The Labyrinth Makers (24 page)

It would be from Heine, Theodore's idol. He turned round: Faith was sitting with the three volumes of Tolkien's
The Lord of the Rings
on her lap–Theodore's own copies.

But before he could reply there was a light tap at the door.

Hugh Roskill entered gingerly, as though his feet hurt. Possibly his feet
did
hurt, if he had spent the whole day exploring the environs of the old airfield. But Audley somehow felt that it was because he had half expected to find some sort of orgy in progress. He seemed quite relieved to see Faith clothed and Audley engaged in the unexceptionable act of shaving.

But then poor Roskill had had rather a trying day, it transpired. It had been windy and cold, a return to the weather of Friday's funeral–odd, that, for it had seemed pleasant, if not exactly sunny, to Audley.

They had passed a tiring morning marking pimples and pock-marks on a large-scale ordnance survey map which Butler had brought with him. Roskill had given himself a shock on one of Farmer Warren's electric sheep fences and Butler had slipped into a ditch which was no longer wet, but still muddy.

In the afternoon Richardson returned from his assignment in Cambridge with the latest equipment for detecting buried metallic objects, the archaeological department's newest toy.

'DECCO,' explained Roskill, 'which Richardson claims is short for Decay of Eddy Currents in Conductive Objects. But it just looked like a souped-up mine detector to me.'

Unfortunately, either Richardson had failed to master DECCO's intricacies or DECCO had developed some minor fault. Having lugged the device two miles or more across country to the most promising pimple they had had to carry it all the way back unused. Richardson had returned with it to Cambridge and neither had been seen since.

Shortly after he had retired from the field Stocker had arrived with Panin, and Stocker had not been noticeably pleased to find that Audley was not present (though it could be simply indigestion, since the timing of his arrival suggested that he had not been able to linger over his lunch).

'I rather got the impression,' said Roskill, 'that he expected to find us at work with pick and shovel, with you standing over us with a rope's end. I'm afraid Butler was a bit short with him. We told him you'd been on the job continuously …' He paused fractionally as the other implications of that statement flashed through his mind, but recovered splendidly '… since Friday. I said you were probably chasing the Pole, anyway, and he cooled down a bit.'

It must have been a trying day for Stocker as well. After the early morning Panin call, the hitherto subservient Audley had turned awkward. Then Panin had rushed him out of London at uncomfortable speed, only to find two disgruntled but unintimidated operatives doing nothing in particular.

'Not to worry, though,' Roskill reassured him, mistaking his silence. 'Butler showed him his map, all covered with meaningless red and blue crosses and lines and circles–Jack could snow the recording angel if he set his mind to it. He went back to London happy enough, I think.'

'What about Panin?'

'Our Russian colleague?' Roskill cocked his head. 'The Professor–that's how Stocker refers to him, by the way–is still very much with us. As a matter of fact he's sinking beer with Butler in the bar at this moment. But I don't think Butler snowed
him
: I've got a feeling he's a downier bird altogether. He doesn't say much, but Butler's talking cricket to him at the moment, so he hasn't had much opportunity yet anyway–when I left them Jack was just launching into his favourite story, about the time Bill Farrimond played for England and Lancashire Second.'

'Is he alone?'

'Oddly enough he is. Or he appears to be. But Butler and I are going to have a scout round after dinner. If he's alone then he's top brass, isn't he?'

'Panin's top brass, Hugh. No doubt about that. But tell me how you got on yesterday.'

'Wash-out, I'm afraid, sir.' Roskill shook his head sadly. 'We couldn't track one of 'em at all. And the other one shut up tighter than a clam.'

Then he smiled. 'Actually, I rather liked the old boy Ellis. He was regular RAF. Joined as a boy when there were still Bristol Fighters around and his last station was supersonic. He'd seen it all!'

'He wouldn't talk about Steerforth?'

'Oh, he talked. But he didn't give anything away. I think Ellis knew every racket that'd ever been thought of. But he liked Steerforth–said he was a gentleman, which means that Steerforth always paid the rate for the job in advance. And he practically told me I
warn't
a gentleman for checking on another pilot!'

