Holy Of Holies Part 8

Suchard and his mob were one thing. Pol was altogether something else. If the man's file was anything to go by, he brought a whole new dimension to the case.

One of the phones rang. It was Patrol in Gloucester Road, reporting that Thurgood had emerged from his service-flat and crossed the road, to have his solitary midday slice of pizza.

Nine.

When Suchard arrived that day for a late lunch at his club, he was in a light expansive mood. His guest was William Skate, a man whom an earlier generation would have honoured as an Arabist and a scholar - described today as an expert in Middle Eastern affairs. He was the author of a couple of books which had become obscure cla.s.sics, and was now on the board of several inst.i.tutions of an eclectic, semi-political nature, as well as a regular contributor to various learned journals. From time to time Suchard picked his brains, in exchange for a bad meal at his club.

They met in the panelled bar, and lunched under the portraits of frozen-eyed Admirals and varnished Field-Marshals. 'I'm afraid the food may be worse than usual. There's some sort of go-slow in the kitchen. It makes the members furious, but I think it's rather funny. We'll make up for it with the wine. As it's fish, we'll have white - they have a very reasonable hock.'

As a companion, William Skate was slow to warm up. He was a thin bone of aman, his flesh wasted away as a youth under the roasting suns of Arabia. He had a high forehead on which grew a tuft of grey hair which he pulled insistently while he talked, like the frayed end of a bell rope.

'So what's new, w.i.l.l.y?'

'Nothing's ever new in my field of work - you ought to know that. We go back to the Middle Ages. Or the Dark Ages.'

Suchard tasted the wine and winced. 'Not up to scratch, I'm afraid, but I suppose it'll have to do. Religion's not in my line, w.i.l.l.y, As you know, I'm an honest-to-G.o.d agnostic who believes that if the Almighty really is alive and well, he should be ashamed of himself. But Iran has made us all reach for our reference books.' He smiled indulgently. 'I don't want to batter you about the head, my dear fellow. But I'm an ignorant b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and I'm rather pressed.

Something's dropped into my lap which might - just might - have a Middle-Eastern flavour. We've got nothing specific.

'Islam seems to be rearing its ugly head - or many heads -right across the spectrum, from the fundamentalists in Iran and the traditionalists in Saudi Arabia, to the wild Left in Iraq and Libya. And religion means oil, and we all know what oil means.

'Then again, it could have something to do with the Yids, but so far we've no direct lead to them. I'm staying away from our Israeli sources, as much as possible. You know' what happens if you light a match there - their chaps in the Mossad have it on file in Jerusalem within minutes. Saudi Arabia - absolutely nothing. We've considered the Lebanon, but it hardly seems worth the candle. What I want to know, w.i.l.l.y, is - have you heard anything?'

William Skate tugged at his forelock, as though to release some inner mechanism of the brain. He had the habit of the professional pedant never to answer a question directly, but to lead up to his judgement with a series of expositions, tedious and immaculate in detail. He covered the history and the developing role of the Arab world, concentrating on what he called 'the Holy Crescent of Islam' - a general phrase, he conceded, that excluded the peripheral Muslim areas of Black Africa, the hinterland of the Indian sub-continent, extending into Soviet Russia, and the Muslim areas of the Far Bast, like those of Indonesia and the Philippines. But what he really wanted to talk about was his speciality - the Middle East, which mostly meant the Arabian Peninsula.

'To understand Islam, it is also necessary to understand that it is, in essence, a very simple religion. In fact, it is simplistic. That is its charm, and also its danger. It is almost entirely uncerebral, and unlike other great religions -Christianity and Buddhism, for instance - it encourages almost no form of contemplation. Islam has no equivalent of monasteries or convents. It does not demand thought - it demands of its followers only belief, total belief.'

'Not belief. Faith,' Suchard said, sipping his thin soup. 'Belief depends on reason, and there is very little that is rational about most religious doctrines.'

"But Islam is a very practical religion,'' Skate went on. "The mosque is not only a place of prayer - it also serves as a town-hall, law court, school, even university. It is also a social centre, in the most literal sense, carrying with it the traditional source of power and influence bestowed on religious leaders since the sixth century. It is that power and influence which are being felt today in what is rather crudely called the "IslamicRevival".

