Holy Of Holies Part 30

Two.

On that same Friday morning, Don Laraby received his visitor promptly at 9.30 am, London time, in a small side-office, as quiet as a cell after the confusion of the big room next door.

Had it not been for the man's card, and a couple of phrases of introduction, Laraby might not have been inclined to take him seriously. An old-style Britisher straight out of Central Casting: three-piece chalk-stripe suit, pepper-and-salt moustache, tie of obvious distinction, though one whose origin eluded Laraby. No subtlety here, he thought. Laraby had had a few dealings with the Intelligence racket during his stint in the Middle East, and he'd never found subtlety yet. He guessed this breed to be almost extinct, except in a few London clubs, far-flung emba.s.sies, and among those Englishmen who worked as Stateside representatives for Rolls-Royce and malt whisky distillers. All that was missing was the rolled umbrella.

Laraby wasn't worried, or even puzzled; just slightly irritated that his visitor declined a chair. The American disliked formality. He said, 'Yeah, she got a stack of printouts and brought them up to me. Fairly straightforward.

Flight-path for somewhere in the Middle East, due south. She was expecting it to lead "to the Yemen.' He grinned sadly, 'I guess that Soviet nuclear base you've all been getting so steamed up about?' He lifted both hands in a mock gesture of surrender, but without effect. He Anight have guessed that the Englishman would not be amused.

Laraby fidgeted with a pen-holder. 'h.e.l.l, I was just doing the lady a favour.

Helped her check out some of the grid-references, using an ordinary atlas.' He smiled innocently. 'What's all the sweat?'

'But you did check the final reference?'

'Sure. The last reference that showed, that is. The stuff was dumped - a real mess - lotta sheets missing. I got no guarantee it was the final reference.'

'What was Mrs Rawcliff's reaction when you told her?'

Laraby's manner became wary: it was one thing answering straight technical inquiries, quite another delivering snap psychological judgements on one of his colleagues. 'Frankly I wasn't that interested. I think I made some crack about it being a chain of dance-halls - beauty contests - that kinda thing.

She thanked me and took the stuff away.'

'But she had already told you that it was in connection with a Tetra-Lipp guidance-system?'

'I think she mentioned it.'

'Did that strike you as at all unusual?'

Don Laraby sat forward. 'Listen Mr. . .'

'Jameson - as in the Raid.'

'Well, Mr Jameson, sir, you must understand that this is a big outfit we got here. We deal in every aspect of computers, from simple office equipment to alotta stuff that goes into the military complex. We do a job, and part of that job is not to run round asking questions. We haven't got the time.'

'Your Mrs Rawcliff evidently had.'

'Okay, so talk to her about it. She's in another department. As I said, I was just helping her out as a favour. She has her work to do, I have mine.' He looked pointedly at his watch.

His visitor ignored the hint. 'For some reason she was interested in the flight-path for a Tetra-Lipp Retropilot Mark 100/4? And somehow she got hold of a print-out of the path, but couldn't understand it? So you helped her out?

That is correct, Mr Laraby?'

The American resumed the ritual of removing his spectacles, wiping each lens, then putting them back on again; 'Listen, Mr Jameson, I appreciate that for you fellahs a Tetra-Lipp might sound pretty awesome. For us it's just another computer system. Darned sophisticated, darned expensive, but nothing out of Pandora's magic-box. And I surely don't have to remind you that it's off the cla.s.sified list?'

There was a calculated pause.

'What is Mrs Rawcliff's princ.i.p.al job here?' asked Jameson.

'In a single word, evaluator. a.n.a.lysing or processing pretty well anything that drops on her desk. I think she's on sugar forecasts at the moment. Next week it could be tin or nickel or chrome, or maybe gold or oil.'

'Rather a long way from the latest military guidance-system for low-flying aircraft?'

'Okay, you ask her. Unless it's confidential company business, of course.'

'I am afraid there is no "of course" about it, Mr Laraby. As a British subject, Mrs Rawcliff is duty-bound to answer any inquiries we may put to her.

