Part 19 (2/2)

'But then, there's another obvious target - that deranged Messiah in Iran, and his mob-apostles, who regard the Sunni rulers of Saudi Arabia as heretics, d.a.m.ned in the eyes of Allah. And the Saudis are certainly contenders! The Russians don't like her rulers, because they're politically pro-West. Whilefrom the West's point of view, Saudi Arabia's an economic pain in the a.r.s.e.

She's got us all over that oil-barrel, and she knows it. Which suggests another possibility. The old Dirty Tricks Department. A freelance operation, under clandestine leaders.h.i.+p, financed through a money-laundry in Lichtenstein or Switzerland, with no messy footprints leading back to Was.h.i.+ngton or Whitehall or Paris, or wherever. Though I doubt the West's got the b.a.l.l.s to try it.' He paused, spreading his hands across his naked knees. 'It was just a thought. Otherwise, we'll just have to wait and see what your wife can turn up. Are you agreeable?”

'You mean, is she agreeable?' Rawcliff had stood up. 'I can only ask her. But she's going to need some details about these machines of yours.'

'Tell her it's a Tetra-Lipp Retropilot Mark 100/4.'

Rawcliff had found a pad of hotel notepaper by the bed and was scribbling down further technical details, most of which was gibberish to him, but which he confidently believed that Judith would understand. It gave him an odd queasy feeling - this electric bond between her and Matt, which had about it a disconcerting stench of intimacy, as though she were already involved, drawn unwittingly, innocently, into a swamp of conspiracy that was very probably leading to some act of b.l.o.o.d.y horror.

He looked at his watch. 'The Post Office'll be closed by now. I'm not going to risk calling her from here,' he added in a voice betraying the first twinge of doubt, 'or from my own place - even if I could get through.'

'It opens again at five.' The American sounded too bland. 'Time for the weather to settle - for you to have a better idea of when you'll be flying.'

Or time to change my mind, Rawcliff thought. He had begun to open the door, to make sure the corridor was clear, when Nugent-Ross called after him, 'Just one other thing! Tell her to make sure the track's virgin. I mean, we want to make sure that no one else has been sniffing around before her.'

Rawcliff turned. 'This isn't going to get her into any kind of trouble, is it?'

The American gave him a watery smile. 'What - in a nice civilized city like London? h.e.l.l, she'll only be asking a few questions. Part of her job.' He raised a limp hand. 'So long, friend. Good luck.'

Rawcliff again took the stairs, and again met no one. The clerk was snoozing behind his desk; the man didn't even notice him leave.

He waited up in his room in the Lord Byron until 4.50, before slipping out, unseen. The street was still full of wind -short tepid blasts that churned up the dust and slammed windows and shutters, and set the nerves on edge. A subtle feverish wind, like the mistral or the sirocco, which can unhinge even the most balanced mind.

It was after the siesta, and crowds hurried and jostled, down the pavements, as he headed east on to Kitieus Street, past the Swedish Consulate, grey and shuttered, and remembered wondering afterwards, what the h.e.l.l did the Swedes need a. Consulate for in a G.o.dforsaken place like this? Presumably a relic of the old UN Force. And a lot of b.l.o.o.d.y use they'd be to him now.

It was at the turning down to the Post Office that he knew he was being followed. It was a visceral instinct, like that of a nervous animal. Nothing more than the tap of ghost footsteps, and when he looked back, just thehurrying crowds - black cropped hair and shawled heads bent against the wind.

An empty cigarette-packet came bouncing and spinning down the gutter towards him.

He arrived outside the Post Office at a few minutes past five. The big iron gates had been folded back and the first crush had already pa.s.sed through, ready to grapple with the mindless obstructions of the local bureaucracy.

Rawcliff was busy looking for the counter which dealt with international telephone calls, and for a moment his guard dropped. Another couple of seconds and he would have walked smack into Jim Ritchie.

