Part 1 (2/2)

'We shall be sorry too. But that's not what you came to talk about, surely?'

.'No. Charles, I came to ask your advice. I've just had rather a funny experience and I don't know quite what to ; make of it. You see, we Service chaps lead rather a cloistered ' life - we don't get around like you London fellows.'

Rawcliff stood up. 'Let me freshen your drink, then you can tell me all about it. Judith'll rustle up something for us to eat. Right - fire away.'

'Well, as I told you, I don't know London, and a few ! evenings ago I found myself at a bit of a loose end. 1 went to a pub in Knightsbridge where I'd heard that some of the chaps from base go when they're up in town. I'm not much of a drinking man, but I thought I'd go on the off-chance I might b.u.mp into somebody I knew. 'As it happened, I was in for a bit of a surprise. I'd hardly been in there for a few minutes when I caught sight of an ail-too familiar face - and one I hadn't expected to see in a hurry. Belonged to a chap called Thurgood.

Ex-Flight Lieutenant Oswald Thurgood - with the emphasis on the Ex. You know how it is in the Services - everyone conforming, not much room for individuality - so when someone does step out of line, he does it in a big way. Thurgood was one of those. As mad as a hatter. Really bonkers - almost certifiable. For periods he just used to lie on his bunk staring at the ceiling. Sometimes he got these headaches which would keep him off-duty for days at a time. That was usually the signal for him to reappear arid do 'something crazy.

'I hadn't seen him for over eighteen months - since the Christmas before last, to be exact, when he finally went over the top. It was Christmas Eve and most of us family chaps were out of camp, in married quarters. Thurgood wasn't married - still isn't, as far as I know. Anyway, he suddenly grabbed an old Hunter - strictly a training job - and took her up and did a couple of loops over Benson, then buzzed several villages round Wallingford, and finished up clearing the Officers' Mess with about ten feet to spare. He was a d.a.m.ned good pilot. But, as I said, not quite right in the head. His secondary job was radios - b.l.o.o.d.y mad about them, he was. Built all his own equipment, and used to spend hours picking up places like Albania and Chad.

'Well, after that last escapade, there was a Camp Inquiry, and as a result Thurgood was given the order of the boot. After that he just disappeared - until I b.u.mped into him the other evening. I'd rather expected him to be in jail or an asylum by now. Well, he did look pretty odd in that pub. It was real November weather, if you remember - yet there was Oswald Thurgood, looking like he was dressed for Wimbledon or the Henley Regatta. White ducks, blue blazer, clipped moustache - the works! Very smart and prosperous, too, he looked. It was only his eyes that gave him away - sort of black and staring; I've never seen eyes like them before.

'Well, he remembered me, and we had a couple of beers together. He was on his own, and told *me that he had” a hi-fi and audio shop in the West End. Said he was making a packet.' Mason leaned forward and sipped his drink. 'I don't know quite how to explain this, but he'd put on the most extraordinary Oxford accent. You know, plum in the mouth, all that. And very loud. I found it quite embarra.s.sing. I was really glad when he suggested we left the pub and went on to eat.

'He had a big flashy Range-Rover outside, which he said he'd bought through a friend on the fiddle. We went to one of those Chinese places up in Soho. I'm not very keen on Oriental food, but the stuff there was pretty good.

Fortunately it was mostly full of Chinese, who didn't seem to notice Thurgood's accent. He ordered wine, and I must admit I got a bit tiddly. I tried to ask him what he'd been doing with himself, but he was very cagey.

Then he started asking me a lot of questions - general stuff, about my work at the base and the planes I flew and which I preferred. He also started getting a bit personal - asked me if I was happy in the Service, or wanted to get out and try my hand at something more exciting.

'Suddenly I knew he was fis.h.i.+ng. He started mentioning money - saying that a pilot's life is like a boxer's or a racing-driver's. It takes a lot of knocks, and it doesn't go on forever. You have to grab the big opportunity, he said.

'Well, I'd drunk a bit of wine and I rather went along with him. Before I knew what I was doing, I was telling him that I was sick of the camp in Oxfords.h.i.+re, and the married quarters, and I wanted to get out into the world and see a bit of life before it was too late, and earn some decent money. Hemanaged to get me quite excited. Suddenly he went off to make a telephone call. He was away about ten minutes, and when he came back he had that funny staring look, although he didn't seem at all drunk. And when he started talking again, I realized that he'd dropped the Oxford accent. He asked me what I was doing next evening - yesterday. I told him I didn't know. I was thinking perhaps you might need me, although I didn't let on about my job with you. 'Well, the outcome was that I arranged to meet him again next evening - same pub, same time. As it was, you didn't need me to baby-sit, and I had nothing else to do. I suppose, to be honest, I was a bit curious. I was sure by now that Thurgood was after something. I was also on my guard - I had to remember, after all, that I was - and still am - a serving Officer in Her Majesty's Forces, which hardly makes me a free agent. Still, there's no rule against having a drink with a former colleague, even if the fellow had been cas.h.i.+ered for being cuckoo.

