by Wilbur Smith
There was a log fire burning in the deep walk-in fireplace of Steven’s study. The portals were magnificently carved altar surrounds from a sixteenth-century German church, salvaged from the ruins of World War II Allied bombing and purchased by Steven from a Spanish dealer, after having been smuggled out through Switzerland.
Opposite the fireplace, bow windows with leaded panes and ancient wavy glass looked out over the rose garden. The other two walls housed Steven’s collection of rare books, each boxed in its individual leather-bound container and lettered in gold leaf. The shelves reached from floor to the high moulded ceiling. It was a passion that the brothers shared.
Steven stood now in the fireplace with his back to the flames, one hand clasped in the small of his back, hoisting up the skirts of his tweed jacket to warm his backside. In the other hand he held a deep crystal tumbler, still half filled with whisky, hardly diluted by the soda he had dashed into it from the syphon.
Steven still looked shaken and pale, and every few minutes he shivered uncontrollably, although the room was oppressively heated by the blazing fire and all the windows were closed tightly.
Peter sprawled in the brocade-upholstered Louis Quatorze chair across the room, his legs thrust out straight and crossed at the ankles, hands thrust deeply into his pockets, and his chin lowered on his chest in deep thought.
‘How much was your contribution to Caliph’s war chest?’ Peter asked abruptly.
‘I was not in the same class as Aaron Altmann,’ Steven answered quietly. ‘I pledged five millions in sterling over five years.’
‘So we must imagine a network extending across all international boundaries. Powerful men in every country, each contributing enormous sums of money – and almost unlimited information and influence—’
Steven nodded and took another swallow of his dark-toned whisky.
‘– There is no reason to believe that it was only one man in each country. There may be a dozen in England, another dozen in Western Germany, fifty in the United States—’
‘It’s possible,’ Steven agreed.
‘So that Caliph could very easily have arranged the kidnapping of Melissa-Jane through another of his chain in this country.’
‘You must believe I had nothing to do with it, Peter.’
Peter dismissed this new protestation impatiently, and went on thinking out aloud.
‘It is still possible that Caliph is a committee of the founder members – not one man at all.’
‘I don’t think so—’ Steven hesitated. ‘– I had a very strong impression that it all was one man. I do not think a committee would be capable of such swift and determined action.’ He shook his head, trying to cast his mind back for the exact words which had formed his impressions. ‘– You must remember that I have only discussed Caliph with one other person, the man who recruited me. However, you can be certain that we discussed it in depth and over an extended period. I was not about to put out five million on something that didn’t satisfy me entirely. No, it was one man who would make the decision for all of us – but the decisions would be in the interest of all.’
‘Yet there was no guarantee that any individual member of the chain would be informed of every decision?’
‘No. Of course not. That would have been madness. Security was the key to success.’
‘You could trust somebody you had never met, whose identity was hidden from you – you could trust him with. vast sums of money, and the destiny of the world as we know it?’
Steven hesitated again as if seeking the right words. ‘Caliph has an aura that seems to envelop all of us. The man who recruited me—’ Steven seemed reluctant to repeat the name again, proof to Peter of the influence that Caliph exerted ‘– is a man whose judgement I respect tremendously. He was convinced, and this helped to convince me.’
‘What do you think now?’ Peter asked abruptly. ‘Are you still convinced?’
Steven drained the whisky glass, and then smoothed his moustache with a little nervous gesture.
‘Come on, Steven,’ Peter encouraged him.
‘I still think Caliph had the right idea—’ he said reluctantly. ‘– The rules have changed, Peter. We were fighting for survival of the world as we know it. We were merely playing to the new morality—’
He crossed to the silver tray on the corner of his desk and refilled the whisky glass.
‘– Up to now we have had one hand tied behind our backs, while the Reds and the extreme left and the members of the Third World have had both hands to fight with and a dagger in each one. All Caliph did was to take off our shackles.’
