Judas Country

by Gavin Lyall

  ‘Not to notice.’ Who remembers a car he saw five minutes ago, let alone ten hours? ‘But on the way over, we didn’t pass anybody coming from Kyrenia.’

  It was a small crumb of evidence, but he licked it up gratefully.

  I went on: ‘Why was Papa killed? Robbery?’

  ‘They think not.’

  ‘Had anybody busted into his house?’

  He looked at me sharply. ‘I do not think so. I went in with the Kyrenia police later and …’ he shrugged. ‘His mother is away, we think.’ He leant his elbows on the table and rubbed his palms into his eyes. ‘Forget about being arrested. I will tell Kyrenia what you said and where you are. And then I will sleep.’

  Ken came back looking thoughtful – no, disbelieving.

  ‘Bad news?’ I asked.

  ‘No-o. Good, I think.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘The Israeli Embassy – they’ve cancelled my deportation.’

  Half an hour later we were sitting in a small, cool, sparsely-furnished café down Ledra Street sipping gritty-sweet Turkish coffee and me sounding like an elderly uncle.

  ‘You’re just the bloody bird dog,’ I told him. ‘Now the Professor’s dead, they think you could be the only one to sniff out the sword. So they let you back in, you find it, then clang! The dog never gets the bird; he ends up back in the kennel eating tinned rabbit.’

  ‘They don’t know there’s a sword.’

  ‘They know there’s a something. They know the Prof’s reputation as a grave-robber – and maybe they overheard a hint in jail. They could know about our runaround the last few days. Enough other people seem to.’

  He nodded calmly. ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘That’s good.’ I finished my coffee except for the sludge at the bottom. ‘So now let’s forget about the sword, concentrate on keeping our noses clean here and get back to England, home and booty.’

  ‘But that’s no reason not to go on to Jerusalem,’ Ken added.

  I slapped my cup down with a clang that made the tubby proprietor look at me wide-eyed. ‘Now look, Ken: if you go back there you’ll confirm everything they believe – that there’s something hidden and you know where. They’ll be sleeping in your pockets.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ True; how well a surveillance works depends on how experienced your target is. And Ken was.

  ‘All right, so you find Gadulla and say: “Here, O swarthy foreigner, hand over King Richard’s sword.” What does he do? D’you think he’s even got the thing?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem too likely,’ Ken admitted. ‘I mean Bruno trusting anyone that much. More like, the letter told him how to find it—’

  ‘Fine. So whoever’s got the letter doesn’t need to go near Gadulla. He goes direct for the hiding-place.’

  ‘The letter can’t be everything,’ Ken persisted. ‘It can’t have been complete, somehow. That’s why he was torturing Papa, why he was snooping back at the house.’

  There was something in that, but: ‘That still doesn’t help you. And, incidentally, Lazaros didn’t say anything about the torture, so we don’t know. Remember that.’

  ‘Ah. That’s the hold-out, is it?’ Every fancy murder case brings in false confessions from nitwits, so they always conceal one piece of evidence, something only the real murderer would know, to use as a cross-check.

  He finished his own coffee and looked at his watch. ‘Gadulla’s still the only lead we’ve got.’

  ‘For God’s sake, leave the damn sword alone. Tell Mitzi about Gadulla and then leave it lay – you can’t afford to go to Israel, anyway. We’ve got a business to start up again.’

  He smiled wryly. ‘The same one?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ I stared at the tabletop. ‘We’re sort of running out of time on that, I think. But now – we know a lot more about air cargo generally; we can cost a job properly. We don’t have to go for the big margins and risks.’

  He shrugged. ‘If you say so. You’re the boss on the business side.’

  ‘Oh hell, Ken—’

  ‘No, you always were. I’m a better pilot, but how often does that matter? – twice, three times a year? You’re the one who knows how to bring in business; that matters all the time. I’m not complaining. But – just try and keep off strawberries and monkeys.’

  I grinned. ‘I’ll try.’ So maybe, after – how many? – three nights out of jail, he was cured. We could get back to work.

  He stood up. ‘I’ll drop over and see Mitzi. Back at the Castle for lunch, no?’