'Thurgood turned up on time, dressed in tweeds this time, and what looked like an Old School tie - though I bet he didn't even get into the local Grammar.

Evening cla.s.ses in radio-electronics would have been more his style.

'Once again, he insisted on buying all the drinks, and dinner afterwards. He'd dropped the Oxford accent completely, thank G.o.d, and had become sort of quiet and evasive. He didn't talk a lot, but from what he did say I got the impression that he hadn't been up to much good since he'd been kicked out of the RAF. He'd been in some trouble with the police in Canada, then again when he got back to England - something to do with possessing a firearm - but it wasn't at all clear. There's nothing straightforward or clear about Thurgood, except his craziness. Nothing about him seems to connect up, if you see what I mean?

'All of which should have warned me off him - only I don't mind admitting that I'd had rather a lot to drink. I .wasn't drunk, but I'd certainly had more than I'm used to -probably because Thurgood was beginning to make me a bit nervous.

'Anyway, just as we were finis.h.i.+ng dinner he went out again and made another telephone call. When he came back, he told me we were both going to a party.

He didn't ask if I wanted to go - it was more by way of an order. Perhaps it was because of the drinks, and because Thurgood was paying again, but I didn't argue. I thought it best just to go along with him and see what happened.

'Outside we got into his Range-Rover and he drove like a madman out to the City, to a big complex of modern flats, which I think is called the Barbican.

All Thurgood would say was that the party was being given by a pilot-friend of his - a civilian who ran his own flying taxi-service.

'Well, as it turned out, the fellow wasn't doing too badly for himself in Civvy Street! I reckoned he must have been making five times what a Wing Commander gets. Thurgood and I finished up in a penthouse flat with suede wallpaper and a lot of modern furniture in chrome and black leather. The taxi-pilot was called Jim Ritchie. Young handsome chap - obviously didn't have a care in the world. Good clothes -you know, fancy open-necked s.h.i.+rt and gold bracelet. Trendy, I suppose you'd call him. And very friendly. First thing he did, as soon as I was in the door, was give me a socking great brandy in a gla.s.s half the size of a football.

'Thurgood had said it was going to be a party, but the only other people there were two girls - one of them coloured. Both very pretty and exotically dressed, though Ritchie almost ignored them. I can't even remember being introduced to them. He only spoke to them to ask for more drinks or coffee, or to fetch cigarettes. 'I don't mind telling you, it was a very odd sort of party. At first I thought that I might be in for some sort of orgy -you could never tell with a fellow like Thurgood, although he wouldn't have been the type to take part. He'd have been more the one to organize it. As it was, he just stood by the door watching us, like a sort of manservant, while the taxi-pilot, Ritchie and I sat in the leather armchairs and the two girls wandered about in the background, smoking and listening to a lot of that soul-music on the hi-fi.

'I don't quite know how to explain it, but the whole scene was a bit unreal.

What made it more.so was that Ritchie was so friendly, so natural - so ordinary. I mean, he was so confident and relaxed, and he seemed to take me so much for granted. He and the girls were also being very generous with the brandy. It took me a bit of time to realize that he was pumping me - that I was telling pretty well my whole lifer story. The whole curriculum vitae, just as though it had come out of my file. Ritchie was particularly interested in the technical details of my flying career - he didn't interrupt much but when he did, it was to ask all the right questions.

'The drink had loosened me up, and I didn't mind boasting that I was an all-round pilot, Cla.s.s A-l fitness, and with full flying experience, on all types of aircraft. Then Ritchie started asking me a bit about my private life.

He mentioned how boring it must be at base-camp, and what I needed was some fresh air - ”the chance to stretch my wings”, he said.

'As with Thurgood the night before, I was sure all this was leading up to something, and I was about to ask him straight-out what the h.e.l.l they both wanted with me, when the outside buzzer went. Ritchie let in a small dark man in a fur-lined overcoat. He had a b.l.o.o.d.y great diamond ring on one hand and what looked like a solid gold watch that told the time in all the big cities of the world.

'He didn't look English - more the Mediterranean type, Greek or Maltese. Or maybe Jewish.' Then he added hastily, 'Ritchie introduced him as John Newby.

He had a slight accent when he spoke - very smooth, very confident. And like Ritchie, obviously doing very well for himself, thank you. He also smelt of perfume.

