Holy Of Holies Part 10

'Not right now.'

'Sensible man. This job offers too many temptations. There's one bar round at the back, and two more over the Vegetable Market - both open all night.' He pointed a big finger at Rawcliff, the back of his hand mottled with liver-spots. 'One drink on this job and you're out. And there's no b.l.o.o.d.y union to protect you. Get my meaning?'

'I've got a fair idea what the set-up is.'

Grant's face took on an expression that was both foxy and brutish. 'So you were the one who busted our CO's ankle? Nearly broke the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's neck too, you did. Lucky you didn't kill him. Anything to say for yourself?'

'Self-defence.'

Grant grinned. 'That's what they all say, isn't it? But you want to look out for Mr Peters - he'll try and get even with you when this little caper's over.' He ran a hand through his crisp, greying hair. 'You just another b.u.m pilot hoping to make your fortune?'

'That's about it.'

Grant took a thermos flask off a ledge and poured the cap full of black coffee. He pa.s.sed it across. 'Got your pa.s.sport?'

Rawcliff nodded. He sipped the coffee, which was just cool enough to drink.

Grant shook himself and stood up. 'That's all the stuff you've got?' He nodded at the flight-bag Rawcliff was carrying. 'Good! I like a man who travels light.'

'Where are we going?'

'Lydd, Kent.' 'Jim Ritchie's outfit? Come Fly with Me? A Beachcraft Duke with seats for four pa.s.sengers?'

'Good - you're on the ball. But don't make the mistake of asking too many questions. Careless talk costs lives. Let's go.' Grant pulled on a donkey-jacket over his suit and led the way across the crowded, covered hall.

'Want to buy any flowers for your loved ones?' he added, with a nasty laugh, then took Rawcliff by the arm. 'I jest, old bean! But seriously. Take it from me, there are reasons for everything - so keep your eyes front and your mouth shut. If you've ever been in the Services you'll know how it is - you're told just enough, and no more. Bad to know too much.'

They pa.s.sed through the automatic doors in the grey of the morning. Grant stopped next to a dark-blue Ford transit van with gilt lettering on the side: GUY HAMILTON GRANT, FINEST EXOTIC HOUSEPLANTS. Twenty-four-hour Delivery - Anywhere in the World. There followed a clutch of telephone numbers and a questionable looking coat-of-arms.

'Your outfit, Major?'

'One has to live, old bean. Hop in.'

'What's in the back?' Rawcliff said, when he was in the pa.s.senger seat next to Grant.

'Codiaeum Variegatum and Begonia Elatior Hybrid - at least that's what's entered on the Customs! papers. For simple folk like you and me, read "exotic houseplants which grow wild in Thailand and are cultivated by yours truly near Basingstoke".'

'And bound for?'

Grant had started the engine. 'A little island in the Med: Cyprus. Landing at Paris and Athens to refuel.'

The back of the van was stacked with them - stiff cardboard boxes, about two-foot square and three-foot long, with labels marked FRAGILE - HANDLE WITH CARE, in English, French and Greek.

'Funny sort of stuff to be exporting to Cyprus,' Rawcliff said, pretending to relax as they drew into the one-way system at the end of Vauxhall Bridge. 'Why not send them retsina and olive-oil?'

'It's too early for jokes, Rawcliff. Spare me the wit until we're airborne.'

He turned under the sign towards the M20. There was still almost no traffic: just the occasional snorting juggernaut heading for the coast.

'You do this run often, Major?'

'Often enough. Customs people know my face, if that's what you mean. Why don't you put your head down and have a kip? I'll wake you in good time.'

Tweleve At 8.15 that same morning Room Service rolled the trolley down to Suite 12: half a grapefruit, lightly boiled egg, French rolls and b.u.t.ter. As they knocked, the radio-alarm sounded from within: a breezy round-up of sport andtraffic news, followed by an advertising jingle. But no answer to the door.

