The Leader And The Damned

by Colin Forbes

  'Cairo,' said the Colonel.

  Browne was worried about something. He kept pacing round the office, hands clasped behind his back, shooting glances at his visitor as though trying to make up his mind.

  'A permanent posting, sir?' ventured Whelby.

  'No. A flying visit. I sense an atmosphere of lethargy out there. Place has become a backwater since Monty cleared Rommel out of North Africa and invaded Sicily and Italy with the Yanks. Their signals reflect that inertia. I need information. Bloody soon.'

  'The subject being?'

  Again the hesitation, the quick, darting glances. Whelby was, in contrast, imperturbable. Browne, he knew, disliked his deputy being absent. Whelby had made himself indispensable for the day-to-day running of the department.

  'It's Lindsay,' Browne said abruptly. 'You don't get on with him too well, the word is.'

  'I've only met him on two or three occasions. He struck me as an able enough chap...'

  'I want you to go out there and raise Cain, find out just what's happened to him. They simply must have some word about Lindsay - good or bad. If not, they'd better get it...' Browne paused and then decided to go ahead. 'This comes down from God - who smokes cigars...'

  It had indeed, which was what had thrown Browne into turmoil. Where is Lindsay? I want him back. Expense no object. Action this day....

  Christ Almighty, Browne thought.. this day. He'd be lucky to get news next month. And Whelby, sitting relaxed, was careful not to show the triumph he felt at being selected for this mission as the Colonel continued.

  'Your father's an Arabist,' Browne recalled. 'Knows the Middle East. Some of it must have rubbed off on you. Your plane leaves tomorrow night from Lyneham, Wiltshire. And this never happened - your trip to Cairo. Sign attendance sheets before you go - showing you were in London...'

  'I travel under my own name?' Whelby enquired.

  Impassive on the surface, underneath his mental turbulence was as great as Browne's. Departure in twenty-four hours - somehow he had to contact Savitsky before he left.

  'Like hell you do,' Browne replied. 'You're Peter Standish for the duration - of this mission...'

  He extracted something from his breast pocket. A British passport landed on the desk together with an envelope. Whelby picked up the passport and examined it, his manner still diffident.

  Mr Peter Standish. National Status: British Subject by birth. The usual appalling photograph of himself. They had even weathered the gold seal so it had a well- worn look, a document carried and used for ages.

  'Standish is a bit John Buchanish, wouldn't you say?' Whelby remarked as he pocketed his passport.

  'Rather suits your personality, we thought,' Browne said and he smiled. 'That envelope contains the name of the chap you contact, Egyptian currency and a letter of introduction. What more could you wish for?'

  The American Liberator bomber, Glenn Miller, approached Cairo West airfield one hour after dawn. Tim Whelby stretched his aching arms and legs as the huge machine banked prior to landing on Egyptian soil.

  It had been a swine of a journey and he hadn't slept a wink. There were no seats inside the great fuselage; each passenger had been provided with a sleeping-bag which rolled and slithered about with the aircraft's movements. Alongside Whelby lay a British major-general with red tabs.

  'You're a boffin they've sent out, I suppose?' the general enquired.

  Whelby merely smiled, stifling a yawn. His suit was crumpled, he was in need of a shave and he had lain awake all night thinking how paradoxical it would be if they were shot down by a German fighter. Had the Nazis known who was aboard they'd certainly have mustered every fighter available to locate and destroy the plane.

  `Shouldn't have asked, should I?' the general remarked. 'Do you realize there are a dozen men aboard this machine and not one of us has a clue as to the identity of his fellow-passengers? You'd think there was a spy aboard...'

  The Liberator was descending rapidly. The hard ochre of the bleached desert came up to meet them, the wheels touched down, there was a nasty bump, then they slowed into a smooth glide and stopped. The endless engine sound, the vibration ceased.

  Whelby looked round at the other passengers whose faces wore a blank, washed-out expression.

  The exit door was opened from the outside. Fresh air flooded in, displacing the foetid atmosphere of too much carbon dioxide, too little oxygen. The passengers disengaged themselves from their sleeping-bags like insects emerging from cocoons.

