The Prisoner's Dilemma (31 page)

It was early evening and L'Arquen walked briskly through Craigleven's stable block, his speed disguising the slight lurch in his step. As he passed by them, shirt-sleeved troopers stiffened to attention and stopped grooming their horses, only too aware of their colonel's black mood.

At the far end of the building, Major Sharrocks stood speaking to one of his men. As he strode up to question him, L'Arquen's voice could be easily heard by the whole troop.

‘Any progress, major?'

‘No sir,' replied Sharrocks smartly, ‘still no sign of them. But I'm sure we shall sight their boat soon. We have two guards at the castle's entrance and a further man on the dunes.'

L'Arquen looked at him sourly, as if he'd just received a confession of personal failure.

‘Harken, Sharrocks,' he said in a low voice that nonetheless carried to the others. To a man they froze. ‘Keep looking, keep looking. Report to me immediately you see something.'

* * * 

The King's Messenger rode on. He had cut his sleep down to four hours a night but he still felt the journey was never going to end.

He was now in central Scotland and ahead of him was yet another roadblock, the guards at it calling on him to halt. He pointed to his silver greyhound insignia and shouted down at them.

‘King's Messenger with urgent orders for the 17
^th
Dragoons in Caithness. From Prince von Brunswick-Luneburg! Let me pass. How far to Perth?'

The man swung the barrier upwards and called back.

‘Twelve miles!'

The messenger galloped on.

* * * 

Sophie, Hume and Adam Smith were finishing a simple dinner of lamb stew, the dining room lit by lanterns and candlelight. An echo of another dinner in Edinburgh, Hume thought to himself. He listened to Smith as he spoke to Sophie in the chair opposite him, all the time gazing at the far end of the table.

‘Hume and I were discussing something on our walk this afternoon, Miss Kant. We spoke about whether society is not the better for being threatened by the occasional defector. His view was that a society of co-operators, constant three pointers, however trusting and supportive it might be, would become complacent and dulled over time. He wondered whether there wasn't a natural desire in our natures, of which we are quite unaware, that needs the threat of defectors to keep society's edge sharp and the dream of liberty and fairness alive.'

‘Yes, Mr Hume and I have touched on much the same topic, ourselves,' replied Sophie. ‘Do you have any thoughts on the matter?'

‘I have, indeed, been thinking on it. If you'll permit me to propose them, I believe I do have some views.'

Adam Smith sat back in his chair and now stared at one of the ceiling bosses.

‘I would suggest that there are two great potential threats that must be constant reminders of the need for vigilance, however settled or co-operative a society may appear.

‘The first is the madman. The person for whom neither losing nor winning are important. This kind of man is deadly to others because he rejects the concept of a repeated Prisoner's Dilemma. For his own reasons, perhaps a warped background, perhaps bitter experiences – or possibly he simply has too much power or security and thinks he has no need to care about the reactions of other people – whatever his motive is, he views every choice and exchange as a one-time game. These people are the tramplers in
life. For whatever reason, they are completely unafraid of, or unable to see, what you have called the ‘shadow of the future.”

Sophie nodded.

‘I quite agree,' she replied with a light laugh. ‘They are impossible to deal with. We may have had some experience of that here in these past few weeks. And what do you see as the other threat?'

‘Let me ask you something before I answer that,' said Adam Smith. ‘Let us imagine that you and I are playing the Dilemma. We have agreed to play a game of a hundred turns. This is unusual because we've decided on a game with a finite limit. It has a clear end in other words. Early in the game, of course, we find that we can trust each other. But has the Dilemma also not shown us that instead of being truly good we are being good for a reason? That we are trying to lure the other person into being co-operative back? And perhaps lure is a good word because what we are really doing is appearing to be co-operative while, actually, we are waiting for the opportunity to make a quick killing at the other's expense?'

‘Really, Mr Smith!' said Sophie, ‘you are beginning to sound like Lord Dunbeath.'