Perhaps it was the neurotic effect of the wind, after the long waiting, with too many of Taki's thick Greek coffees, but he now reacted with that same fearful instinct, stepping swiftly sideways behind a marble pillar. He knew at once that it was absurd, that he was getting jumpy, losing his grip, for Ritchie was the one member of the team - with the possible exception of Ryderbeit - whom he didn't have active cause to distrust.

Ritchie had just come out of one of the phone-booths reserved for local calls.

He had paused and stood studying a slip of paper; then he crumpled it up, seemed about to toss it into a spitoon, changed his mind and stuck it in his trouser pocket.

Rawcliff was reminded of that sheet of hotel note-paper 223 from the Sun Hall, with his scribbled instructions to Judith from Matt Nugent-Ross. He had spent nearly half an hour lying on his bed, memorizing them - a string of computer jargon and meaningless digits - until he had felt confident enough to flush them down the lavatory.

Ritchie had walked past without seeing him, and had now disappeared into the street. At the same instant Rawcliff knew, with irrational certainty, that someone was watching him.

He edged his way round the pillar, his eyes smarting from the dust and wind.

Huddled queues, patient faces peering through the grilles. He waited twenty seconds, then pushed his way back towards the entrance. Through the moving gaps in the dense rackety traffic, he saw Ritchie opening the front pa.s.senger-door' of a car parked directly across the street, under a 'no-waiting' sign. It was a big chocolate-brown American sedan. Rawcliff glimpsed the beaky profile of the driver, with his untidy black hair, as Ritchie climbed in beside him.

But instead of the car starting, a second car now appeared, and pulled up directly behind the first. It was a Mini: and although Rawcliff could not see, he knew that it would be an Italian-built Innocenti. A tall man in an open-necked s.h.i.+rt got out. He did not look like a Cypriot, nor did Rawcliff think he was English: a long scooped-out face, high forehead and rimless spectacles. Rawcliff watched him through the traffic, as he came round the Mini, paused by the sedan, and opened the rear door.

Rawcliff had started down the steps of the Post Office. He could see Ritchie turned in his seat, talking to the man in the back. Then the driver joined in.

A few more words were exchanged. Ritchie nodded, reached over the seat and shook hands with the tall man. It was an oddly formal, un-English gesture for Ritchie. He said something to the driver, then got out and began walking rapidly away down the street towards the seafront. The tall man had climbed out again and gone back to the Mini.

Rawcliff did not stay to see the two cars drive away, but returned to the cool vault of the Post Office hall. He was still I in no real hurry - the two-hourtime difference meant that his call would reach Judith at her office around 3.30 pm, which, with luck, should catch her nicely between lunch and her regular Tuesday afternoon sales conference, which Rawcliff knew to his annoyance often went on late. But first he had to endure the maddening anxiety of waiting a quarter of an hour in a queue, before he could place his call, through the international operator; while another ten minutes pa.s.sed until a woman's shrill voice called out his London number, with the 499 Mayfair prefix barely intelligible above the babble of the crowded hall.

He still had that uncomfortable feeling of being watched, though his sense of disquiet was now concentrated on what he was going to tell his wife, as he pulled the padded door shut, sealing himself off in the hot airless cell of the telephone-booth.

He lifted the receiver and stood listening to the familiar English girl repeating mechanically the name of the multinational for which Judith worked.

He gave her the extension number. No tell-tale clicks. It was a public switchboard, for Christ's sake. The line was very clear, as he now heard that exasperating languid voice of his wife's secretary. He explained who he was, and she told him to hang on. He could feel the receiver already growing clammy under his hand.

'h.e.l.lo, Charles?' She sounded very close, in that dark quiet place, and at the same time stiff and remote, a tone he recognized all too well from when he rang her up after a row the night before, waking with a headache, to find that she'd already left for the office.

He kept the preamble down to a minimum. Told her not to worry, and that he was doing his job in Cyprus, that it would soon be over, and that he was all right - above all, he was all right. He didn't give her time to press him. He asked her to get ready to take notes; then he rested back against the wall of the cabin and began to recite, slowly, like some idiot incantation, the instructions that Matt had given him.

