Holy Of Holies Part 28

In the last hour, after midnight, another mystery was again aroused, and again left unsolved. Thurgood, with the help of some of the Cypriot ground-crew, began supervising the installation of the loudspeakers - three to each plane, as Rawcliff had observed: two under the wings and one over the open rear loading-bay.

Five of the hi-fi sets were also unpacked and installed in each cabin, next to the compact guidance-systems, which they indeed innocently resembled, except that the computers were attached to a ma.s.s of wiring and telescoping tripods which joined together like the arms of some gleaming stainless-steel octopus, each tentacle attached to a control on the co-pilot's side.

In that last hour the tension slackened, and was replaced by the firm professional self-control which all pilots learn to exhibit before any kind of dangerous flight. They were all keyed up, wide awake with too much black coffee and a surplus of adrenalin; but as usual, Ryderbeit was the most relaxed. As Rawcliff was making a perfunctory, last-minute inspection of his nose-wheel mechanism, he glanced round to see the Rhodesian leering evilly down at him.

'h.e.l.lo, soldier! Pity you f.u.c.ked off this afternoon. Your wife called you at the hotel - at least, she said she was your wife. Nice voice she's got. You can tell a lot from a voice.'

Rawcliff felt a chill, and grabbed him by his loose combat jacket. 'What did she say? Tell me!'

Ryderbeit prised Rawcliff's hands away; his breath had the rancid aniseed smell of ouzo. 'Anxious, eh? You b.l.o.o.d.y well ought to be. How did she know where to find you?'

'I rang her today - from Nicosia.' He suddenly spoke calmly, his mind made up.

On the pretext of checking the parachute lines, he led Ryderbeit up into the rear of the plane. There, in the oily darkness, wedged against the drums of HE and fuel, and keeping a keen eye open for Peters or Serge, he finally confided in Ryderbeit. He began by telling him about the afternoon's events.

The Rhodesian leant his long body back against a drum of Amatol and wagged his head. 'So you got bought a drink by old Charlie Pol, eh? Quite a privilege.

See, I was right about that old French b.a.s.t.a.r.d, all along. I could smell him on this one from the start. But your meeting with him could mean trouble for you, soldier. Maybe trouble for us all. Pol's so crooked he can't even s.h.i.t straight!'

'What did my wife say when she called?'

'What wives usually say when their hubbies have gone AWOL. She said she wanted you to ring her back -urgently. Well, I guess she'll just have to sweat it out until this b.l.o.o.d.y business is over.'

'Listen, Sammy. I need your help. You're the only one here I can trust - if that word isn't too loaded for you? Peters is after my blood. Thurgood's crazy. Matt's hopeless, and Grant's dead." He deliberately drew the line at including Ritchie and Jo.

The omission was not lost on Ryderbeit. 'You're a discreet b.a.s.t.a.r.d, aren't you? Or maybe you didn't think I knew?'

'What?'

Ryderbeit's teeth gleamed in the dark. 'About young Jim Ritchie and little Jo - playing footsie with the big boys?'

'Okay, Sammy. Exactly how much do you know?'

'Too f.u.c.king little, soldier. But just enough to make me angry. I don't expect that French b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Pol, to trust anyone. But nor do I like being left out on a limb, while people like Ritchie and Jo are running to Nanny.'

'Several nannies, it seems. Ritchie reports to London. And Jo has a line to the Jews. Holy Moses, unless every spook in Europe is asleep, this operation must by now be as public as the Olympic f.u.c.king Games!'

'How did you find out? Through Jo?'

'Jo's pretty transparent. Which is maybe why they're using her. Anyway, in one way and another, I managed to talk her into telling me rather more than she should have.' 'That's not difficult,' Rawcliff replied, with a sense of wounded chivalry.

'Does Pol know?' he added.

'He'd be losing his touch if he didn't! Don't be dull, soldier. Jo, Ritchie - and Matt. Don't worry, I know all about the Magician! The CIA have got their hooks into him, and those boys don't let go.' He leant forward and spat thoughtfully into the dark. 'Having the three of them lining us all up under the unofficial spotlight is part of the game. You and I - we're about the only honest b.a.s.t.a.r.ds around. Unless you count Peters and Serge.'