‘Am I? Well think on this. We are on the hundredth turn. This is your last opportunity to make a choice. What will you play now? Let me answer for you because it is difficult to ever imagine you being devious or disloyal. But you
would
be, Miss Kant. You would be no different to anyone else. You would
have
to defect. You'd take five points because I would then have no opportunity left to respond, to punish you. You'd be foolish not to. The game would be over.

‘But I'd know that you would do this! And so I'd defect on the ninety ninth turn in anticipation of it. Ha! Then again, you'd be bound to know that I would do this so you would inevitably defect before this – on the ninety eighth turn. And so we go back. When would we ever co-operate under this logic? I think of it as
a backward induction paradox and it is, I think, where the parlour games we have been playing depart from people's behaviour in real life. There
are
ends in life. People choose to bring things to a close and they frequently defect when they do so. How often have we seen this in friendships? The closer that people have been, the greater the bitterness is when one lets the other down. Am I not right?'

‘It's difficult to argue with your logic,' broke in Hume as Sophie dropped her head, deep in thought about what Smith had just said. ‘But when do we ever play in life in the knowledge that we have a finite number of turns?'

‘Quite,' replied Smith with all the steeliness of a hunter closing in on his prey. ‘That is the exact point I was about to make. Let us return to who is the most dangerous player. Is he not the person who knows that only
he
is playing a finite game when everyone else thinks that they are repeating forever? He is the ultimate betrayer. Unknown to the other players, indeed to society as a whole, he is planning on grabbing five points because only he knows that the game is coming to an end. While all the good, trusting, three-point wishing people think it is continuing, he has lured them into looking away, but only so he can stab them in the back.'

Sophie seemed to come out of a daydream as Adam Smith reached the end of his argument.

‘Yes, I see your point,' she now said slowly. ‘He is a super free rider, isn't he? He doesn't defect knowing that he's going to continue to live in that society. He knows he won't be. He doesn't mind dealing it a mortal blow because he knows he won't have to deal with the people ever again. Yes, he is indeed dangerous. Perhaps this is why we hate betrayal so much? And perhaps this accounts for why society reserves its greatest contempt and most severe punishments for traitors?'

* * * 

Evening was falling as Zweig looked closely at the coast. He studied the shape of the cliffs as they snaked into the distance and then referred back to some rudimentary charts that he'd found in a forward locker on the boat.

‘I believe that is Calghoustie Head,' he said to Dunbeath, pointing to a spit of land. ‘With this wind on our beam there is every chance we shall see the castle tonight.'

They sailed on, with Zweig piling on yet more canvas as the thought of journey's end made the men urge the little craft forward. The wind freshened and moonlight lit their path. At about two the following morning they rounded a headland and the enormous fortress came into view in the distance.

‘There it is, my lord, The Castle of Beath,' said Zweig. ‘You must be pleased to be back.'

‘Yes, I am indeed' replied Dunbeath, and he squinted into the breeze to look at it. He stood studying its outline for some seconds but stiffened as something caught his eye and he became quite still, concentrating his gaze forward.

‘What's that hanging down from the observatory?' he murmured. ‘Pass me that glass, Zweig, if you'd be so kind.'

He took the telescope that Zweig handed him and focused it. The enlarged image swam into view. It showed a huge white cloth, suspended from the battlements of the Grey Tower.

‘It looks like they've hung a bed sheet up there, captain,' said Dunbeath, his eye still to the glass. ‘It must be a white flag – does that mean they've surrendered in some way? Here, look for yourself.'

Zweig took the telescope and with the practiced art of a mariner he focused on the castle for a moment. He adjusted the setting and then set it down.

‘No, my lord, I don't believe it is a white flag. I think it's what you first said it was. It is indeed a bed sheet. You speak excellent German, as you know, but perhaps your knowledge of the language has been shaped mainly by your scientific interests. It
could be that you do not know some of our more domestic terms. The German word for bed sheet is spelt
Laken
but we pronounce it…'

‘L'Arquen!' said Dunbeath, grimly.