  I mooched about the town staring into closed shops and listening to church bells until noon, then back to the hotel for a first beer with Kapotas.

  He was looking fresh and smart in a non-Sunday tie, but also gloomy and nervous. Then I remembered Papa and the partner from Harborne, Gough coming in that afternoon.

  ‘Cheers. Have you got the books balanced?’

  ‘On a tight-rope. You know about Papadimitriou?’

  ‘I heard. Tell me – when we were in Beirut, was anybody here asking for him?’

  ‘Would I know? Papadimitriou was the first person anybody coming here would meet, most of the time.’

  I nodded. It was also possible that Papa had gone looking for a partner instead of one finding him.

  ‘Somebody was asking about Professor Spohr,’ Kapotas added.

  ‘Who? When?’

  ‘On Friday evening. Only by telephone. It was the Israeli Embassy.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He shrugged. ‘The voice sounded … well, right.’ There’s already a clipped, dry tone you could call an Israeli accent just so long as you don’t expect all Israelis to have it. ‘I said I knew nothing and put Papadimitriou to speak to him.’

  ‘This was Friday evening? After dark?’

  ‘Yes, why?’ Then: ‘Oh, of course,’ as he got the point.

  Naturally no Israeli Embassy can be strictly religious; they’d break the Sabbath, all right – but only on important business. Dead or alive, Bruno Spohr couldn’t stand very high on Israel’s list of problems.

  ‘What happened then?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He took a mouthful of beer and tried to think. ‘Papa went out soon after, and … and I never saw him again,’ he suddenly remembered. ‘Perhaps I should tell the police.’

  I nodded. God knows what they’d make of it, but at least they’d have the authority to check with the embassy. I’d get told to go and uhleaven my head.

  I changed the subject: ‘Has Papa’s niece been told?’

  ‘She is off duty now. I gave Inspector Lazaros her address.’

  A waiter – I mean the waiter – came in and started clattering about leisurely, laying the tables behind us. I went to fetch two more beers.

  Then Ken came in, bouncing like a frisky cat. He saw the glasses in my hand. ‘Lay off that stuff, boyo – you’re aviating.’

  I put the glasses carefully back on the bar. ‘I’m what?’.

  ‘Doing the ever-popular intrepid birdman act. Private charter to Israel.’

  If the glasses hadn’t been out of my hands they would have been anyway. ‘To where! On whose money? And with that … that …’ Apostolos the barman was watching me;’… with that …load?’

  Kapotas was on his feet by now. Ken grabbed both beer-glasses and shooed us back to the table, out of range of the bar. He shoved one glass at Kapotas and gulped at the other. ‘The girls’ll pay the charter, they’ve agreed. They think Gadulla’s our only chance, and if it comes right we need the Beech. Now you—’ he turned to Kapotas ‘—wouldn’t mind having the aeroplane and its cargo out of the way – earning money, remember – while your big wheel from London comes snooping through? Roy told me about him.’

  Kapotas looked thoughtful. I said: ‘I hope they know what charter rates are like.’

  ‘I was moderately honest about it,’ Ken said. ‘They’re paying a hundred quid – they’re saving the air fares, remember – and it won’t be more than three hours there-and-back so yo
u’ll see some profit. The lad from London will think you’re marvellous.’

  Kapotas was beginning to like it. I said firmly: ‘Dynamite into Hell, yes, but I’m not flying that load into Israel. Of all places—’

  Ken waved his non-drinking hand impatiently. ‘It’s still transit cargo. They won’t care as long as it stays in the Beech.’

  There was a long silence except for the shufflings of the waiter in the dining-room end. Kapotas was back to gloom again.

  I slapped both hands on the table. ‘All right. This time. But Ken – you go by airline. Eleanor won’t look suspicious and Mitzi should get by with Braunhof on her passport, but the name Cavitt could blow the whole expedition.’

  He saw the sense of it. ‘Okay, I’ll get booking.’

  I followed him into the lobby; there was nobody around. ‘You got the hundred off the girls in advance?’

  He nodded. ‘I didn’t want to mention it in front of Kapotas.’

