Holy Of Holies Part 3

'Yes, but who is he?'

'He flies planes, like you. He was trained by the South African Air Force.

Then he became freelance - what is now fashionably, and pejoratively, known as a mercenary. That . 45 is to say, he helped train the Air Forces of several independent African states. He is a professional, without any political axe to grind.'

'So what are his motives? Helping those pot-bellied children and skeleton women?'

.'I imagine,' Newby said, with an avuncular sigh, 'that his motives are the same as yours. Money. Money makes the world go round!' And he laid his hand on Rawcliff's sleeve and gave it a squeeze.

'And your motives, Mr Newby? Just money too?'

Newby's laugh purred in his ear: 'Maybe I have a few ideals as well. But you would not be interested in them. You want the facts, the itinerary. Six planes, Mr Rawcliff. Six Hercules transports, purchased, quite legally, from the Americans in West Germany. The planes are not new, of course.

Theoretically they are sold off as sc.r.a.p, when they have completed a certain number of hours. But it is like buying one of your old London taxis. The price may not be high, but you can be sure that the vehicle has been thoroughly serviced and maintained right up to the end.'

'You have a touching faith in London taxis, Mr Newby. If you buy one on the cheap and it breaks down, you take it to a garage. But if you're flying a veteran Hercules over unknown territory and it decides to crack up on you, you're in trouble.'

Newby shrugged. 'Obviously that is a risk. It is one of the risks for which you are being paid.'

'I'm still being paid over the odds. If all six pilots are getting the same as me, reckon that would cover the cost of the so-called medical supplies many times over - not to mention the cost of the planes, unless you sell them off afterwards.'

This time Newby laughed openly: 'I must say, you are the first man I have ever met who has complained of being overpaid!'

'I'm not complaining. I'm just curious. The itinerary, Mr Newby - the flight-plan?' The little man put a manicured finger to his lips and shook his head. 'Sealed orders, Mr Rawcliff. I'm sorry, but the matter is politically sensitive, and it will be of no advantage for you to have this information. I am not saying that our mission would meet with the opposition or disapproval of the British Government. It is simply that we cannot risk, at this stage, becoming involved in international controversy. The press, for instance' - and he gave a small theatrical shudder.

The waiter was pouring coffee, while they both sipped their Grand Marnier.

'You can at least tell me where we'll be operating from?' Rawcliff said, when the waiter had gone.

'Not yet. Soon, maybe. When we know a little more about you. It is a mistake, my dear sir, to be too open too early, in matters of big business. In your case, you have rather forced my hand. I must now ask you to be frank with me.

You have not come here, I hope, just to amuse yourself? To satisfy your pa.s.sing curiosity?'

'Partly that. Partry because I'm greedy. I need the money. I might have a few other motives too, but they wouldn't concern you.'

'In an operation like this,' Newby said softly, 'everything about you must concern me. No large organization employs a man for a high salary without first making quite sure that he is sound.'

Rawcliff finished his liqueur and tasted the coffee. 'I've got a small business that's going bust. And a house that's too small for a family. I'm also a trained pilot, and a good one -at least, that's what they used to say.'

There was a pause between them. Newby had lit a fresh cheroot, but this time sat holding it very still, between the forefingers of both hands. He was leaning slightly forward when he next spoke, 'Mr Rawcliff, permit me to say so, but a man at your station in life, with a business to run and a family to support, does not easily change course in midstream, so to speak. You did not come here today, and impersonate Mason, just out of curiosity? Why did you come? Why are you really interested?'

'Because I'm bored. Bored and broke and frustrated. I also want to find myself sitting behind the controls of a plane ' 47 again. A real plane - not just one of those paper-and-string jobs we use down at the flying club.'

'You can kill yourself just as easily in a small plane. But perhaps the danger does not worry you?'

'That depends on the odds. I've no intention of leaving a widow and a fatherless child. And I don't expect your benevolent organization is likely to pay the second cash instalment if I go down somewhere in a ball of flame, or finish up before some firing-squad of trigger-happy Sambos who can't shoot straight?'