‘What has made you change your mind then?’ Peter asked.
‘I’m not sure that I have changed my mind.’ Steven turned back to face him. ‘I still think it was the right idea—’
‘– But Peter insisted.
Steven shrugged. ‘The murder of Aaron Altmann, the mutilation of Melissa-Jane—’ He hesitated. ‘– Other acts of which I suspect Caliph was the originator. They were not for the common good. They were merely to protect Caliph’s personal safety, or to satisfy what I am beginning to believe is vaunted and unbridled lust for power.’ Steven shook his head again. ‘I believed Caliph to be noble and dedicated – but there is no nobility in some of the things he has done. He has acted like a common criminal. He has acted for personal advantage and glorification. I believe in the concept of Caliph – but I know now we have chosen the wrong man. He has been corrupted by the power that we placed in his hands.’
Peter listened to him carefully, his head cocked to one side, his blue eyes clear and quietly searching.
‘All right, Steven. So we discover that Caliph is not a deity – but a man with a man’s petty greed and self-interest.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do.’ Steven’s handsome florid face was heavy with regret. ‘Caliph is not what I believed he might be.’
‘Do you accept now that he is evil – truly evil?’
‘Yes, I accept that.’ Then, fiercely, ‘But God, how I wish Caliph had been what I believed he was at the beginning.’
Peter could understand that and he nodded.
‘It was what this crazy world of ours needed—’ Steven went on bitterly. ‘– We need somebody, a strong man to tell us what to do. I thought it was Caliph. I wanted it so badly to be him.’
‘So now, do you accept that Caliph was not that man?’
‘Yes,’ said Steven simply. ‘But if there was a man like that I would follow him again, unquestioningly.’
‘You said you would do anything to prove to me that you had nothing to do with Melissa-Jane – will you help me to destroy Caliph?’
‘Yes.’ Steven did not hesitate.
‘There will be great personal risk,’ Peter pointed out, and now Steven met his eyes steadily.
‘I know that. I know Caliph better than you.’
Peter found that his affection for his brother was now reinforced with admiration. Steven lacked very few of the manly virtues, he thought. He had strength and courage and brains, perhaps his major vice was that he had too much of each.
‘What do you want me to do, Peter?’
‘I want you to arrange a meeting with Caliph – face to face.’
‘Impossible.’ Steven dismissed it immediately.
‘You said that you had means of getting a message to him?’
‘Yes, but Caliph would never agree to a meeting.’
‘Steven, what is the single – the only weakness that Caliph has shown so far?’
‘He has shown no weakness.’
‘Yes, he has,’ Peter denied.
‘What is it?’
‘He is obsessed with protecting his personal identity and safety,’ Peter pointed out. ‘As soon as that is threatened, he immediately reverts to abduction and torture and murder.’
That isn’t a weakness—’ Steven pointed out. ‘It’s a strength.’
‘If you can get a message to him – that his identity is in jeopardy. That somebody, an enemy, has
penetrated his security screen and has managed to get close to him,’ Peter suggested, and Steven considered it long and carefully.
‘He would react very strongly,’ Steven agreed. ‘But it would not take him very long to find out that I was lying. That would immediately discredit me, and as you said earlier I would be at grave risk for no good reason.’
‘It isn’t a lie,’ Peter told him grimly. ‘There is a Mossad agent close to Caliph. Very close to him.’
‘How do you know that?’ Steven asked sharply.
‘I cannot tell you,’ Peter said. ‘But the information is iron-clad. I even know the agent’s code-name. I give you my word that the information is genuine.’
‘In that case—’ Steven thought it out again ‘– Caliph would probably already be suspicious and would be prepared to accept my warning. However, all he would do would be to ask me to give him the name – pass it to him along his usual communications channel. That would be it.’
‘You would refuse to pass the information – except face to face. You will protest that the information is much too sensitive. You would protest that your personal safety was at stake. What would be his reaction?’