'Then Butler appealed to his patriotism and he just laughed at us.' Roskill's eyes flashed. 'He said that he knew his pilots, and patriotism was one thing and a bit of smuggling on the side was another. He said he's been on an air-sea rescue station where the Warwicks ran a regular service from Iceland with the lifeboats under their bellies full of nylons and whisky and ham. That'd stopped when they had to drop a boat to a ditched crew, and the chaps were picked up roaring drunk, but if Steerforth had put one over on us, so much the better. He was a splendid old boy!'

So there was no help there. Panin was waiting and his bluff was in danger of being called. When Roskill had gone he stood silent, staring at the dried shaving soap on his face.

Faith put her hand on his shoulder. 'No good, David?'

He shrugged. 'We're simply running out of time, Faith love. We never had much in the beginning. But instead of playing for it I've just speeded it up. I'm rather wondering now if it was the right thing to do.'

Faith held up Theodore's gift. 'Well, don't give up yet. The Fellowship of the Ring did just the same in
The Lord of the Rings -
they forced the Dark Lord to attack before he was ready, and he came unstuck. Maybe Panin will come unstuck too.'

Audley smiled at her. Woman-like, she had committed herself with her affections. Panin was the enemy now, the Dark Lord, whoever he was. And the least he could do in return for such loyalty was to play the game out.

He watched her in the mirror as he shaved, and Panin faded into immateriality. Not just Panin either–Stocker, Fred and all the rest as well. At some stage since Saturday night they had all changed places in importance with this girl. The longer he was with her, the closer he came to reality. And whatever happened, the real world was Faith struggling with her zip-fastener.

She turned towards him at last.

'Will I do, then?'

The long white dress, slashed in front from the ankle to the knee, was classically severe, but the heavy golden earrings and elaborate necklace were barbaric–no, not so much barbaric as pre-Hellenic.

'Take your glasses off.'

'But David, I don't see so well without them. Don't you like me in glasses?'

'I like you better in them. But not tonight.'

She slipped them off and stared vaguely at him: Steerforth's daughter to the life now, almost as her father might have dressed her. Except that the costume jewellery was from Bond Street, not Troy.

'Now you'll do very well. Very well indeed!'

'I hope so! But I've got butterflies in the tummy, David. Don't ask me to play the
femme fatale
ever again–this is positively the last time.'

Audley shared the same stomach-turning mixture of excitement and fear as he followed her down the passage. He had nothing with which to face Panin except pure bluff. Yet Panin didn't know it was bluff. And this was the home ground, for all its soft carpets and heated air: 3112 Squadron's home ground, where the Russian had been beaten once before. The ghosts were on Audley's side here.

A subdued murmur lead them towards the bar. The swarthy waiter smiled unselfconscious admiration at Faith and honest envy at Audley before sweeping open the door for them.

They had their entrance, anyway.

For Nikolai Andrievich Panin.

But he had his back to them, engrossed in watching Butler cut an imaginary cricket ball down past gully and third slip for four easy runs. Roskill stood politely at his elbow in the act of raising a tankard to his lips.

Then the tankard stopped, the imaginary bat was lowered and Panin slowly turned towards them.

Audley had known what to expect; that face was in a dozen pictures in the file. Yet it was a sickening anti-climax nevertheless: Faith's Dark Lord was a very ordinary little man, totally without any aura of power or menace. The sheep-face with its bent nose was greyish and deeply-lined like an eroded desert landscape. It was the file brought to life, giving away nothing–not even a raised eyebrow for Steerforth's Trojan daughter.

Audley put out his hand.

'Professor Panin.'

'Dr Audley.'

There was hardly a trace of an accent. Indeed, the foreign-ness of the voice lay in its complete neutrality.

'This is Miss Steerforth.'

Panin regarded Faith without curiosity.

'Miss Steerforth,' he repeated unemotionally.

Faith took the smooth, dry hand he offered her. 'Professor Panin, I'm afraid my father once caused you a great deal of trouble,' she said in a voice equally devoid of emotion. 'But I think it's rather late for an apology.'

The Russian considered her for a moment.