  'Mr Peter Standish! Sir! You're the first to disembark, if you please...'

  A brilliant way of covering up my arrival, Whelby thought cynically and avoided curious eyes as he walked stiff-legged along the aircraft, holding his small suitcase.

  A metal ladder had been placed below the open doorway. It was the desert's silence which first struck Whelby as he descended. The idiot who had bellowed out his name was standing at the base of the ladder.

  'Major Harrington at your service, sir. I'm Security. Care to follow me to that building over there? Oh, and welcome to Egypt! Your first visit? Whoops! Shouldn't have asked that.'

  Whelby could hardly believe his eyes. Harrington was faultlessly turned out in khaki drill, neatly- buttoned shirt, well-creased shorts, mahogany-tanned knees and arms to match his face. The moustache! Whelby had seen pictures, caricatures brought back in magazines from the Mid-East, of Flying Officer Kite with his flowing, handle-bar moustache. Harrington actually sported such a moustache.

  'Was it wise to broadcast my name to all and sundry?' Whelby enquired as they walked side by side over the hard, arid ground.

  'Better than creeping up to you confidential-like. Do it parade-ground style and how many of them back there will even be able to recall your face, let alone the name, by the time they reach Cairo?'

  Whelby realized his night's ordeal had loosened the iron grip he normally maintained over his reactions. And Harrington was by no means the chinless wonder he looked. Inside the building his escort checked his passport and then told him the news.

  'We're sending in a Dakota to airlift Lindsay out of Yugoslavia. Your arrival could be said to be timely...'

  'How do you know where he is? He reached the Allied Military Mission, then? You've established radio contact...'

  Whelby was breaking all his rules, asking a series of direct questions, but he spaced them out, speaking in a sleepy drawl.

  'You'll have to let me keep my little secrets, too, sir. No offence meant. Here we are. A very private room. Feel the temperature rising? We have KD outfits in various sizes here for you to change into. You'll fry in that suit — besides looking as conspicuous as a scorpion on a chupatti...'

  Whelby had to admit this deceptive-looking buffoon was pretty well organized. Left alone in a sparsely furnished room with a cement floor, he chose from an array of suits in varying sizes spread out across a trestle table. He had just finished changing when someone knocked on the door.

  'Do come in,' Whelby called out.

  'I say, you look pretty chipper - as to the manner born...'

  'I noticed the other passengers leave by a bus - taking a shufti out of that window. What transport do I get?'

  'Shufti! Sounds as though you're picking up the lingo out here fast.'

  For the first time Whelby studied Harrington more closely as he finished doing up the breast-pocket buttons on his tunic. The foppish moustache was misleading - it drew your attention away from the shrewd grey eyes which seemed to record every tiny movement you made. A dozen years from now, Whelby reflected, you'll know me if I'm dressed up as an Arab.

  'Now transport, you said.' Harrington twirled his moustaches like a music-hall comedian 'One jeep. I drive. You admire the scenery. Monty got rid of all the staff cars before Alamein. He had them dropped into the Med, I think. Too comfortable. Say the word and we're off!'

  'I'm supposed to meet a Lieutenant Carson at Shepheard's Hotel.'

  'That's the ticket. Just spoke to Jock - that's Carson - on the
blower while you were changing. Wanted to know the moment you hit solid sand in one piece. You found the Gents over there? You're settling in nicely, you are. Off we go. Tally-ho!'

  There was a little mystery here, thought Whelby, as they drove along a tarmacadam road coated with powderish sand across the desert. Major Harrington as escort from Cairo West. Lieutenant Carson waiting at Shepheard's. Something told Whelby they had been juggling ranks, like shuffling a pack of cards. He had the distinct impression that 'Jock' was running this show.

  'Pyramids coming up,' Harrington chattered on. 'Obvious remark of the year! You can climb that one. Cheops...' He pointed, driving with one hand on the wheel. 'The Turks - or somebody - stripped off the marble. Like giant stepping stones - you have to watch it. They're just too big to stride up. Go up at one of the corners. Bit of a scramble. Marvellous view from the top, right out over the Delta...'

  'I must try it one day.'

  'Drive you out there, if you have the time...'