'Talking about Peters - did you manage to get your rifle back?'

'Still confiscated - like a naughty boy.' Ryderbeit laughed. 'Unlike you, Peters doesn't seem to trust me. I'd be b.l.o.o.d.y insulted if he did!'

'And you haven't any other guns?'

'Hand-guns, you mean-? Don't believe in 'em - except as frighteners.'

'Peters, at my latest count, now has four. Those three heavy jobs he took off the dead militiamen, and that .22 he showed me today.''

'Peters is the kind of man who needs a gun. He doesn't have friends, and he makes enemies like Errol Flynn laid girls! - G.o.d rest his soul!' He straightened up. 'Stick around, soldier - it may come all right in the end.

It's just possible that old Pol has taken a liking to you, in which case you're quids in, like me! Pol believes in looking after his own.' He started back towards the rear loading-platform.

'And you still don't know what this is really all about?' Rawcliff called softly after him. 'What all this loudspeaker stuffs for, for instance?'

'I wouldn't tell you if I did. Unlike little Jo, I've got a mouth as tight as a snake's a.r.s.e-hole!'

'What's happened to Jo, by the way?' Rawcliff asked, with a kind of desperation, as he watched Ryderbeit's silhouette move further away.

'She took the evening plane from Nicosia to Athens - with Charlie Pol. You must have missed her.'

'What does she do it for, Sammy?' 325 'How should I know? She's a bit of a screwy kid - half Red Sea Pedestrian, like me - on her mother's side. Got a so: spot for the Promised Land.'

'Christ. To think that my wife was doing it just for love.' And you're still going to go through with this, without a gun Sammy?'

'Soldier, there are ways of killing a man without having to use a gun.'

Eleven.

That Thursday afternoon, Suchard drove back in his handsome obsolete sports-car, from lunch at his club, to the house overlooking St. James's Square. There was a message on the scrambler answering-service, telling him to ring the Minister, urgently. The Minister was in the House and would ringback. But before he did, the Head of Department called.

'That Yemen story. Call your original contact and kill it. I want it stone-cold by tonight. You can blame it all on our Washington friends - misread satellite reconnaissance photographs. It's a new weather-station being set up for the benefit of Soviet naval operations in the Indian Ocean. The Minister will give you the quotes. Nothing too sanguine - we don't like the Russian Navy, remember, especially when they're cruising round our old hunting-grounds off East Africa. But no question of huffing and puffing and blowing the house down.'

'Might I suggest, sir, that we sweeten it a bit by saying that Moscow has offered facilities for the use of Western merchant ships? A sort of crumb from the Feast of Detente?'

'I shouldn't go overboard, Suchard. We're not tucked up in bed with the Russians yet. Just kill everything nuclear. The Soviet emba.s.sy will be issuing a strong denial, in their usual subtle way, and the Minister has agreed to eat humble pie and confirm it. It's what's called politics, across the road.'

Suchard replaced the scrambler and dialled a number in Fleet Street, wondering just how many people would want to read about a new Russian weather-station covering the Indian Ocean.

On that same Thursday afternoon, at about the time that Suchard was ringing Fleet Street and Peters was threatening to shoot off Rawcliff's big toe in the Nicosia Hilton, Judith Rawcliff's secretary came into her Mayfair office, to tell her that there was an outside call for her.

She seized the telephone as though it were a weapon. I: was a local call. She recognized the voice of Geoff Matlock. her contact at the University of London Computer Centre, to whom she had spoken two days ago.

'h.e.l.lo. Mrs Rawcliff? Matlock here - hope I'm no-disturbing you. But you were asking about that aerial flight-pattern, somewhere in the Middle East? Well, it's rather a coincidence really. I was chatting to a couple of our bloke> this morning, and to cut a long story short, it seems I may be able to give you just what you need - or near enough. Just happens that one of our machines - a Techtran 8421 - was used for the job, transferring on to a Hewlett Packard Floppy Disc. The input data came to us privately. I can't check offhand who it was invoiced to, so I can't give you the source. I'm afraid. But as luck would have it - your luck' - he chuckled - 'our machine developed a few glitches during the job. We made a couple of botched run-offs and somebody stuffed the dumped print-outs in my in-tray! I don't know ii they're complete, but there's a d.a.m.ned great pile of the stuff - well over a thousand sheets, I'd say.

