Holy Of Holies Part 17

'Are you crazy?' she cried.

Rawcliff switched off the engine and turned to her. 'It wasn't London you were calling. It was Italy. Why did you lie just now?'

'I don't know what you're talking about. You weren't by any chance, helping Grant polish off his whisky, were you3'

'Don't play the dumb dolly with me, Jo. Your friend, Abe, wasn't being exactly discreet - on an open line to a special priority number. He said you knew the rules, so it must have been pretty important. What rules, Jo?' Her face was now taut with either fury or fear: it was hard to tell in the half-darkness.

Grant was struggling back up between the seats. 'We stopped. Anything happened?'

Jo was sitting bolt upright now, staring out at the empty road which showed white against the jagged black edges of the ruts under the high-beam of the stationary headlamps. 'Do you enjoy eavesdropping on other people's private conversations?'

'I just want to know why you lied to me,' he said patiently; but her next words touched him to the quick.

'What's the matter, Rawcliff? Is it because you don't have anyone yourself to call? No wife? No girlfriend -?'

He hit her hard across the face with the back of his hand. Her head bounced against the side-window. 'You b.i.t.c.h. You know b.l.o.o.d.y well what I'm talking about! What's the "picnic" all about? The operation? You'd better tell me, Jo.

Before I decide to tell Peters.'

'b.a.s.t.a.r.d' - in a small tight voice, as she sat s.h.i.+elding her cheek with her hand, not looking at him. In the silence they could hear Grant's heavy breathing. 'If you must know, he's an old personal friend and the "picnic"

refers to the holiday we're planning together when this is all over.'

Rawcliff smiled and shook his head. 'It didn't sound like that to me. He was nervous, rattled - didn't like you calling that number. Besides, he sounds a bit old for you.'

'Yes. He's a very old personal friend,' she repeated softly. 'And since you ask, he's married and doesn't like me calling him at home.' She had straightened up in her seat and her voice was regaining confidence.

'Satisfied?'

'Is he an Israeli, Jo?'

'Go to h.e.l.l.'

'Stone, bronze, steel!' Grant boomed from the back, 'stone, steel, oakleaves, horses heels over the paving. And the flags, the trumpets. . .'

'Shut up!' Rawcliff started the engine with a roar, slipped into gear, and said, without looking at her: 'Very well, we'll let Peters decide. If you've been talking to an Israeli agent, you're in trouble.'

'5,800,000 rifles and carbines, 102,000 machine guns, 28,000 trench-mortars,'

Grant intoned from behind.' "Triumphal March". Eliot, old bean.' He gave his hoa.r.s.e laugh: 'Rum stuff, eh? But think o' the money it made him!'

Rawcliff let out the clutch and pulled away. A moment later a light flashed into his mirror, and a motorcycle swerved dangerously past them, bouncing over the broken edge of the road. The rider was a civilian, in goggles but without a crash-helmet. Rawcliff let him pull away into the darkness.

'All right,' she said at last. 'Neither of us is that innocent, after all - or we wouldn't be tied up in this business in the first place. I told you this morning that I got involved through Matt, who was working for a local s.h.i.+pping-agent called Kyriades. Or that's what he calls himself here. He's acrook who goes under several aliases. You know him. In London he calls himself Newby.'

Rawcliffe nodded. 'You also told me that this Kyriades-Newby is tied up with Ritchie's air-taxi firm. That may explain how you got involved. But what about Matt?'

A pair of headlamps had crept up behind them. There was an angry hooting. Jo's next words were barely audible, 'Matt's a fool. A sweet weak-minded sucker.

While he was working in Athens he got involved with the CIA. Nothing serious, just local background stuff - what they call '' situation-colour".'

The car behind was still hooting furiously. Rawcliff cursed and swung over on to the verge, and a Mini Innocent! sped past with a high whine. There was only the driver in it - a man - but he was too low for Rawcliff to see his face.

'And Matt recruited you, I suppose?' he said casually. 'Just for a bit of extra "situation-colour", no doubt?'

'No.' She had begun chewing the knuckles of one hand. 'You don't have to believe this, but it's the truth. Gospel, cross my heart. Through Matt I got to know this man you call Abe.'

'He calls himself Abe. What's his full name?'

They had reached the fork in the road; and Rawcliff could just make out the white skeleton-wire of the perimeter fence ahead, silhouetted by their head-lamps. He guessed that the motor-cyclist and the Mini had taken the right-turn towards the causeway across the Salt Lake, and up into the hills.