They rolled the trolley back to the lifts and waited until 8.30, when the desk clerk rang up to the suite. Again, no answer.

At 8.45 the floor manager was informed, and he arrived at the suite with a pa.s.s-key. Through the door he could hear the rushed words of a newscaster - oil prices up, further price increases on the way, three women executed in Iran. The manager knocked, knocked again, then called out. 'Mr Newby? Mr Newby - your breakfast and your alarm call!'

He waited thirty seconds, then opened the door. The room was tidy, except for an empty gla.s.s and a couple of gold-tipped cheroot stumps in an ashtray. He moved cautiously into the bedroom. Curtains undrawn, bed not slept in, although a set of men's clothes was folded over a chair.

The floor manager looked into the bathroom. He did not look long, but went out and summoned the hotel security officer.

Newby's plump white body lay in the bath; the cold water reached just above his black hairy arm-pits. His neck was twisted at an abrupt angle, as though he were trying to reach something under his left knee. The only trace of a struggle was the sc.u.m of soap embedded under the finger-nails of one hand, and in the small lump of jasmin-scented Roger Gallet soap floating in a melting mist under the green water.

Detective Superintendent Muncaster did not hear about the murder until just before lunch. He was back on duty at his ordinary desk, dealing with some inquiries involving the disappearance of a Post Office official who had last been seen taking his dog for a walk in the New Forest. The dog was now being cared for by the RSPCA.

Several of Muncaster's colleagues remarked afterwards that they had never seen the old fellow looking so low. He had seemed close to tears.

The Run-Up.

One.

The Hotel Lord Byron was a three-storey stone building which maintained a courtly charm behind its flaking facade. The vestibule, beyond a faded red-striped awning, had once been a watering-hole for the poorer cla.s.s of tourist or itinerant scholar visiting the ruins of Kition and the mosque of Hala Sultan. But the Turkish invasion of 1974 had put an end to all that.

The front of the hotel was deserted except for two men at a table behind the awning over the terrace, drinking thimbles of muddy black coffee. One was Rawcliff. He sat rumpled, sore-eyed, barely refreshed by the tepid trickle from the shower in his room, his body still stiff after nearly ten hours'

flying, including stopovers, in Ritchie's little Beachcraft Duke.

Since dawn that morning, on the misty airfield at Lydd, the journey had been smooth and uneventful - even suspiciously so. Ritchie was on familiar terms with the Lydd Customs officials, and Grant's eccentric cargo had been cleared with the minimum of formalities, before the two-hour flight to Paris.

But at Le Bourget there had been a delay, during which Ritchie consulted with some plain clothes men, as well as with French Customs, while Rawcliff andGrant were hustled off to eat a sc.r.a.ppy breakfast in the transit lounge, When they took off again, on the long leg down to Athens, Rawcliff saw that there were now only half a dozen boxes in the back, slightly larger than the others, though made of the same cardboard and printed with the same words, in three languages. Neither Grant nor Ritchie volunteered an explanation, and Rawcliff, heeding Grant's advice, decided not to press for one.

They had been cleared in transit through Athens, where they had stopped only to refuel, and had landed in mid-afternoon at the small airport at Nicosia, which, until the recent flare-up between the Turks and Greeks, had been used exclusively by diplomats and members of the UN Peace-Keeping Force. Civilian traffic had used Larnaca, in the south-east of the island; but following the latest troubles, Larnaca's International Airport had been abandoned, and the polyglot Force, mocked and embattled, their morale sapped by obstruction and frustration, had finally hauled down their pale blue flag and departed, in a state of high dudgeon and low farce, leaving the island's two ethnic groups, and their various armed militias, glaring at each other across what was still prettily called the 'Green Line' - a vague barrier that ran through the centre of Nicosia, fencing off the eastern part of the island, and which pa.s.sed twelve miles north of Larnaca.

