Holy Of Holies Part 18

'It was planned for you to make four flights, carrying full pay-loads of medical equipment and other relief supplies. But it has now been decided to make only one such flight -leaving as soon as the cargoes "are aboard.'

'What is the flight-plan, Monsieur Serge?'

'Your instructions will be delivered to each of you immediately before take-off.'

'And the second flight? The final one?'

The Frenchman gave him a calm stare. 'I have not taken you for a fool, Monsieur Rawcliff. Please do not take me for one.'

A few minutes later Peters' jeep returned, followed by an unmarked car bearing two men, one in plain clothes, the other in uniform. Captain Spyromilio was a dark, natty man with well-oiled hair and a bright smile that was spoilt by a black tooth. His companion was stout and morose, in a Customs' uniform that did not look quite clean.

Serge did not go out to meet them. He waited for Peters to lead them both over and introduce them; and again, while maintaining his perfect manners, the Frenchman made it quite clear that far from being daunted by the men's rank, he regarded their presence with contempt. He left Peters to negotiate any ex gratia payments.

Outside, through the heavy rain, the first two inflatable rafts had been dragged ash.o.r.e, each bearing its huge tarpaulin-covered load of cargo" from the belly of the s.h.i.+p. These in turn were now being hauled on to the long trailers, with their balloon sand-wheels, ready to be towed up to the hangars by the caterpillar tractors.

The local ground-crew - mindful of Captain Spyromilio's presence - worked with forced enthusiasm: though the two officials showed little interest in the cargo, which arrived in the hangar in separate loads, at about fifteen-minute intervals.

Because of the oil-shortage on Cyprus, all the fuel had been brought by the s.h.i.+p. It was the first of the cargo to be ferried ash.o.r.e, arriving in two-hundred-gallon drums - fifty drums in each trailer-load. And at the end oftwo hours Rawcliff calculated that at least 80,000 gallons had reached the hangar - enough for six fully-extended flights by each aircraft. Far more than was needed, even by the requirements of the original plan, which Serge had told Rawcliff was to have consisted of four dummy-runs, with medical supplies.

Plus that final, unspecified flight, which was the objective of the whole operation.

But now, according to the Frenchman, there was just to be the one 'mercy-flight'. With that final mission still under wraps. All of which would leave about 60,000 gallons, of precious high-octane aviation-fuel stacked in drums at the back of a disused hangar, on a derelict airfield in the southeast of Cyprus.

Serge had closely supervised the unloading, so clearly there was no mistake, and Rawcliff had already decided it would be unwise to question the Frenchman further.

Meanwhile each pilot was responsible for the fuelling of his own aircraft, with the help of a detail from the Cypriot ground-crew and one pumping-engine.

Guy Grant had been finally aroused, appearing pale and shaky, out of the tail-vent of his aircraft. Serge, with an immaculate combination of tact and contempt, refrained from introducing himself.

The fuelling was a laborious task, with each drum having to be man-handled into place, its contents syphoned off and pumped through a metal-bound hose, attached to each of the four tanks, like some obscene umbilical cord.

Rawcliff, grubby and exhausted, was beginning to feel the strain, from tension and worry and lack of sleep; while next to him Ryderbeit was working, fast and effortlessly. If the Rhodesian had any qualms, any doubts about the operation ahead, he was keeping them well to himself.

At the next plane in the line was Thurgood, still stripped to his shorts, working with a tireless frenzy, whistling tunelessly, and occasionally breaking into s.n.a.t.c.hes of ghastly song - loud crooning ditties that somehow managed, like an insidious sonar bleep, to carry above the throb of the pumping motors, the clang of fuel-drums being rolled down off the pile on the trailers, the rain ringing on the hangar roof, and the now regular crash of thunder.

Serge presided over the whole operation, strolling un.o.btrusively between each aircraft, watching but not interfering. However, Rawcliff had noticed that the Frenchman took great care in the selection of those fuel-drums which were to be pumped into the aircraft, and those which were being stockpiled, with the aid of fork-lift trucks, at the rear of the hangar. These were being arranged in two separate loads. Over one hundred drums - enough for at least two full sorties - had been stacked in one corner. But another two hundred were now being unloaded in the corner of the hangar, at the furthest point from the row of aircraft -and free from the indolent eyes of Captain Spyromilio and the Customs officer, who were busy chatting to Jo.

Rawcliff had' observed that this second, larger consignment of fuel was handled rather more slowly than the rest, and that Serge had left the aircraft to supervise the work personally. Each one was being lowered off the fork-lifts in a cradle of ropes, where it required four men to roll them into place on the pile.

