Holy Of Holies Part 24

His raw yellow eyes moved gloomily towards the desk on which their pa.s.sports were laid in a neat row, next to their vaccination certificates, Red Cross papers, licences, and each aircraft's doc.u.ments, together with the inventory of its cargo.

Peters, his blond head still supported by its pink halter, "said, 'Thurgood, you're likely to be in serious trouble. Don't expect any help from us, or from the British authorities here. The Arabs have a strict code of, law, and sacrilege against their holy pilgrimage to Mecca may well be a capital offence. That could mean the chop, Thurgood - literally.' And he sliced the edge of his hand down against his thigh.

Thurgood sat expressionless, his face flushed mauve with the aftermath of excitement, one leg stuck stiffly out in front of him. The policemen had not spared him with their canes, beating him thoroughly about the fleshy parts of his body; and one had struck him a hard nasty blow behind the knee so that he now had difficulty walking.

'Holy Moses!' Ryderbeit sighed wearily. He counted the team off on his fingers: 'Two semi-cripples. And one who behaves as though he's not even out o' flying-school. That only leaves us with our beautiful credentials.' He had got up and stood flipping through the pile of pa.s.sports on the desk. 'Grantie describes himself as a b.l.o.o.d.y florist! Very convincing. And Rawcliff's a wine merchant - which should go down well here! Mr Dirk Peters is a businessman.

Christ Come to think of it, I'm one too, though it sounds rather better in French - homme d'affaires. And Oswald's supposed to be some kind of engineer.

About the only honest one of you is Ritchie - described as straight pilot. And I was forgetting Jo. Registered nurse. Without the f.u.c.king veil.'

He sat down again and leered at Thurgood. 'I don't fancy your chances, Oswald-boy. Not one bit, I don't!'

Thurgood had begun scratching again. He seemed far more distressed by his superficial skin complaint than by the treatment he had just received at the hands of the airport police.

'I've heard stories about this Hadj to Mecca," Ryderbeit went on. 'They get- up to five million pilgrims pa.s.sing through here -'some of them have saved up all their lives and travel like cattle, and they crawl out of the holds of s.h.i.+ps like a walking laboratory, full of every germ known to mankind The Saudi authorities are very strict about sickness. Got knows what they're going to make of that skin of yours Oswald!' Thurgood touched his moustache. 'At least I've giver. them something to think about.' His pale eyes stared at the wall. 'I hope I did, anyway.'

'You're going to hope you were dead,' Ryderbeit said, 'when this lot have finished with you!'

Rawcliff broke in, 'There's something funny about all this, Sammy. The Saudis couldn't have known about Thurgood's skin trouble - or that he's a nut-case, for that matter. And it's highly irregular for civil aircraft to be intercepted and arrested outside a country's airs.p.a.ce.'

'What are you suggesting, Rawcliff?' Peters sat watching him with angry curiosity.

'I think they were tipped off. So somebody can establish that the cargoes are bona fide.'

Ryderbeit turned to Thurgood, 'What were your instructions, Oswald? Did someone tell you to f.u.c.k up just before you came in to land? Pay you a bonus to get us all locked up?'

Rawcliff shook his head. 'No, Sammy.' He looked despairingly at the mute, pa.s.sive figure of Thurgood, his mania once again expended, his body left bruised and itching. 'I don't think Thurgood's little act was written into the script. Though G.o.d knows where it leaves the rest of us. I could think it rather depends on whether Islamic Law recognizes collective guilt.'

The seven of them sat in moody silence. Occasionally, from outside, came a slow wailing and chanting, sad and dissonant, and full of alien menace, as the crowds of pilgrims fell to the ground in abject prayer. Thurgood's acrobatics must have seemed to them, in their primitive piety, like some divine intervention.

The door was unlocked and a tall man came in, wearing a white robe fastened around his head with a black and gold band. He had a stern grey face like smoked leather, a black beard, and deep black eyes. He bowed and sat down behind desk. At first he made no mention of Thurgood's performance. He ran through each of their doc.u.ments, in a careful deep-throated English which he had obviously learned in England. He wore sandals and a gold watch. He as immensely courteous. 'Which of you gentlemen, please, is the leader of your group?'

Peters stood up. White mercenary Infidel confronting the black-bearded emissary of Islam.

'You represent these gentlemen?' the robed man asked. He made no reference to Jo.

Peters nodded.

The Arab's questions were not hostile. He wanted to know how long they had worked for the Red Cross: whether they had any special interest in the conflict in Eritrea, and had they ever flown a mission like this before?

He seemed satisfied and bade Peters be seated again; then placed his long hands on the desk and fixed each of them with his black stare. Only when it came to Jo did his eyes pa.s.s on, as though she did not exist.