'Miss Steerforth, we are not responsible for our fathers. Mine was a sergeant in the Semenovsky Guards–the Tsar's guards, Miss Steerforth. And after that in the White army. But that was not my business, for I was a babe in arms. So you have nothing for which to apologise.'

He turned back to Audley.

'Major Butler has been instructing me in the finer points of cricket. I know the theory of the game, but the fascination of a game lies in the finer points, would you not agree?'

'For the spectator, certainly. For the player it's winning that counts.'

'But you played rugby, I believe–and that is a game of brute force played by gentlemen. At least, so I have heard it described.'

'Whoever described it for you obviously never played in Wales, Professor Panin. I might just as well describe yours as a dirty hobby for scholars.'

'A dirty hobby?' A note of puzzlement crept into the voice. He hadn't expected to be insulted.

'Archaeology, Professor.' It was comical to see Butler relax. 'Archaeologists at work are indistinguishable from navvies.'

'But an innocent hobby, Dr Audley. Archaeologists are safely sealed off from modern history. Historians are too often tempted to stray from their chosen field, are they not?'

Parry.

'Very true. And also there's always the danger that they'll make inconvenient discoveries.'

Thrust.

Panin nodded. 'And then they discover that the truth is not as indivisible as they thought. Not a clear glass, but a mirror sometimes.'

It was time to stop playing, thought Audley. 'But we're not concerned with history or archaeology, are we! Only indirectly, anyway. I take it as confirmed that you want me to find the Schliemann Collection for you?'

Panin inclined his head. 'I gathered from Brigadier Stocker that our small secret was out. Yes, Dr Audley, my government would be most grateful if you could do that. Then we will jointly restore it to the German Democratic Republic.'

Just like that, as though it was a mislaid umbrella!

'Well, I think we have a fair chance of finding it tomorrow, given a little luck.'

Try that for size, Professor.

Panin was unmoved. 'So soon? But I am gratified to hear it. I had feared that it might prove a needle in a hay stack.'

'It certainly might have been easier if you had confided in us from the start–and I mean from the very start.'

The lines deepened around Panin's mouth.

'There was a certain … embarrassment about the loss of the collection in the first place, Dr Audley.'

Sir Kenneth Allen had hinted as much. To abstract the collection from G Tower had been the prerogative of the conquerors; to have lost it then so quickly reduced the conquerors to bungling plunderers.

'And then we formed the opinion that it was irretrievably lost,' Panin continued. 'We believed that there was nothing anyone could do. It was only when I heard of the recovery of the aircraft that I revised my opinion.'

There was a great deal left unsaid there: the whole Russian obsession down the years with ditched Dakotas. A little honest curiosity would not be out of order.

'Professor Panin, we all know of your reputation as an archaeologist,' said Audley slowly, 'but I must admit I find your interest in the collection–and your government's interest–a little curious. Couldn't you have left it to the East Germans? After all, it's not a political matter.'

'There you have put your finger on the truth, Dr Audley. It is
not
a political matter. For me it is a very personal matter. It was I who lost the Schliemann Collection. I lost it in Berlin, and I lost it again here in England.'

He stared lugubriously at the many-stranded necklace which rested on the false swell of Faith's chest.

'There is a German scholar,' he went on, 'a Dr Berve, who argues that there was never a siege of Troy–that Homer's Troy was a village overthrown by an earthquake. But I have handled Schliemann's treasures, and I have never forgotten them. In fact, as I have grown older I have thought of them more often.'

There was neither conviction nor passion in his voice. He was simply stating facts for Audley to accept or dismiss as he chose. Sir Kenneth might have used the same words. Faith had said it outright and Stocker had suggested it.

And now even Audley found himself wanting to believe it too. Treasure–above all, treasure of gold–had always driven men to irrational acts. Cortes and Pizarro and all the victims of the search for the Seven Cities and the Gilded Man. Schliemann's treasure had been enough to tempt Steerforth to risk five lives and lose his own. It had killed Bloch quickly and Morrison after half a lifetime.

But was it enough to haunt a man like Panin?

He realised with a start that he was staring direetly at Roskill, and staring that young man out of countenance. And there was something else—