‘I would expect him to put pressure on me to divulge the name—’
‘If you resisted?’
‘I suppose he would have to agree to a meeting. As you have pointed out, it is his major obsession. But, if he met me face to face, his identity would be revealed anyway.’
Think, Steven. You know how his mind works.’
It took a few seconds, then Steven’s expression changed, consternation twisting his lips as though he was in pain.
‘Good God – of course. If I forced him to a face-to-face meeting, I would be highly unlikely to survive it.’
‘exactly,’ Peter nodded. ‘If we baited it with something absolutely irresistible, Caliph would have to agree to meet you – but he would make arrangements to have you silenced immediately, before you had a chance to pass on his identity to anyone else.’
‘Hell, Peter, this is creepy. As you told me earlier today, I am fat and out of condition. I wouldn’t be much of a match against Caliph.’
‘Caliph would take that into consideration when deciding whether to meet you or not,’ Peter agreed.
‘It sounds like suicide,’ Steven persisted.
‘You just signed on to be tough,’ Peter reminded him.
‘Tough is one thing, stupid is another.’
‘You would be in no danger until you delivered the message. Caliph would not dare dispose of you until you delivered your message,’ Peter pointed out. ‘And I give you my word that I will never call on you to go to an assignation with Caliph.’
‘I can’t ask for more than that, I suppose.’ Steven threw up his hands. ‘When do you want me to contact him?"
‘How do you do it – the contact?’
‘Advert in the Personal column,’ Steven told him, and Peter grinned with reluctant admiration. Neat, efficient and entirely untraceable.
‘Do it as soon as you can,’ Peter instructed.
‘Monday morning,’ Steven nodded, and went on studying his brother with a peculiarly intent expression.
‘What is it, Steven?’
‘I was just thinking. If only Caliph had been somebody like you, Peter.’
‘Me?’ For the first time Peter was truly startled.
‘The warrior king – utterly ruthless in the pursuit of the vision of justice and rightness and duty.’
‘I am not like that.’ Peter denied it.
‘Yes, you are,’ Steven said positively. ‘You are the type of man that I hoped Caliph might be. The type of man we needed.’
Peter had to presume that Caliph was watching him. After his murder of Baroness Altmann, Caliph’s interest would be intense. Peter had to act predictably.
He caught the early Monday flight back to Brussels, and before midday was at his desk in Narmco headquarters Here also he was the centre of much interest and power-play. Altmann Industries had lost its chief executive and there were strong undercurrents and court intrigues already afoot. Despite a number of subtle approaches Peter stayed aloof from the struggle.
On Tuesday evening Peter picked up the newspaper from the news-stand in the Hilton lobby. Steven’s contact request was in the small-ads section.
The children of Israel asked counsel of the Lord, saying, shall I go up again to battle? Judges. 20:23.
The quotation that Caliph had chosen seemed to epitomize his view of himself. He saw himself as godlike, set high above his fellow men.
Steven had explained to Peter that Caliph took up to forty-eight hours to answer.
Steven would wait each day after the appearance of the personal announcement at his desk in his office suite in Leadenhall Street, from noon until twenty minutes past the hour. He would have no visitors nor appointments for that time, and he would make certain that his direct unlisted telephone line was unengaged to receive the incoming contact.
There was no contact that Wednesday, but Steven had not expected one. On the Thursday Steven paced restlessly up and down the antique silk Kirman carpet as he waited for the call. He was already wearing the jacket of his suit, and his bowler and rolled umbrella were on the corner of the ornate French ormolu desk that squatted like some benign monster beneath the windows which looked across the street at Lloyds Exchange.
Steven Stride was afraid. He acknowledged the fact with direct self-honesty. Intrigue was part of his existence, had been for nearly all of his life – but always the game had been played to certain rules. He knew he was entering a new jungle, a savage wilderness where those few rules ceased entirely to exist. He was going in over his head; Peter had pointed out to him that this was not his way, and he knew Peter was right. Peter was bright, and Steven was afraid as he had never been in his life. Yet he knew that he was going ahead with it. He had heard that it was the mark of true courage – to be able to meet and acknowledge fear, and yet control it sufficiently to be able to go ahead and do what duty dictated must be done.