When the Beachcraft landed at Nicosia, Customs had again been prompt, almost servile: and Rawcliff guessed that their new cargo was not unexpected. The six boxes had been loaded on to a pick-up truck and driven down to Larnaca by Grant, while Ritchie and Rawcliff had followed in a Suzuki jeep.

Sensing that Ritchie might be more amenable to giving information, Rawcliff had asked half-jokingly what the h.e.l.l they were doing importing exotic house-plants into Cyprus while engaged on a mercy-mission? And Ritchie had said something about a new-fangled aerial guidance-system 'Computer stuff - right above my head, I'm afraid' although Rawcliff suspected that Ritchie knew more than he was letting on. Rawcliff was becoming used to having nothing explained: he would just have to use his wits, to deduce and guess, picking up the odd hint or sc.r.a.p of information as he went along.

At Larnaca he learnt that the full complement of the outfit appeared to be eight. This included the nurse, Jo; an American called Matt Nugent-Ross, who was apparently some sort of scientist and electronics expert; Mason's original contact, the former RAF pilot, Oswald Thurgood; and the Rhodesian mercenary called Sammy Ryderbeit. It was the latter who was now causing some racket upstairs, being in the throes of what sounded like erotically-tainted delirium tremens. Hardly a good portent for a.pilot about to embark on a difficult, possibly dangerous mission.

Apart from Peters, who was in overall command, with Grant as Number Two - or so the man had claimed - the others . fell into two categories. These seemed to imply social status rather than precise rank. While Peters, Grant, Ritchie, the American and Jo were staying at the town's only first-cla.s.s hotel, the Sun Hall, the other three - Thurgood, Ryderbeit and Rawcliff - had been booked into this less salubrious establishment, the Lord Byron. The distinction was clearly-deliberate, since both these hotels had rooms vacant; while most of the other hotels in town were closed.

Rawcliff's companion at the table in the Lord Byron vestibule was ex-Flight-Lieutenant Oswald Thurgood. A tall, awkward-looking man with a stiff oblong face, clipped moustache and oily hair sc.r.a.ped back from his forehead, he had pale bulging eyes that suggested to Rawcliff a possible thyroid condition. The lower half of the man's face was raw with 'barber's rash'. He glanced down, restlessly round the terrace and through the door to the restaurant at the back where vats of tepid mutton-fat simmered over charcoalgrates. The hotel smelt of ripe green peppers and Turkish tobacco and the bitter-sweet scent of ouzo; the air heavy, full of the murmur of flies, the howl of traffic from the street.

'Taki!' Thurgood shouted.

A stocky unshaven man came out, wiping his hands on an ap.r.o.n. His manner was smiling, ingratiating. His two English guests had introduced themselves to him as members of the International Red Cross - a position of obvious importance, which the Cypriot had no cause to question.

But the little man was no fool. Nothing happened in Larnaca without his hearing about it; and he had at once a.s.sociated his distinguished clients with the two ships which had mysteriously put into Larnaca a week ago, and had been unloaded at night - not at the port, but. on a stretch of beach opposite the now derelict International Airfield. Taki had a friend in the Harbour Police who had told him that the cargoes - pieces of giant American transport planes - had been ferried ash.o.r.e on huge rafts, then pulled up the beach on trailers and stored in the airport's empty hangars.

As he now approached the two men's table, there came a series of thumps from above, followed by a m.u.f.fled crash. The little man paused, with a pious smile, pretending to ignore the sounds from above. His third foreign guest, Sammy Ryderbeit, also worked for the International Red Cross, and had registered into the hotel with a Luxembourg pa.s.sport. Having never met anyone before from the Duchy of Luxembourg, Taki had again taken the Rhodesian's credentials for granted. He also liked Monsieur Ryderbeit.

