Part 27 (1/2)

'You just dare touch her,' said Rawcliff.

Pol shook with laughter. 'My friend, I am too old for that kind of sport! A man of my age and appearance is left to enjoy those few pleasures that remain until the grave - good food, good wine, and from time to time, perhaps, alittle excitement.'

'Like blowing up the latest Soviet plutonium plant in the Middle East?'

'Ah, you and Madame Rawcliff are indeed very astute Again 1 must congratulate you both.'

'So it seems that we both hold the same hand?'

'Not necessarily. The final hand has yet to be dealt' - he winked sublimely - 'and / shall be dealing it.' He gestured again towards the leather case beside him. 'This contains, among other things, your flight-plan. As you see, I entrusted it to no one, let alone the international mails. Instead, I risked bringing it here myself and entrusting it personally to Monsieur Peters, who will duly pa.s.s it on to my lieutenant. Monsieur Serge. As I told you, you will only receive your final orders just before take-off.' He shrugged, 'A standard precaution - one practised by all Air Forces and secret missions in time of war.

'Now, I am not a vindictive man - not, at least, on account of such a minor pecadillo as yours. In fact, I find it rather amusing, rather sportif.

However, this is a serious business. It has already been reported to me that one of your number has been lost, together with his aircraft. That leaves only five of you - and one of those, I understand, is afflicted by bizarre tendencies. Some nervous complaint, yet?'

Rawcliff stared at him, still saying nothing. Pol sipped the last of his champagne. 'But while discipline must be maintained, time is too short, and the stakes too high, for me to indulge in the petty luxury of retribution. I had to pay a relatively large sum to the Saudi Arabian Government to procure your release from prison last night. Your compatriot, Monsieur Thurgood' - he p.r.o.nounced it 'Troged' - 'will have the sum deducted from his final payment.

His behaviour was childish and irresponsible. But in your case I shall be more generous. I admire a man with enterprise, even if it should slightly inconvenience me. You will remain my guest at this hotel, Monsieur Rawcliff, until you are required to complete your role in the operation.

'Meanwhile, you look as though you need some sleep, man cher! And a good meal will do you no harm. You may order what you wish - though I advise against alcohol. Any personal effects you need, you may purchase here through the hotel staff. In due time, a car will collect you and drive you back to the airfield at Larnaca. Your mission will then follow its normal course. At its successful completion, the balance of the agreed sum will be paid into your Swiss bank. I think that is reasonable?'

Rawcliff knew there was a catch: there had to be. 'Thank you. But what's the price?'

'Only the minor inconvenience of having Monsieur Peters here to keep you company. I understand that you are not the best of friends?' - he broke into his giggle - 'but I am sure Monsieur Peters will be very discreet and will leave you alone. I would enjoy having a late lunch with you, but I must return on the next plane. As I have said, time is short, and it moves fast.' He began to heave himself to his feet; the effort brought the sweat glistening to his forehead and round the edges of his goatee beard.

'Au revoir, Monsieur Rawcliff. There is always the chance that we will have the pleasure of meeting again. And just one thing - look after Madame Rawcliff. As I said, she is obviously an admirable woman. It would be unjust if she had to suffer on account of some foolish indiscretion on your part.' Rawcliffs fists tightened at his sides, and he saw Peters reach quickly for his left-hand pocket. He stood up and shook the fat man by his podgy pink hand. He wondered what the Frenchman would say.if he were to be told about Ritchie and Jo - that the ears of Was.h.i.+ngton and Moscow and Jerusalem, and no doubt London, were already tuned in to every move of the operation? That might just perhaps be Rawcliff's winning card.

Peters nudged him by the arm and led him away to the reception desk.

Nine.

'Hey, Judith, are you feeling okay?' Cy Reynolds had taken off his spectacles and was peering curiously at Mrs Rawcliff.

She had come back to the table and sat down, without a word. She now began to shake.

'Honey, you look ill,' Reynolds said. The others round the table were obviously embarra.s.sed; she was the only woman among them, and while they accepted her as a professional equal, feminine emotion was ill-favoured in the boardroom.

She managed ft> get a cigarette alight and said, 'I'm sorry. Cy. It was long-distance, from the Middle East. I was cut off half-way through. I couldn't get back.'

