leaving in memory only the comedy of their undignified survival after Arkwright’s belated throw, and then the wondrous flow of the corporal’s invective, unleashed after a matching moment of speechlessness. But then he stopped smiling as he saw the half-drawn pistol in Mitchell’s hand.
‘Put the window up, David.’ Mitchell wasn’t looking at him.
Just ahead of them, weaving between the gaps in the cars in the other lane, were a couple of Neapolitan urchins carrying trays of cigarettes and assorted junk.
‘For God’s sake, Paul! They’re only—‘
‘ Put the window up .’ Mitchell didn’t-take his eyes off the urchins.
‘ Throw it! ’
Audley wound the window up.
‘Only kids.’ Mitchell slid the pistol back under his armpit before completing his sentence.
The car moved again, leaving the children behind.
‘Only kids.’ Mitchell nodded. ‘But that’s the way it’s done. Beirut … the West Bank … Belfast one day, I shouldn’t wonder. All you need is a traffic jam in the usual place. Or, if not, they can easily cause one … And then a bit of carelessness, like an open window. And then, just pop a grenade in, and run.’
‘A—‘ The coincidence with his own recent thought chilled Audley into silence. As of now, that would never be a jolly anecdote again. But meanwhile he had to reassure himself. ‘Aren’t you being a bit over-cautious?’
‘Probably.’ Mitchell breathed out heavily as they shook themselves free of the traffic jam, turning under the autostrada on to what looked like a minor road. ‘Maybe I’m a bit twitchy.’
Too long in the trenches , thought Audley critically. Mitchell’s problem was the reverse of Elizabeth’s. And it was one thing (and a good one) to give Research and Development types like Elizabeth a bit of field-experience, but another (and a very bad one) to over-stretch them just because they showed an aptitude for that too.
In fact, seconding Mitchell to Henry Jaggard’s Dublin operation was like chartering Concorde to fly relief food to Ethiopia: when he finally over-shot some inadequate runway—when his already-threadbare academic cover finally split under the pressure—all bloody-Jaggard’s sincere regrets wouldn’t put the clock back.
Mixed metaphors , he thought, also critically. But, trenches and Concordes and threadbare clocks aside, he must be gently encouraging now—
‘I didn’t mean that, Paul.’ He could see the sea again. ‘I know you’re just obeying Jack Butler’s orders.’ But not the sea: this was Wimpy’s Bay of Naples, still—it had to be. And … and there was even a road sign ahead—
Baia — Bacoli — Miseno —
Not just Wimpy’s bay: Wimpy’s ancient Misenum , from which Admiral Pliny had heroically taken his fleet to succour the Vesuvius disaster-survivors of Pompeii and Stabia—
Damn!
‘What I meant … I don’t see how anyone can know that I’m here—‘ He almost added ‘whereever I am’. But now he knew where he was, even if he didn’t know why he was so far from Amalfi—‘except Peter Richardson—?’
‘And the Italians.’ Mitchell accelerated after the police car in front. ‘And the entire staff of the Palazzo Richardson—? And Uncle Tom Cobleigh and All, thereafter?’ He nodded at Audley without taking his eyes off the police car. ‘But chiefly Major— Peter — Richardson … yes.’
Suddenly everything was turned on its head, upside-down, in a way which he’d never even considered. But which, of course, Mitchell had quite naturally taken as a possibility from the moment he’d been saddled with his orders. ‘Peter Richardson isn’t a traitor, Paul.’
‘No?’ Slight shrug. ‘Well … if you say not, David.’ This time he managed a quick glance. ‘After fifteen years—or more, would it be—?’ Now he was on the Miseno road. ‘Are you willing to bet your life on that—never mind mine … which I still rather value—?’ Another shrug.
Audley waited.
‘You’re
Linda Lael Miller, Cathy McDavid