'But there is a paradox here. From its very inception, by the Prophet Mohammed, it has been an all-embracing, pervasive and therefore highly political religion. Far more than is Christianity. And at the same time, as a creed, it is fairly pa.s.sive, even supine. It also has a very high boiling point. But when that point is reached, it tends to boil over. This happened in the Middle Ages, under Tamburlaine and Saladin, and under the spread of the Ottoman Empire, when Islam carried with it the most advanced civilization of its time. Then, for some mysterious reason, it withered and died - or rather lay doggo. Talk about sleeping dogs. Well, this one isn't just awake - it's getting out of bed.'

'You sound quite Buchanesque, my dear w.i.l.l.y. Next you'll be talking about the Return of the Prophet. Or even the Mahdi - G.o.d forbid!' Suchard smiled over his spoon.' The sword of Saladin replaced by the Kalashnikov rifle.'

Skate continued, as though he had not heard. 'But Islam has another important characteristic which one must remember. The word means to "surrender" - total giving of oneself to the one and only G.o.d, Allah. Mohammed, as you probably know, is not wors.h.i.+pped like Christ - he was simply an ordinary merchant from Mecca whom Allah chose to inspire with His Holy Word, which Mohammed inscribed and pa.s.sed down in what is now the Holy Koran. Unlike the Bible, it is a short work. It contains no real history, no true philosophy except of the most simple and practical kind, and it includes, of course, a kind of rough-and-ready penal code - known as Islamic Law, which in the West is largely synonymous with amputation, flogging, stoning to death. Rather unfair, since when it first appeared, the Koran was a highly enlightened and progressive teaching.'

'So, I dare say, was the Star Chamber,' Suchard said, finis.h.i.+ng his soup.

'Except that in the case of Islamic Law, we're talking about the Sixth Century - not the Sixteenth. There were no doubt people who considered trial-by-ordeal, even the sacrifice of the First-Born, as being progressive and enlightened. But this isn't a tutorial, w.i.l.l.y. I want to know about Islam today. Or, more precisely, something that might fit in with the Islamic threat. How do you see that threat?'

'It depends on which side of the mirror you're standing. The Islamic world - which is by no means all Arabic - is polarized between two constants. Oil and religion. For the rulers of all those countries which have the oil, they present an appalling dilemma - one that is only just becoming, apparent. We saw the paradox most vividly acted out in Iran - fabulous wealth, rapid mindless industrialization, the growth of the most vulgar and seductive of Western values, all coming smack up against the rock of Islam, which promised purity, a return to the strict values of the family, the simple life, and a selfless devotion to Allah.'

'Very nicely put, from the dispa.s.sionate point of view, w.i.l.l.y. But it doesn't quite answer my question. If Islam's not on our side, is there any way of coaxing him round? Or are we to remain perennial, even perpetual, infidels and outcasts?'

'From the political angle, I don't think you can exaggerate the importance of Islam. What exactly is your problem?'

'The problem is, I don't know. w.i.l.l.y, I look upon you as a sort of seismic counter. As though you register so many points on the Skate-Richter scale, whenever there's an upheaval in the Middle East. Or, more important, whenever there's about to be an upheaval. Has the needle been registering anythingrecently?'

Skate picked a fishbone out of his teeth. 'Put like that, it's moving all the time. Iraq is pulling back from the Soviet abyss. And there you have a complex struggle between the two Islamic sects, the Sunnis and the s.h.i.+'ites. While in Afghanistan we have a nice ill.u.s.tration of how Communism, with its soulless atheistic materialism, is just as much an anathema to Islam as is Western society. But, of course, inside that conflict you have all kinds of apparently independent contradictions.

'Iran offers perhaps the best example - a spontaneous, gra.s.s-roots revolution, producing an extreme populist regime, complete with revolutionary tribunals, secret trials, summary executions, and such weird offences as "crimes against G.o.d". And this regime is not only anti-Marxist, anti-Communist and anti-Russian, but also bitterly anti-Western.

