Part 24 (2/2)

'You are a cynic, Monsieur Pol.'

'I come from a nation of cynics. I am also a realist. We both are.' He gave a grand shrug. 'As for your crisis, let the politicians and the international bureaucrats worry about that. It is what they are paid for. Your job is to fund the operation, and to ensure the necessary political back-up. My task concerns tactics, which include subterfuge. Already there are many people sniffing about - many mice at the cheese, you might say. Alors, I have provided this small diversion - so that they get the wrong piece of cheese!

Also, it may be something to feed the pilots before the final mission. And we must not forget the pilots. They may be scoundrels, but in the heat of battle one should never underestimate the infantry. They need motives too - or at least, something to satisfy their curiosity. Even sweeten their consciences, perhaps?' This time he giggled openly at his guest's evident malaise.

The man sipped his warm milk, holding the gla.s.s with both hands. 'I still say, you should have devised something less drastic. This story of yours is aprovocation which will seriously embarra.s.s many people. You had other, less sensitive choices. Iran is in the hands of the Devil. Iran would certainly have offered a more correct diversion. Or there is Pakistan, with its imminent nuclear capability.'

'Man ami, les jeux sont faits. Rien ne va plus.'

'This is not a game, Monsieur Pol.'

'Not a game, perhaps. But a gamble. Maybe one of the biggest gambles the world has ever taken.'

'I have provided the stake money,' the man said sulkily.

'Thirteen million dollars? A mere bagatelle, considering what we stand to win after the final coup.' Pol patted his fat little hands together. 'We came here to discuss the new schedule, which impinges upon my delicate relations with the International Red Cross, which in turn has already made full preparations for all five flights.'

His guest stared into what was left of his milk, which was now covered with a wrinkled skin. He spoke slowly. 'The change of schedule is already a matter of policy. Such policies cannot be questioned.'

Pol wiped some chocolate-foam off his upper lip. 'It is also a matter of the calendar, n'est-ce-pas?' When his guest did not reply, the Frenchman continued, 'You surely do not expect me to believe that such a change of plan simply involves security? We both know where we stand on that score.'

Pol's guest had carefully sc.r.a.ped the sc.u.m off his milk with a blunt forefinger. 'It is a matter of policy,' he repeated. His face remained quiet, closed. Secretly he hated Pol. The Frenchman treated him like some superior messenger-boy: showed a contemptuous lack of respect for one who was used to power, to cause his fellow beings, often men in high authority, to cringe and whiten in fear for their careers, their whole livelihood. But Pol was unimpressed, unmoved; efficient no doubt, but a rich, individual hedonist, someone alien and untouchable. A horribly imposing creature, and a dangerous one.

The man continued, in his pedantic French, 'You do not intend to question this decision, do you?'

Pol's shoulders heaved with laughter. 'Come, you know me - at least, you know my reputation! You think a little more blood on my hands worries me at my age?

But I must admit, when I first heard that the schedule had been changed, I did suspect a certain reluctance on the part of your people to go through with the plan.'

'There is no reluctance. Once my superiors have reached a decision, that is final.'

Pol swallowed his chocolate and ordered another. Besides the waitress, they were now the only people in the cafe. 'Very well. Give me the necessary details.'

Twenty minutes and three hot chocolates later, Pol sat back and gave his most voluptuous grin. 'But you must not be so sensitive, my friend! The world will be disabused of my little invention within twenty-four hours. By tomorrow they will have forgotten the radio broadcast. They will be using today's newspaper to wipe their a.r.s.es with!' His guest winced with disapproval. 'I think that concludes the meeting, Monsieur Pol.' He stood up and shook hands formally.

'This new schedule,' Pol added, as the man was turning, 'it will mean not only the difference of five days, but the difference between a modest killing and a gigantic ma.s.sacre.”

'So?'

Pol giggled, 'You and I, we are in the same game, we have no secrets. Tell me - what do you estimate the total score at the end of the day?'

'Score?'

'Le grand match, on Friday. How many dead, injured, maimed for life? I'm only asking for a provisional estimate, of course.'

