The Old Vengeful (30 page)

He was cruel, thought Elizabeth. But then, he was fighting on another disadvantageous slope, against heavy odds, so there was no room for weakness in his tactics.

“Yes—that’s what we did.” She nodded at Nikki. “I signed the book there, Ma’mselle—“ she wanted to add
It
’
s a lovely sad place
, but that would have been an insult to those poor dead Tommies, to add the truth of what she had felt.

The green eyes pinned her momentarily. “Yes, I’m sure you did, Miss Loftus.”

Hating herself, Elizabeth frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

Nikki turned from her. “Your cover was always good, Paul. You haven’t changed.”

“Cover?” Something stopped him from denying the charge. “I seem to remember your cover back in ‘ 74 was pretty damn good, if you want to talk about covers, Nikki.”

Nobody was deceiving anybody, thought Elizabeth. Yet they were both bound by the rules of a game which she didn’t really understand, even though she was now one of the players.

“Mr Aske—“ Nikki came round to Humphrey Aske again, as though still searching for a weakness in their defences, but now with a hint of weariness in her voice “—why were you nosing around so long outside, after you’d parked your car? Why didn’t you come straight here?’

Aske shrugged unrepentantly. “Just habit, I suppose. I always take a professional interest in stake-outs, even when they’re as amateurish as yours, Miss MacMahon … I thought the local police must be up to something—I never imagined your people could be so
gauche
—we’d never set up anything so crude in London … I was looking to see who it was for—it never occurred to me that it was for
us
, Miss MacMahon!”

When it came to insults, Aske had nothing to learn from Paul, Elizabeth was reminded. They were both professionals.

“No?” The Frenchwoman countered him with bored disbelief. “Just habit… and you are such a good driver, aren’t you?”

“A good driver?” Aske feigned bewilderment. “Yes. I’ve done a bit of rallying in my time, and I’ve been round the circuit at Brand’s Hatch… Let’s say I’m a good driver—possibly a very good one, if it’s of the slightest interest to you.”

“Not a great deal. But losing those cars which were following you—that was just habit too, Mr Aske?”

“Good lord! You even had a tail on us?” Aske’s tone was mocking. “That was a bit antediluvian, surely? I mean … doesn’t your budget run to directional devices?” He thought for a moment, and then shook his head as though mildly surprised. “It wasn’t even awfully bright, either … if you already knew where we were going … ?”

“You didn’t lose them, then? On the
périphérique
?”

“Was that where I lost them?” He indicated mild interest, edged with amusement. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but in Paris I do like to drive like a Frenchman—it’s a little conceit of mine … I’d say it looks rather as though your drivers are like your stake-out: just not up to the job.”

“Not
my
drivers, Mr Aske.” The perfectly painted lips again compressed momentarily—lips already a tiny bit too thin for perfection, Elizabeth noted: add a few years, and that would be an unforgiving mouth.

But then the face round the mouth turned towards her, and it was her turn for the next broadside.

For what we are about to receive
—that was the way they waited for it in the old navy—

“
Nikki
…
” Paul cut into the instant of silence before the crash of the coup-de-grace “… I’ve taken about as much of this nonsense as old acquaintance allows, for Hameau Ridge’s sake. But now I’m getting close to pulling rank on you.”

“Rank?” The challenge turned her back to him. “What rank, Paul?”

“Try me and find out.” Paul regarded her obstinately. “If you’re not going to tell us what’s happening then arrest us or let us go. But no more questions.”

But this wouldn’t do, decided Elizabeth: he had picked up her silent distress signal, but was hazarding his own safety in order to save her. And she wasn’t going to be humiliated like that by either of them.

“It’s all right, Paul.” Her confidence flooded back with the sound of her own voice: if Elizabeth Loftus could
viva voce
First Class Honours from the borderline against two hostile examiners, what could this French bitch do that could frighten her? “If Mademoiselle MacMahon wants to ask me anything, she’s welcome. I don’t have anything to hide.”

The green eyes came back to her, uncompromising but also at least no longer so dismissive. And that in itself pumped more adrenalin: it was better to be scared than to be nothing, she discovered to her surprise.