'Anything important?' Cy Reynolds' voice had become a fraction harder.

'A personal matter, Cy. They tried to get through last night, but all the lines were engaged.'

Reynolds had put his spectacles back on and turned again to his notes. He frowned. 'Now, what have we got? Some idiot here has written, ”Extended Binary Code for Decimal Interchange Characters”. I've said always use the abbreviation, EBCDC.'

'Excuse me, Cy,' someone said. 'Last week you put in a memo to all staff to avoid abbreviations, so as not to cause unnecessary confusion.'

Reynolds seemed not to have heard. 'Judith, you've thrown my thoughts. For Chrissake, try to take your personal calls out of the conference-room!'

She flared up. First her b.l.o.o.d.y husband had b.u.g.g.e.red off, then he'd sent her on a wild chase after a computer 'write-out', and she'd had to raise 200 to pay off some morbid horror in a bowler hat to sell her some info, about a Soviet plutonium plant that was all over the day's papers. She'd got herself chased by some spooky 'chauffeur' in a blue Volvo, then spent an agitated and sleepless night, only to be able to bawl her husband out next morning, and be cut off in mid-sentence. Now she had her flat-footed American employer creasing up his forehead and complaining like a child that she had interrupted his flow of magnetic thought.

'I think you'd better get on without me,' she said, standing up. She turned and walked out of the room.

Back in her office she was informed of what she already knew: that there wasno way of tracing an STD international call, even through the agencies of Interpol. But she had at least something to go on. He had said that he was in Larnaca. A quick check with the Tourist Information Office of the Cyprus High Commission told her that there were only four hotels in Larnaca open in winter.

Again she considered the possibility of the line being tapped. To be absolutely safe, she should put through her calls to Cyprus from the Hilton, round the corner. But the precaution seemed a luxury, and a waste of vital time. But also, secretly, she was unwilling to pander to her husband, in something that might amount to criminal activity. Judith Rawcliff had a certain rect.i.tude where the law was concerned, and it was in an ambivalent mood of wifely concern tempered with b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness that she made her first call to Larnaca, to the Sun Hall Hotel, which she had been told was the largest in the town, and therefore the most likely.

After a delay, she was told there was no one registered there in the name of Rawcliff. Then she remembered that he'd said something about operating under the suspect cover of an international relief organization. Yes, the clerk at the Sun Hall informed her, there were five members of a Red Cross team staying at the hotel. After another delay, she was put through to one of them.

'Yes?' a man's voice said carefully.

'My name's Judith Rawcliff. I want to speak to my husband.'

'I'm not sure I can help you. Who are you again?'

'Don't be a b.l.o.o.d.y moron! Who do I sound like? - hi; bank manager?'

'I'm not a moron,' Ritchie said with feeling. 'But your husband is not registered at this hotel.'

'Then where is he? Please - I beg of you! It's a matter of life and death.'

'All right. But don't call back here - I take no responsibility. He's at a place called the Lord Byron Hotel. And the line clicked dead.

The man's last words had hardly rea.s.sured her. The Red Cross must be running a very tight little s.h.i.+p down in Larnaca.

She got the number of the Lord Byron from international inquiries, but it was only on the fifth attempt that she managed to get a ringing tone. The line was very bad. Finally a monosyllabic Greek came on the line. 'Mis-tair Rawcleeff?'

it repeated twice, stupidly. 'Okay, I call 'eem! She could hear confused noises in the background, like the sounds of a party.

A strange voice came on the line, sharp, yet laconic. 'Yeah, who is it?'

'I'm Mrs Rawcliff. I want to speak to my husband, urgently.'

'Holy Moses! Where the h.e.l.l are you?'

'I'm calling from London. Please, is my husband there?'

'How the h.e.l.l did you get on to this place?'

'He called me, but we were cut off. Please, this is desperately important.'

'Hang on, I'll get him.' She waited at her desk, limp and trembling. The line cracked and whined; at any moment, she feared, it would go dead again. She had fumbled another cigarette into her mouth and was drawing on it, when the man came back on the line: 'He's not here, lady.'

'Where is he?'