Holy Of Holies Part 13

' What's your progress?'

'Coming along, Major. Two out o' six. This isn't work you can hurry.'

Grant stood for a moment undecided, his mind working in a vacuum of officious authority. Then he rounded again on Ryderbeit, 'And if you light another match, I'll have your kneecap off!'

Ryderbeit took a languid step forward, then paused. They all looked up as the Suzuki jeep came driving back across the ap.r.o.n and slewed to a halt in front of the hangar. Jo was alone at the wheel. She had driven off only a few minutes earlier for the town. Guy Grant had complained that she was distracting the local labour-force, whose dark faces were now once again turned in sullen curiosity towards her.

She got out of the jeep, leaving the door open, and ran forward, stopping in front of Grant to catch her breath. 'There are some men at the gates.'

'What sort of men?'

'They look like soldiers. Very dirty, in uniform.'

Grant turned again to Nugent-Ross. 'Right, now's your chance to use your Greek. Get into the truck with me. Rawcliff, you look reasonably respectable'

- he jabbed his thumb at the Suzuki - 'You go with Jo. If any questions are asked, you're a doctor. Ryderbeit, the rest of you, stay out of sight.'

Ryderbeit stood grinning, still holding his dead cigar.

Rawcliff began to walk over towards the Suzuki, and heard Jo hurrying up behind him. Once outside the hangar the heat hit them like an opened oven, the salt and sand and sea all merged in a s.h.i.+mmering dull glare. Jo climbed into the driving-seat beside him and kicked off her shoes.

'I'll be glad to get out of this uniform and have a swim,' she said, wrinkling her freckled nose.

They heard Grant, in the pick-up truck behind, start up with a roar and come careering round in a swath of dust that swept through Jo's open window, makingher cough. 'The b.a.s.t.a.r.d! He's just doing it to show off.'

'What's the panic?'

'Peters has given strict orders that if anyone's seen near the wire, they're to be stopped and challenged. Grant's obviously enjoying every minute of it - playing at soldiers again.'

'I suppose he realizes that security can be overdone? All it does is make people more suspicious.'

She had switched on the engine and they started off into the blinding wake of dust thrown up by Grant and Nugent-Ross in the pick-up truck, which was now leading.

'Perhaps they've got a right to be suspicious?' she said.

He looked at her carefully. 'What about you? Are you suspicious, Jo?'

'Should I be?'

'Oh, for Christ's sake, you're on the pay-roll, aren't you? And you're certainly deeper in than I am.'

She shrugged, grinding gears. 'I'm a member of the VSO - Voluntary Services Overseas. One of those nice do-gooders who try to help the underdeveloped countries.' There was a flat edge to her voice, with no perceptible irony, suggesting a deeper side to her character than Rawcliff had so far observed.

'I might ask you the same question,' she added.

'What? Am I suspicious? - or what am I doing here in the first place?'

'Both - although you don't look entirely the type. They pulled you in at the last minute, didn't they?'

'I pulled myself in. I've got a business in London that's going broke, and I want to end my days cultivating my garden, as Voltaire said. As for being suspicious, I suppose that's part of what we're paid for?'

'I suppose so. I'd say it was cheap at the price.' Her voice had become vague now, as she peered ahead through the dust.

'You're Jim Ritchie's girl, aren't you?'

'I'm n.o.body's girl. I met Matt while I was working out here. He was doing some business with a local s.h.i.+pping agent called Kyriades who has some tie-up with Jim Ritchie's air-taxi firm. So I more or less got drawn in -just came with the package, so to speak.'

'For how much?'

She gave him a crinkled sideways look. 'Enough. Enough to give a girl time to get her bearings.'

The faint outline of the perimeter fence was growing out of the fog of dust.

Grant and Nugent-Ross, in the pick-up ahead, were slowing up towards the gate.

Beyond, Rawcliff could just make out three men behind the wire.

'If there are any awkward questions, just hang back and let Nugent-Ross do the talking,' he said. 'As long as they get a glimpse of your uniform.' 'And as long as that b.l.o.o.d.y Major doesn't try to be a hero,' she said, drawing up beside the pick-up. Grant was climbing out, adjusting his mirror gla.s.ses.