'Now you are being melodramatic. The dangers, I a.s.sure you, will be minimal.

'I'm not taking your word for that, Newby.' He paused. 'When do I get the ten thousand pounds?'

Newby lifted his. arm and snapped his fingers like a castanette, catching the waiter's eye and calling for the bill. He looked back at Rawcliff with his dark solemn eyes. 'Soon. Just as soon as you make up your mind. But one wordof warning. In our line of business we have no lawyers, no tiresome written contracts. Your contract is your word -while ours is a confirmatory telegram to you personally from our agent in Geneva, informing you that the down-payment has been deposited in a numbered account which can only be touched by you.'

'And if something happens to me?'

Newby smiled sadly, 'There is a codicil. In the event of your decease, your next-of-kin will be able to draw the money. You see, we are not monsters. We believe in looking after our employees and in honouring our commitments. All that we ask in return is absolute silence - that you remain absolutely discreet.' He was very fond of that word, 'discreet'. Altogether, a very discreet little man.

He paused to scribble something on the bill and pushed it aside. 'All I need now is your address and- for the codicil -the full particulars of your next-of-kin. Your wife, I presume?'

Rawcliff hesitated. This was getting too close to home for comfort. Newby, acutely sensitive to the atmosphere, laid a hand again on his arm. 'Come, come, Mr Rawcliff, there must be a degree of mutual trust. Your wife need know nothing about the agreement - unless you choose to tell her, of course. Or unless' - he gave a slight shrug - 'you have an accident.'

'I'll give you my business address,' said Rawcliff taking out his pen.

Newby raised his glossy eyebrows. 'You forget that we already have your telephone number?'

Rawcliff felt himself getting angry. Suddenly he wanted to be rid of this oily purring little man with his diamond ring and his cloying perfume. Reluctantly, he wrote down his address in Battersea and stood up.

'Did you come by car, Mr Rawcliff? Then I will get you a cab - private firm.

You can never hope to get a black taxi at this hour - they all head for the big hotels.'

He told the waiter to ring a number.

'I prefer to walk,' said Rawcliff.

Newby glanced at the entrance. 'I think you'll find it's raining.' He looked at his watch - the same chunky gold device which Mason had described, with a dial that told the time in Moscow and Cairo and New York and Damascus.

Rawcliff wondered if it was just show, or whether it played some small but vital part in the daily running of an international organization.

'And when do I see you again, Mr Newby?'

'I have your number. I will call you very soon. And please, one thing' - he laid his hand again on Rawcliff's arm - 'I do hope you will be more sensible than Flight-Lieutenant Mason. For the moment, I would rather you did not discuss this matter with your wife. Not at least until things have been finalized and the money paid into your numbered account.' He gave him a quick sly smile: 'I think that is a good enough reason for keeping a little secret from her, eh? Now, I must go.' He started to push the table forward, just as the waiter came up and told them that Rawcliff's minicab had arrived.

Rawcliff saw the little man into his fur-lined coat and an expensive sealskinhat, and watched him duck out into the rain and get into a blue Lancia which was parked outside on the double yellow line. It had not collected a ticket.

The minicab was already across the street - a. Cortina with bubbles of rust along what was left of the chrome. It struck Rawcliff as being distinctly shabby, even for the worst kind of minicab - unless it was not a very subtle way of demonstrating Rawcliff's present status in the set-up. But there was a chill rain falling, and Rawcliff thought, knew that he could wait half-an-hour for a bus across the river to Battersea, and all afternoon for a taxi.

He crossed the street and said to the driver, 'Mr Rawcliff for Mr Newby.'

'Hop in.' The man leant back to open the rear door, but Rawcliff got in beside him - a gesture of social guilt, perhaps: a need not to be seen riding on the backs of the lower orders, while people like Newby paid.

The driver was a chubby man with a bad case of psoriasis on his balding head; the only time that Rawcliff had seen a bald man with dandruff. He smoked as he drove, and his teeth and nostrils were dark with nicotine. Rawcliff, with the same uneasy sense of social superiority, was conscious of the weighty silence - like riding with only one other person in a lift. 'Do you often do work for Mr Newby?'