Somebody with a sense of humour, no doubt.'

'When was this?'

'About three months ago.' He laughed, 'It must have been just before I went on holiday - I don't usually let things pile up like that, you know.'

'And you've no idea who commissioned it? It wasn't a firm called Metternich, Dettweiler?'

'As I said, 'fraid I don't know. Chap who dealt with it's up in Birmingham at the moment. If you can wait till Monday -''

'Doesn't matter. Geoff, can you send the whole lot round by special messenger?

It'll be paid for this end.' There was a moment's hesitation. 'Ye-es. I s'pose so. I should point out, Judith, that it was a confidential job. But since you're in the business-'

'I'd be very grateful. But if you could do it as soon as possible? This afternoon?'

'All right - anything to please the fair s.e.x. I'll get one of our own men to do.it. More reliable. But remember, if there are any repercussions, I don't know what you're talking about.'

She hung up wearily. Her energy was only sustained by nervous momentum - anything to distract her from the tedious agony of waiting for that call from Cyprus. At least, provided Matlock were right, the dumped print-outs would either confirm or deny the information she had bought from Sims: and if that wretched creature had swindled her out of two hundred quid, that was going to be the least of her worries. She still had the problem of contacting her husband. The voice at the Lord Byron Hotel, Nicosia, had not been rea.s.suring.

She wondered whether she ought not to dump little Tom with the baby-minder for a couple of nights and fly direct to Cyprus, using the company's credit facilities, and if necessary drag her husband physically back home?

She had already arranged to stay for the next few nights at her friend's house up in Richmond. As tomorrow was Friday, at least she would have the weekend for herself and Tom, without having to put on a brave executive face.

She would decide what to do about her husband only after he phoned back - if he ever did.

Her intercom lit up and Reynolds' voice whined out at her. 'Judith, remember, I want that sugar data by six.'

'I'll have it for you, Cy,' she lied, knowing that he would probably have forgotten about it by then. Tomorrow he'd be back on his old hobby horse - forecasting a Soviet oil famine.

Forty minutes later her secretary appeared, laden with three large Jiffy bags, each as fat as a telephone directory. Judith told her to put them on the floor, and that she was not to be disturbed for the next hour, unless it was for an international call.

The stacks of print-out were, as Matlock had told her, dumped, or rejects. And there were, as he had also said, well over a thousand sheets, many of them torn or crumpled, several splashed and stained with coffee rings. Although clearly numbered, they were in no kind of order; and soon she had them strewn across the carpet around her desk, engaged in what looked like some gigantic game of patience Each perforated sheet was covered in sets of figures arranged in columns of five, occasionally interspersed with letters: about ten figures across each column, and at least two hundred deep. What she was most interested in were the final pages - the destination of the flight-plan. But here she had an obvious problem. Without sorting every page into it's exact sequence, she had no idea whether the print-out was complete. She could see why the run had been dumped. Or several sheets the columns of figures veered and zig-zagged sometimes in an illegible mess.

After nearly an hour she had sorted the last hundred pages into sequence. Only eight were missing - two from the final batch. Unless there had been more sheets, which had beer, mislaid or destroyed, she could feel fairly confident that she had enough to satisfy her curiosity, as well as her earlier investment of 200. The task had at least one other advantage: it had disstracted her from worrying about her husband's call She piled up the two batches of sheets and called Dor Laraby's secretary. Yes, he was in his office. She did no-bother to make an appointment. She left a message with her own secretary, telling her to put through any international calls to Laraby's office;then rode up to the fourth floor. The American looked as though he had not stirred since yesterday, seated in the midst of the cosmic chaos of advanced technology, struggling in his hushed breathless voice with several telephones at once.

About the only sign of order 'in the place were his' sock-suspenders. At this hour even his drip-dry b.u.t.toned-down shirt was looking rumpled.

She settled herself down in the comfortable swivel-chair opposite him, careful to show him enough leg but not too much, and dropped the two stacks of print-outs down on to the mayhem of his desk. He jerked up with a start, almost dropping one of the telephones, broke off two conversations and adjusted his eye-gla.s.ses.

'Mrs Rawcliff! Please, sit down,' he added superfluously. 'What can I do for you?'