The three men behind the wire wore dark dungarees with shoulder-flaps and belts of Army webbing. Two of them were lounging against the cantilevered posts, the third, was squatting down in the dust, chewing the stub of a cigarette. They looked grubby and unshaven and very tough, with an air of mute hostility, showing no interest as Jo walked out and stood beside Matt.

'Who are they and what do they want?' Grant said.

To Rawcliff's untrained ear, Nugent-Ross' Greek sounded very fluent. The two men by the posts said nothing. The third straightened up and kicked his cigarette into the dust. He spoke quickly, abruptly, as though reciting something from memory.

There was a brief exchange, then Matt turned to Grant. 'They claim they're on contract to the airport. They're asking for employment here. Their spokesman claims he's a union official and has the right to see the men's working conditions.'

'Like h.e.l.l he does. Does he know how much they're being 'I guess that's why they're here - to get a piece of the action.'

'Ask to see their ID cards.'

This time what sounded like an argument followed: the three men shrugged and talked at once, with their hands in their pockets. Their spokesman broke off and now began eyeing Jo with a snide glint.

Matt turned again to Grant, 'They say they'll show you their papers when you open the gates.'

Grant hesitated, then asked Jo for the spare bunch of keys which he had given her earlier. He undid the two locks and pulled the wire frame open. 'Tell them to get into the back of the truck.' He nodded to Jo and Rawcliff: 'All right, follow us.'

In the Suzuki jeep Jo said, 'There's something funny going on.'

'I don't know. Grant seems very keen to get them inside. I'd lay odds they're carrying guns.'

'Oh Christ.' She bit her lip. 'Are you sure?'

'Not without seeing them. But I don't suppose it's all that unusual out here.

Since Independence there's been a lot of hardware floating around in Cyprus, and even more since the Turks invaded.'

The three men were now sitting in the back of the pick-up truck in front; then at the last moment Grant jumped down and came round to Rawcliffs side of the Suzuki. 'We're not going back to the hangar - not immediately. Just keep on my tail - and watch those boys out front.'

They had been going a couple of hundred yards, when Jo said, 'I've got a very handy monkey-wrench in the back. I'll get it out for you when we stop.'

It was nearly a mile to the hangars. But about halfway Grant turned left and began to lead the way out across the cracked, pock-marked ap.r.o.n towards thecontrol tower and the abandoned terminal buildings. He stopped a few yards from the Arrivals entrance. Several panels in the plate-gla.s.s front were broken or missing, and the interior had a desolate appearance, chairs piled on tables, the ubiquitous portrait of Archbishop Makarios hanging askew on the wall.

Rawcliff watched Grant' and Matt Nugent-Ross jump down from both sides of the pick-up cabin in front before the three Cypriots in the back of the truck had time even to begin climbing over the tail-board. Jo led Rawcliff round to the rear of the Suzuki. The monkey-wrench lay with the tools and spare tyre. It was heavy and filthy, and she let Rawcliff handle it. He tucked it awkwardly under his jacket, with the screw-jaw- pointing downwards.

He heard a crash in front, and saw Grant push one of the Cypriots back against the closed tail-board of the pick-up. The other two had jumped down _beside him and stood watching Grant warily.

'Tell them to stay just where they are,' Grant ordered Nugent-Ross, 'and let's see their papers.'

Rawcliff moved casually up beside the American, who again began speaking in Greek. The one who appeared to be their, spokesman muttered something quickly to his two colleagues, then put his hand in to the long pocket of his baggy trousers. It came out, with a swift easy movement, holding a gun.

Heavy calibre: 9mm, Rawcliff thought; probably a Browning picked up during the Eoka days. Pretty useless at anything but close range: but if it hit you, it was lethal. No time to argue, to make fine moral judgements. Rawcliff swung the monkey-wrench out from under his jacket, and with a single flailing motion brought the screw-jaw down on the man's gun-wrist. He heard the bones splinter, and there was a sharp scream as the Browning clattered on to the concrete.

