War Game (6 page)

All the same.
The Red Rat
had had a clean bill of health. For all that it occasionally came up with an uncomfortably genuine morsel of scandal—which it usually ruined with crass exaggeration— there had been no hint of foreign manipulation, KGB or other. The only string to it was the shoestring on which it ran: it had almost certainly avoided the legal consequences of its most outrageous accusations because it wasn’t worth taking to court, not because of the victims’ generosity.

Now it would have to tread more carefully. But now it could also afford to tread more heavily.

He drove on steadily, stopping first to purchase a bottle of beer and a pie, and then to turn two pound notes into small change.

The Jerseys had relaxed the last of his Atlantic tensions, the Jerseys and the quiet of the countryside, the green and yellow countryside of the last days of harvest time.

There hadn’t been so much stubble-burning this year, he noted approvingly. But what was saddening was the epidemic spread of Dutch elm disease which was browning the leaves everywhere with a false autumn. It looked as though the day of the elm was over in southern England, his own elms among them.

He realised he was seeing all around him what he wanted to see, not what should be uppermost in his mind. The countryman was seeing the fields and the trees, just as the property developer would see choice building land, and the psephologist would pass from one parliamentary division to the next, remembering each one’s electoral swing.

What he should be seeing now was not the peaceful countryside of the 1970s, but the war-torn land of the 1640s, the divided England of the last great English Civil War.

Except that was easier said than done, because for all his degree in history there wasn’t a great deal he could recall about the seventeenth century—

King versus Parliament.

Cavaliers versus Roundheads.

Dashing Prince Rupert versus dour Oliver Cromwell.

Cavaliers—wrong, but romantic.

Roundheads—right, but repulsive.

And, of course, the Roundheads had won, and dear old Sir Jacob Astley, surrendering the last Royalist army, had summed up this and all other wars—You have now done your work and may go play; unless you fall out amongst yourselves… .

Which the victorious Roundheads had promptly done. Because now, in place of the King and his cavaliers, they had Cromwell and the terrible New Model Army which had won the war—the unbeatable Ironsides who knew what they were fighting for (more or less), and loved what they knew.

It was coming back, thought Audley. Some of it, anyway.

And then Cromwell had ruled England with his New Model sword, and a great many people had felt the edge of it—the Scots and the Irish and the new young King Charles II … and the Dutch and the Spaniards, and even the Algerine pirates, by God!

And the English themselves most of all, and they hadn’t liked that very much—

In the name of Lucifer, Amen; Noll Cromwell, Lord Chief Governor of Ireland, Grand Plotter and Contriver of all Mischiefs in England, Lord of Misrule, Knight of the Order of Regicides, Thieftenant-General of the Rebels, Duke of Devilishness, Ensign of Evil, being most wickedly disposed of mind— they hadn’t liked it at all, having a man who made the trains run on time, and solved the parking problem, and evened the balance of payments by throwing a sword on to the scales.

Yes, it was coming back, but he needed much more precise information than this before he could decide what to do.

He assembled his small change in neat piles and dialled the London number of the ancient banking house of Fattorini.

“David Audley for Matthew Fattorini, please.”

“Will you hold the line please, Mr. Audley.” Polite voice, polite pause for checking Matthew’s personal list. “I’m putting you through now,
Dr
Audley.”

A shorter pause—“Hello, David! I thought you were in Washington.”

“You know too much, Matthew. I was, but now I’m not … And I need to pick your brains.”

“Pick away, dear man—brains, pockets, it’s all the same—empty.”

Since Matthew Fattorini was certainly one of the shrewdest men in London, and would be one of the richest there before he retired, that was a mild departure from the truth, thought Audley.

“Gold, Matthew.”

“Uh-huh. Buying or selling?”

“Neither.”

“Pity. Lovely stuff, gold. Price is just about to go down, too.”

“I want information, Matthew.”

“Don’t we all, dear man! But if you want to know whether the Portuguese are going to sell some more of their reserves —and they’ve got at least 800 tons still— or how much the Russians are going to sell for that US grain, you’ve come to the wrong man—sorry.”

“Not that sort of information. Historical information.”

Silence. Audley fed the coin box again.

