Part 16 (1/2)

There was a clump and the door clicked from the inside. No word came from the room. Rawcliff waited a few seconds, then tried the handle. It opened and he went in.

The room was surprisingly tidy. Guy Grant sat at a table in the middle of the floor. He was in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves, and there was a tooth-gla.s.s in front of him. A bottle of Scotch stood on one side of the table, and a well-oiled revolver lay on the other, its barrel neatly aligned along the edge, pointing away from him. The gla.s.s was almost full, but there wasn't much left in the bottle.

He turned and gazed at Rawcliff as though he were a stranger. His corrugated grey hair was damp and ruffled, and there was a puffed glossiness around his eyes, which held a determined glitter.

'Sit down. Have ajar.' His voice was thick and hoa.r.s.e, but with the careful precision of the practised drinker. 'Who told you I was here?'

'Ritchie. I ran into him in the bar.'

'Sit down.'

Rawcliff remained standing. 'I've come to tell you, Major, that the cargo's due in sometime tonight. You're expected to be there.'

Grant looked puzzled, like a child who has been given too complicated instructions.-'Cargo?' he repeated; then shook his head and reached for his drink.

Rawcliff stepped forward and dashed the gla.s.s out of his hand, shattering it, with a dark stain against the wall. Grant was almost equally quick, moving as though by reflex: he swept up the gun with his right hand and held it, surprisingly steady, pointing at Rawcliffs stomach.

'Y'shouldn'ta done that, old bean. Shouldn't break a man's gla.s.s when he's drinking. d.a.m.n bad form and all that.'

Rawcliff began to back away, his hands held at a cautious distance from his sides. He guessed the gun was a Webley .38 revolver, British Army issue; but from where he was standing he couldn't see if it was on safety or not. Grant was holding it professionally, with both hands, elbows resting on the table.

It was still aimed at Rawcliff's belly.

'Sit down, old bean. On the bed.' Rawcliff obeyed. 'Guess I didn't behave too well this morning?'

'Hardly Queen's Regulations, Major. But then you're not in the regiment now.

This is a rough outfit.'

Grant screwed up his mouth and gave a growl of laughter. He had lowered the revolver, but was still holding it in both hands. 'b.l.o.o.d.y rough. b.l.o.o.d.y rum, too, if you ask me.'

There was a long dismal pause. 'How did you get involved in all this?' Rawcliff said at last, conversationally.

Grant took a gulp of whisky from the bottle. 'Through Peters. b.a.s.t.a.r.d knew an old chum of mine from Korea. They were in the gun-running racket - Morocco, Algeria. b.l.o.o.d.y Arabs.'

'And how does Peters fit in?'

'Through that Jew, Ryderbeit. They teamed up down in the Congo, back in the sixties.' He reached again for the bottle, his free hand still holding the Webley, his finger firmly on the trigger.

'Just how much do you know about this operation, Major?'

Grant's mottled face grew cunning. 'You think I'm p.i.s.sed, don't you? You think I'm p.i.s.sed enough to blow the whole shooting-match?' He was watching Rawcliff with a slack smile. 'Have a drink, for Christsake! Comrades-inarms, and all that.'

There was a tap at the door. Grant swung the revolver round, as Jo's voice called softly, 'Major? Mr Rawcliff?'

Rawcliff stood up, walked carefully around Grant and eased the door open a few inches. 'It's all right - give me a few more minutes.'

She looked doubtful. 'I'll be in my room. Twenty-one, just down the pa.s.sage.'

She hesitated. 'Is he okay?'

'Everything under control.' He closed the door.

Grant was now sitting with the Webley turned towards himself, squinting down the barrel. 'I guess I f.u.c.ked up this morning. If I had the guts, I'd finish the bottle, then stick this gun in my mouth and pull the trigger.' His expression became confused. 'Funny thing is, I've never fired the thing.' He grinned again. 'And I'll tell you something else that's funny. Really make you laugh. I'm not a Major. Just a b.l.o.o.d.y Acting-Captain. It was out in Korea. The c.h.i.n.ks were all over the b.l.o.o.d.y shop, and we were beating it back to Seoul like a bunch o' rabbits. Yours truly was detailed to take up a rear-guard holding position. Everything b.l.o.o.d.y chaos - radio on the blink - night, and cold enough to freeze a bra.s.s monkey's - when a platoon of those f.u.c.king c.h.i.n.ks showed up. I had a Bren and let 'em have it, then finished 'em off with a couple o' Mills bombs. I had a Sergeant who tried to stop me, but I thought he was yelling to frighten the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds off. You know - they used to come in with bugles and drums, screaming like crazy schoolgirls.' He reached for the bottle.

'There were only three survivors. Chaps from my company.' He chuckled: 'You get the joke?' He took a deep drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his liver-spotted hand. 'Killed my own men, see? G.o.d, I almost died laughing - all the way to the gla.s.s-house.'

'Go on.'

'I got transferred. Moved down to Malaya where I was put on an air-training course for reconnaissance. Flying Lysanders - y'know those two-seater World War Two jobs used for tank-spotting in the Western Desert. I finished the six months' course and flew a few dozen missions, then the war packed up.'

'That's not your only flying experience?' 'Oh, I buzzed about in the odd Dak and C46. The real intrepid aviator, that's me!'

'And you think you can handle a Hercules - solo?'

Grant gave a slow nod. 'You're a smug b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Rawcliff. You civvy airline boys are all the same - you think it takes a genius to fly an aeroplane.'

'I'm not asking for a recommendation,' said Rawcliff. 1 just don't want you going down in a ball of flame tomorrow morning. You've only got three hundred yards for the takeoff, and that whisky's going to be no help at all.' He got up and came across to the table and picked up the almost empty bottle, went into the bathroom and poured what remained into the basin.

When he got back, Grant was again holding the revolver in both hands, staring at the table. Then slowly, without looking at Rawcliff, he turned the gun and stuck it in his mouth. Before Rawcliff could reach him he had clamped his teeth round the barrel and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp snap. Grant gave a choking laugh.

Rawcliff stepped up to him and took the gun out of his hand. He spun the magazine, and saw that all the chambers were empty. 'Listen to me, Guy. Jo's going to give you something to sober you up. And I'm going to get you a pint of coffee. Then we're all going to drive out to the airfield. You can get some sleep there, before the s.h.i.+p puts in.'

'p.i.s.s off. You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds don't need me out there any more. I'm finished.'

'You're not finished, Guy. Just keep thinking about all that money you're going to make.'

Grant gave him a stiff glazed look. 'They'll never pay.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Up the spout - the lot of us. No chance, old bean. We're the children of the d.a.m.ned, working for a bunch of international crooks.' His head sank on to his arms and he began to sob.

Rawcliff had started towards the door, then paused. 'Is that what you really think of the operation?'

Grant peered slowly up at him with moist red eyes; then his face cracked into a ghastly grin. 'Red Cross mission. Succour to the needy. Succour to a lot o'

b.l.o.o.d.y blacks or Arabs. Now f.u.c.k off. I wanna sleep.'

Rawcliff put the empty revolver inside his jacket - he wasn't going to take the risk of Grant having ammunition hidden somewhere in the room - then went out quietly, leaving the man gazing at the floor.

Jo's door was unlocked. She was lying on the bed smoking. Against the wall, next to a couple of expensive suitcases, stood her Red Cross medicine-chest.

'And how's the dear Major?'

'Not in good shape. And he's not a Major either - but that story can keep.

You'd better go in there and fix him up. Don't worry, he's harmless. I've got his gun. And it wasn't loaded.'

She stood up and looked at her watch. 'I'll have to be quick. I've got a callbooked through to London.'