'Then over in Libya we have the eccentric Colonel Gadaffi, who claims to be both Muslim and Marxist, and manages to reconcile the two rather well. His regime is austere, despite its enormous oil revenues; and rather than pursuing the high life, like the Saudis and the Gulf States, Gadaffi spends a lot of money helping any revolutionary cause that takes his fancy, which has included the IRA, the Red Brigades in Italy - even Idi Amin, for no better reason than that the wretched fellow was one of the faithful. What did the FO boys think of that?'

'You know better than to ask me, w.i.l.l.y. Half of them still belong to the old school - Thessiger, Lawrence, even Burton. I often think that some of them were reading Omar Khayyam on nanny's knee, instead of Hans Christian Andersen.

The clean desert Arab - honest Johnny Turk. Tough, down-to-earth chaps you can trust. Not like the clever Jew, the smarmy Western Oriental Gentleman outside the p.a.w.nbroker's and the bazaar. I do apologize for this fish,' he added, making a delicate incision in a slice of Dover sole. 'They're supposed to fillet it, but it's no good balling them out - we'd have the whole kitchen out on strike. All power to the working cla.s.s.' He laid down his knife and fork, and pushed his plate away.

'I'm interested, though, when you observe that Islam is just as inimical to the creed of Marx, and Marx's atheistic materialism, as it is to the philosophy and standards of the West. If I'm not right, w.i.l.l.y, aren't one-third of the Soviet Republics Islamic?'

'Not only that,' "Skate said, with almost threatening emphasis. 'It is estimated that by the turn of the century, Islam will claim half the population of the Soviet Union.'

'Allah be blessed,' Suchard said gently. 'And what happens when that can of worms is opened? Perhaps that's the joker in the pack? Otherwise, it looks as though we're betting on Red or Black - the Kremlin's got the missiles and the muscle, the Sheikhs and the Ayatollahs and the mad Colonels have got the oil.

Either the Soviet tanks come rolling down Pall Mall, or nothing rolls at all - tanks or cars or anything. Unless somebody can find a middle way.'

'And you want to know if I've heard anything?'

'I can give you a little clue, the faintest whisper. There's some international outfit who bought up half a dozen heavy transport planes and are hiring pilots here in Britain. It stinks, but we don't know what of. There are several options, given the range of the planes, but I've plumped for the Middle East.' 'You could hardly have chosen a wider area, or a more varied one. I was on the point of adding the metaphor about a needle in a haystack' - Skate grinned; he was unused to wine at lunch, and Suchard had ordered a second bottle.

'A fleet of heavy transport planes don't disappear, except perhaps in the Empty Quarter. From what we can gather, they're running on a budget of several million pounds. The backer is a French gangster with close connections with the French hush-hush boys. But the fact that they're recruiting British pilots, suggests somebody wants to bury the French connection. We could nip it all in the bud, but we're curious. The Frenchman's form has one common denominator - he not only has a lot of useful friends in high places who keep him both alive and out of jail, but he also likes to play games. It tickles his fancy to back the small-time players against the big boys. Algerians against the French, North Vietnamese against the Americans.' He paused; chose some cheese. 'We badly want to know what he's up to this time - using British subjects to embarra.s.s us, no doubt, if things go wrong. Or perhaps, even if things go right? The man doesn't play by any accepted rules.'

Skate wrenched at his hair. 'I'm no politician, Simon.

And I'm no strategist. I can give you some idea about the changing political pattern in the Middle East, and I could suggest a few sources that might put up the sort of money you're talking about - unless, of course, it's die French government who are backing this operation?'

'I don't think so. Not overtly, at any rate. They're worried sick about oil but I don't think they're desperate enough to try any rough stuff at this stage.'

'May I ask you something?' Skate scooped out a spoonful of Stilton, to Suchard's polite disapproval. 'Why all the interest in Islam?'

'Just a delicate whiff in the air, w.i.l.l.y. Oil and Islam are the crucial ingredients, as you pointed out. Supposing someone wanted to divide Islam - turn one sect against another, split it down the middle?'

