by Wilbur Smith
At least I know the danger of Cactus Flower now, he thought grimly. I won’t walk into the next one blind.
Peter took one glance around the room that had been reserved for him. It was in the back of the hotel and across the road the tall bell tower of the Y.M.C.A. made a fine stance from which a sniper could command the two windows.
‘I ordered a suite,’ Peter snapped at the reception clerk who had led him up.
‘I’m sorry, Sir Steven.’ The man was immediately flustered. ‘There must have been a mistake.’
Another glance around the room and Peter had noted half a dozen sites at which Cactus Flower might have laid another explosive charge to back up the one that had failed in the back of the Mercedes. He would prefer to spend a night in a pit full of cobras rather than accept the quarters that Cactus Flower had prepared for him.
Peter stepped back into the passage and fixed the clerk with his most imperious gaze. The man scampered and returned within five minutes – looking mightily relieved.
‘We have one of our best suites for you.’
Number 122 commanded a magnificent view across the valley to the Jaffa Gate in the wall of the Old City, and in the centre of this vista towered the Church of the Last Supper.
The gardens of the hôtel were lush with lawns and tall graceful palms, children shrieked gleefully around the swimming pool while a cool light breeze broke the heat.
The suite abutted onto the long open terrace, and the moment he was alone, Peter lowered the heavy roller shutters across the terrace door. Cactus Flower could too easily send a man in that way. Then Peter stepped out onto the private balcony.
On the tall stone battlements of the French Consulate adjoining the gardens they were lowering the Tricolour against the flaming backdrop of the sunset. Peter watched it for a moment – then concentrated again on the security of the suite.
There was possible access from the room next door, an easy step across from window to balcony. Peter hesitated – then decided to leave the balcony unshuttered. He could not bring himself to accept the claustrophobic effect of a completely shuttered room.
Instead he drew the curtains and ordered a large whisky and soda from room service. He needed it. It had been a long hard day.
Then he stripped off tie and shirt, wig and moustache and washed away some of the tensions. He was towelling himself when there was a tap on the door.
‘Damned quick service,’ he muttered, and clapped the wig on his head and stepped into the lounge, just as a key rattled in the lock and the door swung open. Peter lifted the towel and pretended to be still drying his face to cover the lack of moustache on his lip.
‘Come in,’ he gruffed through the towel, and then froze in the doorway, and a vice seemed to close around his heart and restrict his breathing.
She wore a man’s open-neck shirt, with patch pockets on the breasts, and khaki combat breeches hugged her narrow hips. The long legs were thrust into soft-soled canvas boots. Yet she carried herself with the same unforced chic as if she had been dressed in the height of Parisian fashion
‘Sir Steven.’ She closed the door swiftly behind her, and Peter saw her palm the slim metal pick with which she had turned the lock. ‘I’m Magda Altmann, we have met before I have come to warn you that you are in very grave danger.’
The abundant short curls formed a dark halo around her head, and her eyes were huge and green with concern.
‘You must immediately leave this country. I have my private executive jet aircraft at an airfield near here—’
Peter lowered the towel enough to allow himself to speak.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ he interrupted her brusquely. ‘And why should I believe you?’
He saw the quick roses of anger bloom in her cheeks.
‘You are dabbling in things you do not understand.’
‘Why should you want to warn me?’ Peter insisted.
‘Because—’ she hesitated and then went on sharply, ‘– because you are Peter Stride’s brother. For that reason and no other I would not want you killed.’
Peter tossed the towel back into the bathroom and with the same movement pulled off the wig and dropped it onto the chair beside him.
‘Peter!’ Astonishment riveted her and she stared at him, the colour that anger had painted in her cheeks fled and her eyes turned a deep luminous green. He had forgotten once again how beautiful she was.
‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ he said, and she ran to him on those long, graceful legs and flung her arms around his neck.
They strained together silently, neither of them found words necessary for many minutes. Then she broke away.
‘Peter, darling – I cannot stay long. I took a terrible chance coming here at all. They are watching the hotel and the girls on the switchboard are Mossad. That is why I could not telephone—’
‘Tell me everything you can,’ he ordered.
‘All right, but hold me, chéri. I do not wish to waste a minute of this little time we have together.’
She hid in the bathroom when the waiter brought the whisky, then joined Peter on the couch.
‘Cactus Flower reported to control that Steven had requested a meeting with Caliph, and that he intended to denounce him. That was all I knew until yesterday – but I could build on that. First of all I was amazed that Steven was the subject of the first Cactus Flower report and not you, Peter—’ She caressed the smooth hard brown muscle of his chest as she spoke. ‘– It had never occured to me, even when we discussed the fact that the report mentioned no Christian name.’
‘It didn’t occur to me either, not until I’d already left Les Neuf Poissons.’
‘Then, of course, I guessed that you had taxed Steven with it, and told him the source of your information. It would have been a crazy thing to do – not your usual style, at all. But I thought that being your brother—’ She trailed off.
‘That is exactly what I did—’
‘Peter, we could still talk if we were on the bed,’ she murmured. ‘I have been without you for so long.’