'Newby? Oh yes, him. Now and again. He's loaded. Always the best. I expect he eats in a place like that every day o' the week. You like all that fancy food?

Me, I'm not fussy. Can't afford to be.' The rain was coming down heavily now, and he switched on the wipers which made a defective groaning noise. Rawcliff was content to sit back on the cracked vinyl seat and let the man chatter on.

'When I was married.I didn't do too badly. My wife had a lot o' books on French cooking. You like French cooking? Too rich for me. I don't mind a Spanish omelette, mind.' He drove on his brakes, talking between pulls at his cigarette. 'You might not think it, but I've got a seventeen-year-old girl now. I mean, not my own - living with me, like. Pa.s.sionate, she is. Can't have enough of it. Hates cooking, though. Always wants to go out, pubs, discos - it's exhausting.' He braked, narrowly missing a group of tourists crossing a crowded intersection with Wardour Street. 'b.l.o.o.d.y foreigners, behave as though they own the place!' They had come to a halt, in dense traffic.

'Have you known Newby long?' Rawcliff said.

'A few months. Just the odd job, fetch and carry. He pays well.'

'Any idea what he does?'

'Me? Not a clue. But whatever it is, I wouldn't mind swapping with him-' They crawled up behind a parked van, and the man stopped and switched off the engine. 'Don't mind if I just stop in here for a moment, d'you? Got to have a word with someone.'

Rawcliff watched him hurry into a shop, under a sign: BOOKS - Ca.s.sETTES - SOUVENIRS. It had a narrow shop-front with the usual display of magazines.

Outside, it was still raining hard. Three young men and a girl with carrier bags came running down the pavement, laughing and trying to push each other off the kerb. A traffic-warden stood in a doorway, bored and wet. Two girls in transparent raincoats and hoods over their hair, looking like a couple of loosely-wrapped sweets, went into a Wimpy bar across the street.

The driver had been gone more than ten minutes now. Rawcliff felt himself getting angry again when instinct prevailed over emotion, The instinct wa.s.suspicion - a mental knee-jerk from those distant grinding hours of training back in the Surrey woods near Cobham. If the minicab was a plant, elaborately devised by Newby - through prearrangement, perhaps, with Peters - how was Rawcliff to react? An innocent man would probably lose patience and just b.u.g.g.e.r off, leaving the driver unpaid. While a trusting recruit might be expected to sit tight and wait. But what for?

These people certainly weren't paying for innocence, and they didn't look dumb enough to expect trust. Instead, Rawcliff now acted precisely as he thought they wanted him to do. He was going to see their hand, if only to find out what their play was.

He gave the driver a full fifteen minutes, then slowly got out of the cab. He felt relaxed, sober, flexing his unused muscles, tensing his fingers down the sides of his legs, taking * 51 his time, with a quick apparently casual glance both ways along the wet crowded pavement; then went into the shop.

It was harsh with neon and smelt of disinfectant, like a hospital or a mortuary. Empty except for a little dark man who might have been born on the same lat.i.tude as Newby, but had clearly not fared as well.

Rawcliff walked down a narrow pa.s.sage, past shelves marked NAUGHTY KNICKERS / NURSES IN DISTRESS / COLONEL SPANKER'S SPREE / SS UNIFORMS FOR HIRE OR SALE,.

FULL CEREMONIAL, AS WORN BY INSPECTORATE AT CONCENTRATION CAMPS. At the back was a green door with a Yale lock and a notice saying PRIVATE. The little dark man watched him, saying nothing. Rawcliff pushed the door and it swung open. A familiar flat voice said, 'Afternoon, Rawcliff. We were counting on you to come nosing in. Make yourself comfortable.'

The door snapped shut behind him. It was a small windowless room; there was a bar and shelf of drinks at one end, and about a dozen deal chairs in rows, like pews in a chapel, facing an empty white-washed wall. The only decoration was a Jubilee photograph of the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh, flanked by furled Union Jacks.

