Holy Of Holies Part 9

Newby broke in with a shout, 'I demand to speak to my lawyer.' He tried to stand up, but Hood pushed him .down again.

'You've already wasted half the morning with him. Your lawyer's a busy man, Mr Newby. It's no good asking to see him while you're refusing to cooperate.'

Newby felt sick, his head ached with the vicious bombardment of words. 'But I have told you - I have told you everything I know. It is a relief operation, a mercy-mission! Six planes, six pilots - I tell you, what more do you want?'

'Pull the other one,' Punchie said, half-grinning.

'You've told us all right,' Hood said: 'Trouble is, we don't believe you. Justimagine it - s.e.x-fiend runs mercy-mission! If it isn't schoolkids, it's starving women and children. Don't make fools of us, Newby - we don't take kindly to that from your sort.'

They all looked up as a uniformed man came in. He handed Hood a note and stood whispering in his ear. Hood nodded, and gestured to Punchie, who stood up.

Hood was frowning. 'You wait here,' he told Newby.

Newby was left alone. Five minutes pa.s.sed, ten, fifteen. He went to the door, found it locked. It also had a Judas eye in it, which he had not noticed before. He called 'I want to see someone! I want to see someone in authority!'

He began to bang on the door. 'I demand my rights!'

A second man in uniform appeared and stood looking him up and down. 'You'll be seen presently. Now you sit down and keep quiet. I don't want any more noise from here.'

Sergeant Hood came back twenty minutes later. 'You're free to go, Mr Newby. A car will drive you to your hotel,- if you so wish.'

'What the h.e.l.l is happening? Is this one of your tricks?'

'There's no question of a trick, Mr Newby.' Hood's face had a numb, stony look. 'Just count yourself lucky - the charges against you have been dropped.

You're free to go.'

'But I demand an explanation!'

'You can do that through your solicitor. You have been held on suspicion during investigations. Now that these investigations are complete, it has been decided not to charge you. Do I make myself clear?'

'Get me a taxi.'

'I told you, sir, we have a car.'

'I don't want your b.l.o.o.d.y car. Get me a taxi.'

'I'm warning you,' the Minister said, patting his thighs and rocking back on his heels. 'If this thing blows up, it'll be your head that'll be on the charger. You'll be served up like John the Baptist. Providing, of course, that I accept your Department's recommendations.'

'Entendu,' Suchard said, wrinkling his eyes to make out the Minister's expression, as he stood framed against the tall period window overlooking the parking meters along Queen Anne's Gate.

'Right. Let's look at the map.' The Minister bustled up to the table; he was in his element now - he liked maps, he liked plans, they took him back to his Army days when he'd risen to Captain in a regiment distinguished only by the fact that it had not seen action this century.

'Eritrea? That's where the little sod said it was, didn't he?' The Minister's finger moved busily about on the bridge of the Horn of Africa. He frowned at the browny-grey smudged contours that marked mountains. 'Djibouti -Tigre Wollo - Asmara' - moving up the Red Sea. He paused. 'What is this? Oh for Christ's sake, Turner, it's a b.l.o.o.d.y Michelin road-map! Is that all you've got?'

'I'm sorry, sir. There's a Bartholomew's.' 'Get it.' He glanced up at Suchard. 'Djibouti - don't like the smell of that.

The French still have a lot of influence there. D'you know that Pol was attached to the Elysee Palace under Pompidou? Minister without Portfolio for the African Territories. The Frogs must have been pretty self-confident to have chanced their arm with a fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d like him!'

'What happened to Pol?' Suchard asked, sacrificing self-esteem for curiosity.

The Minister gave a little grunt of triumph. 'You mean there's actually something you boys don't know? Watch it, lad, you're slipping.' He grinned cunningly. 'Trouble is, I don't know what happened to him. n.o.body does, it seems. But if Pol was playing to form, it was probably some deal that he was involved in - muddy waters, Suchard, muddy waters. And that's what you think we've got here,' he added, as the lissom youth called Turner returned with a Bartholomew's map of the Middle East. The three of them stood over it, while the Minister's thick finger rifled through the pages. 'This is too detailed.

What we want is an overall picture. Cyprus to Ma.s.sawa.'

'Here we are, sir,' Suchard said.

'What's the scale? Let's compare it with the other map. We need a long ruler - tape measure would be better. Haven't you got anything in this place, Turner?'

'It's all right, sir,' Suchard said gently, 'I've got all the figures here.

Roughly four hundred miles from Larnaca to Cairo, on a more or less direct route. Cairo to Asmara - 1,134 miles.'

Ill The Minister stepped back, patting his hips. 'So. What's the range of a Hercules?'