Her bare skin felt like hot satin, and they lay entwined with the hard smooth plain of her belly pressed to his. Her mouth was against his ear.
‘– Steven’s request for a meeting went directly to Caliph through a channel other than Cactus Flower. He had no chance to head it off—’
‘Who is Cactus Flower, have you found that out?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I still do not know.’ And she raked her long fingernails lightly down across his belly.
‘If you do that – I cannot think clearly,’ he protested.
‘I am sorry.’ She brought her hand up to his cheek. ‘Anyway, Caliph instructed Cactus Flower to arrange the meeting with Steven. I did not know what arrangements were being made – until I saw Sir Steven’s name on the immigration lists this evening. I was not particularly looking for his name, but as soon as I saw it I guessed what was happening. I guessed that Cactus Flower had enticed him here to make his interception easier. It took me three hours to find where Sir Steven would be staying.’
They were both silent now, and she lowered her face and pressed it into the soft of his neck, sighing with happiness.
‘Oh God, Peter. How I missed you.’
‘Listen, my darling. You must tell me everything else you have.’ Peter lifted her chin tenderly so he could see her face and her eyes came back into focus.
‘Did you know that there was to be an assassination attempt on Steven!’
‘No – but it was the logical step for Mossad to protect Cactus Flower.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You don’t know if actual arrangements have been made for a meeting between Caliph and Steven?’
‘No, I don’t know,’ she admitted.
‘You still have no indication at all of Caliph’s identity?’
‘No, none at all.’
They were silent again, but now she propped herself on one elbow and watched h
is face as he spoke.
‘Cactus Flower would have to make the arrangements for the meeting as Caliph instructed. He would not be able to take the chance of faking it – not with Caliph.’
Magda nodded in silent agreement.
‘Therefore we have to believe that at this moment Caliph is close, very close.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded again, but reluctantly.
‘That means that I have to go on impersonating Steven.’
‘Peter, no. They will kill you.’
‘They have already tried—’ Peter told her grimly, and quietly outlined the destruction of the Mercedes. She touched the bruise in the small of his back where he had been struck by flying debris from the explosion.
‘They won’t let you get close to Caliph.’
‘They may have no choice,’ Peter told her. ‘Caliph is so concerned for his own safety – he is going to insist on the meeting.’
‘They will try and kill you again,’ she implored him.
‘Perhaps, but I’m betting the meeting with Caliph is arranged to take place very soon. They won’t have much opportunity to set up another elaborate trap like the Mercedes, and I’ll be expecting it – I’ve got to go ahead with it, Magda.’
‘Oh, Peter—’ But he touched her lips, silencing the protest, and he was thinking aloud again.
‘Let’s suppose Mossad knew that I was not Steven Stride, that my real purpose was not to denounce Cactus Flower? What difference would that make to the thinking at Mossad?’
She considered that. ‘I’m not certain.’
‘If they knew it was Peter Stride impersonating Steven Stride,’ he insisted, ‘would that make them curious enough to let the meeting go ahead?’
‘Peter, are you suggesting I turn in a report to my control at Mossad – ?’
‘Would you do that?’
‘Sweet merciful God,’ she whispered. ‘I could be signing your death warrant, Peter my darling.’
‘– or you could be saving my life.’
‘I don’t know.’ She sat up erect in the bed and ran the fingers of both hands through the short dark curls, the lamplight glowed on her skin with a pale, smooth opalescence and the small fine breasts changed shape as she moved her arms. ‘Oh, Peter, I don’t know.’
‘It could be our only chance to ever get close to Caliph,’ he insisted, and the lovely face was racked with indecision.
‘Caliph believes I have killed you, he believes that I have transmitted a warning to him through my brother. He will have his guard as low as ever it will be. We will never have a chance again like this.’
‘I am so afraid for you, Peter. I am so afraid for myself without you—’ She did not finish it, but pulled up her long naked legs and hugged her knees to her breasts. It was a defensive foetal position.
‘Will you do it?’ he asked gently.
‘You want me to tell my control your real identity, to tell him that I believe your real purpose is not to denounce Cactus Flower – but some other unknown—’
That is right.’
She turned her head and looked at him.
‘I will do it in exchange for your promise,’ she decided.
‘What is that?’
‘If I judge from my control at Mossad that you are still in danger, and that they still intend intercepting you before you reach Caliph – then I want your promise that you will abandon the attempt. That you will immediately go to where the Lear is waiting and that you will allow Pierre to fly you out of here to a safe place.’
‘You will be honest with me?’ he asked. ‘You will judge Mossad’s reaction fairly – and even if there is a half-decent chance of me reaching Caliph you will allow me to take that chance?’
She nodded, but he went on grimly, making certain of it.
‘Swear it to me!’
‘I would not try to prevent you – just as long as there is a chance of success.’
‘Swear it to me, Magda.’
‘On my love for you, I swear it,’ she said quietly, and he relaxed slightly.
‘And I in turn swear to you that if there is no chance of meeting Caliph – I will leave on the Lear.’
She turned against his chest, wrapping both her arms around his neck.