When Skate answered, he had twisted his forelock into a stiff spiral that stuck out vertically, making him look like an ascetic unicorn. 'There is a schism, as I told you, between the traditional Moslems, the Sunnis - and the s.h.i.+'ites. But I'd have to belabour you with a lot of high theosophy, and even then, I don't think I could answer your question.' He paused again. 'Haven't you got the slightest clue what these transport planes might be used for?'

'Strictly entre nous' - Suchard laid a finger against his lips -'something that may be important, may not. But we've had a tip that one of the recruited pilots bought up a load of expensive loudspeaker equipment, with six tape-recorders. They were s.h.i.+pped out, quite legally, to Athens, a couple of weeks ago. Enough to equip each plane with six speakers, plus sensor devices to make them carry above any amount of noise. So - what do your grey cells make of that?'

William Skate gave an unexpected smile. 'If*you're talking about straws in the wind - well, I've got something that might help. It certainly didn't mean a thing to me at the time. But I've got a Palestinian friend - naturalized, thoroughly vetted, perfectly above-board - who works for the BBC Arab Service.. He translates scripts. Doesn't broadcast, so his voice isn't known - which might be relevant. I saw him the other evening and he happened to mention that he'd had a small windfall. A foreign chap - he thought he was French - offered him ,250 in cash to make a short recording in Arabic. When I say short, I mean literally about two sentences. 'Of course, he jumped at it, you know what the old Beeb pay, especially in the foreign services! The Frenchman said it was some voice-over for a radio-play.'

'Get on with it, w.i.l.l.y. Can you remember what the sentences were?'

'I can, as a matter of fact. They were rather bizarre. A sort of announcement that the Second Prophet was coming -Ali, the cousin and son-in-law of Mohammed, in the form of the promised Mahdi. He was coming to announce that Allah was displeased with Islam and that he was bringing retribution against Man for his sins. That was about the gist of it - no mention of what the retribution would be.

'The significance of the p.r.o.nouncement, from a strictly ecclesiastical point of view, is that in Islamic lore, Mohammed cannot return as a prophet, or as the Mahdi. But his cousin, Ali, can.'

Suchard sat fingering his elegant profile. 'More and more like the good Buchan! But it seems a pretty crude way of putting the wind up a few simple-minded Bedouins. Hardly worth an outlay of several million pounds.

Still it's worth thinking about. The devil of it is, w.i.l.l.y, there are so many possibilities - so many combinations of terrorism and counter-terrorism.

Without a clear lead, it's impossible to move. At the very worst it could be a suicide-strike against Israel - Tel Aviv, Haifa, even Jerusalem. We do know that the pilots are expected to fly very low, which suggests trying to avoid radar or missiles.' He put his hand to his brow. 'And I've got to serve up something concise and lucid for the Minister, by eight this evening. Something simple, which, if necessary, can be turned into a Written Answer.

'So what have we got? Western civilization crumbling in a mora.s.s of hedonism, unbridled materialism, social indiscipline, and the rule of special interest groups. No argument there, I think? While on the other side of the coin, an Islamic Revival hardly squares with the Marxist myth of .prising under a vanguard of the Workers' Party. Ergo, the gospels of Marx and Lenin, of Freud, Kate Millett, and the Club of Rome - both the most "radical" and the most "conservative" - all equally hostile to Islam. It's a horrible equation, w.i.l.l.y. If only we could narrow the field down to just one or two targets.'

'I'm sorry, Simon. All I can do is widen the field. Iraq, for instance - an uprising by the s.h.i.+'ite minority against the Sunni rulers in Baghdad. Or the Kurds in Iran - though I doubt that they've got that sort of money to throw around. Somebody might be trying to take a crack at the Saudis -trying to ferment a bit of anti-Sunni, anti-Western affluence along the lines of Khomeini. Though they're all long shots, and I don't see many dividends in any of them for this French gangster of yours.

'But it's just occurred to me, you might try another tack. A number of Third World states are trying - G.o.d help us -to develop their own A-bomb. Apart from Israel and South Africa, Libya and Pakistan are the favourite contenders. A lot of fancy electrical equipment - ostensibly for domestic use - has been finding its way to those countries, particularly to Pakistan. Not to mention uranium. Most of the EEC countries have embargoed the stuff - but, typically, not the French! Does that mean anything to you?'