"Four thousand seven hundred miles, sir. One thousand three hundred and sixty US gallon capacity for two external tanks, to be precise.' Suchard knew what was coming, and knew that the Minister was drawing it out, in order to enjoy the more his discomfort.

'Tell me something, Suchard. Have you got the tiniest -just the tiny-weeniest suspicion that this whole operation might be on the level?'

Suchard pursed his lips and managed to look suitably solemn. The Minister was a canny old devil - a hard political pro and a good fighter, one who could make out in the clinches, as Suchard's friends over at the annexe in Grosvenor Square would put it.

'I've considered the possibility, sir, of course. The fact that this man Pol's involved could point us in any number of directions. a.s.suming that Pol's a front. Or not, as the case may be. May I ask your opinion?'

'My opinion is that it smells. It stinks like a bag of old fish - and I don't want it dumped in my Ministry!' He stood glaring down at the map, playing for time. 'You've got me doing the splits across a very wide chasm - you realize that, don't you? I don't mind messing you people about - that's what you're there for - but I do mind p.i.s.sing on the Yard's boots, then telling 'em it's raining. That chap Muncaster isn't going to like us one bit. Nor are the SB.

They've been building up for a case of probable murder, plus holding a man under the Secrets Act. Not going to like it at all, they're not.'

'It was not on my instructions,' Suchard reminded him quietly.

'Oh d.a.m.n your' eyes! d.a.m.n the lot of you! You never instruct, Suchard - youdevise, insinuate, kiss the hem and whisper in the majestic ear. You're the smooth cloven-footed archangel of the secret realm. They wouldn't act without you. And even if you keep silent, they can read your silence like a memo.'

Suchard smiled. 'Permit me to say so, sir - but you ought to save that sort of thing for the House. It's a bit short on eloquence these days, don't you think?'

'I'm thinking, Suchard, that .either way HMG stands to get her t.i.ts in the wringer. On the one hand, we stand to be party to some kind of international conspiracy. But if, by a very remote possibility - and it is the remote possibility that you are here to guard against - this milk-run down to Eritrea turns out to be bonafide, it's hardly going to look good if we put the kibosh on a genuine humanitarian mission to save starving women and children.

Unlikely, I admit. But it has to be considered.'

Suchard bent forward, with his most solicitous smile. 'I can appreciate your anxiety, sir, from the purely political point of view. It could be embarra.s.sing -'

'It could be very embarra.s.sing.'

'Quite. Nothing is absolutely foolproof. There's always the zero in this game, whichever way we play it.'

'I'm not interested in your fancy metaphors! Either p.i.s.s or get off the pot!'

'Thank you, sir. What I would like to say, all things considered, is that at this stage we would do best to sit back a little longer and see what happens next. At least, that's what I think is perhaps expected of us,' he added slyly. The Minister coloured, but said nothing. Suchard went on, 'After all, we don't have much to worry about - yet. So one psychotic hit-man goes free?

One small-time international crook may or may not sue for wrongful arrest. And three professional pilots with British pa.s.sports fly out to Cyprus to earn their loot. So what do you want us to do? We can't even pull them in for currency fiddling, now we've abolished Exchange Control. The only possibility is tax-evasion - and we'd have one h.e.l.l of a job proving that, with the money locked up in Switzerland. We all know how much cooperation we'd get from the Swiss.'

The Minister nodded impatiently. 'You've forgotten the press. They're already on to Mason's death. And they've got a line on Newby, under the Secrets Act.

Give a dog a bone. Christ, then we go and let Newby out.'

'Newby won't talk to the press. He won't talk to anyone if he knows what's good for him. If I were Newby now -which G.o.d forbid - I'd lie very low and very still.'

The Minister's eyes grew cunning. 'You're so b.l.o.o.d.y confident, aren't you? You think Pol's got a racket going, and rather than snuff it out - right now, this end, before it causes us any embarra.s.sment, you have to cling on to the finish. Don't worry about me, and f.u.c.k the FO -just as long as you lot have your curiosity satisfied.' He took a step forward and thumped the map.

'There are at least three wars going on in this area. The Yemen's bang opposite, across the Red Sea. Then there's the OG.o.den, also well within the range of your six Hercules.'

'Minister, would you forgive me if I told you what I think is worrying you?' 'Please do.'

'You're concerned that if my team pull off a coup and thwart some major international criminal operation, you won't be able to claim the credit? A successful operation, or a botched operation - that's news. But an operation to stop an operation is a non-starter. Like saying the Special Branch have foiled a plan to kill the PM. Good show, everybody says, and turns to Page Three.'

'I am not seeking personal publicity or aggrandizement, Suchard. I consider that an impertinent suggestion. And I warn you again, if you lose this little game, you lose everything. I'm not going to help you. .I'm not even on the touch-line. You're on your own.'