‘Make love to me, Peter. Now! Quickly! I have to have that at least.’
As she dressed she went over the arrangements for communicating.
‘I cannot come through the switchboard here – I explained why,’ she told him as she laced the canvas boots ‘You must stay here, in this room where I can reach you If there is danger I will send someone to you. It will be somebody I trust. He will say simply. “Magda sent me,” and you must go with him. He will take you to Pierre and the Lear jet.’
She stood up and belted the khaki breeches around her narrow waist, crossing to the mirror to comb out the dark damp tangle of her curls.
‘If you hear nothing from me it will mean that I judge there is still a chance of reaching Caliph—’ Then she paused and her expression altered. ‘– Are you armed, Peter?’ She was watching him in the mirror as she worked with her hair. He shook his head.
‘I could get a weapon to you – a knife, a pistol?’
And again he shook his head. ‘They will search me before I am allowed near Caliph. If they find a weapon—’ He did not have to finish it.
‘You are right,’ she agreed.
She turned back to him from the mirror, buttoning the shirt over the nipples of her breasts, which were still swollen and dark rosy red from their loving.
‘It will all happen very quickly now, Peter. One way or the other it will be over by tomorrow night. I have a feeling here—’ She touched herself between the small breasts that pushed out the cotton of her shirt. ‘Now kiss me. I have stayed too long already – for the safety of both of us.’
Peter slept very little after Magda left him, even though he was very tired. A dozen times he started awake during the night with every nerve strung tightly, rigid and sweating in his bed.
He was up before first light, and ordered one of those strange Israeli breakfasts of salads and hard-boiled eggs with pale green centres to be sent up to his room.
Then he settled down once more to wait.
He waited the morning out, and when there had been no message from Magda by noon, the certainty increased that Mossad had decided not to prevent the meeting with Caliph. If there had been any doubt in Magda’s mind she would have sent for him. He had a light lunch sent up to the room.
The flat bright glare of noon gradually mellowed into warm butter-yellow, the shadows crept out timidly from the foot of the palm trees in the garden as the sun wheeled across a sky of clear high aching blue, and still Peter waited.
When there was an hour left of daylight, the telephone rang again. It startled him, but he reached for it quickly.
‘Good evening, Sir Steven. Your driver is here to fetch you,’ said the girl at the reception desk.
Thank you. Please tell him I will be down directly,’ said Peter.
He was fully dressed, had been ready all that day to move immediately. He needed only to place the crocodile skin case in the cupboard and lock it, then he left the room and strode down the corridor to the elevators
He had no way of knowing if he was going to meet Caliph, or if he was about to be spirited out of Israel in Magda’s Lear jet.
‘Your limousine is waiting outside,’ the pretty girl at the desk told him. ‘Have a nice evening.’
‘I hope so,’ Peter agreed. ‘Thank you.’
The car was a small Japanese compact, and the driver was a woman, plump and grey-haired with a friendly, ugly face like Golda Meir, Peter thought.
He let himself into the back seat, and waited expectantly for the message, ‘Magda sent me.’
Instead, the woman bade him ‘Shalom Shalom’ politely, started the engine, switched on the headlights and drove serenely out of the hotel grounds.
They swept sedately around the outer watts of the old city in
the gathering dusk, and dropped down in the valley of Kidron. Glancing back Peter saw the elegant new buildings of the Jewish quarter rising above the tops of the walls.
When last he had been in Jerusalem that area had been a deserted. ruin, deliberately devastated by the Arabs.
The resurrection of that holy quarter of Judaism seemed to epitomize the Spirit of these extraordinary people, Peter thought.
It was a good conversational opening, and he remarked on the new development to his driver.
She replied in Hebrew, clearly denying the ability to speak English. Peter tried her in French with the same result
The lady has been ordered to keep her mouth tight shut, he decided.
The night came down upon them as they skirted the lower slopes of the Mount of Olives, and left the last straggling buildings of the Arab settlements. The lady driver settled down to a comfortable speed, and the road was almost deserted. It dropped gently down through a dark shallow valley, with the crests of a desolate desert landscape humped up on each side of the wide metalled road.
The sky was empty of cloud or haze, and the stars were brighter white and clearer, as the last of the day faded from the western sky behind them.
The road had been well sign-posted, ever since they had left the city. Their direction was eastward towards the Jordan, the Dead Sea and Jericho – and twenty-five minutes after leaving the King David, Peter glimpsed in the headlights the signpost on the right-hand side of the road, declaring in English, Arabic and Hebrew that they were now descending below sea level into the valley of the Dead Sea.
Once again Peter attempted to engage the driver in conversation, but her reply was monosyllabic. Anyway, Peter decided, there was nothing she would be able to tell him. The car was from a hire company. There was a plastic nameplate fastened onto the dashboard giving the company’s name, address and hire rates. All she would know was their final destination – and he would know that soon enough himself.
Peter made no further attempt to speak to her, but remained completely alert; without detectable movement he performed the pre-jump paratrooper exercises, pitting muscle against muscle so that his body would not stiffen with long inactivity but would be tuned to explode from stillness into instant violent action.