She can also be required to sign the Official Secrets Act. I must be quite frank with you, Mr Laraby. I cannot afford to have any misunderstandings about this. As a United States citizen your position maybe slightly different. But I have been instructed to inform you that this matter has been discussed, at the highest level, with your Emba.s.sy here, and that we have been promised full cooperation.'

Laraby flushed. 'You trying to lean on me, Jameson? C'mon, let's have it straight! So I've got some info that your people don't want spread about? Mrs Rawcliff and I keep our mouths shut and everything's tickittyboo? Right?'

'That's about the size of it - as far as you're concerned Mr Laraby.'

The American sat back and grinned. He was feeling a lot more nervous than he looked! 'Okay, what's the rub? If I talk outa turn, you invoke some kinda Aliens' Order, withdraw my work permit and sling me out? Or is this thing so important that you'd arrange some fancy car accident, maybe, like they do before the commercial break?'

'I am sure that you'll wish to be sensible about this, Mr Laraby. And I am also sure that you understand that this conversation - like your meeting with Mrs Rawcliff yesterday - is in the strictest confidence. I am very grateful to you for sparing me your time. Don't worry, I shall let myself out.' For some time Laraby sat and stared unseeing at the cheap lithograph on the wall opposite. He had always liked Judith Rawcliff - she was a nice, bright, attractive woman and d.a.m.ned good at her job. But just now he wished the h.e.l.l he'd never set eyes on her.

Three.

Rawcliff lay bruised and puzzled, his body resting on a cus.h.i.+on of soft sand as he watched the five wide, heavy-bellied grey planes closing into tight formation, flying away pilotless into the empty sky. They were losing height, growing smaller, down to 200 feet, which, by the magic of electronics and five slivers of tape, they would maintain, at a steady cruising speed of 240 knots, relentlessly following every contour of the land, every ridge and peak and valley, until a tiny magnetic impulse directed them to plunge into their intricately prepared holocaust.

The sand felt scorched, painful to the touch, and the heat lay on him like a ma.s.sive bone-aching weight. He could hear the engines droning dully, receding with a monotonous mechanical rhythm that seemed in tune with the pain in his head. He sat up, and was dimly aware of the great silken white shroud of the parachute draped across the sand behind him, its cords resting on his body.

For a moment he watched two white mushrooms drifting to earth, and saw the pilots scrambling up, pulling off their harnesses. He realized that if he lay here any longer he would begin to bake alive in the heat. He felt himself, carefully, antic.i.p.ating the sharp agony of a broken bone, a torn ligament; then stood up, unstrapping the harness and stepped free of the cords.

Trying to walk up the shelf of soft sand and reach the firmness of the landing strip was like walking in hot treacle, his muscles limp, uncoordinated, dropping on to his hands and knees, half-blinded by sweat, dragging himself forward, all adrenalin sapped, his body drained to the extremity of exhaustion.

The others were gathered around the Beachcraft. It was a quiet, sober scene.

No popping of champagne corks; n.o.body cheering or dancing. Ryderbeit was crouching on his haunches, lighting one of his long cigars. Ritchie and Serge leant against the wing of the little plane, chatting. Matt Nugent-Ross sat under the shadow of the wing and smiled from behind his dark gla.s.ses, as Rawcliff stumbled towards them.

Peters appeared a couple of minutes later, limping stiffly. The jump must have been agony on his damaged ankle; and for a dangerous moment Rawcliff felt sympathy for the man.

Peters had stopped several paces away from the rest of them. 'Where's Thurgood?' His clipped voice had a tinny sound in the empty stillness. The drone of the five Hercules had now died into the far distance. They were all staring out at the naked rock-face, the scarred sand, the wilderness beyond.

There was no movement, no speck, no sign of a parachute shroud.

Peters turned, he spoke to Nugent-Ross, 'Did you see him jump?'

'I counted four.' The American hesitated. 'All five aircraft were in formation.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' 'Just that he must have switched on the guidance-system,' said Matt.

'Why?' Peters was angry. 'He could have been flying in formation.'

Matt nodded. 'He could.'

Peters stood very still. His blond hair was in place, but there was a thin oil of sweat on his face. He took a last look at the desert, then turned again to Nugent-Ross, 'Can those things of yours be switched off?'