And
get in first
signalled the adrenalin—

“After all, it’s my fault that Dr Mitchell and Mr Aske are here, Mademoiselle.” It was no different from sighting the enemy’s quarter-deck in the v-notch of the carronade, and then pulling the lanyard.

“My father commanded
Vengeful
, and I asked Dr Mitchell to finish his book.”

It pleased her to drop the
the
from
Vengeful
, as Father always insisted, and she was the more rewarded by the very slightest suggestion of doubt in those green eyes.

“I wasn’t going to ask you any questions, Miss Loftus, as a matter of fact… I thought it just possible that you might not know what was happening to you.” The doubt faded. “But now I think I may have been wrong.”

Bluff. Or, if not bluff, what could they do to her?

“Wrong about what, Mademoiselle?”

Aske sat up suddenly, as though stung. “
Not
your drivers, Miss MacMahon?
Not your
drivers?” He looked quickly at Paul, then back at the Frenchwoman. “Whose drivers, then?”

“Good question, Humphrey!” said Paul. “Whose drivers, if not theirs? And the right question too, because it gives us our answer in one.”

“Answer to what?”

“All this. The VIP treatment!” Paul nodded. “Mademoiselle MacMahon’s newest masters don’t give a stuff for the British, but they don’t want any unscheduled trouble with their Russian friends at the moment, not with all the deals they’ve got going.”

“With the Russians?” Aske repeated the words incredulously. “What the devil have the Russians got to do with what we’ve been doing?”

“I can’t imagine. But if I had to
guess
… I’d say that we’re all the victims of … a misunderstanding, shall we say?” Paul looked at Nikki MacMahon hopefully. “How about that?”

“A misunderstanding?” She received his olive branch as though it had nettles entwined in it.

“That’s right. Because … contrary to what you have assumed … Humphrey and I are on leave, and we’re strictly devoted to 1812. And if you can prove anything else, you can lock us both up and throw away the key—and we’ll come quietly, too.”

“But I don’t have to prove anything—“

Paul lifted his hand. “I haven’t finished. You have a nasty suspicious mind, Nikki—or your bosses have … But if the roads behind us are crawling with KGB heavies I can’t honestly blame you altogether.”

“That’s very generous of you, Paul.” She seemed to relent slightly. “You’re about to blame them, are you—for also having nastier and more suspicious minds?”

“Ah … now you’re beginning to get my drift.” He smiled. “But I don’t altogether blame either of you, actually … Because, you see, Nikki, before I started my leave I
was
engaged in an activity which surely interested them … Nothing that had anything whatsoever to do with France, I assure you … but something they certainly could take exception to. Only, you appreciate that I can’t tell you what.” He shrugged disarmingly. “But I suppose it is just possible they thought I was still hard at work—quite incorrectly, as it happens.”

Elizabeth became aware that her mouth had dropped open, and closed it quickly. It wasn’t so much that he was craftily offering the French security service Peace With Honour, as that he had so quickly and ingeniously interwoven truth with lies, and fact with fiction.

The emerald-green shoulders drooped. “Paul… do you know how many cars they sent to Laon?”

It was in the balance now, as he shook his head.

“Five, Paul. And ten men.
Ten men, Paul
!”

It was still in the balance.

“We were afraid there was going to be a blood-bath.” Nikki stared at him. “And you’re lying—of course.”

It was going the wrong way.

Paul gave a tiny shrug. “Well, if I told you the truth you’d never believe it. Just let Elizabeth go, that’s all—she was led astray by bad company, you can say.”

“No.” Nikki shook her head again. “It’s all or none.”

“Better make it
all
then, because I promise we’ll go quietly. But if we have to stay we’ll make trouble, I promise you
that
, too.” He nodded. “Starting with a phone call to the British Embassy.”

“You can have one call, Paul.” This time Nikki nodded. “From the departure lounge. Your plane leaves in two hours. The seats are already booked.”

AS
ELIZABETH REACHED
for the bell-chain which hung beside the big iron-bound door a narrow window under the eaves above swung open.

“Oh—hullo there! I thought I heard a car.” Cathy Audley’s little bespectacled face peered out of the window. “You’re early … but come on in—it isn’t locked.”

Elizabeth set her hand on the latch, and then remembered Humphrey Aske and turned back towards the car.

“The daughter, is that?” He made a face. “You go on, Miss Loftus, and I’ll bring in your luggage … And then you’ll have to protect me. I’m not at my best with little girls.”

