fact which also didn’t mean a thing by itself… You see, we do try to keep tabs on all the top SovCom personnel, especially the KGB controllers. What they do, where they go, who they visit, and the rest of it—it all goes into the data bank for processing.
“So we just happen to know that Comrade Professor Panin went on a trip about nine months back to Gorky, on the Upper Volga. And we also know that while he was there he borrowed a book from the Public Library—as a matter of fact we have that from two independent sources. And he’s never returned it, either.”
“He’s going to have a big fine to pay, after nine months,” said Mosby.
“The biggest. Because it was the oldest book in the library—it was written in the north of England about twelve hundred years ago.” Morris smiled. “Does the name Bede ring any bells with you, Captain?”
Unreality again: John Singleton Mosby, William Marshall, Chretien de Troyes, Arthur of the Britons, David Audley… Nikolai Andrievich Panin.
And now Bede. Bede, the monk of the monastery of Saint Paul at Jarrow. Bede the Venerable, just two steps from becoming a saint.
“Sure. He wrote one of the main source-books for the period— A History of the English Church and People . I’ve got a copy in there—“ he pointed to the sitting room behind Harry Finsterwald “—it was on Davies’s list.”
“But not this copy, Captain. This is the Novgorod Bede, one of the oldest Bede manuscripts in existence. That’s what Panin has got. And that was what Davies was enquiring about two days before his death.”
III
MOSBY FOLLOWED HOWARD MORRIS into the sitting room with misgivings churning up inside him.
Audley and Panin were bad enough, since for sure neither had reached his present eminence by the exercise of brotherly love. But at least they were bad enough in a known way: it was like meeting two tigers on his first trip in a foreign jungle where the larger predators usually remained deep in the undergrowth—just plain bad luck.
But Arthur and Badon were something totally different, totally unexpected. The pile of books on the table directly ahead of him was a reminder that up until now he’d managed to rationalise them, so that they had become part of his cover and a way of manipulating Audley, fundamentally no different from any other disguise or deception plan. Yet now, after what Morris had revealed, they were no longer the means to some unknown end; they were somehow part of the end itself.
Morris waved a hand towards the occupants of the room. “Dick Schreiner—State Department. Cal Merriwether—Harry’s other half.”
“Mrs Sheldon—Captain.” Schreiner was too well schooled by his trade to look at Mosby with envy.
But it was Merriwether who caught Mosby’s eye. He couldn’t place the coloured man at all, not even when he’d mentally replaced the sober grey polo-necked pullover and well-worn blue jeans with uniform.
He frowned with embarrassment. “The BRU configuration crew? I’ll place you in a minute—“
Merriwetber grinned hugely. “You ought to, Doc. You had me in your chair three-four weeks back.”
“I did?” Mosby’s embarrassment began to turn to annoyance with himself. “The name’s familiar. If I could see inside your mouth there’d be no trouble, I tell you. I never forget a mouth.”
“How about this, then?” But instead of opening his mouth Merriwether abruptly changed his expression from one of lively amusement to sullen vacuity. “That help you any, sir?” “The car pool—you’re a driver… and I did fillings on your lower left—posterior four and six—right?” Merriwether signalled success by restoring his face. “I hope I didn’t hurt you,” said Mosby. “I didn’t feel a thing, Doc. You’ve got the magic touch.” He bowed towards Shirley. “Mrs Sheldon.”
“Looks like we’re going to need a magic touch,” said Shirley.
“Audley’ll need it too—to find Badon Hill,” said Mosby.
“So we just happen to know that Comrade Professor Panin went on a trip about nine months back to Gorky, on the Upper Volga. And we also know that while he was there he borrowed a book from the Public Library—as a matter of fact we have that from two independent sources. And he’s never returned it, either.”
“He’s going to have a big fine to pay, after nine months,” said Mosby.
“The biggest. Because it was the oldest book in the library—it was written in the north of England about twelve hundred years ago.” Morris smiled. “Does the name Bede ring any bells with you, Captain?”
Unreality again: John Singleton Mosby, William Marshall, Chretien de Troyes, Arthur of the Britons, David Audley… Nikolai Andrievich Panin.
And now Bede. Bede, the monk of the monastery of Saint Paul at Jarrow. Bede the Venerable, just two steps from becoming a saint.
“Sure. He wrote one of the main source-books for the period— A History of the English Church and People . I’ve got a copy in there—“ he pointed to the sitting room behind Harry Finsterwald “—it was on Davies’s list.”
“But not this copy, Captain. This is the Novgorod Bede, one of the oldest Bede manuscripts in existence. That’s what Panin has got. And that was what Davies was enquiring about two days before his death.”
III
MOSBY FOLLOWED HOWARD MORRIS into the sitting room with misgivings churning up inside him.
Audley and Panin were bad enough, since for sure neither had reached his present eminence by the exercise of brotherly love. But at least they were bad enough in a known way: it was like meeting two tigers on his first trip in a foreign jungle where the larger predators usually remained deep in the undergrowth—just plain bad luck.
But Arthur and Badon were something totally different, totally unexpected. The pile of books on the table directly ahead of him was a reminder that up until now he’d managed to rationalise them, so that they had become part of his cover and a way of manipulating Audley, fundamentally no different from any other disguise or deception plan. Yet now, after what Morris had revealed, they were no longer the means to some unknown end; they were somehow part of the end itself.
Morris waved a hand towards the occupants of the room. “Dick Schreiner—State Department. Cal Merriwether—Harry’s other half.”
“Mrs Sheldon—Captain.” Schreiner was too well schooled by his trade to look at Mosby with envy.
But it was Merriwether who caught Mosby’s eye. He couldn’t place the coloured man at all, not even when he’d mentally replaced the sober grey polo-necked pullover and well-worn blue jeans with uniform.
He frowned with embarrassment. “The BRU configuration crew? I’ll place you in a minute—“
Merriwetber grinned hugely. “You ought to, Doc. You had me in your chair three-four weeks back.”
“I did?” Mosby’s embarrassment began to turn to annoyance with himself. “The name’s familiar. If I could see inside your mouth there’d be no trouble, I tell you. I never forget a mouth.”
“How about this, then?” But instead of opening his mouth Merriwether abruptly changed his expression from one of lively amusement to sullen vacuity. “That help you any, sir?” “The car pool—you’re a driver… and I did fillings on your lower left—posterior four and six—right?” Merriwether signalled success by restoring his face. “I hope I didn’t hurt you,” said Mosby. “I didn’t feel a thing, Doc. You’ve got the magic touch.” He bowed towards Shirley. “Mrs Sheldon.”
“Looks like we’re going to need a magic touch,” said Shirley.
“Audley’ll need it too—to find Badon Hill,” said Mosby.
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