'Nope. Once the switch is down, the course is set. If he tries to override the auto-pilot, he'll crash.'

'We've no guarantee,' Rawcliff said, 'that he switched the thing on in the first place. He might be flying down to Jeddah, hoping to pick up some reward.'

Ryderbeit spat on the stony ground and watched the gob sizzle and shrink to nothing. 'Thurgood's cracked. Come on -I've fulfilled my contract. So have the rest of us. I'm not being paid to worry about what Flight-Lieutenant Thurgood does. Let's get going.'

Peters was still standing away from the rest of them.

Rawcliff watched him, still dazed. There was a thumping in his head. He saw Peters put his hand into his side-pocket and pull out the gun. Not the .22 this time. It looked like the .45 PPK that they'd taken off one of the dead militiamen. He fired it quickly, waist-high, and the three shots made an almost simultaneous crack that screamed across the empty sand, bouncing back from the cliff wall and numbing Rawcliff's eardrums so that he did not even hear the third shot.

Serge's solid body slid back with a clang of metal, as it collided with the Beachcraft's wing; and the little plane shuddered on its struts. Ritchie was still smiling, gla.s.sy-eyed, as he slid down and lay still beside the Frenchman. Serge had been hit messily in the throat, and tried to regain his balance, making a quick pirouette, both arms flung out like a drunken dancer.

Matt Nugent-Ross died without a sound, without expression, except that his dark gla.s.ses had slid off his nose. The heavy bullet had hit him in the chest, flattening his s.h.i.+rt against his ribs; as he sat down abruptly, and just stared at Peters, as though nothing had happened.

Peters now turned; he gave Rawcliff a funny, rigid little smile. 'I'm saving you for the last, Rawcliff. And you're not going to die quite so quickly.'

Rawcliff stood and watched the big gun move down so that it was pointing at his groin. It was then that Ryderbeit moved. He moved like a snake. His whole body whipped down, left hand still holding' the smoking cigar, while his right grabbed at his ankle and flashed back up, glinting in the sun. At first Rawcliff could not see what had happened. Peters' gun roared and sand spat up a few feet to Rawcliff's left foot; then the gun dropped against Peters'

boot.

Peters had put out his arm to try and balance himself. He stood swaying, and something black was sticking out of his open s.h.i.+rt, just below the collar-bone. Blood was beginning to swell up round it, trickling down his s.h.i.+rt. He looked blankly at Ryderbeit. 'You b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You knew the fat man's orders.

You weren't on the list. He told me to spare you. Why did you do it?' His voice slurred, broken by a cough which brought blood bubbling out of his mouth. He lost his balance and sat down in the sand, a few feet away from the body of Matt Nugent-Ross.

Ryderbeit drew on his cigar, then strolled over and wrenched the knife out of Peters' chest. The blood followed in a spurt, splas.h.i.+ng his boots. 'I did it because I don't like your manners, Peters. Now you just lie there and die quietly. You've had this coming to you for a long, long time. Sooner or later someone was going to catch up with you. You're just lucky it was me, and you got it quick and clean, with a knife. Some people wouldn't have been so kind.'

He leant down and picked up the Walther PPK, and stood for a moment weighing it in his hand. 'Lovely toy. But too much of a liability.' He stood back and hurled the heavy gun far out across the sand-strip, where it lay lost among the web of grooved trenches left by the five Hercules' landing-gear.

Then he turned back to the Beachcraft and s.h.i.+fted Serge's heavy body from beneath the wing. He did it effortlessly, without expression, like a farmer or a butcher handling a large carca.s.s. Next he systematically searched each of the sprawled bodies, and removed every item of possible identification, right down to wallets, watches, even proprietory labels on their clothing. He worked with a speed and rhythm that suggested to Rawcliff that he had done this sort of thing before. Finally he found a spare five-gallon can of petrol in the back of the Beachcraft. He had begun to empty it over the pile of doc.u.ments and papers, when Rawcliff said: 'What about the bodies?'

'Sure! If you give me a hundred gallons and about five hours. Any idea how long it takes to burn a human body?'

'You could disfigure them.'

Ryderbeit leered. 'The sun'11 do that in a few hours. Let's spare ourselves the smell. I haven't had breakfast, and I want to enjoy lunch, if possible.'