Grant stepped forward and kicked it neatly out of reach. In the same instant, as though the action were unfolding in slow motion, Rawcliff saw the second Cypriot grab for his pocket; and this time he swung the monkey-wrench round like a whip and caught him hard behind his left knee.

The man howled and collapsed backwards half under the tail of the truck. The third man had also got a gun out, and was already backing away. He snapped something in Greek.

Matt Nugent-Ross said calmly, 'Freeze, everyone, or he'll kill the lot of us.'

The man took another couple of steps backwards and spoke again, barely audible above the whimpering groans of his companions. 'He says he'll kill the girl first,' Matt said.

The gun was very steady, held at arm's length with both hands, pointing at Jo's belly. Another heavy calibre, Rawcliff thought: looked like a Walther PPK. Enough to blow a hole the size of a teacup out of a girl's back. Not the sort of gun hoodlums tout about unless they're showing off.

But then these men looked as though they were the sort who carried guns around like ball-point pens.

Grant stood back, thick and sweating, his face the colour of wet stone; and when he spoke, Rawcliff realized that he was terrified. His voice had a coa.r.s.e, clogged sound, 'What does he want?' Matt spoke again in Greek and the Cypriot answered, the gun still pointing at Jo's midriff.

'He wants Jo to step over in front of him. The rest of us are to get up into the truck.'

Jo began to walk forward. Rawcliff waited until she was barely three feet from the outstretched barrel of the gun. Matt was still standing tense and helpless, his watery eyes moving quickly from Rawcliff to Grant, then back again.

'Christ, he wouldn't shoot a nurse, would he?'

But even as the American spoke, Rawcliff let out a ferocious yell, to distract the Cypriot's attention: and at the same time made a fast diagonal swerve, since Jo's body was in direct line between himself and the gun. As he moved, he heard somewhere in the far distance a crack and saw the fat gun-barrel jerk away from Jo's belly. In the same instant the Cypriot gave an awkward lurch as though he had been kicked in the side, and something very odd happened to his face. It became blurred, like a smudged photograph, then his eye disappeared in a dark clotted ma.s.s, full of pulp and splinters of bone. He went over backwards, his mouth wide-open, and the gun gave a thundering roar, followed by a ringing sound of the bullet bouncing off the concrete ap.r.o.n. Then a harsh dead stillness. Even the whimpering of the other two had stopped.

Jo had turned, the knuckles of one hand pressed into her mouth, staring wildly at Rawcliff. 'What happened'

She was answered by the sight of a tall, stooping figure facing towards them down the edges of the buildings from the hangar. Through the splintering light they could now make out his lank black hair and hooked profile, and in his hands a long sporting rifle with a telescopic lens. He swerved, zigzagging with astonis.h.i.+ng speed, as he came within pistol-range. Rawcliff shouted, 'It's all right, Sammy!'

Ryderbeit slowed and covered the last few yards at a trot. He gestured with the gun towards .the two injured men under the truck. 'You want me to spare them any more misery?'

At that moment Guy Grant lurched forward, stumbled round to the front of the truck, and vomited over the front wheel. He stood for a moment, head bent, leaning his sleeve on the burning hot bonnet, his shoulders heaving.

Ryderbeit let out a savage laugh. 'Is that how you won the Military Cross, Major?'

Rawcliff had stepped over and removed the pistol from the pocket of the second Cypriot, who lay with his smashed leg sprawled out beside him, his rancid breath coming in swift gasps. The man with the shattered wrist had crawled into a sitting position, moaning with his eyes closed.

'Give me that gun,' Ryderbeit said, as Grant straightened up and came round the side of the truck. There was a trickle of spew on his chin and down his belted bush-jacket. He turned and stood rigid for a few seconds, his back to them all, staring out across the airfield.

'Go through their pockets,' Ryderbeit said, 'find out who they are.' He was holding the telescopic rifle loosely in one hand. Rawcliff stepped over again to where the two Cypriots lay under the truck. He still held the monkey-wrench, and was just leaning down over the man with the smashed wrist, about to tear open his tunic and reach for his pockets, when he felt the wrench grabbed out of his hand.

