Holy Of Holies Part 11

And I don't just mean money, although there's plenty of that too. The people who've been hired are the sort who don't ask questions. The whole business was lined up, ready to go, when the sixth member of the team didn't like the temperature of the water. A Frenchman - oldish chap, Air France captain, retired. Too much of the old book again - seems he started worrying about his pension and whether he'd ever see his grandchildren again.'

'What happened to him?'

'Swimming accident, I believe. He and Oswald Thurgood and Mr Peters went swimming at a little place called St Valerie - on the Somme Estuary. Mud-flats and quicksands. Death through misadventure, all signed and witnessed.'

'But not by you?'

'I was too busy down in Le Havre, helping to load the planes. So the bosses had to look for a new sixth recruit. Third time lucky, it seems?'

Rawcliff nodded. 'The second man got killed a couple of days ago by a hit-and-run driver. Pretty convenient, I'd say.'

'Ah, we live dangerously. Come on, let's get out of this pit and go somewhere we can drink in peace. Peters may come sniffing round, and I'm not feeling sociable.'

The cafe was little more than a hole in a ruined wall, with a beaded curtain and wooden chairs outside, where rows of old ' i men with white crewcuts sat propped up on sticks, staring at nothing. At the end of the row was a tall, much younger man with dark gla.s.ses and a floppy sun-hat, sitting under an ancient image of the Madonna and Child, and a washed-out colour photograph of the late Archbishop Makarios.

Ryderbeit gave him an extravagant salute. 'Hail, magician!' He turned to Rawcliff, 'Meet our scientist and wonder-boy from across the Atlantic, Matt Nugent-Ross.' The American half-stood up, with a slight bow, and shook hands, while Ryderbeit went on, 'Matt, this is the last of the heroes - another b.l.o.o.d.y Brit called Rawcliff.'

At the sight of Ryderbeit's Red Cross shoulder-flash, a couple of old men nearest them touched their foreheads and moved away, making room for them.

Ryderbeit sprawled on his chair, took an aluminium tube from his flap-down breast pocket, tapped out a long cigar, bit the end off and spat the leaf into the dust at his feet.

The proprietor, who might have been Taki's twin brother, took an order for two beers. The American Nugent-Ross was drinking local lemonade. Ryderbeit had lit his cigar, exhaling the smoke luxuriously. His eyes, raw with the exertions of the past thirty-six hours, swivelled between the two of them, settling on Rawcliff. 'Soldier-boy here's rather a cla.s.sy type of pilot. Used to jetting the plebs down to Majorca. Fasten your seat belts and extinguish cigarettes, this is your Captain speaking - all nice and posh, eh, with bits of scrambledegg on your cap and shoulders, and those lovely hostesses all sighing with expectation.

The proprietor brought them out two gla.s.ses of thin beer, half of which was a watery froth. Ryderbeit blew his off and drank thirstily. 'I suppose you still got your licence?'

'You want to see it?' Rawcliff was tired and losing patience with Ryderbeit.

Judith had taunted him with almost exactly the same words, about hostesses, only a few days ago.

'A CAA licence? You can wipe your a.r.s.e on it. A C-130 Hercules needs a lot more careful handling than one of your swish jets. At least, it's going to on this operation! No luxuries on this one, soldier. And our masters have decreed that there's not even time for test-flights. No radar, no proper airstrip.

It'll be flying solo, either over unfriendly territory, or so low we won't even be able to bale out. Fortunately, the Hercules is one of the best planes ever built. And ours are veterans, retired.'

Ryderbeit turned to the American, who sat quietly sipping his lemonade. He had tired, finely-cut features, his clothes casual and expensive. Ryderbeit clapped him on the back.

'No such problems for the magician, eh! Matt's the boy who stays on the ground and doesn't take any risks. Not that I reproach you, sir! You're the one that's helped to set the whole thing up this end. Speaks fluent Greek and knows the right contacts, the right palms to cross with the right amount of silver.' He had turned, his hand still on the American's shoulder, leering again at Rawcliff.

'Besides, I don't call him the magician for nothing! Matt here is a cut above us mere mortals who drive planes. He specializes in the toys of the future - computers, robots, automatic guidance-systems -'

'Take it easy, Sammy.' Nugent-Ross had removed his dark gla.s.ses and was frowning slightly. 'Not that I have reason to distrust Mr Rawcliff here, but no good pretending we haven't got a security problem.'

