October Men Read Online Free PDF Page A

Boselli’s mind) unasked for the knowledge that when he had been a pimply youth toying with the idea of the seminary the General had been a daring Bersaglieri captain, raider of British airfields, and then the leader of the Partisan group which had ambushed Panzergeneral Hofacker in the mountains.
    And hot on that memory came the comparison of his wife’s sagging body with those of the gorgeous creatures the General always had at heel, despite his age and disabilities.
    The General couldn’t help it—he rarely even barked at Boselli. The trouble was, he didn’t have to.
    “I don’t know about him,” said Villari offhandedly. “I know of him, of course.”
    “What do you know of him, boy?” the General snapped.
    “Not much, to be honest,” Villari gave the General a sidelong glance. “The British don’t concern me directly—or do they?”
    “Just answer the question,” repeated the General with a small cutting edge in his voice now which warmed Boselli. This was more like the real man he knew.
    Villari sketched a shrug, unsnubbed, as though the matter was of little importance to him, ignoring or pretending to ignore the danger sign. “He’s a university professor, or that’s his cover anyway.”
    “He has been attached to a university, that’s true. Go on.”
    But only partly true, Boselli thought gleefully. The Clotheshorse was already giving himself away.
    “Go on,” repeated the General.
    “Well, he writes history books of some sort—about the Arabs, I seem to remember. Or something like that. And he’s one of Sir Frederick—ah—Clinton’s group—“
    “And what do you know about that ,” the General pounced hard.
    Villari grinned at him boyishly. “Frankly, damn all, General. Am I supposed to? I didn’t think the British were in my sphere of operations.”
    “Where did you hear about Audley?”
    “Hell, I don’t know,” Villari was something less sure of himself now, and something less than convincing. “I keep my ear to the ground—I hear all sorts of things.”
    Mostly bottles opening and bedroom doors closing, thought Boselli. That was the strength of it.
    “You’ve never met Audley, then?”
    “No, never.” Villari used the certainty of his reply to cover the relief in his voice, without realising that he was thereby admitting that he knew what Audley looked like, Boselli thought with instant contempt. If this were the pride of the German section, then God help them: no wonder they gave him so much time off to ski. He gave himself away every time he opened his handsome mouth.
    But the General was obviously not interested in pursuing Villari’s incompetence any farther. He retired to the farther side of his desk and sat down heavily.
    “Tell him, Boselli,” he ordered dispassionately.
    Boselli gave a guilty start. “Tell him what, sir? About Dr. Audley?”
    “The Clinton group first. And don’t stand there sweating—sit down.” The General waved a hand. “Sit down both of you. And make it brief, Boselli. I haven’t all the afternoon.”
    “Sir—“ Boselli faced the General, then Villari. The punitive gleam in Villari’s eye drove him back at once to the General. “The origins of the group go back to the aftermath of the Suez failure—“
    “Not its history, man. Tell him what it does!”
    “Yes, sir. Well—“ Boselli began again nervously “—it doesn’t exactly do anything. I mean—“ Christ! He was getting himself as tangled as Villari had been, and with far less reason. He couldn’t ski one metre, or hang expensive suits on himself, or fornicate with foreign women. But this one gift he had.
    “It was formed as a passive intelligence group, not an active one,” he said firmly, his voice gaining authority with each word. “The various labels it has used have been more for accounting convenience than a guide to its function—it goes under Research and Development at the moment, but its true relation with the conventional intelligence arms is