'It would appear, from your pa.s.sports, that you are British citizens, with the exception of Monsieur Ryderbeit. I shall therefore instruct a representativeof the British Emba.s.sy here in Jeddah to visit you in due time. Unfortunately, Monsieur Ryderbeit, Luxembourg is not represented in our city. However, in such a case as yours, the French Emba.s.sy will attend to your interests.'

'In what such case?' Ryderbeit said.

The Arab looked at him - at this tall, lean, athletic Jew from Southern Africa whose almost virgin pa.s.sport described him as a 'man of affairs' from the plump little Duchy of Luxembourg. The Arab's face was calm: a face of authority, of virtue, of a terrible certainty. He knew his duty and nothing would deflect him from it.

'I refer, Monsieur Ryderbeit, to such a case as a party of foreigners entering my country under circ.u.mstances which might provide grounds for suspicion.'

'We did not ask to enter your country,' Rawcliff put in. 'We were brought here under armed escort, from well outside the limits of your airs.p.a.ce.'

Peters said, 'By making an aerial arrest and forcing us to land, you are obstructing the work of the International Red Cross.'

The Arab looked at him, unmoved. 'You will be permitted to submit any complaints you may have to the representative of the British Emba.s.sy. Now I speak of the conduct of Mr Thurgood here.'

He p.r.o.nounced the name with impressive accuracy; then added, 'You appear to be distressed, Mr Thurgood?'

Thurgood had again begun to twitch and s.h.i.+ft in his chair. Their interrogator looked puzzled .Jo piped up,' Mr Thurgood is suffering from an allergy.'

The Arab ignored her. Thurgood was now scratching and plucking at his armpits like a monkey picking fleas. 'Remove your s.h.i.+rt, please,' the Arab ordered.

Thurgood obeyed with alacrity. In spite of Jo's earlier ministrations, his condition had deteriorated: to his own efforts of scratching and slapping were now added the livid weals from the policemen's canes, so that his pale torso this time resembled one of those wartime aerial maps of the Ruhr after a particularly savage raid; splotches of brown and red and purple, while little nests of fresh pink tumours were already sprouting up, each with a ripe yellow head.

The Arab stood up. 'The man has a sickness.' He gathered up his robes and turned towards the desk. 'It is an allergy,' Jo repeated, 'It isn't serious.' The Arab did not look at her. 'He will be examined by a doctor.

The rest of you will remain in detention while investigations are made.' He collected up the pa.s.sports off the desk. 'Your ident.i.ties will be fully checked and each of your aircraft will be subjected to a search. The case of your colleague, Mr Thurgood, will be considered separately.' He started towards the door, somehow managing to conceal the pa.s.sports and doc.u.ments within the folds of his robes. 'I shall now make the necessary representations to the British and French Emba.s.sies. It is necessary that everything is done correctly, according to the law of my country.' He bowed and left the room, and the armed policemen outside locked it after him.

'Oh Christ.' Guy Grant sank his head into his hands. Despite the air-conditioning he was damp with sweat. 'SNAFU - situation normal, all f.u.c.ked up. G.o.d, I could do with a quick one.'

'You're in the wrong b.l.o.o.d.y country,' Ryderbeit said, leering maliciously.'Unless you want a hundred whacks on the b.u.m. Still, you're a public school man, Granty - I expect you could take it.'

'Oh G.o.d,' Grant murmured.

Five.

Charles Pol did not like the town of Vevey. He did not like Switzerland, and he did not like the Swiss; although he continued to take full advantage of their multifarious banking arrangements.

He had only agreed to meet here, because his guest had insisted on it: an obscure cafe overlooking Lac Leman. The place did not even serve alcohol, and Pol was having to make do with a mug of chocolate. His guest, he noted with contempt, had ordered warm milk.

The squat 'silver-haired man sat opposite him, hands folded in his lap like a pair of napkins. 'I have just heard a bulletin on " Europe Radio Un." It reported that a plutonium plant is being established in the People's Democratic Republic of Yemen.'

'Eh bien?

'You are the source of the item, Monsieur Pol;' The man's eyes were like oysters behind their thick lenses. 'You should have consulted me first. This is a serious development, which could have grave consequences. You should have consulted me first.'

'I thought it was agreed that you wished to be involved as little as possible?

That I was to provide a subterfuge - a little canard, by way of a distraction.' Pol took a slurp of chocolate to hide his impish grin.

The man spoke with icy pedantry, 'This little canard of yours, Monsieur Pol, could precipitate an,international crisis.'

This time Pol disguised a smile at his guest's discomfort. 'We cannot play for high stakes, my friend, without taking high risks. And the greater the risk, the greater the deception. We are already agreed that all the powers involved must be deceived. That they even want to be deceived.'

'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.'