panic.
‘I don’t know anything worth being killed for.’
‘Huh! That’s what you think, not what you know. You told us you weren’t an expert on the Somme, but from where I sit you look uncommonly like one.’
‘Well, that’s not worth being killed for either. It can’t be.’
Mitchell heard the disbelief in his own voice, and knew he must take hold of it. Reason went out of the window as disbelief came in. However strange, the common denominator between Charles Emerson and himself was their knowledge of the 1914 - 18 War. And there was only one thing that eliminated three and a half of those four bloody years, zeroing attention on the Somme.
‘Where did you get that piece of map?’
‘From a Frenchman by the name of Edouard Antoine Barthelemi Ollivier, a very good friend of mine. We were at Cambridge together after the war as a matter of fact - that’s where I first met him. We were both reading history, like you.’
Mitchell hadn’t been expecting such a direct answer.
‘He’s a historian?’
‘No. He’s a son of liaison officer between their Prime Minister’s office and the Police Nationale. I’ve worked with him two or three times in the past ten years.’
‘So you are a policeman.’
‘Good gracious, no! Neither is Ted Ollivier.’
‘But you said he works with the police.’
‘The Police Nationale - and that’s an organisation with as many mansions as heaven itself. Ted Ollivier’s been a good many things in his time - he was in the French Resistance when he was fifteen and worked for us. He was the only survivor of his group, too - the Gestapo killed all the others - but he’s never been a proper policeman … No, officially he’s a civil servant, a glorified PRO-cum-errand boy.’
‘And unofficially?’
‘He’s a senior operative in the Service de Documentation Presidentielle.’
‘Never heard of it.’
Audley gave a grunt.
‘I’m not surprised. It’s the ultra-secret security agency in the French set-up, responsible only to the President himself. The great General set it up after the Martel scandal back in ‘62 when he found out the Russians had penetrated everything else in sight. It’s run by a man named Gensoul now.’
‘It doesn’t sound ultra-secret.’
‘Because I know about it? Ah, but you see it’s my business to know about it, just as it’s yours to know about the Hindenburg Line - and it’s Ted Ollivier’s to know about me … which is why it’s very interesting that he should have sent me that bit of map and the name Charles Emerson.’
‘What did he want you to do with them?’
‘Find out if the map belonged to Emerson, and if so what he’d done with it – whether he’d lost it or given it away, or what.’
‘Well, I can’t tell you that. He certainly had a copy of that map, but then he had a hell of a lot of maps.’
The past tense was the operative one now, thought Mitchell sadly. Past for the maps and past for poor Emerson. It didn’t really bear thinking about.
‘What exactly was Emerson doing in France this time?’ asked Audley.
‘Doing? I think he was looking over the ground along the Ancre Heights, by Grandcourt and Miraumont. Where the winter fighting took place. When I saw him after he came back he was - ‘ Mitchell stopped suddenly as the memory of Emerson’s excitement came back vividly to him.
‘He was - what?’ Audley picked up the hesitation quickly. ‘Let’s have some of that phenomenal memory of yours.’
‘Who told you it was phenomenal?’
‘Everybody. Your tutor, Forbes, for one … Your friend Crombie for another.’
‘You’ve done a lot of checking on me, it seems.’
‘Naturally. It’s routine, you know.’
‘And was it routine to tell me about Edouard Antoine Barthe-lemi Ollivier?’
The silence which followed the question confirmed the suspicion in Mitchell’s mind which Audley’s frankness had aroused. At the Institute, and again at home, he had stonewalled every inquiry; but now
‘I don’t know anything worth being killed for.’
‘Huh! That’s what you think, not what you know. You told us you weren’t an expert on the Somme, but from where I sit you look uncommonly like one.’
‘Well, that’s not worth being killed for either. It can’t be.’
Mitchell heard the disbelief in his own voice, and knew he must take hold of it. Reason went out of the window as disbelief came in. However strange, the common denominator between Charles Emerson and himself was their knowledge of the 1914 - 18 War. And there was only one thing that eliminated three and a half of those four bloody years, zeroing attention on the Somme.
‘Where did you get that piece of map?’
‘From a Frenchman by the name of Edouard Antoine Barthelemi Ollivier, a very good friend of mine. We were at Cambridge together after the war as a matter of fact - that’s where I first met him. We were both reading history, like you.’
Mitchell hadn’t been expecting such a direct answer.
‘He’s a historian?’
‘No. He’s a son of liaison officer between their Prime Minister’s office and the Police Nationale. I’ve worked with him two or three times in the past ten years.’
‘So you are a policeman.’
‘Good gracious, no! Neither is Ted Ollivier.’
‘But you said he works with the police.’
‘The Police Nationale - and that’s an organisation with as many mansions as heaven itself. Ted Ollivier’s been a good many things in his time - he was in the French Resistance when he was fifteen and worked for us. He was the only survivor of his group, too - the Gestapo killed all the others - but he’s never been a proper policeman … No, officially he’s a civil servant, a glorified PRO-cum-errand boy.’
‘And unofficially?’
‘He’s a senior operative in the Service de Documentation Presidentielle.’
‘Never heard of it.’
Audley gave a grunt.
‘I’m not surprised. It’s the ultra-secret security agency in the French set-up, responsible only to the President himself. The great General set it up after the Martel scandal back in ‘62 when he found out the Russians had penetrated everything else in sight. It’s run by a man named Gensoul now.’
‘It doesn’t sound ultra-secret.’
‘Because I know about it? Ah, but you see it’s my business to know about it, just as it’s yours to know about the Hindenburg Line - and it’s Ted Ollivier’s to know about me … which is why it’s very interesting that he should have sent me that bit of map and the name Charles Emerson.’
‘What did he want you to do with them?’
‘Find out if the map belonged to Emerson, and if so what he’d done with it – whether he’d lost it or given it away, or what.’
‘Well, I can’t tell you that. He certainly had a copy of that map, but then he had a hell of a lot of maps.’
The past tense was the operative one now, thought Mitchell sadly. Past for the maps and past for poor Emerson. It didn’t really bear thinking about.
‘What exactly was Emerson doing in France this time?’ asked Audley.
‘Doing? I think he was looking over the ground along the Ancre Heights, by Grandcourt and Miraumont. Where the winter fighting took place. When I saw him after he came back he was - ‘ Mitchell stopped suddenly as the memory of Emerson’s excitement came back vividly to him.
‘He was - what?’ Audley picked up the hesitation quickly. ‘Let’s have some of that phenomenal memory of yours.’
‘Who told you it was phenomenal?’
‘Everybody. Your tutor, Forbes, for one … Your friend Crombie for another.’
‘You’ve done a lot of checking on me, it seems.’
‘Naturally. It’s routine, you know.’
‘And was it routine to tell me about Edouard Antoine Barthe-lemi Ollivier?’
The silence which followed the question confirmed the suspicion in Mitchell’s mind which Audley’s frankness had aroused. At the Institute, and again at home, he had stonewalled every inquiry; but now
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