He wouldn’t be, thought Elizabeth waspishly, and then despised herself for becoming infected with Paul’s prejudices.

The trouble was, it was not an infection which could be shrugged off easily once it was in the blood, even though Aske of all men had treated her with his own brand of courtesy, diffident but unfailing; it wasn’t anything he said, or anything he did—it was what he
was
which made her irrationally uneasy, and there was nothing to be done about it.

She forced her mind away from him, and stepped into the house— and was uneasy there, too: it was like coming home, yet not coming home—home, because here, still guarded, she could feel safe, and
she who outlives this day and comes safe home
…
and because the home from which she had been plucked on Saturday could never be home again for her after what had happened in it.

“Elizabeth!” Cathy pattered down the great polished staircase and skidded breathlessly to a halt in front of her. “You’re early—sorry, but Mummy’s gone to Guildford with Daddy—but the old gentleman’s here, and I’ve put him in the library with Mummy’s
Guardian
and a glass of sherry.”

What old gentleman? There was simultaneously too much and too little to grasp there at one go: they were expected, which was fair enough from Paul’s phone call, which had brought two cars to Gatwick … and Humphrey Aske had driven one of those with all his Brand’s Hatch skill … But what old gentleman?

“That’s fine, dear—“ Gently now, gently, to be taken for granted by a child as an equal was a high compliment, not to be trifled with “—how long has he been here?”

“Oh not long. Do you know, Elizabeth—he has hair coming out of his ears?” Cathy nodded. “But he’s terrifically polite—he calls me ‘Miss Audley’ and stands up when I come into the library, would you believe it?”

Elizabeth had hoped for better than that, but while she was searching for another approach the door clicked behind her and Cathy’s magnified eyes looked past her.

“Hullo. Who are you?” The child frowned.

“I… am Eeyore’s brother,” said Humphrey Aske. “Do you know who Eeyore was?”

“Yes.” The eyes filled with suspicion. “He was a donkey.”

“Correct. So people put burdens on me. And they beat me at regular intervals. And that makes me a donkey.”

And that did indeed make him a donkey, thought Elizabeth, even though he was doing his best with
Winnie-the-Pooh
. Because he had chosen the wrong child to patronise.

“Cathy—this is Humphrey Aske, a friend of your father’s,” she said hurriedly. “Mr Aske—Miss Audley.” She grinned at Cathy conspiratorially.

“
Ee-ore
,” said Aske self-consciously.

“How do you do, Mr Aske,” said Cathy.

“I’m bad-tempered, actually,” said Aske. “Nobody’s offered me a thistle forages.”

“A—
what
?” Cathy regarded him incredulously.

“I haven’t had my lunch, little girl,” Aske sighed. “And I haven’t had my tea, either.”

Cathy wilted slightly at
little girl
.

“You don’t happen to have a thistle, by any chance?” inquired Aske, before Elizabeth could intervene.

“Cathy—“

“Would you like a glass of sherry, Mr Aske?” said Cathy icily.

This time it was Aske who wilted.

“It’s all right, Cathy,” said Elizabeth. “We’ve just come back from France, you see.”

“Or, to be exact, we’ve been thrown out—on our ears … or maybe on some other part of our anatomy, eh?” Aske gave Elizabeth a rueful half-grin, ignoring Cathy Audley.

“Oh!” Cathy’s ears pricked, and she turned to Elizabeth. “Is that
persona non grata
? Daddy explained that to me just recently—‘grata’ agreeing with ‘persona’, he said.” She came back to Aske. “Which means you’ve been caught red-handed, he said.”

Aske’s mouth opened wordlessly.

“What did they catch you doing? Or shouldn’t I ask?” Cathy over-fed his confusion before turning again to Elizabeth. “Of course—Daddy was going to France, wasn’t he! I even gave him some money to buy that smelly after-shave for Uncle Jack, for Christmas— Paco—Paco—Paco …
Paco
—did they catch you doing something too, Elizabeth?”

“They didn’t catch us doing anything, really,” said Elizabeth.

“Ah—now that is strictly true.” Aske had recovered his cool. “But they did catch us doing
nothing
, and sometimes that’s just as bad as being caught doing something.”