After a long pause, she said, 'He's called Abraham Danver. He's an Israeli, but he spends a lot of time in Athens and Rome. He's in the import-export business. Citrus fruit, I think.'

'You think?' They had reached the gates, which were locked. Rawcliff turned to her. 'I've got to call Ryderbeit. That'll give you enough time to tell me what else your friend Danver does.'

He had to hang on the end of the field-telephone for several minutes before Ryderbeit answered. He sounded angry that they had arrived back so early.

Rawcliff got back into the jeep. For a moment there was a dead silence, broken only by Grant's heavy breathing from the back.

'Oh h.e.l.l. He works for Israeli' Intelligence. They've known all about this operation practically from the start.'

'And you just keep them up-to-date?'

'I don't know anything more than you do - more than any of us. Honestly!' She had turned to him, her eyes large and pleading.

'What did you spend eight minutes talking to Danver about this evening?'

She took a deep breath. 'I confirmed to him about the s.h.i.+p coming in tonight.

I said that if the planes could be loaded in time, the first flight would probably be early tomorrow. A dummy-run. That's all I know.' She had suddenly slumped in her seat, exhausted.

'Did you tell him about the three dead militiamen this morning?' 'I mentioned it, but he wasn't interested.'

Through the darkness ahead they could see a tiny pair of head-lamps. Ryderbeit had at last roused himself. Jo had stiffened again, turning back to Rawcliff, 'You won't tell Peters, will you? Please! I haven't given anything away that they don't know already.' Her knuckles were again pressed to her lips.

When Rawcliff didn't answer, she took her hand from her mouth and said, 'I can make it up to you.'

"I'm not in the market,' he said brutally. 'Anyway, it would hardly be fair on old Abe, would it?'

Ryderbeit had driven up and was unlocking the gates. He came out and glared at them both, then noticed Grant, curled up in a deep happy slumber.

'I'll explain everything later,' said Rawcliff.

He and Jo were silent as they followed Ryderbeit's jeep out across the empty black field.

Seven.

The whole team, with the exception of Nugent-Ross, were back at the airfield by 2.30 am. The hangar was in darkness, except for a pair of hurricane-lamps, and the glow of the kerosene stove with its constant supply of thick black coffee.

Grant was still unconscious, lying aboard his Hercules where Ryderbeit and Rawcliff had dumped him on the floor of the cargo-bay between the rails of metal rollers. The others, in an unspoken spirit of camaraderie, had been careful not to let on to Peters about Grant's lapse back at the hotel. Nor had Rawcliff told anyone about his exchange with Jo in"the jeep earlier that night.

He had still not decided how to react. He knew his duty was to inform Peters.

Jo might not have been telling the truth when she said that she hadn't told the Israelis anything they didn't know already. But then the Israelis didn't mess around. If they didn't like the operation, they wouldn't hesitate to wreck it. But not here on Cyprus. Israel had enough on her plate already, without making further enemies - this time among non-Arabs. Besides, the outfit had so far done nothing overtly illegal - if one overlooked the little matter of the dead militiamen, and Jo had said that her contact, Abe, wasn't interested in that. Officially, it was still an International Red Cross operation.

No. The Israelis would bide their time, until the final mission, then intercept the six aircraft somewhere in neutral airs.p.a.ce, then shoot them all out of the sky - after young Jo had tipped them off about when that final mission would be.

There was also the problem of Matt. Did that sad renegade still care enough to betray them? If so, the Americans would probably be more devious. They'd have the influence to stymie the operation here on the ground. Even Pol, and his putative French accomplices, couldn't buy off Was.h.i.+ngton. And if Was.h.i.+ngton knew, presumably so would Whitehall. And Rawcliff remembered that five of thesix pilots held British pa.s.sports. Britain might be a puny, p.u.s.s.y-footing, second-rate power; but she still wouldn't look kindly on having five of her subjects involved in some ugly international conspiracy. Unless, of course, the British Government approved?

London, Was.h.i.+ngton, Jerusalem. Not to mention Paris. Rawcliff was worried, but they weren't the normal worries of a mercenary anxious to earn his money at the end of a hazardous mission, target unknown. He was worried, because in a paradoxical way he was beginning to feel rea.s.sured - rea.s.sured in the dawning hope that the operation would fail, be thwarted before it even got off the ground.