He dropped his lighted cigar and stepped smartly back to avoid the burst of white flame that lapped round the pile of dead pilots' belongings. Then he jabbed his thumb towards the Beachcraft.

'Let's get flying, soldier. It's too hot and I need a drink.

And we're not going to get one in this f.u.c.king country!'

He had opened the door of the Beachcraft and jumped aboard, pinched out a fresh cigar and lit it with a steady hand, before switching on the ignition; then, as Rawcliff climbed in beside him, he reached for Serge's map-case from under the seat and began to squint down at the flight-plan. Rawcliff noticed that he had wiped clean the knife before replacing it inside his boot.

Just as they began to taxi forward, Rawcliff glimpsed a movement from outside.

Peters was still alive, hunched up and coughing thick lumps of blood into the sand.

'We can't just leave him, Sammy!'

'So what do you want us to do - fly him down to Jeddah and book him into one of those big modern hospitals they've got there for treating their syph and piles? Come on, soldier, you're too sentimental for this game!'

Five minutes later they were climbing to"4,000 feet, heading west towards Sinai. It was mid-morning and the heat haze was rising like fog, shrouding the Bitter Lake and the straight dark line of the Ca.n.a.l, which is the best landmark a low-flying pilot could wish for. From now on they would have to rely on the gyrocompa.s.s. Ryderbeit was reluctant to use the radio, unless absolutely necessary: and in any case, he didn't trust the air-traffic controllers at Cairo West.

Neither of them liked the idea of Egypt - they would both have preferred a safe haven on mainland Europe, well outside the Arab orbit - but Cairo was the only obvious place within the Beachcraft's range. As though to emphasize this, the fuel warning-light began to flicker and Ryderbeit switched on to the reserve tank.

Rawcliff had never flown into Cairo West, but he knew its reputation as one of the most chaotic and badly run airports on the main routes to the East.

Ryderbeit cackled, chewing the stub of his fourth cigar. 'Well, I can tell you, soldier, the b.l.o.o.d.y place hasn't improved. The Gyppoes are enlarging it, and the last I heard, they hadn't even got a proper control-tower operating.

Instead, they had a couple o' b.a.s.t.a.r.ds using binoculars and walkie-talkies!

But I guess we can do with a little chaos at this point. Easier to get lost, with not too many questions asked.' He tapped the map-'case under his seat.

'Just remember, we're clean. Aerial reconnaissance for a French geological inst.i.tute. That's what the man said, and that's what his papers say. We got our pa.s.sports, licences, vaccination certificates. We're clean as a nun's knickers!'

As he spoke he was bringing the little plane down to below 2,000 feet, working hard to steady her against blasts of upward turbulence. He spat out his dead cigar. 'Our real problems start when we get to Geneva and try and draw the "loot. Charlie Pol may not look too quick on his feet, but you've got to move f.u.c.king fast to keep one step ahead of him!'

'It was his idea to have the rest of us killed?'

'Sure. He's the one who gives the orders.'

'Why?'

Ryderbeit turned and peered at him with his bright yellow eye. 'Pol holds the purse strings, and this way he's saving himself approximately a quarter of a million smackers - not counting Granty. Anyway, he doesn't want a lousy gang of witnesses sprawled over every bar in Europe, shouting their mouths off about how they helped spike the Soviet nuclear threat to the Arab Continent.'

'But he was prepared to spare you? And Peters?'

Ryderbeit sat forward, squinting ahead. The geometrical shapes of the Pyramids were beginning to form out of the haze; and beyond them the vast dirty sprawl of the city.

'He spared me because I'm useful to him. He's got good judgement, has Charlie Pol.'

'And Peters?'

'Another fall-guy. Third World mercenary, South African background, and n.o.body to love or miss him. Above all, n.o.body too keen to claim him.'

They were down to nearly 1,500 feet, holding a steady course towards the dimcriss-cross of runways.

'That leaves me feeling rather like a wild card,' Rawcliff said.

Ryderbeit had eased down the flap-lever with one hand and smacked Rawcliff hard on the knee with the other. 'I'll give you a good reference, soldier.