The man had arrived at the hotel before the other two, and he and Taki had spent the first night drinking the Rhodesian's duty-free whisky. And because Taki was a generous host, with a broad mind and sense of humour, he had been prepared to endure Ryderbeit while the man continued to drink all through the following day and the next night. This was the afternoon of the second day and now the hotel was being increasingly shaken by roarings and crashings from the third floor, punctuated by yells for more ouzo. Taki had obliged, not least because he was becoming a little nervous of Monsieur Ryderbeit. At the same time he was worried because the man's behaviour was upsetting his second client, the Englishman, Thurgood. As a good proprietor, Taki wanted all his guests to be happy.

He had stopped in front of their table and bowed, with his fingertips pressed together. 'Please, gentlemen?'

Thurgood said, 'If Mr Ryderbeit won't be quiet, there's going to be trouble.

Savvy?'

The little man rolled his eyes upwards, as though in prayer. 'What can I do?

He is drunk.'

'I know he's drunk - don't take me for a b.l.o.o.d.y fool. So stop sending him up your filthy ouzo!' Thurgood had an abrasive voice, and his natural accent was uncertain, slewing somewhere between Bromley and Birmingham. As he spoke, his hand clenched round his coffee cup until his knuckles turned white. Rawcliff also noticed a tiny nerve plucking at the corner of the man's eye. He had decided that he did not like ex-Flight-Lieutenant Thurgood.

Taki shrugged dramatically, with a gesture of infinite despair. 'But please, I send him no drink, he threatens to kill me!'

'A member of the Red Cross threatening to kill you?' Thurgood laughed: a harshmirthless laugh, like a dog barking. 'You should be ashamed of yourself. Now f.u.c.k off. And don't send him up anything more to drink, or you'll have me to reckon with. Okay?'

'Okay, okay.' Taki glanced hopefully at Rawcliff.

'Bring me a beer, please,' Rawcliff said. He waited until Taki was gone, then turned back to Thurgood. 'By the sound of him, it isn't ouzo he needs. It's a girl. Can't Taki find him some local tart, just to keep him quiet?'

'You serious?' Thurgood's bulging eyes had brightened - a momentary gleam of the Cromwellian axe.

'Just an idea - to avoid trouble.'

'You only avoid trouble by maintaining discipline. And strict security. You don't get that by turning the place into a b.l.o.o.d.y wh.o.r.e-house! This isn't a bean-feast we're on, y'know.' Thurgood ran a finger down his blood-p.r.i.c.kly jawline. 'How much have they told you, Rawcliff?'

'Just that we'll be flying solo in C-130s. Carrying relief-supplies, apparently. Can you enlighten me further?'

'I cannot. I do as I'm told - and I should do the same, if I were you.' He paused; and Rawcliff was relieved to see the twitching of his eye had ceased.

'I just know that the planes were crated out in parts. They're being rea.s.sembled now by some of the ground-staff - locals who were laid off when the airport was closed. The work should be finished by tomorrow night. Our first job's going to be to check our own aircraft b.l.o.o.d.y thoroughly. I don't trust these wog mechanics further than I can spit. You got an engineer's certificate, by the way?''

'No. But I know about aeroplanes.'

Thurgood stared at him, his fingers beginning to drum on the table. 'You said you were on civil? Viscounts, eh? Well, you won't find this job quite so cushy!' - then he broke off, staring above Rawcliff's shoulder.

A very tall, thin man with lank hair was standing beside the table. He had appeared cat-like, soundlessly. His smooth, hooked face was the colour of polished, ivory. He was dressed in olive-green battle-fatigues and rubber-soled canvas jungle-boots, a red cross was st.i.tched on to one shoulder, and across his left b.u.t.toned-down lapel was the embroidered name, in black on yellow: SAMUEL D. RYDERBEIT.

'Afternoon children!'

He stood swaying slightly, and steadied himself against the edge of the table with a slender hand, as smooth as his face.

'That lovely b.i.t.c.h Jo hasn't been prowling round here, wetting her lovely knickers with l.u.s.t for me? Some hope! That girl's got lock-jaw in the wrong place.' He slipped into the chair between them and leered at Rawcliff.

