Part 11 (2/2)

'I'll be straight with you, soldier. But this isn't to be shouted from the roof-tops. I've worked a few rackets in my time, like hi-jacking a plane-load of US greens out of South-East Asia. And I always worked for the same man.

French b.a.s.t.a.r.d called Pol. Fattest man I ever saw - fat and greedy, and cunning with it. I don't like him - don't suppose anyone likes him - but I admire him. Like all high-cla.s.s gangsters, he has a technique. Distinguis.h.i.+ng mark, if you like. I spent a long time on the Veld. I got a nose for these things. And this operation's got Pol's mark stamped all over it.'

'Meaning what?'

'With Charlie Pol it could mean anything. But the man's got a certain sense of humour. Bringing succour to starving women and children, as a front so he can grow even fatter on his various Swiss bank accounts, is just the kind of thing that would amuse him.' He picked a flake of tobacco off his lip. 'But you keep all this to yourself, Rawcliff.'

'And you trust this man Pol?'

Ryderbeit hunched his shoulders. 'As I said, I've played some funny games, but I've always played by the odds. I don't know about you, soldier, but I look after Number One. If it comes to a showdown, I'll settle accounts with Pol personally. And what I'll do to him isn't fit to be heard in decent company - and he knows it.' They sat for a long time in silence. Rawcliff sipped his second beer and tried to compose in his mind a telegram to Judith. He didn't trust himself with the telephone, even if he could get through without the others knowing. The telephone was a brutish instrument, both too intimate and too impersonal; and a letter would be too slow, as well as too demanding. Anyway, what did he have to tell her? That the Red Cross mission was all in the interests of humanity, and that the rest of the team consisted of a White African Jew who never flew sober; a professional killer; a b.u.m Major; an ex-RAF psychopath; an American drop-out; and a single girl who was alleged to be a nurse. Jim Ritchie was the only one who lent any possible respectability to the gang.

He said at last, 'Look, Sammy. At some stage we're going to have to be told what this is all about.'

'You mean, Pol removing his veils one by one? And stripping off at the last moment? Holy Moses, what a horrible thought! No, soldier. He'll either keep us in the dark, or con us right up to the end. And one thing I am certain of - whatever that end is, it's going to be dangerous and it's going to be b.l.o.o.d.y.

b.l.o.o.d.y dangerous and b.l.o.o.d.y b.l.o.o.d.y. And I also wouldn't be surprised if it hasn't got something to do with politics - which in Pol's case means dirty politics.' He flicked his dead cigar into the street, stood up and left some money on the table.

'One last thing, soldier. I haven't talked to you and you haven't listened.

Okay? Now let's get back to. that fleapit and eat some of Taki's filthy food.

I don't fancy going up to the Sun Hall - Peters is a flat-a.r.s.e, he doesn't approve of pilots drinking.'

Two.

'I think we might start with the salmon souffle,' Pol said, lifting his broad bib to dab his cheeks end forehead, careful not to disarrange the lick of hair that curled down over one eye, from an otherwise bald egg-shaped head. 'And I suggest a little champagne.'

The early evening was cool, with the French windows of the old house closed against the rolling woodlands of the Upper Rhine, in the crooked gabled town of Illhausern, a few miles from the German border.

His guest looked unimpressed, despite Pol's claims that this was one of the best restaurants in France, and possibly in the world. He was a spruce, squat man with square-cropped silver hair and thick spectacles, behind which his eyes registered no expression. Pol had noticed, with some contempt, that his suit was of a cheap artificial fibre, with a dog-toothed check a l'Anglais, while his s.h.i.+rt looked as though it had been boiled and his shoes had thick rubber soles. A dreary man, but an important one. Charles Pol would just have to make the best of the evening: the food and wine would at least compensate for the conversation.

'Then would you prefer to remain with fish? Goujonettes de sole et de homard a la nage? Or perhaps the noisette de chevreuil St-Hubert? Both are recommended.'