  ‘Quite so. But give me fifty now; I’ve got to refuel.’

  ‘Sure.’ He split a wad of Cyprus notes and gave me half.

  ‘Thanks. And I learnt one thing: somebody saying they were the Israeli Embassy rang about Spohr on Friday evening. He talked to Papa, then Papa went out and resigned from there.’

  He got the point of Friday evening straight off. ‘But an Israeli accent?’

  ‘Kapotas thinks so.’

  He considered. ‘I doubt Papa knew Israel. He might’ve been ready to go shares with somebody who did.’

  ‘And who knows us.’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘One reason why he didn’t kill you: if he recognised you he’d guess I’d be somewhere around.’

  He scratched his nose with the earpiece of the phone. ‘Plenty of people who know us and Israel … Only one I can think of here is that Israeli agent – Mihail Ben Iver.’

  I nodded. ‘I love him, too.’

  ‘Come off it, Roy. The Ha Mosad’s pulled some dirty tricks down the line, but …’

  ‘Who says he’s their secret service, except you?’

  After a time he said softly: ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

  Chapter 23

  These unexpected flights really louse up your laundry, and the Castle hadn’t been doing any delousing since the crunch. Now I had two dirty khaki shirts, one dirty white one and two others that hadn’t quite drip-dried. In the end I put on the dirty white and my blue uniform trousers, bundled everything else into the bag and was at the airport by half past one.

  Sunday’s a quiet day at that season. A couple of parked airliners with nobody working on them, a Piper Navajo – the one where the props spin in opposite directions – buzzing down the approach. I watched it on to the runway, smoothly. No turbulence.

  Ken’s flight wasn’t due till a quarter to three and he’d be bringing the girls out with him. I ordered seventy gallons of fuel, cash waggled in advance, then studied the met chart and ate a sticky bun to wipe the beer off my breath. Weather was no problem, and Airway Blue 17 went straight from here to Tel Aviv, so I flight-planned myself on it, counting on a three o’clock takeoff. I still had an hour and more.

  I paid for the petrol, got cleared out airside and walked down to the Queen Air. It was some distance away, on the Number 8 stand they use for visiting private aircraft, just past the customs bonded store. The Piper Navajo was parked not far away.

  I climbed into the Beech and sat staring at those bloody boxes. By now I was convinced they’d be happiest at the bottom of the sea, and me too, if you see what I mean. Stage an engine failure and have to lighten the load? It sounded pretty unconvincing, particularly to an insurance company. But maybe the cover had lapsed by now.

  That didn’t solve my immediate problem. Maybe the customs would let me store it in bond, make it real entrepót cargo, for a few days. I’d got time to try … then I remembered Jehangir’s automatic: if the Israelis gave the aeroplane a real frisking … I untangled it from the seat springs and dropped it in among the maps in my flight briefcase. I could sling it out of the window into the grass at the runway end.

  As I climbed down, Jehangir, Janni and a third man came round the tail.

  ‘How very convenient,’ Jehangir smiled. Today he was the respectable banker again: dark green silk suit, old school tie and white shirt. Even Janni looked moderately neat in a striped shirt and dark trousers.

  Their hands were empty.

  I said: ‘How’s the leg today?’

  ‘Expensive, thank you. I’m having to use an old-style one that I keep as reserve, and I’d forgotten how uncomfortable these belts and shoulder straps are. However, we came to talk about champagne, not legs.’

  ‘If you get rough I’ll scream for my mummy.’

  He shook his head firmly. ‘There is absolutely no need for any violence. All we have to do is go and inform the customs that the champagne you arranged to sell us, and we have come to collect, has – you now tell us – turned out to be small arms. Naturally, we felt it our duty to report this.’

  Janni grinned. He probably didn’t understand a word: he was just working from my expression.

  At least I tried. ‘The manifest says it’s for Beirut. That implicates you.’

  ‘No, no, no. My name isn’t involved. And will Cyprus care, anyway? Their records show you already took one box through customs here.’

  ‘That’ll land Kapotas in it, as well.’

  ‘Frankly, old boy, that doesn’t concern me in the least.’

  It was blackmail, but very good blackmail. I shrugged. ‘Okay. What do we do?’