Peters stood beside the closed door, looking calm and relaxed, while the minicab driver leant against the outside of the bar; he smirked at Rawcliff and pulled on his cigarette.

Rawcliff was aware that he had become rather cold. His legs felt heavy, his feet were numb. To steady himself, he tried to think back: had Newby gone out of the restaurant first and had time to instruct the driver, before driving away in the Lancia? But Rawcliff remembered that the two of them had left together. So it could only mean that when Peters had intercepted Newby at the restaurant door and told him that he was dealing with an impostor, a quick phone call had been made - probably by Peters - with a view to teaching Rawcliff a lesson. Newby's sweet talk that had followed, and his pleas for mutual trust, were already qualified. These people had their own laws, and once you became involved, you obeyed them.

Rawcliff spoke, with a casual nod at the Royal portrait and the two flags, 'What is this? The headquarters of some kinky far-Right fringe group - black knickers under your SS uniforms, while swearing undying loyalty to the Crown?'

Peters gave a dull yellow smile. 'Got a sense of humour, have you? If you want to know, it's a cinema club. Exclusive, members only.'

Rawcliff attempted to smile back. 'He's got a devious mind, your Mr Newby.

Must be fairly sure of himself, too. Suppose I'd decided not to take that cab?Or got bored waiting outside and walked off?'

Peters seemed to be thinking for a moment. 'We might have had to visit you at home. Maybe you would have preferred that? Got a wife, haven't you? And a kid?'

The chill in Rawcliff's limbs changed to a hot surge of blood that raced to his head. Peters, if he knew it, had made a fatal miscalculation. Perhaps he did know it, for he added laconically, 'Have a drink. You look as though you need one.' He nodded to the minicab driver by the bar, 'Give him a drink, Leslie.'

The chubby man lifted the bar hatch. Rawcliff reached for a handkerchief as though to blow his nose. He saw Peters raise his left foot. He was wearing suede chukkha boots with steel caps. Rawcliff dropped both hands, letting the handkerchief float to the floor, and caught Peters' foot as it came up, aimed swiftly and accurately at his groin; sidestepped and jerked the man's ankle hard. He felt the tendon snap like a twig, as he grabbed Peters by the lapels, dragged him down with all his weight and b.u.t.ted him in the middle of his smooth flat face. The rest was easy, like putting the finishing touches to a parcel: a hard chop behind the ear and another at the back of the neck. There was blood on Peters' suit and white shirt; his eyes were half-open, unseeing.

He slid down in Rawcliffs arms, onto his knees, and Rawcliff began to lower him on to the floor.

He thought in the same instant, I'm getting careless, forgetful. To have twisted Peters' ankle would have been enough: the rest was just fancy stuff for the spectators. He should have backed away and been ready, as Leslie came out 53 from behind the bar, with surprising speed, and the bottle hit Rawcliff between his left eye and temple. There was a flash of darkness, as his face collided with the lino floor. Then nothing, like a deep dreamless sleep.

He was lying on a large made-up bed. He still wore his shoes, though his jacket had been removed and his tie loosened. He could only focus through one eye and his head slammed with a sharp ache. He started to sit up, through a wave of gagging nausea: carefully felt his arms, ribs and thighs, wriggled his toes. His t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es were intact too.

The bedroom seemed to be in a recess, off a vast open-plan flat. Walls of knotted pine, bare except for an eight-Toot span of twin-prop propeller, of polished honey-brown wood. Beside his head, a double-glazed picture window looked out, almost at water-level, across the river to a silhouette of cranes and wharves. From the width of the river, he guessed that he was somewhere below Tower Bridge, probably beyond Greenwich.

He realized that his head was aching to the rhythm of pop music. The room beyond was the size of a tennis court, broken up by rows of thin cast-iron columns; the ceiling a maze of lagged pipes painted white against a chocolate-brown background, like a sprawl of elongated intestines; the floor of coa.r.s.e scrubbed planking, like a ship's deck. Pure Colour Supplement stuff.

There was even a black girl dancing by herself to the music.