When the operation was complete, Serge returned to watch the last of the fuelling. Rawcliff chose his moment with care. The Frenchman had stopped to talk to Ritchie, at the last plane in the line, away from the stockpile offuel-drums. Rawcliff now took a welcome break, and went out to relieve himself behind the hangar. On his way back, drenched and refreshed by the rain, he made a casual detour round the second, larger stack of drums. These appeared identical to the others, except on one - at the bottom end, away from the screw-cap - was some small white stencilling, partially sc.r.a.ped off. It was the remains of what looked like a serial number, and the words PRISES MINIERE S.A. VADUZ, LIECHTENSTEIN. Then, in smudged chalk, a scrawl which he was just able to decipher as, St Pierre, La Reunion.

Rawcliff returned to his Hercules, his mind made up. Whatever doubts he had had, the lettering on those drums had dispelled them finally. His decision now depended on the weather - on the storm persisting long enough to give him the chance to talk to Matt at the hotel. The American was the only one who had the expertise; and the man's well-bred cynicism seemed to make him both more detached and more approachable. Rawcliff might also be giving him the one chance he had of redeeming his futile existence.

It was growing light, but the new day was bleak and angry, sliced every few seconds by vivid forks of lightning that stabbed down at the dark heaving sea; and the rain showed no signs of letting up.

It was 07.10 hours, on that Tuesday morning, when the Le Corsaire finally weighed anchor - the remainder of its cargo now piled under tarpaulins out on the airport ap.r.o.n, waiting to be loaded on to the six Hercules.

Serge had stayed ash.o.r.e. His only luggage was his briefcase, out of which he now took his personal effects - a compact leather toilet-case, battery-operated shaver, and a plastic, sleeping-bag which folded up into the size of a large envelope. He obviously didn't intend to stay long.

Rawcliff wondered what else he was carrying in that briefcase.

Jo, having finally detached herself from the attentions of Captain Spyromilio and his friend, now stood checking off each item of cargo before it was loaded aboard the various aircraft. A tedious routine job, which she performed meticulously; while the loading itself - under Serge's direction - was executed with military efficiency.

At the end of two hours she had recorded 200 packed tents, 5 tons of blankets, 10 tons of powdered milk, 1,000 yards of bandages, 500 litres of blood plasma, 2,000 litres of saline solution, 60 drums of heating-oil, 500 cheap cooking-stoves, 3 mobile operating theatres, 6 tons of surgical equipment, and 4 tons of medicines, complete with detailed receipts from a reputable Swiss pharmaceutical company, together with all the correct export-licences.

Captain Spyromilio, having reached a satisfactory arrangement with Peters, and deprived now of Jo's company, had been anxious to leave; but the Customs officer - no doubt in the hope of finding something that could provide him with the excuse to extort further Danegeld from the organization's apparently limitless slush-fund - had continued to nose under the tarpaulins, like an overfed animal rooting for further food.

Among the last items to come ash.o.r.e were twelve one-gallon tins of matt-grey paint, six powerful paint-sprayers, a dozen unmarked wooden crates, and a heavy, sealed metal box. All these had been entered on the Bills of Lading as 'miscellaneous'.

The Customs officer poked at one of the crates, and demanded to see inside.

Serge obliged, having to break the lid open with a crow-bar. The crate was packed solid with large nuts, bolts and nails. Quite relaxed the Frenchmanagain used Rawcliff as interpreter, to explain that the contents were intended for ballast. The officer, looking doubtful, gestured with his blue jowls towards the steel box.

This time Serge spoke - still through Rawcliff- directly to Captain Spyromilio, who spoke English with an unhappy c.o.c.kney patios which he claimed to have learnt as a student at the North London 'Polytechnic. He listened restlessly, while the Frenchman explained that the steel box contained valuable serum for treating a tropical disease with a name that Rawcliff had never heard before, and which he suspected the Frenchman might have invented.

Serge went on to emphasize that the box was hermetically sealed, that the medicine would be ruined once opened, and that hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives would be put instantly at risk.

Captain Spyromilio began to ask Rawcliff why the item was not accompanied by the correct doc.u.mentation - 'I don't want no b.l.o.o.d.y c.o.c.k-up here, I don't, and you can tell 'im that from me' - and when Rawcliff had finished translating, as best he could, Serge replied with a short graphic comment on officialdom versus humanity, adding just the hint of a threat concerning what he called 'le pet.i.t cadeau' which had been agreed between the policeman and Peters.

Rawcliff suspected that it was the Frenchman's tone and manner, rather than his second-hand words, which settled matter. The Captain conceded, with a grin; and Peters was soon escorting the two Cypriots in their car back towards the gates.

Eight.