'On a routine mercy-mission?' Rawcliff said lightly.

Ryderbeit drew on his cigar. 'Is that your British sense of irony, soldier?

Working for the Red Cross is about the nearest I've ever got to dressing up as a nun!'

Only the American laughed. Rawcliff said, 'What exactly is the security problem?'

Ryderbeit leant forward, until Rawcliff could smell the sour flavour of aniseed on his breath. 'This is an island. And all islands are small. People can be bribed to keep their mouths shut, but they still talk. It's also close to the Middle East. It's used for what they call a "listening-post" - and by all sorts of people. Not just the Turks and the Greeks. You Brits have still got three airbases here - two small ones just up the road, and a big one at Akotiri, along the coast. Pretty convenient, for the casual over-flight.'

'Then if there's a security problem,' Rawcliff said, 'it seems b.l.o.o.d.y stupid to pick Larnaca! Or Cyprus, at all. There must be plenty of disused airbases around this part of the Mediterranean - on the Greek Isles, for instance - or in North Africa?' Ryderbeit was grinning. 'Sure. Or maybe somebody's not worried? Maybe it's just the odd prying local they want to keep out? Or in - in the case of the ground-crews. Or there again, maybe it's just to make Mister Peters feel happy and important?' He downed his beer and called for another.

'All right,' Rawcliff said. 'So perhaps we don't have a security problem, after all?' He glanced at Nugent-Ross, who was peering into his lemonade; he did not look entirely happy. 'And the mercy-mission's obviously a blind. Six freelance contract-pilots, each hired for fifty thousand quid, tax-free, to fly six clapped-out Hercules. Solo, at low levels, with a cargo of relief supplies - destination unknown. No pilot gets paid that sort of money for a milk-run. Don't worry, I'm as greedy as the next man. But if it is a blind, what's that girl doing out here? -Jo, I think she's called?'

Ryderbeit's eyes flickered quickly towards the American, who looked away. 'Ah, our benighted nurse! Better ask Matt all about her - he found her, while she was working out here for some do-gooding organization. Go on, ask him! You're not sensitive,-are you, Matt?'

'She's on the level, Mr Rawcliff. She's a sensible kid, competent and well-trained. An experienced nurse is what you'd expect on a relief operation.' He had a soft pleasant voice - East Coast, Rawcliff guessed - almost English - with the leisurely intonation of the rich, or at least of one who has been brought up with all the comforts of the rich. Only his eyes betrayed him - sad weak eyes, with a watery hint of dissipation.

'Funny about that girl,' said Ryderbeit. 'When I first clapped eyes on her I said to myself, Sammy, this one's going to be as easy as picking an apple off a tree. Shake it and the whole f.u.c.king lot'll come down! Matt doesn't mind - do you, Matt? Just good friends, as they say.' He blew smoke into the still air. 'I tried my deft hand at her, and nearly got it bitten off. All women are either a mystery or they're trouble.'

Matt Nugent-Ross had finished his lemonade and stood up. 'I'll be getting along. It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Rawcliff.'

The other two sat listening to the smack of dominoes and the click of cards from behind the bead-curtain. Ryderbeit nodded towards the American as he strolled away down the dusty street.

'Got a few problems, that boy. The Demon Drink, I'd guess. Educated b.a.s.t.a.r.d, good background, come down in the world. What used to be called a "remittance man".'

'What about the others? Peters, for example?'

'A killer. Real professional. You don't mess around with men like friend Peters.'

'And Ritchie? What's so special about him that puts him in the officer-gentleman league staying up at the big hotel?'

'Well, he's got that nice little plane of his. Touch of cla.s.s, to impress the locals.'

'That can't be the only reason,' said Rawcliff. 'Five seats, including the pilot - and six, if we crowded it. Easy for landing and take-off, and a decent range. Very handy for a getaway.'

Ryderbeit gave him a crooked stare. 'Rather jumping to conclusions, aren't we,soldier?'

Rawcliff put down what was left of his beer; there was a fly-floating in it.

'What about Major Grant?'

'h.e.l.l, you've been flying with him all day. You ought to know. I only got it on hearsay.'

'He wasn't letting on much,' said Rawcliff. 'Spent most of his time pulling rank on me. But I gather he was a war hero in Korea. Won the Military Cross holding off a couple of thousand c.h.i.n.ks with one tank, until his guns couldn't fire any more because the bodies were packed up so thick over the turret. And how it was so cold that the anti-freeze went solid in their vehicles, and the troops had to pee in their uniform or their equipment dropped off with frost-bite.'