  ‘We simply trans-ship the cargo to our plane. My pilot says this is quite normal procedure.’ He nodded at the third man, who was wearing a cotton khaki uniform with knife-edge creases, big sunglasses and a dark moustache. I couldn’t see much more.

  ‘That Piper?’ and the pilot nodded.

  I went on: ‘You need two matching manifests, and the customs have to supervise the transfer.’

  Jehangir nodded. ‘So my pilot says. We have the papers here, ready to make out. Perhaps we might do it sitting in your plane. Will you lead the way?’

  Half an hour later it was all finished. Jehangir wasn’t too bothered that I’d dumped the two open ones – and I think he believed I really had – since any honest customs officer couldn’t resist having a snoop into an opened box. As it was, this one only wanted to make sure nine boxes labelled champagne went from aircraft A to aircraft B as per manifest and not eight or ten. Inside could be atom secrets or human meat pies for all he cared.

  Then he walked away across the tarmac and I’d lost my chance.

  Jehangir half-turned to me with a revolver peeking out from his folded arms. ‘Now, of course, you are quite innocent. So we must take precautions to ensure that no anonymous phone call reaches Beirut before our plane does.’

  I stared at him, trying to look puzzled. Janni nudged my shoulder and started us walking round the far side of the Queen Air, away from the terminus. The field was very quiet and Sunday afternoon.

  I said: ‘You forgot about the money angle.’

  ‘Ah, that was when we were talking about a more voluntary exchange.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of personal profit. Just how I explain to Castle Hotels that I gave away their champagne for free.’

  ‘It is a problem, I agree.’ But not for him, apparently.

  The Piper’s right engine grunted and spun into a crackling roar. Janni kept me walking towards it. Jehangir slowed and fell back a bit.

  I raised my voice above the engine noise. ‘I’ve asked for a three o’clock takeoff.’

  ‘Just a slight technical delay,’ Jehangir called over my shoulder. There was a faint click-snap and I looked back. His revolver now had a long fat tube on the barrel. A silencer. Janni grabbed my left arm but instinctively I was already looking front again, shocked as if I’d seen Jehangir unzipping his trousers.

  They were going to kill me. And my mind didn’t want to know.


  But they were going to kill me.

  Well, of course, they were. Even if I couldn’t get Beirut to intercept the guns, I still knew who’d got them. It was too much of a risk to let me stay alive.

  So they were going to kill me. Me.

  Like hell they were. My mind was catching up. The briefcase was still in my right hand.

  I must have tensed, because Janni’s grip on my arm tightened. I tried to relax. ‘Never flown one of those Navajos.’ What would they do with my body? ‘Flew an Aztec for a while.’ You don’t actually need a body to start a murder hunt, but you certainly start one if you’ve got one. ‘I suppose left and right-handed engines make sense for private pilots, but not for professionals.’ Of course: they’d take me with them. I’d just vanish.

  When would it come? It could be any time now, with that engine running; that’s why the pilot had started it. A silencer doesn’t really work, but on a small-calibre gun close to the racket of a 300-horse engine – it works.

  We came up to the left side of the Piper, away from the live engine and out of sight of the terminus. I gently swung my briefcase across and dropped it at Janni’s feet.

  He checked, loosened his grip on my arm. I stepped in front of him and stabbed my fingers at his eyes.

  I never got near nor expected to. His boxer’s instinct got his hands up, but it was still a boxer’s instinct. He was wide open for the old stamp-kick that rips down your shin and crunches your instep. He screamed and swiped at me, but his foot was just about welded to the concrete.

  I snatched the briefcase open. Jehangir took a clumsy sidestep to get a clear shot past Janni; I jumped the other way. My hand touched the butt of the hidden Mauser.

  Jehangir took another step, hesitated – perhaps because the Piper was right behind me – then fired. I didn’t hear a thing, but didn’t feel anything, either. The Mauser was coming clear, my thumb crunching down the safety-catch …

  Janni swayed into the line of fire, then flopped on-his knees. I fired over him, cranking the trigger as fast as I could, wanting Jehangir to flinch from the flash …