Part 20 (1/2)

'I want to get a few things straight. What did you come up to talk about with Matt today? Don't worry, I'm not upset about being caught in flagrante deliclo! As I said, Matt and I are old friends. I just want to know what you're cooking up with him?'

He nodded. 'So that you can pa.s.s it all on to Mossad?' He stood in front of her, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. 'Why have you been following me, Jo?' She looked up at him, her face calm, determined. 'I think it's time you started answering some of my questions for a change. You still haven't told me what you spent all your time talking about with Matt?'

'I should ask him yourself- during your next bit of pillow-talk.'

She had taken off her scarf and sat shaking out her hair. 'Oh come on!

-'that's a bit cheap, isn't it?'

He took a step forward until his knees were almost touching her skirt. 'I slapped you around last night, Jo, because I was angry, and because I wanted you to talk. Well, you're going to do some more talking.'

She dropped her lower lip and gave a small laugh, both furtive and cunning.

'And if I don't feel like talking?'

'You didn't come up here just to hold hands. You're a big girl now.' He stood, still almost touching her, flexing the fingers of each hand. This wasn't quite what they'd prepared him for, all those years ago in Darkest Surrey, where -despite the propaganda of popular fiction - girls were still not accepted as part of the British undercover curriculum. The camp at Cobham, after all, had only been a step downmarket from White's Club and the Travellers.

Jo sat looking up at him with sly antic.i.p.ation. She didn't move, didn't speak: and Rawcliff, enervated by exhaustion and the jarring strain of his call to Judith, knew suddenly just how it would be, even before it happened - that there was nothing he could do to prevent it, even if he had wanted to, and that it was irrelevant anyway. Afterwards he had a remote image, in the dying light from the window, of her narrow haunches cleaved into hemispheres of brilliant white against the pale tan of her legs and shoulders, skin dry-cool in the muggy stillness as he closed with her in a skilful pa.s.sionless ritual, its timing perfectly synchronized, undistracted by sentiment, even affection.

He felt no shame, no guilt. Since involving Judith in the operation, he was now beyond such exemplary emotions. When it was over, all he felt was a dead utter tiredness.

He must have slept for only a few minutes. He watched Jo slip gracefully off the bed and move towards the shower cubicle; and he lay and stared out of the window, at the flat roof-tops with their fringe of was.h.i.+ng-lines and TV aerials framed against the raw twilight. He heard the water stop, and saw her come back in and start quickly, methodically, hitching up her panties, smoothing her dress, reaching for her watch on the bedside table.

'If you were at the Post Office this evening, you must have seen Jim Ritchie?'

His voice had a thick disembodied sound, as though it came from somewhere outside him, from across the room.

She had put on her shoes and now sat stiffly on the edge of the bed. She might have been a secretary waiting for dictation. 'What did you say about Ritchie?'

He could not read between the dim lines of her profile and realized that he had not even kissed her.

'He was in the Post Office making a local call. Left just as I arrived - got into a big American car outside - the one I told you about last night - that followed me and Matt in from the airfield. Driven by a young man who's staying at the Sun Hall, third floor. Come on, Jo, you're a pro -you're supposed to find out about these things. Who is he? And who was the tall man in rimless gla.s.ses who drove up in the Mini?' She ran her fingers along the edge of the frayed counterpane. 'You expect an awful lot from me. And don't give much in return.' But there was a cynical tone to the words and he did not respond. 'Oh all right, what the h.e.l.l! The young fellow you saw in the car is called Klein. He's got dual American-Israeli nationality.'

'How do you know?'

'You forget that I have contacts with the Israelis. I told last night.' And Klein's another of their agents?'

She shook her head.-'It's not as simple as that.'

'My G.o.d, I hope not!'

'Klein's what's known in the trade as an ”information-broker”. What you'd call a ”double” - or perhaps a ”treble”, in Klein's case - which is not unusual in this part of the world. He peddles to the Americans and to the Mossad, and occasionally even to the Russians, when they ask for it. He's tolerated because he's useful all round. It's one of the ways Was.h.i.+ngton - and Moscow - keep tabs on what the Israelis and Arabs are up to. For instance, if one side wants to fly a kite - say, a new initiative involving the PLO, or some other sensitive issue - they'd use Klein as middle-man. He's trusted enough for the other side to believe him. But if they don't like what he tells them - or there's a press leak and a big international row - n.o.body is officially to blame. The ministers and diplomats concerned can honestly claim no knowledge of the business - they'd never dirty their hands dealing with a little s.h.i.+t like Klein. That's left to the small-fry - the stringers.'

