The Alamut Ambush by Anthony Price Page B

that’s worrying you if you know all about it?’
    ‘I don’t know all about it,’ Havergal shook his head. ‘I wish I knew more, and what I’ve been trying to do is to keep it within safety limits. But what worries me is you .’
    ‘I worry you?’
    ‘Not you personally, but what you represent – the stupid, half-baked political shysters who direct you!’ Havergal’s control of his invective in Isobel’s presence was remarkable. ‘Weak when they should be strong, strong when they should be understanding. Always talking about Britain’s responsibilities – they couldn’t distinguish a responsibility from a bottle of Worcestershire sauce!’
    It was the ancient lament of the soldier over the politician’s incapacity, and it roused a sneaking, service-bred sympathy in Roskill. Except that the soldiers always underrated the politician’s difficulties just as much as the politicians underrated the soldiers’ – so that the military dictatorships were every bit as grisly as the civilian variety.
    But he was letting his reactions side-track him. What mattered was that Havergal didn’t seem to have a clue about the present emergency: he thought the authorities were simply getting nosey.
    ‘Shysters or not, Colonel, they can wreck your Foundation from top to bottom.’
    ‘Hugh!’ Isobel sounded like a fencing master who’d discovered that her two favourite pupils were using unbuttoned foils.
    ‘It’s perfectly all right, my dear,’ said Havergal. ‘Threats are part of Roskill’s stock-in-trade. Mostly empty threats now, though. The Foundation’s too widely based for them to do it any real damage – they might even do it a bit of good in some quarters.’
    He looked at Roskill shrewdly. ‘And I don’t think they would try anyway. Their hearts aren’t really in the game these days – they don’t care who kills who in the Middle East so long as the oil flows.’
    So that was what had nerved Havergal to hold out for information without giving it: he’d reckoned any threat against the well-respected Foundation had to be backed by bluff only. And until two nights ago he’d probably have been right.
    But now by giving him the information he wanted Roskill could win the game, not lose it…
    ‘In the Middle East perhaps they don’t care, Colonel. But at home they do.’
    Havergal frowned.
    ‘The night before last we lost a man – a friend of mine – right here in London,’ said Roskill. ‘And we nearly lost another one. One of my bosses, as a matter of fact – one of your top shysters. I think you could say his heart’s in the game this time. Just this once, Colonel Havergal, we mean exactly what we say.’
    ‘A friend? Hugh – who was it?’ Isobel’s incredulous expression mirrored Faith’s – to both of them death was always an unforeseen accident on the road or a hushed prognosis in the consulting room, never a deliberate act.
    He’d meant to break it to her gently, choosing the time and place, but now he saw that her distress would serve to bring extra pressure on Havergal. In any case he had to tell her now: he could see her already conjuring up in her mind the faces of the friends of his that she’d met and liked – Jack Butler and Colin Monroe, young Richardson who had captivated her, even David Audley, who had rather frightened her. But it would be a worse shock than any of those.
    ‘It was Alan Jenkins.’
    ‘Alan!’
    With Faith it had been shock, but with Isobel it was at once more than that. For Isobel alone knew about Harry, and being Isobel grasped all the implications of Alan’s death instantly – they had talked Harry’s death into the ground enough times.
    Havergal gave Roskill a look of mingled distaste and curiosity: he knew that the play had been reversed, but he didn’t quite know whether it had been deliberate or accidental – whether he was dealing with a cold-hearted bastard who had set the whole thing up, or an officer and a gentleman who had made the