All six Hercules were fully fuelled and loaded by ten am. The rain had slackened, but the horizon was still dark with ragged cloud, rising into the towering wall of an unmistakable c.u.mulus-nimbus formation, which is the kind of cloud that even the most brazen and experienced pilot does well to avoid.

Thurgood's radio was also picking up reports from weather-stations all round the Eastern Mediterranean, predicting a continued turbulence for the rest of that day. For tomorrow - Wednesday - forecasts remained uncertain. The storm had moved south of Cyprus, and was now stretched in a belt from Malta in the west, to the Lebanon and Israel in the east, and was even reported to be close to the Nile Delta.

Serge waited until eleven, before taking his decision. The first flight was cancelled until further notice. The whole team were to return to their hotels, to remain close to a telephone, stay sober, and to make contact with no one on the outside.

He dismissed them, to their various jeeps, then turned back into the hangar where he unrolled his plastic sleeping-bag.

It was barely a three-minute stroll from the Lord Byron, down to the seafront, and a couple of blocks further to the Sun Hall Hotel. The wet streets were swollen with noon traffic, before the siesta, the pavements a ma.s.s of hurrying umbrellas. But Rawcliff still took elementary precautions, in case he were followed.

Along the seafront the palms were bending and writhing in the wind, the waves pounding and sucking at the steep pebbled beach, swamping the upturned fis.h.i.+ng-boats. At intervals lay long rows of bleached yellow nets, like thetresses of drowned girls. It seemed a good moment and a good spot to get rid of Grant's Webley. Without ammunition it was useless, except as a possible instrument of bluff; but then he knew well that it is the man who carries a gun who is most likely to be shot. Better leave that sort of thing to men like Ryderbeit and Peters.

He scrambled down to the sh.o.r.e, made certain no one was watching, then flung the revolver far out into the waves.

The desk-clerk at the Sun Hall told him the number of Nugent-Ross' room, on the first floor. This time he took the stairs. He wanted to avoid any close encounters in the lift. He was hoping that the others would be catching up on their sleep; but was particularly on the look-out for Peters. Ritchie"

probably wouldn't say anything, and Grant was no doubt back in bed. As for Jo, she was in no position to betray him.

He tapped on Matt's door, twice, and was eventually answered in Greek. 'Matt,'

he called quietly, 'It's Rawcliff.'

The door opened enough to show the American's ascetic features still creased with sleep. 'Hi.' He stood clutching a barely adequate towel to his waist.

'What time is it?' He glanced down at his watch, realized that he wasn't wearing one and almost lost the towel doing so. He looked again at Rawcliff with a funny smile that was almost a frown. 'Anything new on the flight? I haven't heard anything -n.o.body called me.' There was something uneasy about his voice, like that of a schoolboy caught cheating.

'Can I come in, Matt? I've got something I.want to talk to you about - and I don't have a lot of time.'

The American gave him an unhappy look, then nodded. 'Okay, I guess so.'

He opened the door and Rawcliff walked in. Jo was watching him from the bed.

She was lying back with her head on her arm and had made no effort to cover her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Matt gave a sort of chuckle which sounded more as though he were clearing his throat. 'I guess this is a kinda awkward situation, friend?'

'Not for me.'

'Jo and I are old buddies, as you know.' He was hurriedly pulling on a silk dressing-gown. 'Honey, would you mind if I talked to Mr Rawcliff in private?'

She threw back the sheets and stood up shamelessly, kicked on a pair of sandals and pulled on a short housecoat that reached only half-way down her thighs. 'See you, Matt. 'Bye, Mr Rawcliff- have a nice talk!' She brushed past him, and Rawcliff noticed that the side of her freckled face without make-up, was still slightly reddened and swollen. He wondered how she had explained it to Nugent-Ross.

The American locked the door and sat down. 'Kinda anticlimax for you guys, I guess? - having the flight cancelled?'

'It gives me a few hours' grace.'

Matt reached in the pocket of his dressing-gown and lit a cigarette.

'Something on your mind? Okay, I'm listening.'

'Do you know anything about a place called La Reunion?' 'French island in the Indian Ocean - somewhere near Mauritius, I think.'

'And the main port is called St Pierre?'

'Could be - I don't know.'

Rawcliff said, 'La Reunion is highly volcanic, which means sulphur and basalt deposits, which in turn can mean open-cast mining. And open-cast mining means explosives.' Do you know anything about explosives, Matt?'

The American sat stroking the light stubble on his chin. 'What are you getting at, friend?'

'What's the most lethal explosive on the market?'

'Depends what market. For open-cast mining - normal rock-blasting - don't they still use plastique? Very stable, flexible, and packs a lot o' punch. You used to be able to buy it over the counter in Switzerland, until the terrorist scare started.'