  The three ancient edifices were grouped close together. They were sharp-edged against the clearest of blue skies. Already the sun was warm on Whelby's back.

  They left the desert abruptly, turning a sharp corner left and the road stretched ruler-straight as far as the eye could see. Weird two-storey villas, a mixture of different European architectures, lined the road.

  'Mena House Hotel over there,' Harrington continued. 'Looks as though the bloody Russians are going to win the war for us. Don't know about you, I wouldn't like that.'

  'I ex... pect... we'll con... tribute... our bit when the right moment arrives.'

  As he stuttered his reply Whelby was aware Harrington had turned towards him, was studying his profile. He sensed a change in his brief relationship with Harrington - like a cog missing a ratchet.

  'All the rich Wogs live in these crazy houses, Harrington said in the same tone. 'They say a lot of pre-war Italian architects put up these Walt Disney efforts.'

  For the rest of the journey they travelled in silence.

  'Could you drop me short of Shepheard's? Say a hundred yards?' Whelby requested. 'Better I'm not associated with the military. Nothing personal, of course.'

  'Of course. Will do. Room 16...'

  'I know.'

  Whelby cut him off abruptly. He had retired into his shell, a reaction which intrigued Harrington. They were driving slowly through the streets crowded with Arabs. Dragomen, who earned their living as tourist guides, stared at Whelby.

  'You will get noticed,' Harrington warned. 'A stranger from far away - your knees aren't browned.

  We did our best - giving you trousers instead of shorts. Face and hands will give you away. White as the virgin snow...'

  Whelby was sniffing the mixture of eastern smells - rubbish rotting in the gutters, the indefinable odour of eastern bodies, eastern bazaars. He found it comforting, familiar. Market stalls overflowing with coloured bead necklaces and other junk narrowed the street. A cacophony of voices arguing in Arabic. Harrington handled the jeep with great skill, weaving nimbly in and out, sliding past a camel with inches to spare...'

  'There it is, that building in the distance. See it?' he asked. 'Right. You disembark here. Twenty minutes to your appointment. Jock likes people who get there bang on time.'

  'Thank you for the lift...'

  Whelby stepped down on to the crowded pavement, carefully avoiding the foetid gutter. Harrington never looked at him as he drove off while Whelby paused in front of a shop window. The glass was smeared but his reflection was clear enough to act as a mirror, to see if he was being followed.

  A horse-drawn gharry pulled in to the kerb. The Arab driver was pointing something out to his passengers, a couple of British officers. Brown as a berry, Whelby noticed, glancing casually over his shoulder. Old hands.

  Just the types they'd use if they were tracking him. The ideal shadow would have been an Arab. But they wouldn't use one for him. Wogs couldn't follow him into Shepheard's. Whelby was experiencing two conflicting emotions.

  He was revelling in the atmosphere of noisy, alien chaos, which reminded him of his childhood in India. The wary side of his head suppressed the feeling. All his defences were coming down, like the closing of a portcullis Had he passed muster with Harrington? On balance, he thought so. The gharry moved on and he followed in its wake. The officers inside couldn't see through the back of the raised canopy.

  At the foot of the steps leading up to Shepheard's he stopped to mop sweat off his forehead. The warmth of the naked sun beat down. The street was faintly blurred with heat dazzle. As he put his handkerchief away he glanced at his watch. The timing was tricky.

  Inside the crowded lobby overhead fans whirred, stirring up turgid air. He strolled up the staircase and paused in an empty corridor, studying the room numbers and waiting to see if anyone followed him. When he was satisfied he continued along the quiet corridor and rapped, an irregular tattoo, on the door of Room 24.

  Inside Room 16 the phone rang. A short, burly Scot, his fair hair clipped short, dressed in the uniform of an army Lieutenant, picked up the receiver. His voice was abrupt, very Scots, a bit of a drowned mumble.

  'Yes? Who is it?'

  'Harrington. The package is about to be delivered to you. And it could be damaged goods. Oh, I had a chat with that new chap in the mess.'

  'And?'

  'Worries me. Chucked a question at him out of the blue. When he did reply he stuttered. A man does that when you throw him off balance. Only time he did it. Just a thought. Probably nothing in it...'