‘Yes, my lord, Sophie would assume that we'd understand the sheet's meaning. I'm afraid she's warning us that the colonel is aware of our trip and I've therefore no doubt that the English are at the castle. If L'Arquen knows where you've been then he'll know that I'm with you too. And, therefore, we have to assume that he'll know who I am – and that, I fear, would put you in great danger for consorting with me. He'd be bound to conclude that I was bringing the powder and munitions for you.'

Dunbeath was rapidly becoming agitated at the memory of L'Arquen. And with Zweig's logic. His temper began to rise.

‘My God, captain, if the English know all this then they'll know by now that Sophie must have arrived with you …if they have so much as touched her! I dread to think if that monster L'Arquen has questioned her. What are we to do, Zweig? Their spies will be watching out for our arrival. We must continue up the coast and then walk back and hope we can evade their sentries.'

‘No, my lord. I have another suggestion,' replied Zweig. ‘Why do we not go into the castle from the sea without the redcoats seeing us? By great good fortune the tide should be at its lowest in an hour or so and we can then enter under cover of darkness – by a hidden cave that I'm aware of.'

Zweig briefly told Dunbeath about the long forgotten escape route.

‘We can take the boat's tender down to the rocks before dawn without being seen,' he continued. ‘I suggest we keep the jacht well away from the coast and then row in while the night is still dark. But where can Makepeace take the boat when we leave it, my lord?'

Dunbeath thought for a moment and then turned to the
coachman.

‘Stand well out from the coast, Makepeace. Be sure not to be seen. Then sail the boat around that promontory you can see up there, that's Dunbeaton Head, and anchor it near a shallow beach you'll see about three miles further on. You'll be able to get in close to the shore and it's a safe anchorage. But if we're taking the tender you'll have to stay on the boat until I can have you picked up. I'll send my housekeeper down to that small village at the end of the beach there and she'll get one of the fishermen to bring a rowing boat round the headland for you later.'

They unlashed the dinghy from its housing on the cabin roof and slid it gently into the sea. Dunbeath and Zweig climbed in and Makepeace waved them off as the captain rowed quietly towards the castle in the dark, pulling with long powerful strokes.

‘We shall land at low tide, my lord,' Zweig whispered. ‘That is the only point at which one can enter by this escape route. I shall stay at the castle while we complete our business and then I'll leave on the next low tide this afternoon and row back to where Makepeace will have anchored the boat. You're quite sure that I'll be able to see it when I round the headland?'

Dunbeath nodded.

‘Yes, yes quite sure. It's a wide, open bay and you'll see it clearly.'

Half an hour later Zweig brought the little craft skillfully alongside the largest of the great boulders under the castle wall. He put his arm out to steady Dunbeath as the earl clambered up onto it. Then he jumped out himself, holding the boat's painter.

‘I'll put a long line on her. The tide will rise before I leave this afternoon and she'll need some slack. Now, my lord, let me show you how to go here. You see that gap between the rocks? When I touch your arm, you are to jump down and run through that entrance into a cave. Go to the back of it as fast as you can and climb up on the ledge you'll find there. There will be no time to
be wasted between the waves, and take care of your footing, the cave will be wet and dark and we have no light with us.'

Dunbeath dropped down and Zweig heard his feet slopping on the sodden sand of the cave floor. Then he called out that he was on the ledge and Zweig jumped down himself. It was only a few seconds before he was up and taking the lead on the stone steps. He reached the flagstone and pushed it upwards, holding it open for Dunbeath as they emerged into the storeroom.

‘Good God!' said Dunbeath, ‘I've lived in this castle all my life and I had no idea of this. Not even rumours. How did you know about it, Zweig?'

Zweig smiled in the darkness.

‘You know how fishermen do talk,' he said, and Dunbeath knew very well not to question him further.

Once they were safely in the castle there was little need for quiet and before long the sound of their voices brought the others from their beds and they gathered in the great salon, still dressed in their night clothes. Adam Smith was introduced to an amazed Dunbeath and, before long, Annie had breakfast on the table, everyone eating in the highest of spirits, hugely elated that the men had got into the castle without L'Arquen's sentries seeing them.