'Like you? And young Jim Ritchie, so it seems?'

Rawcliff had put on his trousers and took a clean s.h.i.+rt out of his suitcase which lay on the floor still half-unpacked. 'And what about the tall man from the Mini?'

'I don't know who he is. I've never seen him before.'

'Why not ask your friend Ritchie?'

'No. I'm sorry, but it's not in the rules of the game. And unless you know the rules, you just can't hope to understand.'

'I'm doing my best.' He didn't like being patronized by pretty girls who came uninvited into his room while he was taking a shower and provoked him with their neat little naked b.u.ms, then lectured him with a lot of big-talk from the inside-track of the Intelligence racket. Jo was either too ingenious, or too b.l.o.o.d.y crafty. Both ways, he didn't like it.

He stood b.u.t.toning up his sleeveless s.h.i.+rt, letting it hang loose over his trousers. 'So you say it's all a game? Which is what I've always believed about the so-called spy-world.

Neither side has any secrets left any more - none worth guarding, anyway. Most of the technical stuff has usually been published somewhere, if you know where to look. And she really big info, like troop build-ups and rocket-silos, is all monitored by satellite. But the Intelligence people have to do something to justify themselves, so they play around with young amateurs like you and Ritchie, buying and selling the odd t.i.t-bit of hush-hush information, thus making everyone feel important and satisfied. Only people on the outside, likeme, don't feel so satisfied. For a start, who's Ritchie working for?'

'For us, I should think. I mean, the British. Strictly short-term contract - to buy himself insurance, or ”good-will”, as our authorities prefer to call it. Which in Ritchie's case probably means a guarantee of immunity next time there's a rip-off that he's running over a load of hash in that little plane of his.' She smiled: 'Don't look so surprised! It happens all the time. You don't have to be a big-shot in the art world any more, working for both the Kremlin and the Palace, to get the preferential treatment. Whitehall's much more democratic these days.' She tried to smile again, but was inhibited by the look in Rawcliffs eyes.

'Listen, Jo. This isn't a game, and these aren't t.i.tbits you're buying and selling through Klein. This is a big, serious, nasty operation, and there may be many thousands of lives at stake - mine included. While at least two members of the operation - leaving out Matt for the moment - are busy blowing it to the Israelis, the British, the Americans -even the Russians, if what you say about Klein is true.'

She had again begun sucking the knuckles of her hand, which he took to be a sign of nervousness. .

'You can't just let it hang out like this, Jo. What's Ritchie told Klein?' She said nothing. 'What have you told Klein? You're going to tell me. And you may get more than just a spanking before you do.'

She had taken her hand from her mouth, and said quietly, 'I haven't had anything to do with Klein. I deal direct through my contact in Rome.'

'But you must know what Ritchie's told him? You're a friend of his, for Christ's sake! You're at home in his London pad - and you're both in the same racket.'

'You don't understand. It's one of the first rules that we don't swap info between ourselves.'

'What about Matt? Haven't you talked to him?' He realized it was the first time that he'd thought seriously about Matt, since Jo had arrived, but he certainly wasn't going to start having a sense of remorse on his account.

After all, the American had been a willing accomplice in involving Judith, and Rawcliff felt a sudden irrational hatred of the man.

'Leave Matt out of this,' Jo said.

'Like h.e.l.l I will! Matt's got his own line to the CIA, if he chooses to use it.'

'Matt's neutral. I'm sure he is.'

'No one's neutral - not in this operation. But even if Matt isn't officially on the US payroll, that still leaves you and Ritchie. Now, since you won't level with me about Ritchie, I'll just have to a.s.sume for the moment that you and he know about as much, or as little, about the operation as each other.

Ritchie may be working for the British, but he's also feeding his stuff through Klein. And if Klein is what you say he is, that means that Was.h.i.+ngton and Whitehall - even Moscow, G.o.d help us! - must all know what you've told the Israelis. But you said last night that all you'd done was keep your friend in Rome up-to-date on the operation?'

'That's right. Honest to G.o.d.' Rawcliff clamped his jaw shut, controlling his temper. He took a deep breath, then said slowly, 'And you've no idea if the Israelis know what the operation is all about?'

'No. They'd never tell me anyway. They just say ”thanks, and keep up the good work”.'

'If they do know,' said Rawcliff, 'why don'4 they do something about it?

They've got enough friends in Was.h.i.+ngton to be able to lean on the Cypriots, however much the local big-boys have been paid to keep their noses out of it.