Jo herself had hardly exchanged a word with him, during the hours while they awaited the others. The two of them had lain under blankets, at a decent distance from each other, and tried to sleep. Ryderbeit, with unexpected tact, ignored them both.

When the rest of the team did arrive, she remained taciturn, withdrawn. She had one brief conversation with Peters, who handed her a sheaf of papers.

Otherwise, she spent the time chain-smoking out on the beach.

Rawcliff wondered whether her silence, even hostility, were due merely to injured pride - both professional and personal - or to fear? He also wondered why she was remaining here on the airfield. He joined her outside and asked her.

'Because I'm needed. I have to check the medical supplies from the s.h.i.+p, and the cargoes as they're loaded on to the aircraft. The rest of you couldn't tell the difference between plasma and vodka.'

'Very impressive. A full inventory. Just like a well-run field-hospital.' He watched her light another cigarette, making no effort to help her. 'Just to fool anyone who tries to intercept us during the flight, or at the other end?'

She inhaled, saying nothing. He noticed that the side of her face was very slightly swollen - but not enough to attract attention. Just another little secret between them. He left her alone on the pebbled beach, in her neat nurse's uniform, smoking and staring out at the dark Mediterranean, where at any moment now the lights of the s.h.i.+p would appear.

Back in the hangar the others - except Grant - were sitting idly drinking coffee. The local ground-crew had retired to their tents, to await the s.h.i.+p and help with the unloading.

After the long, hot, hectic day, the stillness and inactivity generated an air of deceptive torpor, charged with an underlying sense of antic.i.p.ation, of suspended drama. The one trace of animation was the sight of Thurgood, who was doing press-ups, next to his R/T set which gave off a thin continuous whine, tuned to pick up the s.h.i.+p on UHF.

Thurgood was now counting his press-ups, in a high breathless voice: '82, 83, 84. . .!' Ryderbeit yelled a vivid obscenity at him, but without effect.

Thurgood reached a hundred, then sprang up and began jogging out on to the ap.r.o.n, smacking his arms against his hips as he went.

Rawcliff had already noticed that outside the canopy of stars was partially blotted out above the hills behind the airfield, and the close clammy night was now broken with little gusts of wind. The symptoms of an impending sea-storm. Thurgood was coming back now at a sprint, like an Olympic runner on the last lap of the marathon. He sprang down beside his radio and began to caress the various k.n.o.bs. The set suddenly let out a garbled chatter. Thurgood gave a whoop of excitement and began calling into the transceiver what sounded like a string of code-names.

The inertia was broken. Peters was giving orders. The ground-crew had appeared from behind the hangar, dividing into groups, each hurrying oat to one of the caterpillar tractors, with their inflatable rafts and sand-wheeled trailers, which were drawn up along the edge of the runway.

It was 3.25 in the morning when they saw the dark ma.s.s of the s.h.i.+p. She was showing few lights: coming in stern-first, very slowly as she approached shallow water. She dropped anchor about three hundred yards from the sh.o.r.e. A clatter of chains as her rear loading-platform was lowered: lights and movement now in the open cave of the vessel, then a small dinghy with an outboard-motor moved out towards the beach. There was just one man in it.

Peters had limped on ahead to meet him. He was joined by Rawcliff arid Ritchie. The man's rubber-soled paratrooper's boots splashed ash.o.r.e and came crunching up the s.h.i.+ngle. He stopped in front of them holding a thick briefcase. 'Qui parle francais id? Je n'ai pas d'anglais.'

Rawcliff stepped forward. His French was workable, if not brilliant. As he introduced the three of them, the1 night's silence was shattered by the roar of caterpillar tractors behind them.

The stranger nodded. 'My name is Serge. Which of you gentlemen is in command here?' His French had a marked Midi accent, which somehow managed to make itself heard above the din of machinery.

He was a square, muscular man with short black hair and the quiet self-a.s.surance and natural good manners of a man who does not have to raise his voice or throw his weight around to prove that he is tough.

His whole demeanour was one of complete, unspoken authority; while Peters, immediately jealous of his own rank, was inhibited from a.s.serting it by the language barrier. He was also made to suffer the added humiliation of having to conduct all dialogue with the Frenchman through Rawcliff, whose command of the language had art once invested in him. a subtle superiority over the other two - Ritchie having modestly claimed that his French was confined to 'airport lingo'.