“What sort of history, David?”

“Sixteenth, seventeenth century.”

Another moment of silence. “Wouldn’t be Cromwell’s gold by any chance, would it, David?”

Audley grinned into the mouthpiece. “I told you, you know too much, Matthew.”

“Read the papers, that’s all. Lots of interesting things in the papers—you should know, you spend most of your time keeping the best stories out of ‘em. But still lots of interesting things. Some of ‘em very nearly true, too.”

“Like a ton of gold? Can that be on the level, Matthew?”

“Why not, David? Ton of gold weighs the same as a ton of wheat. It’s just worth more—and easier to move, that’s all.”

“Did they ship that sort of cargo from America?”

“In the seventeenth century? Dear man, that was the main cargo from the Spanish American colonies for years—gold and silver, plus gems and spices. I know for a fact that California was producing up to eighty tons a year in the 1850s, and Australia even more. If you think of all the gold-producing areas in the Americas— well, Francis Drake picked up tons of the stuff, gold and silver, in that one raid of his in the 1570s. And that must have been all from the current year’s ore, they wouldn’t have left the previous year’s production just lying around, would they now?”

“But in one shipment, Matthew?”

“You mean all their eggs in one basket? Yes, I see. …”

“And with pirates and bad weather—“

“Ah—now you’re being deceived by your own historical propaganda. The English—and the French and the Dutch too—always dreamed of Spanish treasure ships, but they very rarely captured one. They travelled in convoy, for a start. And there were very few men of Drake’s calibre … which was of course why the Spaniards made such a fuss about him. Besides, this shipment of yours was much later—in the 1620s or 30s, if I remember right, wasn’t it? That is the one we’re talking about, I presume?”

The mixture of disinterested interest and casual helpfulness was almost perfectly compounded, thought Audley.

“You wouldn’t have a personal interest in Charlie Ratcliffe’s credit, would you, Matthew?”

“Hah! Now who knows too much for his own good, eh?” Matthew chuckled briefly. “But as it happens—no. I’m not a crude money-lender. And if I was … there are some people I wouldn’t lend money to.”

“But there are people who might?”

“If they thought the profit and the risk matched up—I know of one such.” There was an edge to Matthew’s tone. “Though now you’re showing such a laudable interest in Spanish-American economic history, am I entitled to hope that he’s going to be in trouble?”

“You’re not entitled to hope for anything, Matthew.”

“Pity. But what you really need is an expert historian, my friend.”

“I know. I suppose you don’t happen to have one in your counting-house, do you?”

“Not bloody likely. But I can give you a name.” Matthew chuckled again. “You won’t like it though, I tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Hah—well you remember that long streak of wind-and-piss on our staircase at Cambridge—the one who got a First despite everything his tutor could do? The one who read
The Times
aloud at breakfast?”

“Nayler?”

“Professor Stephen Nayler to you, you hireling. He’s transmogrified himself into a Fellow of St. Martin’s, and he’s also by way of being a television pundit on matters historical for the BBC. But I expect you’ve seen him on the box, haven’t you? Or do you just watch the rugger and
Tom and Jerry
?”

“What’s Nayler got to do with Charlie Ratcliffe’s gold, Matthew?”

“Why—everything, dear man. The blighter’s going to do a programme of some sort on it. A sort of on-the-spot re-enactment, complete with young Charlie dressed up as his revolting ancestor. … So if you go crawling cap in hand to the great man himself he’ll surely help you.”

“I should very much doubt it. We never got on with each other.”

“Got on? Dear man, he hated your guts —you were the ghastly rugger-playing hearty who nearly pipped him for the senior scholarship. And that’s precisely why he’ll help you, if you abase yourself suitably. Where’s your psychology?” Matthew Fattorini clucked to himself. “No, he won’t be your problem… . It’s young Charlie you want to watch out for.”

“Indeed?” If Matthew was fishing, this was one time he’d find nothing on the hook.

“Indeed and indeed.” Fattorini gave a grunt. “Oh, yes—I know what you’re thinking: you play with the big rough boys, and he’s just a juvenile revolutionary. But I mean it all the same, David.”

“You know him?”