He did not feel like a brave man.
The telephone rang once, too loud, too shrill – and every nerve in his body jumped taut and he found himself frozen, paralysed with fear in the centre of the beautiful and precious carpet.
The telephone rang again, the insistent double note sounded in his ears like the peal of doom, and he felt his bowels filled with the hot oily slime of fear, hardly to be contained.
The telephone rang the third time, and with an enormous effort he forced himself to make the three paces to his desk.
He lifted the telephone receiver, and heard the sharp chimes of the interference from the public telephone system.
‘Stride,’ he said. His voice was strained, high and almost shrill, and he heard the drop of the coin.
The voice terrified him. It was an electronic drone, inhuman, without gender, without the timbre of living emotion, without neither high nor low notes
‘Aldgate and Leadenhall Street,’ said the voice.
Steven repeated the rendezvous and immediately the connection was broken.
Steven dropped the receiver onto its cradle and snatched up his bowler and umbrella as he hurried to the door.
His secretary looked up at him and smiled expectantly She was a handsome grey-haired woman who had been with Steven for fifteen years.
‘Sir?’ She still called him that.
‘I’m popping out for half an hour, May,’ Steven told her.
‘Look after the shop, there is a dear’ And he stepped into his private elevator and rode down swiftly to the underground garage where his Rolls was kept, together with the private vehicles of his senior executives.
In the elevator mirror he checked the exact angle of his bowler, a slightly raffish tilt over the right eye, and rearranged the bloom of the crimson carnation in the buttonhole of the dark blue Savile Row suit with its faint and elegant chalk stripe. It was important that he looked and acted entirely naturally during the ne
xt few minutes His staff would remark on any departure from the normal
In the garage he did not approach the dark-maroon Rolls-Royce which glowed in the subdued lighting like some precious gem. Instead he went towards the wicket gate in the steel roll-up garage door, and the doorman in his little glassed cubicle beside the door looked up from his football pools coupons, recognized the master and leaped to his feet.
‘Afternoon, guv.’
‘Good day, Harold. I won’t be taking the car. Just stepping out for a few minutes.’
He stepped over the threshold of the gate, into the street and turned left, down towards the junction of Leadenhall Street and Aldgate. He walked fast, without seeming to hurry. Caliph spaced his intervals very tight, to make it difficult for the subject to pass a message to a surveillance unit. Steven knew he had only minutes to get from his office to the call box on the corner. Caliph seemed to know exactly how long it would take him.
The telephone in the red-framed and glass call box started to ring when he was still twenty paces away. Steven ran the distance.
‘Stride,’ he said, his voice slightly puffed with exertion, and immediately the coin dropped and the same electronic droning voice gave him the next contact point. It was the public call box at the High Street entrance to Aldgate tube station. Steven confirmed and the voice troubled him deeply, it sounded like that of a robot from some science fiction movie. It would not have been so bad if he had felt human contact.
The two receiving stations, neither of which was predictable, and the distances between them, had been carefully calculated to make it only just possible to reach them in time, to make it impossible for the call to be traced while the line was still open. Caliph or his agent was clearly moving from one call box to the next in another part of the city. Tracing them even a minute after he had left would be of no possible use in trying to establish identity.
The voice distorter that Caliph was using was a simple device no bigger than a small pocket calculator. Peter had told Steven that it could be purchased from a number of firms specializing in electronic surveillance, security and counter-measure equipment. It cost less than fifty dollars, and so altered the human voice – phasing out all sound outside the middle range – that even the most sophisticated recording device would not be able to lift a useable voiceprint to compare with a computer bank memory. It would not even be able to determine whether the speaker was a man, a woman or a child.