'The first thing he did was to tell Thurgood to drive the two girls home. As soon as they left he sat down and took out a little black cigar and smiled and said - and I can remember his words exactly - ”I think it's a scandal that you RAF boys are paid so miserably, when our whole civilization must ultimately depend upon people like you.” I must say, I thought this was pitching it a bit high, and I mumbled something about everyone having to make the best of what they've got in this life, and at this Newby became very excited, and started waving his cigar around and saying, ”That's just what I'm getting at, young mail! But nothing ventured, nothing gained. Flying should be an exciting business. It can also be a profitable business - as Jim here will tell you!”

'Ritchie just sat and grinned at me. I noticed that he wasn't drinking much, and Newby wasn't drinking at all.

'I said something about it being all very well for freelance pilots in Civvy Street, but in the Services you had to keep to the rules. And Newby said, ”Sometimes rules are meant to be broken.” Then he went on at once to ask me, just as Ritchie had done, about my private life - whether I was married and had children, and so on. I was getting a bit fed up with this line of questioning - and I was also unsure of just how much this chap Newby really knew about me. I supposed that Thurgood must have given some sort of report to Ritchie before we'd met that evening, 'Then Newby asked me about myarrangements for leave. I told him I had three weeks due to me, but that normally I have to give at least two months' notice. Newby pressed me, and I told him that under special circ.u.mstances, such as pleading domestic difficulties, I might be able to take all three weeks almost at once.

'He and Ritchie looked satisfied. Then Newby asked me if I had ever flown a Hercules C-130 - one of those heavy four-engined turbo-prop American transports, some of them over twenty years old, and still working. d.a.m.n great carthorses that can lift off and land with over twenty tons of pay-load on a three-hundred-yard strip - cruising speed at around three hundred and twenty knots, and a maximum range, with external fuel-tanks, of 4,700 miles.

'Again they both seemed pleased with my answers. Ritchie then fired off a lot of questions, most of them fairly technical. Where had I flown a Hercules?

Over what sort of terrain? What sort of weather conditions, and what pay-loads? Did I have experience of landing one on rough ground, with the statutory minimum of 300 yards? Above all, could I handle a Hercules solo?

'I pointed out that a Hercules carries a full crew of four. But Ritchie dismissed this - a full crew included radio and radar operators, and a co-pilot. ”Luxuries,” he said, which sounded a bit funny, coming from someone in the plush taxi-service racket.

'Anyway, the brandy had made me a bit c.o.c.ky, and I told them I was sure I could handle a Hercules on my own - after all, what did I have to lose? - and Ritchie went on to ask how I was at low-flying, and I said I could easily manage fifty feet, but would prefer if it was over water or flat country, and he looked at Newby and said something about ”doing their best to manage it,”

and they made a little joke about it. Still very friendly, they were.'

'Yes, I'm sure they were.' It was Rawcliffs first comment since Mason had begun his story, and he regretted it at once. The young pilot, in his eagerness to unburden himself, needed no prompting. At first Rawcliff had listened to him with a mildly patronizing patience - the older, wiser man, following Mason, in his lonely innocence, as he was lured, without subtlety, by the mad-eyed Thurgood to the suede-walled penthouse with its jazzy girls and soul-music and balloons of brandy, and the taxi-pilot, Ritchie, with his drip-dry ladykiller smile, and the oily foreigner, Newby, with his flas.h.i.+ng diamond, both paying court to him as the heroic underdog defending the Faith amid the dreary huts and regulated wastes of an RAF camp, when just look what he was missing. Forget the rules. Rules were made to be broken.

And slowly, even without realizing it, Rawcliff had been drawn into Mason's place, sharing his frustrations, his feelings of inferiority, with the dawning of an uneasy excitement.

The house around them both was very still. Judith and Little Tom, safe upstairs, were for the moment forgotten. 'Go on,' Rawcliff said quietly. 'How much?'

'What?' Mason blinked dully: it was as though he were reliving that night in the Barbican penthouse all over again.

'How much did they offer you?' Rawcliff repeated.

'They didn't tell me straight out. But Newby did say that the moment I agreed, there would be a down-payment deposited for me in one of those Swiss bank accounts. No tax. Pretty heady stuff for a bloke like me - more the sort of thing you read about in books. I must have looked rather shaken, because Ritchie gave me a refill of brandy; then I managed to ask Newby how much Istood to get at the end of it. He told me it wouldn't be a fortune, but a very comfortable sum, thank you, by English standards.'

Rawcliff interrupted again: 'Did this man Newby say what he did for a living?'

'No. I just a.s.sumed he was some sort of business man.'

'Did he strike you as crooked?'

<script>