Part 3 (1/2)

'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 fas.h.i.+onably, 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.