Yes, was the answer to that one. And I still was. All right, the left knee wasn’t up to spec any more, but deep down inside, I was still young. And I always would be.
I turned over the photo, picked up a pen, and wrote across the back: Leon , come and get me. If you dare. Lucy.
That should do it.
I put the pen down and handed him back the photo. Without even glancing at it, he tucked it back in the file and replaced the whole thing in the cabinet.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s solved that little mystery. Let’s hear the end of the story.’
I handed him my report and sat back to watch his face.
He read it through, his expression never changing. Laying it on the desk in front of him, he stared at me for a while and then smiled.
‘And how was Leon?’
‘Not good, actually, sir. Not good when we met and probably slightly worse when we parted.’
Obviously, I hadn’t told him all of it. I’ve always regarded it as my duty not to overburden senior staff with too much information. Their brains can’t handle it. It’s all that bigger-picture stuff they do. However, I had described, in some detail, the sad end of Number Nine, the less-than-sad end of Clive Ronan, the appearance of Chief Farrell, and my rescue. My subsequent return to St Mary’s was covered in half a sentence.
I said nothing about Helios. I would never tell anyone about Helios. Or Joe Nelson, as I must get back into the habit of calling him.
He looked up.
‘You did make a note of the coordinates?’
‘Of course, sir.’
I took out the most important piece of paper of my life and pushed it across the desk.
He folded his hands and said, ‘I was present when my Director pulled out this famous Standing Order. Just one sheet of paper. One named historian to present himself at these coordinates to render assistance. This order has, apparently, been handed down from Director to Director until the right historian turned up. Which reminds me – I had better write the damned thing.’
He pulled a sheet of paper towards him.
‘Just one more thing, sir. Ronan was an old man when he died. There’s absolutely no reason why, as a younger man, he still couldn’t come bursting out of the woodwork at any time.’
He nodded. It was true. Something Ronan had done ten years before he died could still be ten years in our future. We would never be completely safe.
‘We have defeated him at every encounter, Max. If he has any sense, he’ll give us a wide berth in future.’
Neither of us mentioned that he was a desperate fanatic who had long ago kicked common sense and rational thought into touch and had just demonstrated that his hatred remained undimmed right to the end of his life. There was nothing we could do – no way to predict what he might do next. We could never do anything but deal with each threat as it arose.
‘Was there anything else, Dr Maxwell?’
I got up. I had more thinking to do.
‘No, that’s it, I think, sir.’
As I reached the door, he said, ‘That photograph saved his life, you know.’
I nodded and left the room.
That photograph saved his life so he could save mine.
The circle was closed.
Time to move on.
Feeling the need to be alone, I saddled up Turk and rode up through the woods and onto the moors. Side-saddle. We stopped at Pen Tor. I sat on the rocks and looked at the distant sea, sparkling on the horizon. Turk got his head down and carried on as if there was going to be some sort of grass shortage in the very near future. At no point did he try to attack me. I wondered if we were both mellowing with old age. It seemed unlikely. I’m an historian. The chances of living long enough to have an old age, mellow or otherwise, are remote.
I sat and thought for ages, sorting things out in my head. Hours passed. I was roused by the old bugger giving me a nudge. He wanted his tea.
I went to see Dr Bairstow that evening and told him I would be honoured to take up the offer of Deputy Director. We had a quick drink and he told me I’d soon come to regret it. I told him I already did.
I put in for my last jump the very next day.
Tim and I were off to Agincourt. It seemed appropriate, somehow.
There are many views of Agincourt. That it was one of Britain’s finest hours – right up there with the little ships at Dunkirk, the stirrup charge at Waterloo, and the March Uprisings, when a tiny handful of civilians threw the Fascists out of Cardiff, sparking the nationwide uprising that led to the Battersea Barricades.
And it was. Henry’s inspired leadership of his tiny, hopelessly outnumbered army on their increasingly desperate march through France was a triumph of skill and tactics.