'Have you any way of reading that?' She nodded at the two piles.

He peered at the top sheets and wrinkled his nose. 'Jesus, what is this - "Purple Code".'

'It's part of that AFP I told you about yesterday. Programmed by a Techtran 8421 for a Tetra-Lipp guided system. A retropilot Mark 100/4.'

His smooth boyish face lit up with slow understanding. "So - those Swiss people, Metternich, Dettweiler, were helpful, were they?'

'Very helpful. This stuff should give the take-off and destination. I think I know the destination - I just want to check.'

Laraby spent a long minute shuffling the pages, fidgeting and frowning and crossing and uncrossing his legs, then peered hard at one sheet while a telephone rang unanswered at his elbow. 'You just wanted a straight map reference, huh? He paused; the telephone went on ringing. Judith glanced nervously at it, wondering if it was that call from Cyprus.

Laraby leant out to answer it, just as it stopped ringing. He sat blinking at her from behind his gla.s.ses. 'Seems the first two sets of figures on each column are simple lat.i.tude, longitude,' he said at last. 'Straightforward enough. Starts with Lat.i.tude 26 64813N, for North. And Longitude 38 -82681 East.' He looked up. 'We don't need a reader for this stuff - we need a magnifying gla.s.s and a good map.' He pressed a b.u.t.ton. 'Miss Hale, have them send up a world atlas, from the library - right away!' He turned to the last page of the second sheaf.

'That's the most important,' she prompted him.

'Yeah, yeah, this is it: 21 265 - Christ, whoever gave you this stuff looks as though they've been having breakfast off it! What a mess. Dumped, eh?' He paused. 'Here we are - 21 26598 North. These are pretty d.a.m.ned exact readings!

Must have been taken off a specially commissioned ordnance survey.'

She had been quickly jotting down the figures on her pad. '21 26598 North,'

she repeated. 'That's lat.i.tude again, I suppose?' 'Should be. Unless someone's been playing funnies on this one. The Tetra-Lipp's still pretty secret. But you can get jus; a little too secret at this kind o' game - no good programming a computer if at the end of it even G.o.d can't understand it.'

'What's the final longitude reading?'

'You're gonna ruin my eyesight, you know that?'

''The longitude,' she repeated patiently.

Laraby screwed his gla.s.ses hard back on to the bridge of his nose.

'Longitude 39 49882 East. You got that?' He-beamed at her. 'I should be charging Cy overtime for this. And when she didn't smile back, added, 'Is that what you were looking for?'

'It should be somewhere in South Yemen - the last reading, I mean.'

Laraby shook his head knowingly: 'Oh no! The Yemen's down around Lat.i.tude 14.

You're way up on 21.' He smiled again. 'Just so happens you've come to the right man. I used to do aerial surveys for an oil company in the Middle East.'

'You never told me that.'

'You didn't ask me. I spent whole days reading these d.a.m.n reference's. While other guys were dreaming about girls, Don Laraby was dreaming about lat.i.tude and longitude!'

She felt the dawning of a terrible excitement. Laraby's phone was ringing again. 'Then if it isn't in South Yemen, where is it?'

A pretty girl with a helmet"hair-cut came up to the desk, gave Judith a quick once-over, and handed Laraby the heavy world atlas.

'Thanks, Cynthia. Somewhere in Saudi Arabia - round about the middle, I'd say.

Lat.i.tude 21 would put it somewhere close to the west coast. The Red Sea.' He was clumsily turning the pages of the index. 'Jeddah, maybe?'

She sat very still; and there was a low ringing in her ears that had nothing to do with the machinery in the room.

The American kept up his easy, exasperating banter. 'h.e.l.l, I ought to know the references for Jeddah like I know my own National Insurance number. I lived in the d.a.m.n place for nearly a year.' He had found the right page in the index and was poring over the tiny columns of place references. 'Jeddah - d.a.m.n! See Jiddah.'

Judith's pen was quivering in her hand.

'Yeah, here we are. Jeddah. Lat.i.tude 21 30 North. Longitude 39 10 East.' He paused. 'Now what have we got on your stuff?' He began shuffling about on his desk for the final sheet of the print-out. 'Lat.i.tude 21 26598 North.' He peered up at her again.