'So you're the new boy? I'm Sammy. Excuse my manners, but I've been drinking.

p.i.s.sed as a snake.' He jerked his head round and yelled, 'Taki, you snotty-nosed runt, bring me some coffee!' He turned back, with a smile of evil charm. 'Are you a little confused by me, soldier? A White African Jew flying as one o' the team? Don't worry!' He gave him a painful slap on the shoulder, while Thurgood just glared. For a man who had apparently been on an extendedbender Ryderbeit seemed to have recovered remarkably quickly.

'It's not that I'm big-headed,' he went on: 'Just that I never met anyone that's better than me. You want my b.u.mf? I learned my flying down in Rhodesia, in the old days, before they started calling the place f.u.c.kingZimbabwe and selling out the munts. Married a couple of rich b.i.t.c.hes and their daddies supplied me with more or less any plane I wanted.

'I flew up in the Congo during the fun - tree-hopping, picking the munts off with a .44 Magnum. That's another advantage I've got over the rest of you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds - even over the good Grant. I can shoot. Given the right toy, I can hit a man in the head at a mile. I can shoot a moving snake across a room.' He grinned, as Taki shuffled over with more coffee.

Ryderbeit now turned to Thurgood. 'Not like Oswald here, eh? Oswald's a special case. He's an old Raffie, kicked out for being a bit of a nutter. Gets these headaches and starts behaving funny. Don't worry, I've seen the record.

I'm privileged. Still, Oswald, they say you're very good at twiddling the k.n.o.bs of a radio. Bit of an Einstein, eh?'

He drank what was left of his ouzo and went on, 'No radio in my day - flying a Piper across the Bush. I used a road-map. Could put that little bird-dog down in the main street of E'ville - Lumumbashi, to you heathen souls. Used to park right outside my favourite bar.

'Trouble with you RAF and civvy types, you fly by the book. Well, as far as Samuel David Ryderbeit is concerned, the book's for the birds. Takes the edge off the game. I tell you, I've never flown drunk - and I've never flown entirely sober either. I like to get up to a certain level, and then pace myself. What would your BEA masters say about that?' he added, to Rawcliff.

Thurgood replied, with malign satisfaction, 'They chucked him out.'

'Yeah?'

'I'd had a couple of drinks and I was unlucky,' Rawcliff said, 'Only I wasn't flying to the Congo - just the Costa del Sol.'

Ryderbeit slapped him again on the shoulder. 'That's the kind o' language I like to hear, soldier! I like you. You've got a good open face, though it looks like it's taken a few knocks in its time. Now look at friend Oswald here. Oswald's got a face like a smoked ham. Getting a laugh out of him's like trying to get a drink down in Saudi!'

Rawcliff saw that the nerve was quivering again beside Thurgood's eye.

'Ryderbeit, I've had my belly-full of you. I can take so much, and no more.'

'Flight-Lieutenant, I am not detaining you,' Ryderbeit said, tilting his chair perilously far back and raising his empty gla.s.s. 'You have the freedom of your own room, Oswald. Why not go thither and contemplate thy navel?'

Thurgood stood up, and without even a nod at Rawcliff, strode towards the door, up into the hotel.

'That man's a ratbag,' Ryderbeit said, bringing his chair forward again. 'And a nasty ratbag too. A little birdie whispered to me that he kills people.

People who step out of line.' He paused, picking his teeth. 'How did you get into this, soldier?' 'Almost by mistake - or at least, by false pretences.' He told his story to Ryderbeit, who listened thoughtfully. Except for a faint orange glare at the corner of his eyes, the Rhodesian might have been as sober as Rawcliff.

'Playing it a bit wild, weren't you, soldier?'

'Meaning what?' Rawcliff looked at him with feigned innocence.

'Somebody - I can't tell you who - has got a lot at stake in this business.