'It is your choice,' his guest said sullenly. 'I am not experienced in French food.' The restaurant was not large and all the tables were filled; but from their position by the windows there was no danger of the two men being overheard.

Pol had attracted a few curious glances - his wobbling elephantine bulk squeezed into a voluminous suit of slub silk which betrayed patches of sweat under the armpits: his huge face pink and damp, with a little goatee-beard which he fondled as he consulted the menu with benign expectation.

He made the order punctiliously, as though supervising some delicate technical operation. 'So you are not used to eating in our fine restaurants?' he said cheerfully, when the waiter had gone.

'I am not a gourmet. Food does not interest me. Let us concentrate on more immediate matters. What is the progress situation?,'

'Under control. There have been a few minor problems, but they have been resolved.'

'What problems?'

Pol made a vague gesture with his fat pink hand. 'A couple of our recruits were not entirely satisfactory. One of them - a compatriot of mine - had a swimming accident, and another, an Englishman, was killed by a car. I also regret the gentleman whom you know as Monsieur Rebot, the Belgian, died in his bath in London.

'That I know. I read about it in your newspapers. Your methods are very drastic, Monsieur Pol.'

'They are merely methods to fit the situation. I am sure that you, in your position, will appreciate that?' Pol beamed at his guest with a cherry-lipped smile, as the waiter placed before them the salmon souffle and poured two tulip gla.s.ses of very old champagne.

'Have there been any troubles with the police?' his guest asked.

Pol gave a shrug that looked as though it might split the seams of his suit.

'The usual inquiries. But these things take time. More time than we intend to allow them - the authorities, I mean.' There was a long pause, during which he concentrated entirely on his food.

'Is the shopping list complete?' his guest said at last.

'All except for the mining equipment. That is to say, the purchase has been made and cleared, and the s.h.i.+p has already left Ma.r.s.eilles, bound for the island of La Reunion in the Indian Ocean. There is, as you will remember my telling you, some very lucrative open-cast basalt mining there. There are also rumours of uranium deposits - which also might interest you?'

'I'm only interested in the matter at hand. The s.h.i.+p is cleared to pa.s.s through Suez?”

'Of course. With a stop at Cyprus.'

'And what are your arrangements with the Cypriot authorities?'

Pol gave him a lewd wink. 'My friend, the Greek Cypriots concentrate on nothing but their hatred for the Turks. What does not concern the Turks, does not concern them. They are blind to the international situation.'

'That is a bold a.s.sumption.' 'It is nevertheless a correct one. You know me well enough by reputation - that I never gamble unless the odds are safely on my side.'

'I still need to be satisfied that security is absolute.'

'Nothing is absolute, my friend. Except, perhaps, eternity - and even that has been questioned by Einstein.' He bit into a succulent lump of lobster.

'This is no time to philosophize,' his guest said abruptly. 'What is the bill?'

Pol wiped his mouth and drank some champagne. 'Fifteen million dollars.'

'It is too high. I am authorized to go no further than twelve million.'

'And I am not prepared to argue. I know the situation far better that your people do. But they do know that the project can go no further without me - not at this stage. I have already had heavy expenses myself - an initial outlay of more than three million dollars on the aircraft alone. I will not go into tedious detail, but even the medical supplies from Switzerland have not been cheap. Apart from the fees for the pilots, there are all kinds of sundries - like a brand-new Mercedes Benz for the Larnaca Chief of Police, for instance.'

'So your Cypriot friends are interested in more, after all, than just the Turks?' his guest observed sourly.

Pol-sat back with a broad gesture, 'It is a question of goodwill, my friend.

One must never forget goodwill. And then there are the s.h.i.+ps' fees, paying off the masters and crew, the salaries for the ground-staff at Larnaca Airport - at much-inflated rates.'

'Twelve million, monsieur. That is my limit.'

'Thirteen million. After all, what is a million between friends, when we may be changing the history of the world?'

'You will be making a personal profit of several million dollars.'

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