'Did he say how he learned to fly?'

'Not exactly. Hinted that he was drafted into some hush-hush unit that flew up over the Chinese lines - even flew a few sorties into China itself, so he said. But I got the impression that there were a few gaps in his life that he was keeping to himself. Didn't explain how a gallant Major in the British Army comes to be running a flower-stall at Covent Garden Market.'

'England's greatness,' Ryderbeit said; he took out a fresh cigar.

'That just leaves you,' said Rawcliff. 'You're from Rhodesia?'

'Not any more.' Ryderbeit sat squinting at him through the smoke. 'I got run out of Africa a long time ago. 1 got run out of a lot of places. Now I'm the wandering Jew - with a nice Luxembourg pa.s.sport to help me on my way. Not that I don't sympathize with those poor b.l.o.o.d.y whites in Africa. I haven't much time for blacks or Arabs. In a few years they'll be crawling all over us like lice, calling all the shots. Unless someone stands up and stops them.

'I'll be straight with you, soldier. But this isn't to be shouted from the roof-tops. I've worked a few rackets in my time, like hi-jacking a plane-load of US greens out of South-East Asia. And I always worked for the same man.

French b.a.s.t.a.r.d called Pol. Fattest man I ever saw - fat and greedy, and cunning with it. I don't like him - don't suppose anyone likes him - but I admire him. Like all high-cla.s.s gangsters, he has a technique. Distinguishing mark, if you like. I spent a long time on the Veld. I got a nose for these things. And this operation's got Pol's mark stamped all over it.'

'Meaning what?'

'With Charlie Pol it could mean anything. But the man's got a certain sense of humour. Bringing succour to starving women and children, as a front so he can grow even fatter on his various Swiss bank accounts, is just the kind of thing that would amuse him.' He picked a flake of tobacco off his lip. 'But you keep all this to yourself, Rawcliff.'

'And you trust this man Pol?'

Ryderbeit hunched his shoulders. 'As I said, I've played some funny games, but I've always played by the odds. I don't know about you, soldier, but I look after Number One. If it comes to a showdown, I'll settle accounts with Pol personally. And what I'll do to him isn't fit to be heard in decent company - and he knows it.' They sat for a long time in silence. Rawcliff sipped his second beer and tried to compose in his mind a telegram to Judith. He didn't trust himself with the telephone, even if he could get through without the others knowing. The telephone was a brutish instrument, both too intimate and too impersonal; and a letter would be too slow, as well as too demanding. Anyway, what did he have to tell her? That the Red Cross mission was all in the interests of humanity, and that the rest of the team consisted of a White African Jew who never flew sober; a professional killer; a b.u.m Major; an ex-RAF psychopath; an American drop-out; and a single girl who was alleged to be a nurse. Jim Ritchie was the only one who lent any possible respectability to the gang.

He said at last, 'Look, Sammy. At some stage we're going to have to be told what this is all about.'

'You mean, Pol removing his veils one by one? And stripping off at the last moment? Holy Moses, what a horrible thought! No, soldier. He'll either keep us in the dark, or con us right up to the end. And one thing I am certain of - whatever that end is, it's going to be dangerous and it's going to be b.l.o.o.d.y.

b.l.o.o.d.y dangerous and b.l.o.o.d.y b.l.o.o.d.y. And I also wouldn't be surprised if it hasn't got something to do with politics - which in Pol's case means dirty politics.' He flicked his dead cigar into the street, stood up and left some money on the table.

'One last thing, soldier. I haven't talked to you and you haven't listened.

Okay? Now let's get back to. that fleapit and eat some of Taki's filthy food.

I don't fancy going up to the Sun Hall - Peters is a flat-a.r.s.e, he doesn't approve of pilots drinking.'

Two.

'I think we might start with the salmon souffle,' Pol said, lifting his broad bib to dab his cheeks end forehead, careful not to disarrange the lick of hair that curled down over one eye, from an otherwise bald egg-shaped head. 'And I suggest a little champagne.'

The early evening was cool, with the French windows of the old house closed against the rolling woodlands of the Upper Rhine, in the crooked gabled town of Illhausern, a few miles from the German border.