He lay back, feeling sick. The bed lurched as someone sat down. He was a thick-set young man with an open sunburnt face, and wore a white cable-knit sweater and heavy silver bracelet.

'You look a bit rough, old sport. Like a spot of brandy?'

Rawcliff raised himself again, slowly. He wished that b.l.o.o.d.y music would stop!

'Where can I clean up and have a p.i.s.s?' The man helped him from the bed, steadied him across the long-haired carpet, to a door with a handle in the form of a gold-plated dolphin. The bathroom beyond was done in chipped green marble pieces, like miniature mosaics; the fittings were all gold-plated, and there was a gold-plated fleur-de-lys on the bidet. The shelves were lined with a.s.sorted perfumes and make-up, men's deodorant and cologne, a chunk of soap hanging on a rope, antique telephone by the lavatory, miniaturized TV and radio.

Rawcliff peered at his image in the mirror. A yellowish-green egg had swollenlup beside his temple and a puffy blue shadow was closing round his eye. There was no blood. He cooled his face with water, rinsed his mouth out, made his way back into the bedroom. The man in the sweater was waiting for him, smiling. 'Feeling better?'

'On top of the day. Where's the brandy?'

'Coming right up. Jo! One brandy for our stretcher-case!'

Rawcliff sat down on the bed. He had a glimpse of a second girl, white this time, floating up from somewhere across the wide floor of the room beyond.

The man said, 'I'm Ritchie, by the way. Jim Ritchie.'

Rawcliff nodded glumly; he noticed that the man had very good teeth. 'Your pad?'

'Right. Not bad, eh? Picked it up for a snip, before the social mob started moving in. What they call the gentrification of derelict dockland. It's part of an old grain warehouse, actually. Built right over the river.'

'Convenient. If someone steps out of line, they get fished out of the water somewhere below Tilbury? Or perhaps not at all? I thought you had a penthouse in the Barbican?'

Ritchie laughed. 'No, thank G.o.d! That's a place we just use occasionally - sort of neutral ground. I can't stand towerblocks - I spend too much time in the air, as it is. When I'm down, I like to stay as close to the ground as possible.'

The second girl had stepped up into the recessed bedroom. She wore jeans and high-heeled sandals, and had a small lightly-freckled face with no make-up.

Rawcliff judged her quite pretty, in a neat undemanding way: though it was often the quiet ones, he remembered, who made the most trouble. She had stopped by the bed, holding a kitchen gla.s.s and a bottle of good brandy.

'That's a nasty bruise he's got there, Jim.' She hardly . 55 glanced at Rawcliff, as she poured a dribble of brandy .into the gla.s.s and handed it to him. 'Alcohol's not.the best thing after concussion,' she added, still to Ritchie, 'I'll get a cold steak to put on his eye.'

'Don't worry, he'll live!' Ritchie leant out and patted Rawcliff's knee. 'Meet Joanna, sport. Jo, to her friends. You've got to take her seriously - she's a nurse. Looks after our every need.' He gave her his white smile. 'You want to watch out for Mr Rawcliff, Jo! He used to be one of those undercover death-and-glory boys. They don't mess about -as our friend Peters can testify!'

For the first time she looked down at Rawcliff. 'If you get any bad headaches over the next twenty-four hours, you should see a doctor,' she said; thennodded to Ritchie, 'See you, Jim!' She had left the bottle of brandy on the floor.

Rawcliff lay and squinted at her narrow haunches moving down the steps and across the bare floor to where the black girl was still dancing with casual energy. He pulled himself up on one arm and swallowed the brandy. 'Which girl is resident? Not both surely?'

'I screw the dark one over there,' said Ritchie. 'Jo's strictly business. So you lay off, see? From now on it's going to be like school - no talking out of turn, no boozing, no fraternizing with the fair s.e.x. Orders of the day - by courtesy of Mr Peters.'

'Where's Peters now?'

'Last sighting was at the Middles.e.x Casualty Department. The latest I got was a sprained ankle, pulled ligament and a hair-line fracture in the upper vertebrae, in what they call the "hanging bone". Plus two lovely black eyes.