicked English spies 170 years too late—they’d really enjoy that.” Then he shrugged again. “Of course, it won’t exactly polish up the image of the
Direction de la Securité du Territoire
…
But you can’t win ‘em all.” He looked at his watch ostentatiously. “So shall we just be on our way, then? It’s lunch-time, and I’m more than ready for Humphrey’s favourite restaurant.”

The green eyes blazed for a fraction of a second, then became ice-cold again, and Elizabeth warmed herself in the chill of their coldness. Whatever had happened those seven years ago, there was more rivalry between them than affection, and no rivalry for her to fight.

“No,” said Nikki MacMahon.

No
, thought Elizabeth: this formidable woman would never let any mere man walk away from her unbruised, not if she could help it, and least of all an English man.

The woman turned suddenly to Aske.

“Mr Aske—if Dr Mitchell is a professional historian … tell me what you do for a living?”

Paul stiffened. “Oh—come on, Nikki! You know who we both work for, one way or another—you said that’s why they gave you this job … So Humphrey works with me, you know
that
. But what you probably don’t know is that he’s an authority on early nineteenth-century naval history—is that the answer you want?”

“I want Mr Aske’s answer, Paul. Mr Aske—?”

Aske sat back. “I wouldn’t dream of being uncivil, Miss MacMahon … but if you were a man I’d say it really wasn’t any of your damn business—beyond what’s on my passport, anyway.” He smiled at her. “Which says ‘Civil Servant’, as it happens.”

Nikki MacMahon switched abruptly back to Paul. “Where did you go yesterday afternoon?”

“After we landed?” Paul packed insolence into his pause for innocent reflection. “
Ah
…
did you lose us for an hour or two? Well … let’s see … we signed in at our hotel in Laon, and dropped off our bags … Then we went for a spin in the country before meeting Bertrand … Then we went back to Laon, and had a drink, and had our dinner—
the profiterolés
were delicious—and had another drink … and then we went to bed. Do you want more detail than that? Did you dream of anything subversive to the Republic, Humphrey?”

Another flash of green fire. “Where did you go before you met M’sieur Bourienne?”

“We took Elizabeth to see the Chemin des Dames, where the French Army mutinied in 1917. I wanted to show her the British War Cemetery at Vendresse, Nikki—you know my weakness for visiting British war cemeteries in France. I remember taking you to the Prussian Redoubt Cemetery on the edge of Hameau Ridge, back in ‘74—you remarked on the way the poppies grew there, as I recall… They don’t grow nearly so well in Champagne as on the Somme—do they, Elizabeth?”