The man paused, raised one hand and showed two fingers, then a third. Pol nodded, and watched him walk out of the cafe on his squeaky rubber-soled shoes. An undistinguished, even down-at-heel figure here in Switzerland, Pol thought: he might have been a minor civil servant or banking official. A dull grey man working towards retirement and a safe pension.

But as the Frenchman sat staring at the cloudy remains in his guest's gla.s.s of milk, he wondered what those two or three fingers had meant. Had each finger indicated a thousand, a hundred thousand, a million, perhaps?

Pol was not a man who liked to ask too many questions: and in this case he decided that he did not want to know the answers.

Six.

By 7.45 Judith Rawcliff was calm enough to fix herself some scrambled eggs and a second drink. Tom had gone to sleep without fuss, so at least that was one worry out of the way -for the moment.

She had no idea how reliable communications were with Cyprus, so she must use the phone as little as possible. But she was anxious to ring Smollett's office and speak to him in person, or get a message to him, before he vanished on some wayward mission. She also wanted to talk to an old friend - a girl she had been at school with, who now lived up in Richmond, wonderfully married to a man who was with Lloyd's, and had a huge house which she and Judith jokingly referred to as the 'Rawcliff bolthole'.

She would have arranged to go up there tonight, with Tom, had it not been for Charles' telephone call, which was due in just a few minutes now. Of course, if she'd had time after first spotting that b.l.o.o.d.y Volvo, she might have been able to have his call from Cyprus re-routed up to Richmond.

Lovely safe Richmond. Why couldn't her husband find himself a nice sensible job? She didn't want anything fancy, like a tennis-court or indoor swimming pool. Just something that wouldn't mean her being followed by strange cars and making secret a.s.signations in second-hand bookshops with horrid young men in bowler hats, and have threatening letters pushed through the door, and now having to sit waiting for that d.a.m.n phone to ring. 8.10. 10.10 Cyprus time. She stiffened her drink; she'd only been able to eat half the meal. She wanted to talk to someone - Smollett. Anyone. Though Smollett was the most important. Just a couple of words with the News Room, telling him to ring her back. But she dared not occupy the line, even for a minute.

She would have gone next door, leaving her own door :pen so that she could hear the ringing; but her immediate neighbour was away; and the people who lived on the other side, and opposite, were not on the telephone. It was that kind of area.

She was also frightened. For Tom, more than for herself. She realized it after she had double-locked the front-door and was making sure that the back one was bolted, and that all the windows were secured - something she never did, unless they were all going on holiday. She now had most of the lights on and the radio playing loudly - a merciful symphony concert.

By 8.30 he had still not rung. She called the international' operator and tried to make inquiries, but it was futile: she was only monopolizing the line. She also considered the possibility of the phone being tapped - the sight of that Volvo had alerted her to all manner of suspicions - but decided that it was one of her lesser worries.

At 9.30, in desperation, she called Smollett's newspaper. After an agonizing wait, she was told that he was out, and no one seemed to have any idea when he'd be back. She left her message, emphasizing that it was urgent; then willed herself to do the was.h.i.+ng-up, before the next cigarette.

She tried to imagine what her husband would be doing. What did one do in one's free evenings on a secret mission to Cyprus? He surely wouldn't be in some jolly taverna, swilling the local wine and swaying to the strains of 'Zorba'?

Had he crashed? Was he dead, horribly mangled, lying without help in some lonely corner of the desert?

The telephone rang. She tripped over the cord in her haste to grab it.

'Charles?'

'Judith, me old love!' It was Smollett.

'I can't talk for long, Frank. But this is important. I want to know if you can help me?' d.a.m.n, she'd left her bag in the other room. 'Hang on a second.'

She came running back a moment later and read out the names from the sheet of paper which Sims had given her.

'South Yemen? Hardly Rudolph Valentino country! Didn't know you were interested in that kind of thing?' He sounded reasonably sober.

'Do the other names mean anything to you?' She looked at her watch. Nearly ten o'clock. Come on, you drunken hack, get on with it!

'Read it to me again.'

She controlled her voice. 'Sa'al, - she spelt it - 'Kaur el Audhilla.'

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