Ten.

Muncaster drank another coffee and read the report on Dirk Peters. He was an easy subject to follow, on account of the fact that he evidently had a sprained or broken ankle, walked with crutches, and also wore a neck-brace. He was driven about in a minicab - the firm was checked, without any interesting results - and spent most of the morning moving around, making calls from pay-phones, usually in obscure cafes or pubs. Most of the calls were local.

The Special Branch were running a trace on them now. At least two of them were to Jim Ritchie, and one to Thurgood's service-flat. Conclusion - Newby was inside and the rest were getting ready to bolt.

Just after two o'clock Peters made a long-distance call from a public box in Victoria Station - to the growing fury of a queue outside, which included the SB man, all of whom Peters treated with icy indifference. This call was to the President Hotel, Geneva.

Peters then had lunch at a big hotel off Piccadilly, from where he made a second international call. And this time the SB man had used his credentials to get the number from the hotel operator - 010 357 61. Port of Larnaca, Cyprus. Also one of the bases from which Mr Kyriades operated.

Muncaster felt he ought to call Suchard, but the man would almost certainly be out for lunch. While Whitehall lunched, the rest of the world had to wait. But that suited Muncaster. He spent the time tying up a few loose ends before he wrapped the parcel up and handed it to his superiors. The Voluntary Service Overseas confirmed that Miss Joanna Sheila Shelby had recently worked in Cyprus, at a camp near Larnaca, but had been sacked for neglecting her duties.

She was no longer working for the organization .

A few minutes later, Athens Airport cabled that Miss Sh.e.l.lby was booked on the Olympic afternoon flight to Nicosia, Cyprus.

Then, at three-forty Thurgood again surfaced - not to get a pizza this time, but to take the Circle Line from Gloucester Road to Victoria, where he checked in at the British Caledonian office, with a single piece of hand-luggage, and took the train to Gatwick in time to catch the late afternoon flight to Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris.

Still unable to contact Suchard, Muncaster rang Addison of the Special Branch, who answered angrily, 'You know what my instructions were. Gatwick had to let him go, and from Paris he could be going anywhere.'

Suchard sounded mildly tired, and even more detached than usual, when Muncaster finally got through. The Superintendent told him about Thurgood, and about Peters and the two calls - the second one to the Sun Hall Hotel, Larnaca - and said he was going to try to rouse Interpol and get them to check the guest-list. Muncaster concluded by saying that Ritchie had returned from giving the girl a lift to Heathrow, and hadn't budged since; and that they were still making heavy progress with Newby at Lucan Place.

'I know his type,' Muncaster said. 'He'll play for time, then try to give us a totally false lead. I want him to break of his own accord - get his self-confidence to melt away like a candle, if you see what I mean?'

'Nicely put,' Suchard said wearily. 'I've just spoken to the Minister, Cyril.

He's been in for the last hour with the highest of the high. Even the Service Chiefs were there, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if the wires weren't humming to Was.h.i.+ngton by now. You've done a good job.'

'Done? I've only just started putting the pieces together.' 'You can forget it, Cyril. Put it all on file, market "top secret" and bung it over here. And don't let those SB boys get their hands on it - there's been one leak too many, as it is.'

'What on earth is going on?' Muncaster demanded.

'The Defence lads are half-sold on a theory that the planes are intended for delivering vital material to produce an A-bomb. We think it's probably Pakistan, or maybe Libya.

But keep that tight under your hat. And I don't want your flat-footed sleuths doing anything to scare them off. Above all, do nothing to stop them.'

For several seconds Muncaster stared at the fat girl in the check blouse who brought the coffee round. He sniffed and reached into his box of Kleenex; he was too old a hand to get angry - anger, even disappointment, were not helpful emotions, and they certainly weren't professional.

'So I'm to call them off and shut up shop?' he said quietly.

'And let slip the dogs of war, dear Cyril, straight back to their kennels.

Don't worry, old chap, your name is carved in immortality - it'll be worth at least an OBE.'