“Never met him in my life. But I know he’s a man with a lot of gold.”

“Gold—meaning power?”

“Not just power. Gold changes people, believe me.”

“You should know, Matthew.”

“I do.” Fattorini’s voice was serious. “But my gold is all on paper. Ratcliffe’s is the real thing, and it’s all his. And what’s even more to the point is he’s handled it —a lot of it. They say you’re never the same after that, it turns little pussycats into tigers. Remember Bogart in ‘Sierra Madre’? Don’t you forget that, David….”

Audley picked up the remains of his money and walked back to collect the beer and the pie, his reward for being right about Matthew Fattorini’s usefulness.

He sat on the grass, swigged the beer, munched the pie and thought about how much Matthew must dislike the anonymous source of Charlie’s present credit. That in itself was interesting.

But Nayler was something different. All he could remember was a spotty face, uncombed hair and a long, lanky body. Plus, of course, the voice which had driven Matthew and himself from the breakfast table all those years ago. But if he’d got that senior scholarship he could hardly be stupid, anyway.

He swallowed the last fragment of pie, washing it down with the last draught of beer, and sighed deeply. It had been a bonus that Matthew had known as much as he did, confirming the Brigadier’s information about the fund-raising. And Matthew had even produced the right reaction at his interest in the subject. But in the meantime, here and now and in the sacred name of duty, he was going to have to undertake some cap-in-hand crawling.

He retraced his steps unwillingly to the phone box, piled up his coins again, and obtained Nayler’s college number from directory inquiries.

There was always hope that the man was out. Or even that he wasn’t up at all, since term had nowhere near started, and every self-respecting don would be away from college until it did. Or even that he was happily and fruitfully married, and was taking his wife and his seven ugly and precocious daughters to Bournemouth for a prolonged summer holiday. Then he could honourably get someone else to do this job.

But he knew even before the Porter’s Lodge answered that it wouldn’t be so. All the laws of chance decreed that anything anyone didn’t want to happen as much as that
had
to happen, no matter what the mathematical odds against.

“What name shall I give, sir?” inquired the Porter politely.

“Audley. David Audley.” Audley closed his eyes. “We were … up … together many years ago, you might remind him.”

And there wasn’t the slightest possibility that Nayler wouldn’t help him. Plus not the smallest fraction of that slightest possibility that he wouldn’t settle a few old scores in doing so.

“Hullo?” The voice set Audley’s teeth on edge. “Hullo there?”

“Professor Nayler?” Audley opened his eyes to glare at the dying elms. “This is David Audley. Do you remember me?”

“But of course! How are you, my dear fellow? Flourishing, I hope.”

The machine asked for more money.

“Well enough.” Audley swallowed.

“Jolly good.” The words were qualified with an audible sniff. “What is it that you’re doing now—teaching is it?” Nayler managed to make teaching sound like sewing mailbags.

“No.” That was all he could manage. But he had to do better than that, for the Minister’s sake if not for his own.

“No? But you did publish a little book not so long ago, didn’t you? I seem to recall seeing it mentioned somewhere.”

The scale of the insult had a steadying effect. It was on a par with reading
The Times
aloud at breakfast.

“Yes. But I work for the Treasury now.” That was safe. But more to the point, it was also sufficiently impressive.

“The Treasury?” Nayler sounded disappointed. “Jolly good. … So what can I do for you, then?”

“We’re working on the Standingham Castle gold hoard—you may have read about it in the press?”

“The Standingham Castle hoard?” Nayler was elaborately casual. If Matthew was right he must have all the facts to hand by now, but he wasn’t going to admit prior knowledge of the question.

Audley felt better now, even a little ashamed that he had ever let his temper rise; in such circumstances as these flattery did not belittle the flatterer, only the flattered.

“We’re looking for an expert to confirm some of the historical facts. Naturally, your name was the first one to come up, Professor.”

Nayler bowed to him over the phone. “What is it you want to know?”

“Just the broad details. Did the Spaniards really lose a major shipment of gold at that time?”

“Yes, they did. There’s a newsletter from the Fuggers’ Antwerp agent reporting it overdue.”

“All that gold in one ship?”