The four of them had begun to walk back up the beach. Ahead, two of the caterpillar tractors were crawling towards them, dragging their trailers which in turn carried the huge inflatable rafts.

'Everything is in order?' Serge asked. He addressed himself directly to Rawcliff, who replied briefly that all the aircraft were now a.s.sembled, and, as far as was technically possible, each had been checked out by its .pilot.

He had just finished translating, for Peters' sake, when they heard the first boom of thunder from behind the hills.

'I desire to meet all the other pilots and to inspect the planes myself. Your first sortie will be tomorrow, as soon as the fuelling and loading are completed. If the weather so permits, of course' - he glanced up at the black sky, as the first drops of rain spat on to the runway. 'Meanwhile, each pilot will be responsible for his own cargo, which must be doc.u.mented to the smallest item.' He walked fast, leading the way, and Peters had trouble keeping up with them, hobbling awkwardly behind while Rawcliff again translated. The Frenchman remarked, without slackening his pace: 'Monsieur Peters has had an accident?'

' Un pet.i.t accident d'auto. Rien de serieux.'

Peters' temper was not improved by the Frenchman's reply, as relayed by Rawcliff: 'He says that's rather unfortunate. At a certain stage in the operation, we will all be required to do a parachute jump.'

Peters scowled, but made no comment. The rain was coming down hard now. As they neared the hangar, the Frenchman, added, 'I am instructed to inform you at once that certain changes have been made to the original schedule. I will give you the details presently.'

'What's he saying?' Peters asked furiously, wincing now with the effort of keeping pace. But Serge continued, without giving Rawcliff time to translate, 'I must also tell you that during yesterday afternoon and tonight our s.h.i.+p's radio picked up unusually heavy traffic in Russian - probably from their emba.s.sy either in Damascus or Baghdad - to one of their cruisers lying just north of Cyprus. That is an added reason why the operation must be completed with the utmost speed.'

They had just reached the hangar when they were confronted by a startling sight. Thurgood came running out towards them, this time naked except for a pair of shorts -his tall, thin body a greyish-white, like an animated corpse.

He raced past them through the rain, out across the ap.r.o.n and the runway, and down the beach where he flung himself with a great yell into the sea and began splas.h.i.+ng around like a demented child.

Serge had paused. 'Monsieur Rawcliff, who is that man?'

'He used to be an officer in the Royal Air Force. He is our radio expert.'

'And he is one of the pilots too?' The Frenchman nodded slowly, without comment.

Jo and Nugent-Ross had come out to meet them, followed by the long ambling figure of Ryderbeit. Serge was punctiliously polite to Jo while leaving the subtle impression that he regarded the presence of a pretty girl as slightly frivolous. But he struck up an instant rapport with Ryderbeit. The Rhodesian spoke a curious mongrel dialect of French Army slang, with a hideous Belgian accent, and the two men were soon locked in spirited reminiscences of shared friends and experiences in the Congo, Biafra, the Yemen. Serge evidently knew Ryderbeit by reputation and notoriety, and regarded him with considerable esteem.

He finally paused, glancing round the hangar. 'Where is the sixth pilot?'

Rawcliff explained, as tactfully as he could, that Grant was still asleep, suffering from a mild bout of exhaustion.

The Frenchman stood looking out through the rain, to where the two rafts were being inflated on the edge of the beach. 'Exhaustion is not a good symptom in a pilot,' he turned back to Rawcliff, 'Tell me, are the others all satisfied with the condition of the aircraft?'

'One can never be satisfied with any aircraft until one has flown it.' The Frenchman gave a little smile. 'Quite.'

Near them they heard the field-telephone jangle. Peters answered it, then came over to inform them that the local Chief of Police and a senior Customs officer had arrived. He left them, to board one of the jeeps and drive out to the gates.

Thurgood reappeared, his thin naked body gleaming wet, his sodden moustache dripping down his raw chin. He did not pause to be introduced, but raced past them, over to his Hercules, where he leapt on to a pile of crates, sprang up and grabbed the edge of the wing, from which he now began swinging, like some white ape.

'That man is too excited,' Serge observed quietly. 'I trust he will display more self-control when he is in the air.' He paused. 'Have you any particular questions you would like to ask me, Monsieur Rawcliff. Though I do not promise to be able to answer them all.'

'You talked about the original schedule. What was that?'