meant to happen. What was meant to happen was the story Tierney and Morrison actually told.'
'But my step-father wouldn't have stood for anything like that. He would have spoken up–I know he would!'
'He was just a passenger. He did as he was told, and he didn't really know what was happening. In fact it was just the same as the boxes: two vague stories, and two detailed ones–much too detailed.'
She regarded him thoughtfully. 'All right, I take your point,' she said slowly. 'But I don't see how you make it fit what's happening now.'
'Where doesn't it fit?'
'Well, if the real boxes were already in,' she paused. 'And if my father was dead … then Tierney and the other one got everything long ago. You're twenty years too late, and so are the Russians–you're just wasting your time.'
'Maybe I am–but the Russians aren't.'
Not Panin. Of all people, not Panin. That had to be an article of faith.
'So they're infallible, are they?'
'Not infallible, but not stupid. Besides, there is an alternative, you know. In fact you as good as suggested it yourself.'
She frowned at him. 'When did I?'
'You told me that Tierney and Morrison pestered your mother. The Belgian and the Russians were only interested in the plane. But those two were desperate to find your father. Even our people noticed that at the time.'
'They were his friends.'
'So they hounded his widow? No, Faith. He hid it and he didn't tell them where. And then he disappeared–and there wasn't a thing they could do about it.'
There was no point in adding that what had probably hit the surviving conspirators hardest was the growing suspicion that they had been double-crossed by Steerforth, just as the Belgian had been double-crossed.
Faith Steerforth looked past him, into the darkness outside.
'Then it's still where he put it,' she said softly, half to herself.
'It's the only explanation that makes sense of what's happening now, Faith,' said Audley. 'The Russians must have come to the same conclusion, too. And they think it can be found.'
IV
Audley set his cup of vile coffee down on the plastic tabletop and glowered into it. Meetings with Jake Shapiro, with the exception of their standing Wednesday lunch, were always in places of Jake's choosing and always in uniformly horrible places.
And the vision of Faith Jones poking around the old house in his absence didn't appeal to him either, even though her behaviour as an unsolicited guest had been unexceptionable: she had neither messed up the bathroom nor talked at him during breakfast.
But there was no other course of action open to him. He had to meet Roskill this morning, and he had to keep the girl to hand now that he had decided to make use of her. It was no good consulting the resident Kremlinologists; he had recognised Tom Latimer's hand in the Panin file, and if Latimer was still undecided about the man then no one else would be of use. And that left only his own sources.
The kitchen swing-doors banged at the back of the narrow coffee bar as Jake barged through them. He slapped the waiter on the back, whispered in his ear, lifted a cup of coffee out of his hands and swept on past him without stopping. He slid the cup along the tabletop and eased himself along the bench opposite Audley.
'David, my not-so-long-lost friend! It's good to see you again so soon–but not on a Saturday. I thought it was always the day when you stayed home and cut those rolling lawns of yours–and for me it is the Sabbath! So you have me worried on two counts!'
Jake's humour had been degenerating for nearly twenty years from its original abysmal Cambridge level, and Audley's only defence was to sink unwillingly to that level.
'I thought you'd like to know that there's a jobbing machine shop down in Gosport which makes spare parts for all those grounded Mirage IIICs of yours, Jake.'
Jake slapped his thigh in delight.
'Just what we've been looking for! Now we shall not have to buy them from the South Africans — the way
'But my step-father wouldn't have stood for anything like that. He would have spoken up–I know he would!'
'He was just a passenger. He did as he was told, and he didn't really know what was happening. In fact it was just the same as the boxes: two vague stories, and two detailed ones–much too detailed.'
She regarded him thoughtfully. 'All right, I take your point,' she said slowly. 'But I don't see how you make it fit what's happening now.'
'Where doesn't it fit?'
'Well, if the real boxes were already in,' she paused. 'And if my father was dead … then Tierney and the other one got everything long ago. You're twenty years too late, and so are the Russians–you're just wasting your time.'
'Maybe I am–but the Russians aren't.'
Not Panin. Of all people, not Panin. That had to be an article of faith.
'So they're infallible, are they?'
'Not infallible, but not stupid. Besides, there is an alternative, you know. In fact you as good as suggested it yourself.'
She frowned at him. 'When did I?'
'You told me that Tierney and Morrison pestered your mother. The Belgian and the Russians were only interested in the plane. But those two were desperate to find your father. Even our people noticed that at the time.'
'They were his friends.'
'So they hounded his widow? No, Faith. He hid it and he didn't tell them where. And then he disappeared–and there wasn't a thing they could do about it.'
There was no point in adding that what had probably hit the surviving conspirators hardest was the growing suspicion that they had been double-crossed by Steerforth, just as the Belgian had been double-crossed.
Faith Steerforth looked past him, into the darkness outside.
'Then it's still where he put it,' she said softly, half to herself.
'It's the only explanation that makes sense of what's happening now, Faith,' said Audley. 'The Russians must have come to the same conclusion, too. And they think it can be found.'
IV
Audley set his cup of vile coffee down on the plastic tabletop and glowered into it. Meetings with Jake Shapiro, with the exception of their standing Wednesday lunch, were always in places of Jake's choosing and always in uniformly horrible places.
And the vision of Faith Jones poking around the old house in his absence didn't appeal to him either, even though her behaviour as an unsolicited guest had been unexceptionable: she had neither messed up the bathroom nor talked at him during breakfast.
But there was no other course of action open to him. He had to meet Roskill this morning, and he had to keep the girl to hand now that he had decided to make use of her. It was no good consulting the resident Kremlinologists; he had recognised Tom Latimer's hand in the Panin file, and if Latimer was still undecided about the man then no one else would be of use. And that left only his own sources.
The kitchen swing-doors banged at the back of the narrow coffee bar as Jake barged through them. He slapped the waiter on the back, whispered in his ear, lifted a cup of coffee out of his hands and swept on past him without stopping. He slid the cup along the tabletop and eased himself along the bench opposite Audley.
'David, my not-so-long-lost friend! It's good to see you again so soon–but not on a Saturday. I thought it was always the day when you stayed home and cut those rolling lawns of yours–and for me it is the Sabbath! So you have me worried on two counts!'
Jake's humour had been degenerating for nearly twenty years from its original abysmal Cambridge level, and Audley's only defence was to sink unwillingly to that level.
'I thought you'd like to know that there's a jobbing machine shop down in Gosport which makes spare parts for all those grounded Mirage IIICs of yours, Jake.'
Jake slapped his thigh in delight.
'Just what we've been looking for! Now we shall not have to buy them from the South Africans — the way
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