He swung round, but was too late. Grant had brought the weapon down in a vicious swingeing blow, shattering the man's black hairy skull.

Before either Rawcliff or Ryderbeit could fully react, Grant had whirled round and now brought the monkey-wrench down on the second Cypriot's neck, knocking his body back with a thump against the rear tyre of the truck, where he now lay with blood pumping in thick spurts out of his mouth and nostrils, seeping from his ears.

Grant had lifted the monkey-wrench again. Ryderbeit said, 'Hold it right there, Major. This is a .417 Magnum elephant gun. You know what that'll do to you.'

Guy Grant stood s.h.i.+vering in the heat, the monkey-wrench still raised above his head, its screw-jaw matted with pulpy blood and hair.

'Drop it like a good boy.' It clanged on to the concrete. 'Now turn round and keep your hands where they are.'

Grant obeyed, with a stiff unsteady motion, like a man drunk. 'I had to do it.

Had to.' And he gave a dreadful brutish smile.

Ryderbeit nodded. 'Sure you had to do it, Major. You had to do something.' And he stepped forward. His left leg swung out with a quick scissor-motion like a dancer, and he kicked Guy Grant in the groin. Grant groaned, went down and lay still.

'Let's look at their papers,' Ryderbeit repeated.

'I think I'm going to be sick too,' Jo said, very white against her freckles.

Rawcliff had taken her by the arm and led her round to the front of the truck where he opened the pa.s.senger door. 'Better wait inside. Out of the sun,' he added, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Ryderbeit was busy ripping open the three men's jackets and rifling their pockets. Two were dead, and the one with the neck wound was clearly dying.

Matt Nugent-Ross still, hadn't moved. 'What's the matter?' Rawcliff said brutally. 'Never seen anyone killed before?'

'Not quite like this, I haven't.'

Ryderbeit came over with some wallets and folded sheets typewritten in Greek and celluloid ident.i.ty cards. Nugent-Ross glanced through them, while Guy Grant began to stir on the ground. Ryderbeit looked at Rawcliff. 'Fast work, soldier.'

'You saw it all?'

Ryderbeit tapped the telescopic sights on his rifle. 'As I told you, I've got a nose for trouble. When Granty turned off the track, I got curious. So I grabbed this up and studied the play. And when that joker over there' - he nodded at the dead Cypriot with a bullet through his eye - 'lined up his shooter on Jo I reckoned it was time I dealt myself in. I told you I was handy with a gun, didn't I?' There was a sudden hush. They all stood listening to the murmur of the sea and the distant mutter of machinery from the hangar. It seemed to Rawcliff that the shots must have been heard as far as Larnaca. Then, with a conversational frivolity induced by shock, he nodded at Ryderbeit's rifle and said irrelevantly, 'That's a pretty unwieldy piece of hardware to tout around, isn't it? How do you get it through airport security checks?'

Ryderbeit replied, with reciprocal nonchalance, 'Comes to pieces - all plastic, conversion of the Armalite. Doesn't show up on the screens. Even has plastic soft-nosed bullets only the casings are metal, and I keep those in my belt.'

Matt Nugent-Ross came over, holding the three gunmen's doc.u.ments. 'Seems they were some kinda Auxiliary Militia. From what I've heard, they were formed as a splinter group after the National Guard was disbanded in'74.

'I thought the police had been sewn up here?' Ryderbeit said. He turned and shouted, 'Grant, get on your feet!'

Guy Grant crawled onto his hands and knees, levering his heavy body up by holding on to the truck. His eyes were glazed with pain. 'You struck a fellow officer, Ryderbeit,' he said, wincing with every word.

Ryderbeit smiled. 'You're no longer an officer, Grant -not here you're not.

You know what the Rule Book says? Lack of Moral Fibre in the face of the enemy. Plus murdering two wounded suspects. That's against the Geneva Convention. And Holy Moses, we're supposed to be representing the Red Cross!'

'They had to be killed. We couldn't hold them here - not with all those other wogs in the compound. Ask Peters. He's in charge of security.'