'So much for Ministerial responsibility." Suchard began to gather up his notes. 'You'll want to be kept informed, of course?'

'Of course. The sooner the better.' The Minister started towards the door, then paused. 'By the way there's something I ought to tell you.'

Suchard waited. He had been expecting his superior to slip him a last card; but his elegant features registered no movement, no shade of expression.

The Minister said, 'So happens I got a call this morning from a chap on the Swiss Desk at the FO. It seems that our friend Pol has chums in Geneva who have close contacts with the Committee of the International Red Cross.'

'So you're saying that it could be a genuine operation?'

'I'm not saying anything. Just mentioning a fact.' Suchard nodded sadly.

'Curiouser and curiouser, as young Alice would say. But I suppose even if it were genuine, it wouldn't make much difference? Political sensitivity and all that. Poor little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds down there!' he added, with uncharacteristic venom.

'That war down there's been going on for nearly twenty years! And now they're not only fighting the Ethiopian government, but also against those b.l.o.o.d.y Soviet-backed Cubans. G.o.d, is there no justice?'

'Very little. The Cubans do the fighting, and the East Germans and Czechs help set up the secret police after "pacification". Don't lecture me, Suchard. Talk to Pol. Pol feels as I do. He's not only a gangster - he's an idealist. It's a horrible combination, I know, but I've had some of the inside reports. Pol does things because he believes in them, only he also likes to skim the cream off while he's doing it.'

'You're convinced I'm wasting my time?'

'I try to judge by the facts. Good afternoon.' Suchard made a small ironic bow. A cloud of doubt had edged into the scheme of things, which had begun to look rather stimulating, after Muncaster's latest reports - all of which seemed to be homing in on Larnaca, Cyprus.

It had to be something else. Pol wouldn't mess around with blankets and penicillin. Maybe just for starters, but not for the main course.

As Suchard walked back across the park, he had to admit to himself that he was a trifle worried. He hadn't liked the way the Minister had talked about Pol.

The Frenchman was too much in Suchard's line of business, and if there was one sort of person whom Suchard distrusted, it was a professional rival.

Muncaster was striking camp in his corner of the ops room, folding his filesaway, to be sent round to St James's, when one of the phones rang. Muncaster was no man to shirk his duty, and he was determined to keep his men on the job until the very last, when the files were handed over.

The call was from Observation Patrol Beta Plus, reporting that Newby had checked into the Churchill Hotel at 4.20, and that half-an-hour ago - 5.17 - the subject, Peters, had entered the hotel and gone up to Newby's suite. He had remained there only ten minutes, then taken a black cab to Euston where he had caught the 5.55 Inter-City to Manchester.

That probably meant Ringway Airport and an early morning flight to the Continent. Peters had been carrying no luggage. But what the h.e.l.l? It would be no consolation to Muncaster if Suchard slipped up on this one. The Minister and his pack would be baying for blood, and Muncaster wouldn't be spared.

But his policeman's professional instincts remained to the end. A quick call established that Olympic Airways had a flight leaving Charles de Gaulle Airport for Athens forty minutes after Thurgood's British Caledonian flight landed.

It was with a weary sense of resignation that he bound up the last of the files and gave them to the despatch-rider, then stepped out into Broadway, just as it began to rain.

Eleven.

Judith had made it easy for her husband. He had not got drunk that evening; there had been no row; he had not overtly lied to her. Yet she seemed, by sinister intuition, to know that he was about to bolt. She went to bed in the study, where Mason had slept that last night; and when he looked in on her, he saw that she had been crying. She was pretending to be asleep. That was the nearest he ever came to throwing in the sponge.

He went on because he was greedy for the money, and because now he was also frightened. Yet this was a double-edged incentive: for it provided him with an atavistic pleasure of antic.i.p.ation which he had not felt for a long time - since his first flying days, when there had been still enough danger to give salt to the boredom, left up there alone in the clouds hour after hour, with a radio that was like working a boy-scout's crystal set. BEA had never been a patch on them. This would, though. If a BEA pilot refused to fly, he might be suspended, but there'd be no danger of his being murdered.

At 3.30 in the morning he got up and shaved, like a soldier before battle. He had packed only essentials - toilet things, not forgetting his ginseng; change of shirts, socks and underwear, with a tie thrown in, just in case he got invited to the high table at the local Emba.s.sy; and a couple of paperbacks - an H.E. Bates war novel, and Waugh's Black Mischief - all stowed away in his old pilot's flight-bag, which he had kept as a fond memento. He remembered that they hadn't even left him time to go to the bank; but he had enough cash on him, for bare necessities. He wasn't antic.i.p.ating any undue expenses, wherever it was they were taking him.