' "Knickers Galore" is good,' Hood was saying, running the tip of his biro along the cracked seams of wood in the table. 'But "More Knickers Galore"' - he looked at a second plain clothes man with a pudding-basin hair-cut, sifting with his chair propped back against the wall - 'I don't think "More Knickers Galore" is very original, do you, Punchie?'

Newby had now been at Lucan Place Police Station for nearly fifteen hours, except for his brief excursion to court that morning with Vincent Colgrave.

The rest of the time had been spent in the same bleak little room, somewhere in that ugly heartless building, lit by an opaque window high in the wall.

They had returned all his belongings, except his credit cards and cheque books, and had supplied him with shaving tackle, and served him a vile breakfast and lunch, a.s.suring him that both came from the canteen where the rest of the officers ate. The English were so genteel in their barbarity!

'It's a pretty silly name,' the second plain clothes man, called 'Punchie', said. 'But then it's a pretty silly business. Silly and dirty. Nasty too - isn't it, Sarge?'

'Oh, it can be. Can be very nasty indeed. Specially when they start getting at the kids. Not just showing the stuff to 'em. Using 'em. Doing things to 'em, and photographing it, even getting it on tape. We've got some tapes, haven't we, Punchie?'

Brought in last night, after the raid.'

They had both been talking as though Newby were not present. He interrupted in a crumbling voice, 'I'm being held under the Official Secrets Act. So what is all this talk about my shops? It is simple, run-of-the-mill commerce -plain heteros.e.xual up-and-down. Routine stuff, I tell you! I have never employed children! In G.o.d's name, I have not!'

'Don't blaspheme,' Hood said, and lit a cigarette. 'Just run-of-the-mill p.o.r.n, eh? I wonder what they'll say when those tapes are played in court?' He stared lazily at Newby through the smoke. 'We've got you all ways, old son. You'll be lucky to get less than ten years for conspiracy under the Secrets Act. Or fivefor kiddies' p.o.r.n. Paedophilia, I think they call it, don't they? Sounds like a skin disease. Nasty, very nasty. n.o.body likes that kind of thing - not even the cons.'

Punchie had brought his chair down with a bang. 'Do you follow what the sergeant's saying, little man? He's saying that n.o.body, absolutely n.o.body, loves your sort. The public don't like you, we fuzz don't like you - and, my G.o.d, the old lags inside won't like you! You'd be surprised how old-fas.h.i.+oned and puritanical our cons can be. Murderers, arsonists, blackmailers, bank-robbers - even terrorists -they're all acceptable members of prison society. But not filth like you. Not people who tamper with children. Christ, Newby, you're going to enjoy that five years!' He turned slowly to Hood.

'I wonder how long they'll take to cotton on to him, Sarge?'

'Usually takes a few weeks, even months. This lad' - with a blind nod at Newby - 'will probably try to get away with it by pretending he's a con-artist or some financial wizard who'5 been caught with his fingers in the till. Then some nosy old lag - some trustie, probably - will get a peak at the Governor's files. And what does he see? He sees that friend Newby's inside for misusing and molesting minors - little children - for his own perverted s.e.xual pleasure and for the pleasure of others. Tell him what happens then, Punchie.'

The young man with the pudding-basin hair-cut smiled broadly at Newby. 'I don't suppose, sir, in your circles you get to know much about prison life.

All swish hotels with call-girls who come up with the champagne and caviar and go down with the breakfast? That right?'

'Go on, tell him,' Hood said.

'Well it's like this, Mr Newby. The word gets out, you see, and at some strategic time, usually just after exercise all the screws - wardens to you - on your block just happen to find themselves in one place, at one time, nothing secret, just happens like that. And the whole block goes very quiet.

The cons who don't want to get involved go to their cells and pretend to be asleep.' Hood glanced at Punchie, both of them ignoring Newby. 'I know all this, from Sharpie, who did the Beaconsfield job. He was in Wandsworth when they played host to the m.u.f.f-artist who fiddled with those two schoolgirls from the comprehensive.'

'Tell him,' Hood said again.

Punchie told Newby, in laconic and sickening detail. 'They had an inquiry, of sorts, and got two of the blokes on a technical. I think they did some solitary, plus loss of privileges. I tell you, Mr Newby, the fellow was screaming the whole time.'