something from the old days.’ Mitchell watched Audley. ‘Something he knows that maybe didn’t seem important at the time … And you’re the expert on that, David.’
‘Yes.’ It was no good denying what Jack Butler himself had thought. ‘Whatever Richardson knows—about Kulik, or anyone else … anything else—he’s no traitor.’
‘What makes you so certain? He was Fred Clinton’s man, not yours, surely?’
‘Wrong profile.’ What he wasn’t about to do was to discuss the instincts of the late—and, in his time, great also—Frederick J. Clinton in the small matter of recruitment, let alone that of treachery: Mitchell had hardly known Fred, and never in his heyday—and Elizabeth hadn’t know him at all. And neither of them, anyway, had lived through treason’s own heyday, as Fred had done: those infamous years when everyone had been hagridden by doubts, which Fred had once dubbed “the Cambridge Age” to put his star recruit from Cambridge in his place. ‘”Profiling” went out with the ark.’ Mitchell hadn’t finished, and wasn’t going to let go. ‘It went out with Clinton.’
‘He was thoroughly vetted.’ He hated to hear Fred consigned to history so crudely.
‘But not by you, David. Fred Clinton’s man—and an old-school-tie recruit, right?’
‘Army, actually.’ Mitchell knew too much, again. But not quite everything.
‘Okay— old-regimental-tie , then.’ Mitchell was implacable. ‘Failed the old regiment—and then failed us , the way I heard it.’
Elizabeth was frowning at him again. But he had to settle with Mitchell now. ‘Then you heard it wrong.’ The trouble was, in a perverse way the fellow had it right, all the same. He could even remember Neville Macready summing up Richardson when the news of his departure was announced: ‘ Yes … well, they can ’ t say I didn ’ t warn them … Clever fellow, of course — total recall, and all that. And plenty of style with it. But … “ Tiggers don ’ t like honey ” , I said to Fred. “ And they don ’ t like acorns. And they don ’ t like thistles — you ’ ll see ” . But, of course, our Fred ’ s never read “ Winnie-the-Pooh ” — wrong generation — he simply didn ’ t understand what I was talking about . ’
‘How should I have heard it, then?’
Where Mitchell had been much more importantly right, however, was that guess about “the old days”. But that was where he kept coming up against the blank wall in the records, and the equally blank wall of his memory (which was more reliable than any record). So it couldn’t—it damn-well couldn ’ t — be anything that they’d share, he and Richardson, that had made Kulik bracket their names in his last breath.
‘He was a very talented man.’ He eyed Mitchell reflectively. ‘In some respects he was maybe even better than you, Mitchell.’
‘Oh aye?’ Having goaded Audley into starting to answer, Mitchell wasn’t offended by the comparison. ‘But I got his job nevertheless, didn’t I?’ He even grinned knowingly at Elizabeth. ‘We’re both Audley-recruits, aren’t we, Lizzie? So … we may not be as talented. But we’re not quitters, are we?’
Elizabeth, who hated being knowingly-grinned-at by anyone, but particularly by Dr Paul Mitchell, became even more Loftus-faced. ‘Why did he resign, David? From Research and Development? And then the army, too? If he was so good—?’
That had been the question which had hurt Fred Clinton, when his potential star-pupil had graduated cum laude , and then turned his back on the services. But, if he—hadn’t read A. A. Milne, he had known his Dryden—
‘ I can ’ t say that I ’ m not disappointed, David. Not to say surprised, too … Although Neville says he warned me, with some rubbish about acorns and thistles .’
‘ Yes … but, then, it ’ s the difference between “ cold ” war and “ hot ” war, Fred — isn ’ t it ? ’ (That had been the first time he ’ d
‘Yes.’ It was no good denying what Jack Butler himself had thought. ‘Whatever Richardson knows—about Kulik, or anyone else … anything else—he’s no traitor.’
‘What makes you so certain? He was Fred Clinton’s man, not yours, surely?’
‘Wrong profile.’ What he wasn’t about to do was to discuss the instincts of the late—and, in his time, great also—Frederick J. Clinton in the small matter of recruitment, let alone that of treachery: Mitchell had hardly known Fred, and never in his heyday—and Elizabeth hadn’t know him at all. And neither of them, anyway, had lived through treason’s own heyday, as Fred had done: those infamous years when everyone had been hagridden by doubts, which Fred had once dubbed “the Cambridge Age” to put his star recruit from Cambridge in his place. ‘”Profiling” went out with the ark.’ Mitchell hadn’t finished, and wasn’t going to let go. ‘It went out with Clinton.’
‘He was thoroughly vetted.’ He hated to hear Fred consigned to history so crudely.
‘But not by you, David. Fred Clinton’s man—and an old-school-tie recruit, right?’
‘Army, actually.’ Mitchell knew too much, again. But not quite everything.
‘Okay— old-regimental-tie , then.’ Mitchell was implacable. ‘Failed the old regiment—and then failed us , the way I heard it.’
Elizabeth was frowning at him again. But he had to settle with Mitchell now. ‘Then you heard it wrong.’ The trouble was, in a perverse way the fellow had it right, all the same. He could even remember Neville Macready summing up Richardson when the news of his departure was announced: ‘ Yes … well, they can ’ t say I didn ’ t warn them … Clever fellow, of course — total recall, and all that. And plenty of style with it. But … “ Tiggers don ’ t like honey ” , I said to Fred. “ And they don ’ t like acorns. And they don ’ t like thistles — you ’ ll see ” . But, of course, our Fred ’ s never read “ Winnie-the-Pooh ” — wrong generation — he simply didn ’ t understand what I was talking about . ’
‘How should I have heard it, then?’
Where Mitchell had been much more importantly right, however, was that guess about “the old days”. But that was where he kept coming up against the blank wall in the records, and the equally blank wall of his memory (which was more reliable than any record). So it couldn’t—it damn-well couldn ’ t — be anything that they’d share, he and Richardson, that had made Kulik bracket their names in his last breath.
‘He was a very talented man.’ He eyed Mitchell reflectively. ‘In some respects he was maybe even better than you, Mitchell.’
‘Oh aye?’ Having goaded Audley into starting to answer, Mitchell wasn’t offended by the comparison. ‘But I got his job nevertheless, didn’t I?’ He even grinned knowingly at Elizabeth. ‘We’re both Audley-recruits, aren’t we, Lizzie? So … we may not be as talented. But we’re not quitters, are we?’
Elizabeth, who hated being knowingly-grinned-at by anyone, but particularly by Dr Paul Mitchell, became even more Loftus-faced. ‘Why did he resign, David? From Research and Development? And then the army, too? If he was so good—?’
That had been the question which had hurt Fred Clinton, when his potential star-pupil had graduated cum laude , and then turned his back on the services. But, if he—hadn’t read A. A. Milne, he had known his Dryden—
‘ I can ’ t say that I ’ m not disappointed, David. Not to say surprised, too … Although Neville says he warned me, with some rubbish about acorns and thistles .’
‘ Yes … but, then, it ’ s the difference between “ cold ” war and “ hot ” war, Fred — isn ’ t it ? ’ (That had been the first time he ’ d
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