His guest looked unimpressed, despite Pol's claims that this was one of the best restaurants in France, and possibly in the world. He was a spruce, squat man with square-cropped silver hair and thick spectacles, behind which his eyes registered no expression. Pol had noticed, with some contempt, that his suit was of a cheap artificial fibre, with a dog-toothed check a l'Anglais, while his shirt looked as though it had been boiled and his shoes had thick rubber soles. A dreary man, but an important one. Charles Pol would just have to make the best of the evening: the food and wine would at least compensate for the conversation.

'Then would you prefer to remain with fish? Goujonettes de sole et de homard a la nage? Or perhaps the noisette de chevreuil St-Hubert? Both are recommended.'

'It is your choice,' his guest said sullenly. 'I am not experienced in French food.' The restaurant was not large and all the tables were filled; but from their position by the windows there was no danger of the two men being overheard.

Pol had attracted a few curious glances - his wobbling elephantine bulk squeezed into a voluminous suit of slub silk which betrayed patches of sweat under the armpits: his huge face pink and damp, with a little goatee-beard which he fondled as he consulted the menu with benign expectation.

He made the order punctiliously, as though supervising some delicate technical operation. 'So you are not used to eating in our fine restaurants?' he said cheerfully, when the waiter had gone.

'I am not a gourmet. Food does not interest me. Let us concentrate on more immediate matters. What is the progress situation?,'

'Under control. There have been a few minor problems, but they have been resolved.'

'What problems?'

Pol made a vague gesture with his fat pink hand. 'A couple of our recruits were not entirely satisfactory. One of them - a compatriot of mine - had a swimming accident, and another, an Englishman, was killed by a car. I also regret the gentleman whom you know as Monsieur Rebot, the Belgian, died in his bath in London.

'That I know. I read about it in your newspapers. Your methods are very drastic, Monsieur Pol.'

'They are merely methods to fit the situation. I am sure that you, in your position, will appreciate that?' Pol beamed at his guest with a cherry-lipped smile, as the waiter placed before them the salmon souffle and poured two tulip gla.s.ses of very old champagne.

'Have there been any troubles with the police?' his guest asked.

Pol gave a shrug that looked as though it might split the seams of his suit.

'The usual inquiries. But these things take time. More time than we intend to allow them - the authorities, I mean.' There was a long pause, during which he concentrated entirely on his food.

'Is the shopping list complete?' his guest said at last.

'All except for the mining equipment. That is to say, the purchase has been made and cleared, and the ship has already left Ma.r.s.eilles, bound for the island of La Reunion in the Indian Ocean. There is, as you will remember my telling you, some very lucrative open-cast basalt mining there. There are also rumours of uranium deposits - which also might interest you?'

'I'm only interested in the matter at hand. The ship is cleared to pa.s.s through Suez?"

'Of course. With a stop at Cyprus.'

'And what are your arrangements with the Cypriot authorities?'

Pol gave him a lewd wink. 'My friend, the Greek Cypriots concentrate on nothing but their hatred for the Turks. What does not concern the Turks, does not concern them. They are blind to the international situation.'

'That is a bold a.s.sumption.' 'It is nevertheless a correct one. You know me well enough by reputation - that I never gamble unless the odds are safely on my side.'

'I still need to be satisfied that security is absolute.'

'Nothing is absolute, my friend. Except, perhaps, eternity - and even that has been questioned by Einstein.' He bit into a succulent lump of lobster.

'This is no time to philosophize,' his guest said abruptly. 'What is the bill?'

Pol wiped his mouth and drank some champagne. 'Fifteen million dollars.'

'It is too high. I am authorized to go no further than twelve million.'

'And I am not prepared to argue. I know the situation far better that your people do. But they do know that the project can go no further without me - not at this stage. I have already had heavy expenses myself - an initial outlay of more than three million dollars on the aircraft alone. I will not go into tedious detail, but even the medical supplies from Switzerland have not been cheap. Apart from the fees for the pilots, there are all kinds of sundries - like a brand-new Mercedes Benz for the Larnaca Chief of Police, for instance.'

'So your Cypriot friends are interested in more, after all, than just the Turks?' his guest observed sourly.

Pol-sat back with a broad gesture, 'It is a question of goodwill, my friend.

One must never forget goodwill. And then there are the ships' fees, paying off the masters and crew, the salaries for the ground-staff at Larnaca Airport - at much-inflated rates.'

'Twelve million, monsieur. That is my limit.'

'Thirteen million. After all, what is a million between friends, when we may be changing the history of the world?'

'You will be making a personal profit of several million dollars.'