  'Thanks for calling. See you later.'

  The man called Jock Carson clasped his hands on the table and gazed out of the window. Probably nothing in it... Translation: alarm bells screaming like bloody banshees.

  In response to Whelby's rappings on the door of Room 24 the door opened immediately and a small man in crumpled khaki drill civvies ushered the Englishman inside. He closed the door and locked it.

  ''Vlacek?' Whelby murmured. 'The mosquitoes are biting well...'

  'Malaria is a burden Allah wishes us to bear,' Vlacek replied.

  'I've only got minutes,' Whelby said irritably. He looked round the room, noted the mess of discarded clothes on the bed, then he stared at the open French windows.

  'The balcony, I think. Room 16 is on the other side of the hotel, isn't it? You're quite sure.'

  'Quite certain, dear sir. Yes, let us converse together on the balcony.'

  Vlacek, nominally a Pole from the Russian border region, had a typical Slav face. High cheekbones, prominent nose and jawline. Everything bony. Brown eyes like glass. Hands long-fingered, fleshless, with a wiry strength. Strangler's hands.

  He spoke English carefully, slowly, with a thick accent. He had trouble with his 'r's and his voice was soft. He padded after Whelby onto the balcony in tennis plimsolls, making no sound so the Englishman was startled to find the Pole alongside him. After a quick glance in either direction from the balcony, Whelby began speaking.

  'London has sent me to bring back Lindsay. He's apparently alive in 'Yugoslavia. There's talk of a Dakota airlifting him out. Presumably to here on the first stage of his trip back to London...'

  'Not here.' The little man shook his head and lit a cheroot. 'And he must never reach London alive. That's my responsibility. Yours is to see the Dakota lands at Lydda Airport. That's in Palestine...'

  'I know. But why Palestine?'

  'I need him kept there two days. That will give me the time to complete my mission. Two days..

  'That could be really difficult. They'll want to rush him home. I might manage the switch to Lydda - but two days...'

  'Tell them you need it for initial debriefing. And Lindsay will be tired. Insist he needs a rest before he completes the journey to London...'

  'Why Palestine?' Whelby asked for the second time.

  It was becoming a duel for control between the two men. Vlacek seemed to be deliberately not answering his questions. Whelby made a great show of looking at hi
s watch. Five minutes more at the outside. Carson might start coming to look for him.

  'In Palestine,' Vlacek explained in his slow monotone, 'many English troops and policemen are shot in the back by the Jews. It is not like Egypt. Palestine is a volcano, ready to erupt - one more murder will be put down to another Jewish outrage. If possible, we meet here one hour later tomorrow; if not possible, one hour later the following day, and so forth...'

  'And supposing I can't get away from them, which is likely?'

  'I shall know if you have left for Palestine. Contact me at the Hotel Sharon in Jerusalem. Again, Room 24...'

  'And now I really must go. This very minute.. '

  Lieutenant Carson is a high-ranking officer in Intelligence.'

  Whelby left the quiet little man standing on the balcony, gazing into the distance as he smoked the cheroot clamped between tobacco-stained teeth. He thought. Vlacek one of the most sinister men he had ever met and tried to recall what he reminded him of.

  He had opened the door and glanced into the still- deserted corridor before leaving the room when he remembered. Those eyes like glass. A lizard.

  In the corridor Whelby paused before making for Room 16. He had two minutes to kill before his appointment with Carson. Two minutes to regain his normal poise.

  What a shit of a rush it had all been in London after his interview with Colonel Browne. And rushes were dangerous. The urgent call from a public phone box to Savitsky. The effort to get over to the Russian in innocent-sounding language the sudden development dropped on him by Browne. Savitsky's instruction for them to meet each other at Beryl's place,... to see how the poor girl is getting on. Eight hours from now suit you?'

  God, they must have moved in Moscow! Savitsky's signal would put the cat among the pigeons. But they had managed it - Whelby gave them full marks for trying. He had joined Savitsky for breakfast at the Strand Palace Hotel close to the river. No food coupons needed, thank God.

  'We have put a man into the same Cairo hotel where you make your rendezvous with your British contact,' Savitsky had told him.