The house was as dark and quiet as a church. The floor creaked outside Tom's bedroom. He hesitated, began to grope for the doorhandle, knowing exactly how the child would look, his little body curled up in his cot, twined round that absurd decrepit teddy, his face resting in perfect, absolute innocence. He also knew that once he had opened that door and looked, he might just as wellpack the whole thing in - go back to bed and face the shop in the morning, and every other morning afterwards, until either the Official Receiver moved in, or he got the DT's or had his first cardiac, or whatever happens to old war-weary pilots with nowhere to go.

His whole body had gone rigid, beginning to tremble. He closed his eyes and walked swiftly away from Tom's door, without turning on the light - down the stairs, feeling for each step in the dark, his eyes still closed, fists and teeth clenched tight. This was no time for a last burst of paternal sentiment.

He stopped in the kitchen, to switch on the kettle and gulp a finger of whisky. Just one, he thought, slamming the stopper back in. From now on he was going to lay off the stuff.

When he'd made the coffee, he found they were out of milk. Tom must have had the last of the bottle for his supper. The coffee by itself was too hot to drink. He ran the cold tap into it. He was wasting time, already several minutes behind schedule.

No sound from the study. He knew she'd be awake again, lying there on the sofa in the dark, waiting for the snap of the front-door catch, the squeak- of the outside gate. She wouldn't come after him, though. A very determined girl. He liked to think that he wouldn't have married her otherwise. He didn't think of little Tom - didn't dare to. He might still be a hard man but not that hard.

He left the coffee undrunk, remembered to switch off the light; crept down the dark pa.s.sage and slipped out of the door. Either it was the whisky, or the silence, but for a moment he thought he was going to vomit. He stood clutching the flight-bag, hunching his shoulders against the damp bitter cold.

The street was empty - two rows of low, drab, Victorian bow-fronts under the yellow night-sky that was divided up by the dark fingers of the high-rise tenement blocks near the river. Far too early for the electric .milk-float, or for the newspaper boy - bringing fresh news of Mason's murder, perhaps? - or even the old man with the gammy leg across the road, who worked the early shift at the Post Office and usually took five minutes to get his car started.

Still no sound from inside the house. No last-minute click of the door reopening: no glimpse of her pale tired face, no voice calling quietly after him through the darkness, imploring him not to go.

He began to walk up the deserted street, and his steps sounded m.u.f.fled and heavy, as though he were walking in snow, The, air was full of that tangy burning smell that drifted up from the glucose factory on the river-front; and he caught himself wondering, with unnatural calm, if he would ever smell it again?

The car was at the corner, showing only sidelights, its engine idling. The same dilapidated Cortina, with Leslie at the wheel. 'Mornin', squire! No hard feelings, I trust?' The scurf in his thinning hair looked like tiny cornflakes.

Rawcliff got into the back and said nothing. They drove out into Battersea Park Road, past the grey-shuttered shops, catching all the lights on green, with no other traffic in sight. Leslie seemed to take the hint, and they drove in silence, along the South Bank, past Vauxhall Bridge, until they reached Nine Elms, where Leslie turned into New Covent Garden Market; showed a season-ticket at the barrier and drove past a complex of sheds until they reached the Flower Market. 'Here we are, squire. Gate five, over there. Just inside - bay-trees and exotic indoor plants. Ask far the Major.' He winkedknowingly, 'There's no charge for the ride - on the house.'

Rawcliff stepped into the chill pre-dawn darkness and walked smartly over to Gate five. The heavy plastic flaps hissed automatically open and he breathed in a nice soggy jungle smell, laced with touches of natural perfume and the scents of exotic flora being marked up for the West End.

The bay-trees, and other diverse evergreen ornaments, were stacked deep and high. A big red-faced -man in dungarees was piling fat dwarf palms on to a wooden trolley. Rawcliff stopped him and said, 'I'm looking for the Major.'

The man nodded and disappeared somewhere behind the greenery. He returned a moment later and beckoned.

Rawcliff followed him into a little office that smelt of fresh earth. A big man, perhaps a few years older than Rawcliff, sat in a swivel chair in front of a desk. He wore a suit with a chalk stripe and a regimental tie, and had a heavy drinking face - the sort of handsome empty looks that go with the leisured cla.s.ses who have dallied with the gun and the sword, then sunk back on harder times.

'Sit down, Rawcliff. My name's Grant. Guy Grant. People call me Major - I was in one of the best Highland regiments - but 1 won't insist on it right now. No ceremony on this one. We're all in this together - sink or swim. Are you a drinking man?' he added, stretching his legs.