This time she was too confused, or perhaps still too angry, in her quiet, over-controlled way, to ask for a full explanation. She let him go on, telling her to cover the whole area of the Middle East and north-west Africa, concentrating on the full area round the Red Sea - Egypt, Saudi Arabia, the southern approaches to Israel.

Even before he had finished, he was feeling foolish, aware of the melodramatic absurdity of the whole thing. It was not only preposterous, impossible, it was b.l.o.o.d.y daft - a deliberate diversion by that American to keep him happy, or at least keep him busy.

Somehow he managed to maintain the pretence, stressing the urgency of her task, and of the maximum time-limit of forty-eight hours in which to accomplish it. There was a dead silence. It was very hot in the booth and he was p.r.i.c.kling with sweat. He heard her cool voice, 'It's no good my asking what all this is about?'

'No, love. But it's very important - that's all I can tell you.'

Her next words had the sudden chill edge of hysteria, 'Oh G.o.d, Charles, I hope you know what you're doing! Please -for the sake of me and Tom -!' But he cut in quickly, closing his eyes with dread, promising to call her again, without fail, at eight o'clock tomorrow evening - Wednesday, her time. He calculated, perhaps recklessly, that the relief-flight must be back well before then.'

He hung up with a sense of weary anguish. He had forgotten about Ritchie andthe ubiquitous beaky-faced young man from the Sun Hall, and the tall stranger and the familiar two cars. He didn't even worry any more about being followed, as he stepped ”back into the noisy hall and paid the woman at the desk, from a grubby wad of Cypriot notes which he had changed, at a humiliating rate, with Taki. The call to London had taken a sizeable bite out of his remaining cash resources.

Outside, the wind had not let up and the sky was crowded with scudding grey clouds - the shreds of the c.u.mulus-nimbus, still rising dark above the sea.

Dusk was closing in and he returned to the Lord Byron, feeling deeply depressed. The hotel had a clogged, grimy smell that made him feel dirty. Taki was presiding behind the empty bar. No sign of Ryderbeit or Thurgood. A radio played very loud bazouki music. Taki beamed at him and gave a broad gesture, 'You drink, my friend?'

Rawcliff stopped long enough for a beer. The Cypriot added, 'Today weather no good for aeroplanes! Perhaps tomorrow good - yes?'

'Yes.' Rawcliff considered going up to find Ryderbeit on die chance that he might be sober and awake. But what did he have to tell him? That he'd just put in motion a ridiculous plan to try and scupper the operation? Ryderbeit wouldn't like that. He wouldn't like it at all. He might be a shatterpate adventurer, but he was also a professional. He had been paid to do a job, and he would do it, and make sure that he got paid at the end of it. Judith would be wasting her time, as far as Sammy Ryderbeit was concerned.

Rawcliff finished his beer and went up to his cheerless room. No lifts in this hotel. No sound from the other rooms. He imagined Thurgood's gruesome white body stretched but somewhere near, his manic energy spent, recharging himself for the next bout. G.o.d knew what Ryderbeit was up to.

He stood naked in the narrow shower cubicle, watching die water drain away in a rusty pool round his feet. There was a c.o.c.kroach on the wall, like an enormous blood-blister. He reached out to squash it with his thumb, and heard the door of his room click behind him. He had left it unlocked. He turned and saw Jo staring unashamedly at him. He nodded to her, as though he were expecting her. She was wearing a nondescript headscarf and plain cotton skirt -which was no doubt why he had failed to pick her out of the crowd in the Post Office, or in the street outside, although he had known all along that there'd been someone. A professional. At least he could give her credit for that.

She came in and sat down on the bed. 't.i.t-for-tat, Mr Rawcliff. I call Rome, you call London. Only you spoke for longer than I did.'

He bent down and picked up his pants, noticing with mild relief that they were clean. 'It was my wife. Any objections?'

'Why should I? I don't know about Peters, though.'

He pulled on his pants. 'What do you want, Jo?'

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