'What about the really serious stuff? Such as what the military use?'

Matt Nugent-Ross blew smoke at the ceiling 'You're talking about something like Amatol or Torpex. That way you get a really big bang - if you can get hold of it. that is.'

'How difficult is it to get hold of - in large quant.i.ties?'

'How large?', 'Let's say, around sixty tons.'

The American's face remained pa.s.sive. 'Am I reading you right, friend?'

'Matt, there are a couple of hundred fuel-drums stacked out at that airfield at the back of the hangar. Only they're a b.l.o.o.d.y sight too heavy to contain fuel.' It needed four men to move each of them. And one of them had "La Reunion" written on it, with what looked like the name of a mining company, registered in Lichtenstein. Does that suggest anything to you?'

*Should it?'

Rawcliff sat looking at him for a moment, in silence. 'Matt, don't let's get our wires crossed. You know Sammy Ryderbeit - you've known him longer than me.

Ryderbeit's not exactly discreet. Hasn't he ever mentioned to you a big French gangster-friend of his who's been behind a few dirty Barnes that he's been involved in?'

The American had got out another cigarette, but forgot to light it. 'Yeah, Sammy blabs a lot. Specially when he's on the sauce, which is most of the time. What's the tie-up?'

'Just that Lichtenstein is a convenient spot for a big international crook to register a ghost-company with alleged mining interests in a French island in the Indian Ocean. And with enough money and clout to be able to charter a French s.h.i.+p out of Ma.r.s.eilles with a load of high explosive. Which just happens to drop in, en route, unofficially, at a beach opposite an abandoned airfield on Cyprus. I'm not going too fast for you, am I?'

'You're doing fine.' Nugent-Ross struck a match, and watched it burn out, still without lighting his cigarette. 'Sixty tons of HE works out at ten tons per aircraft. Haifa pay-load? - what makes up the other half?'

'Okay, tell me.'

'The schedule's been changed - apparently for security reasons. We're now only flying one mission with medical supplies. But there's still enough fuel in that hangar for at least five missions.'

Matt looked gravely down at his unlit cigarette. Rawcliff thought he saw it tremble for a moment. 'Jesus. Six full payloads of HE and high-octane aviation-fuel, in equal parts. That would turn each into one great G.o.dd.a.m.n napalm bomb, each capable of destroying a vast area - buildings and people.

And the lucky ones wouldn't be the survivors.'

'How about throwing in a crateful of nuts and bolts and nails -just for ballast, as our French visitor so deftly put it?'

'Yeah, nice. Then you've got not only a napalm bomb, but an anti-personnel one too. What's somebody trying to do? Break the world-record for genocide since 1945?'.

They sat listening to the rain tapping against the windows. 'G.o.d, I could do with a drink,' Matt said at last.

Rawcliff sat forward. 'I don't exactly know what you're in this for, Matt. You told me you don't give a d.a.m.n, one way or the other. But I do. I don't mind earning the odd quid on the side, even if it does mean bending the law. But I've still got a few scruples. As I said I draw the line at killing people.'

Nugent-Ross said nothing. His weak pleasant eyes were staring past Rawcliff, at somewhere a long way away.

'You're lucky/Matt. You're the one who holds the ace. The only one who can activate those guidance-systems. Without you, it's no-go. That's your insurance - which is more than the rest of us have got.'

The American gave him a dull smile. 'Go on - I can take it.', 'All right, so let's take it slowly, step-by-step. We make the one dummy-run when the weather clears. Then we go in for the grand-slam. No blankets and medicines this time - just six Hercules loaded to the gills with HE and aviation fuel. Plus a few nuts and bolts, and a lot of powerful loudspeaker equipment, each wired up to a hi-fi system. Does that mean anything to you?'

'I've given up asking questions, friend. I've seen the stuff. I know about as much as you, or as little.' He sounded tired.

'Well, let's forget about the loudspeakers for the moment. I can tell you that at least you guessed right about the parachutes. The Frenchman confirmed it early this morning - that somewhere along the line we all bale out. All except you, that is. And Jo, of course.' He paused, but the American said nothing.

'I suppose someone's checked that we've all had experience. Grant doesn't look as though he's jumped before. Not that it much matters,' he added casually.

'They say you stand less chance of breaking your neck on a first jump than during a full training course. So! We're flying a prearranged course, and at a given signal we bale out. And from then on, those nice little gadgets of yours take over? Right?'

'Yeah. They'll need you to get the planes into the air. Those computer-babiescan manage just about everything, except a take-off and landing within a reasonable margin of safety. Certainly that strip out here rules them out.'

'So that leaves us all floating down, probably over some bit of lonely desert.