when she could have let him wait while she punched Debrecen into the Beast. She had only herself to blame.
And what sort of name was Haddock Thomas for God’s sake!
Whatever long-forgotten imperial requirements had launched the power and the glory of the British Empire in Abyssinia—Marxist Ethiopia now, but Christian Abyssinia then presumably—the brevity of the casualty list identified it as one of Queen Victoria’s smallest and healthiest wars—
The big complication was the presence of the Americans—of the CIA—on the Pointe du Hoc. But then, if Parker was an undoubted traitor, he was their traitor, so they had a right to be there, watching him. And, by the same token, Haddock Thomas was hers—was he?
It had certainly been an imperial war. For, in addition to names from the 4th, 33rd and 45th Regiments (judging by the Donovans and the Kellys, the 33rd must have been an Irish regiment), there were officers ‘ attached ’ to the Punjabi Pioneers, the Bengal Lancers and the 27th Baluchis … plus (which would have gladdened Father’s heart) a little midshipman from the Naval Rocket Brigade, poor child!
But it was not simply a memorial to the Abyssinian War: the bronze tablet on which the names were inscribed was supported by two elephants, carved in a high relief, facing each other across a trophy of cannon, drums, spears and battle-flags; but one elephant had half its backside chipped away and one face of the obelisk was scarred and gouged, in memory of the German bomb which must have fallen nearby, maybe forty years before—
Forty years? That took her back to the Pointe du Hoc again—
‘ Miss! ’
The taxi seemed to come from nowhere. Or, since it hadn’t cruised gently along the kerb into the edge of her vision, it must have executed a quick U-turn across the traffic, from the opposite direction.
Elizabeth peered into the cab. But the cabbie, who must have leaned across to his nearside to shout at her, had already straightened up and sat waiting for her to get in. And the meter flag was already down.
She almost got in, but then she didn’t. Instead, she took a step back, to the safety of the Abyssinian War memorial.
The cabbie turned towards her again. ‘Well, Miss -you comin’ or en’tcha?’
‘Coming where?’ She had the elephant at her back now.
He gave her a questioning look, as though she’d just changed her mind. ‘Dr Audley’s fare, en’tcha?’
If this was the field, thought Elizabeth, it was not at all how she had imagined it—going blindly into it. But then nothing in R & D had ever been as she imagined it, all these months. But then no doubt the little midshipman had never imagined himself on an Abyssinian mountainside, with his rockets.
She hadn’t time to arrange herself comfortably before he lurched her sideways with another fierce U-turn, to get himself back en route — whatever the route might be.
‘Can y’sit yerself one side or the other, Miss … so I can see?’
Elizabeth slid obediently into one corner of the cab. ‘May I ask where we are going?’
‘Yus—you may.’ He twisted the cab up a narrow street behind the Xenophon tower, cutting ahead of a CD-registered Mercedes full of Arabs which had just pulled away from the oil company’s entrance. ‘Dont’cha know, then?’
‘No. I do not know.’
The taxi raced up the narrow street, then turned into an even narrower one, which looked like a cul-de-sac.
Elizabeth waited, unwilling to weaken his concentration while their lives were at stake. Then, when there was only a blank wall ahead, he swung into what appeared to be a loading bay, turned narrowly past a line of vans, and came into daylight again, in another street.
‘Where are we going?’ Wherever they were going, it would cost the British tax-payer. ‘Is it far?’
‘No.’ He jumped the lights at a crossing, ahead of a terrified old lady in a Metro. ‘Nothin’ followin’ us now -‘e’s backin’ out of Napier Lane by now, fr all
And what sort of name was Haddock Thomas for God’s sake!
Whatever long-forgotten imperial requirements had launched the power and the glory of the British Empire in Abyssinia—Marxist Ethiopia now, but Christian Abyssinia then presumably—the brevity of the casualty list identified it as one of Queen Victoria’s smallest and healthiest wars—
The big complication was the presence of the Americans—of the CIA—on the Pointe du Hoc. But then, if Parker was an undoubted traitor, he was their traitor, so they had a right to be there, watching him. And, by the same token, Haddock Thomas was hers—was he?
It had certainly been an imperial war. For, in addition to names from the 4th, 33rd and 45th Regiments (judging by the Donovans and the Kellys, the 33rd must have been an Irish regiment), there were officers ‘ attached ’ to the Punjabi Pioneers, the Bengal Lancers and the 27th Baluchis … plus (which would have gladdened Father’s heart) a little midshipman from the Naval Rocket Brigade, poor child!
But it was not simply a memorial to the Abyssinian War: the bronze tablet on which the names were inscribed was supported by two elephants, carved in a high relief, facing each other across a trophy of cannon, drums, spears and battle-flags; but one elephant had half its backside chipped away and one face of the obelisk was scarred and gouged, in memory of the German bomb which must have fallen nearby, maybe forty years before—
Forty years? That took her back to the Pointe du Hoc again—
‘ Miss! ’
The taxi seemed to come from nowhere. Or, since it hadn’t cruised gently along the kerb into the edge of her vision, it must have executed a quick U-turn across the traffic, from the opposite direction.
Elizabeth peered into the cab. But the cabbie, who must have leaned across to his nearside to shout at her, had already straightened up and sat waiting for her to get in. And the meter flag was already down.
She almost got in, but then she didn’t. Instead, she took a step back, to the safety of the Abyssinian War memorial.
The cabbie turned towards her again. ‘Well, Miss -you comin’ or en’tcha?’
‘Coming where?’ She had the elephant at her back now.
He gave her a questioning look, as though she’d just changed her mind. ‘Dr Audley’s fare, en’tcha?’
If this was the field, thought Elizabeth, it was not at all how she had imagined it—going blindly into it. But then nothing in R & D had ever been as she imagined it, all these months. But then no doubt the little midshipman had never imagined himself on an Abyssinian mountainside, with his rockets.
She hadn’t time to arrange herself comfortably before he lurched her sideways with another fierce U-turn, to get himself back en route — whatever the route might be.
‘Can y’sit yerself one side or the other, Miss … so I can see?’
Elizabeth slid obediently into one corner of the cab. ‘May I ask where we are going?’
‘Yus—you may.’ He twisted the cab up a narrow street behind the Xenophon tower, cutting ahead of a CD-registered Mercedes full of Arabs which had just pulled away from the oil company’s entrance. ‘Dont’cha know, then?’
‘No. I do not know.’
The taxi raced up the narrow street, then turned into an even narrower one, which looked like a cul-de-sac.
Elizabeth waited, unwilling to weaken his concentration while their lives were at stake. Then, when there was only a blank wall ahead, he swung into what appeared to be a loading bay, turned narrowly past a line of vans, and came into daylight again, in another street.
‘Where are we going?’ Wherever they were going, it would cost the British tax-payer. ‘Is it far?’
‘No.’ He jumped the lights at a crossing, ahead of a terrified old lady in a Metro. ‘Nothin’ followin’ us now -‘e’s backin’ out of Napier Lane by now, fr all
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