Part 2 (1/2)

'A friend of mine would like to give you lunch tomorrow. One o'clock at the ”Escargot” in Greek Street. Do you know it?'

'I'll find it. Who am I to ask for?'

'A Mr Peters. So he can expect you at one?'

'Thank you.' Then with a spurt of adrenalin, Rawcliff added, 'Over and out.'

Back in the kitchen he launched into a carefully prepared, diluted version of Mason's story - some people were looking for a qualified contract-pilot to fly some heavy drilling equipment to the Middle East. He didn't know whether it would come to anything, but he gathered that they were offering good money and he thought he would at least follow it through. His manner was artificially casual, and they both knew that he was a feeble liar; but Judith to emphasize her reaction, said nothing, except one oblique remark about life insurance. He was chronically inept at paperwork and knew that he was poorly insured, shouldanything happen to him. But he refused to rise to the bait. Just before they went to sleep, she said, 'Do you know how much they're offering for this job?'

'I'll know tomorrow. I'm having lunch with them.'

'Well, it'll be nice to have something to put in the bank. And it'll give you a break, won't it?'

'I suppose so.' Like h.e.l.l it would.

He somehow got through the morning, without a drink and without losing his temper with Toby Hyde-Smith. He wondered who they would send. It was unlikely to be the crazy Thurgood - he had been no more than a casual contact. And Ritchie was just one of the hired help. Newby was the most likely, with this man Peters as the next one up in the chain of command.

He considered how they would react. If they were really in a hurry and wanted an extra bona fide pilot for the mission, they'd hardly have reason to complain if he stepped in where Mason-feared to tread. In fact, they'd have every right to be grateful.

He took a taxi up to Soho, arriving at the restaurant ten minutes after he was due. No point in appearing too keen. 'Is Mr Peters here yet?'

The waiter consulted his book. 'He's expecting you, sir? Table for three, sir, over there,' and he began to lead the way, into the dining-room. There was only one man at the table, sitting with his back to them. He did not get up, just nodded, as Rawcliff sat down opposite him against (he wall. The waiter said, 'Monsieur would like something to drink?'

Rawcliff saw” that the man was having nothing. He said, 'I'll wait for the wine.'

'Very good, Monsieur.'

The man looked at him with a steady grey stare. 'Flight-Lieutenant Mason?

Peters.'

'The waiter told me it was a table for three.' Rawcliff glanced at the third place between them.

'He'll be joining us when we've eaten. You know him. Mr Newby.' The wine-waiter arrived, but Peters waved him away, without consulting Rawcliff.

'I was told to expect a much younger man, Mason.'

He had a long, hard, flat face with a sloping forehead, like a cricket bat.

His skin was smooth and dry, closely shaven, and his age might have been anything between thirty-five and fifty. Rawcliff was puzzled by his voice: it had the same dull intonation as the voice on the phone, but with an occasional clipped vowel that gave it a curious primness. A colonial voice. South African.

* 37 Rawcliff had antic.i.p.ated the man's remark, and had his answer prepared. He had even made a check-call that morning to the local RAF Recruiting Centre in Wandsworth, and had learnt that he still had more than ten years in hand, as a full-time pilot, before the statutory age limit of fifty-seven. But surprisingly, Peters seemed to let the matter slide. Instead he added, 'How long have you been with the RAF?' Here Rawcliff had decided to play safe. His true 'Service' background was so murky, its details blurred and often overlapping, that he could afford to be deliberately vague, in the sure knowledge that Peters - and whoever was behind him - would never be able to check his full file, even if such a thing existed.

He pretended to show more interest in the menu, as he said, 'Pus.h.i.+ng fifteen years, with the odd break.' He looked up. 'I'm sorry you were hoping for someone younger.' But his smile was not returned.

'Been in the RAF most of your life then, Mason?'

'More or less.'

'I'd put you in your mid-forties. So you enlisted at about thirty? Bit late, wasn't it? What did you do before that?'

Rawcliff paused strategically; the waiter was taking their order. The restaurant was only half-full, the tables well s.p.a.ced. 'I knocked about a bit.

Learnt a few tricks - the odd skulduggery and rough stuff, on Her so-called Majesty's Service, in a few far-flung spots, before we hauled down the flag for the last time.'

'Ever killed anyone, Mason?'

'Sorry, mate. Secrets of the trade.'

Peters' face was as expressionless as the restaurant furniture. 'You mentioned the ”odd break”, during your RAF service?'

”Oh, the usual stint with the Special Air Service. I'm on the Reserve, of course,' he added, telling the half-lie with casual conviction.

'In what Zones of Operation?'

Rawcliff gave an easy smile: 'Oh come on, Peters, you're not so green as to expect me to answer a question like that?'

'It's something you didn't tell us the other evening.'

'I wasn't asked. I was simply told you wanted a qualified pilot who could handle a Hercules, solo - getting her off the ground and back down again in the minimum s.p.a.ce, with a full pay-load, on bad terrain, and flying at low levels.'

There was a pause while the waiter served the first course. 'Have you fixed your leave?' Peters asked.

'You give me the dates and I can arrange it - three weeks compa.s.sionate, and more if necessary.'

'Three weeks should be sufficient.' Peters' face was stiff with courteous disdain. 'I thought the RAF were overstretched?'

Rawcliff ignored him, and poured some water from the carafe. He regretted now that he hadn't asked for that drink. 'Before I make any formal request to my station, I want the answer to three questions. How much money? Where are we flying to and from? And what are we carrying?'

Peters picked a sliver of lettuce from his teeth. 'Ten thousand sterling upfront. Another forty thousand when the job's done.'

The two of them ate for a moment in silence. Rawcliff relaxed and smiled. 'No go, Peters.'

Peters just sat facing him.

'It's too much money,' Rawcliff said. 'Five thousand - for a simple contract job - I'd take my leave and jump at it. But fifty thousand? Oh no. You're buying more than a pilot, Peters. You're either buying secrecy or paying danger-money - big danger-money - or both. I've got a secure job and a family to support, and I'm not walking into this like a blind kitten.'

Peters pushed his plate away and touched a napkin to his lips. His eyes did not move from Rawcliff. 'You've obviously had time to think this over, Mason.

As a professional serving officer, you must be familiar with receiving your orders on take-off - sealed orders which you only open when you're airborne.'

'Under very special circ.u.mstances.'

'These are very special circ.u.mstances.'

'The only difference being that I won't be a serving * 39 officer. I'll be doing it for the money. And I shall want to know exactly what the job is.'

There was another pause. The waiter was hovering with two plates of rare steak; a second waiter brought up the vegetables. At the door a small dark man was handing in his coat. Peters glanced across the restaurant, towards the entrance. He looked bored. 'Will you excuse me a moment?'

Rawcliff watched him stroll towards the door. His movements were loose and athletic. Rawcliff noticed that the small dark man had disappeared.