by Colin Forbes
The Russian, dressed like a British businessman, had even found a corner table where they were invisible to the remainder of the restaurant. He was good on small details.
'His name is Vlacek,' Savitsky had continued. 'He will wait in Room 24 until you arrive. For days, if necessary. He will live in that room. The password is...'
At certain stages in their hurried conversation Savitsky had gone vague on Whelby. At the time the Englishman had put it down to the hellish rush - verging on panic - of the whole operation.
'Who is this Vlacek? Is he underground?' Whelby had asked.
'Good God, no!' Savitsky had been shocked. 'He's a Pole, employed in some capacity by the British with a propaganda unit. He can walk the streets openly in Cairo. Just don't be seen together in public, that's all...'
Now, standing in the corridor of Shepheard's, Whelby wondered about Vlacek's real status. He had talked - albeit subtly - as though he were Whelby's superior. The unnerving suspicion crossed the Englishman's mind that he had just conversed with a professional executioner.
Harrington had been jocular, extrovert, affable. Jock Carson was dour, watchful, guarded. There was no shaking of hand's. He closed the door and gestured towards a chair on one side of a glass-topped table. As the stockily-built Scot walked round to sit in the facing chair, Whelby studied him.
First the two, full lieutenant's pips on either shoulder. He had thought they might be new, fresh from the store. They were well-worn, like the face with the beaked nose, the heavy-lidded eyes. Carson wasted few words.
'We expect - God and the weather willing - to have Wing Commander Lindsay in Cairo for you to escort him home within one or two weeks. You, of course, have never been here. The passenger manifest of the Liberator bomber which flew you from London shows only the names of eleven passengers. You will maintain a very low profile while you wait...'
'Hold on a minute, Lieutenant. I do have some say in how this matter is handled. Your discretion I appreciate. May I ask the proposed route along which Lindsay will travel to reach Cairo?'
'Proposed?'
The Scots burr became more pronounced. Inside that stocky body Whelby sensed the power and drive of a locomotive. They were fencing for supremacy, of course. The first encounter - clash - was always vital. It established the pattern of authority from which there would be no deviation.
'That's the word I used,' Whelby said quietly.
'We fix the route. We fix the timing. We deliver the goods. You escort them back to London.'
`These details have been arranged for how long? Hours? Days?'
'Days.'
Carson left it at that. His hands were clasped again, he sat motionless, blue eyes staring at the man opposite.
'And the route?' Whelby insisted.
'Yugoslavia to Benghazi in Libya. Dakota touches down at Benina airfield — isolated, out in the desert. Refuels. Then on to Cairo West...'
'No!' Whelby's tone was sharp, inflexible. 'The arrangement has been known for days, so there could have been a leak. Lindsay is a prime target. From Benina I want him flown to Lydda in Palestine. I'll be there to meet him. The chap will be exhausted after his experiences, then the flight. A couple of days in an unexpected place, somewhere in Jerusalem will do nicely. The route change will counter any leak. London isn't happy about the security out here...'
'Poor old London...'
'They could send someone else out, wielding an axe. A word to the wise. Just between the two of us. Lydda. Please?'
Carson sat like a man carved out of mahogany. Incredible how still he could remain for long periods. Whelby was careful not to add a word. He could sense the Scot weighing up the pros and cons. Whelby knew there was a logic to his argument difficult to refute. He had been careful not to sound threatening, simply a man reporting how things stood, his tone almost sympathetic. You know how things are, I don't make the rules. A word to the wise...
'Lydda it is,' Carson announced eventually. 'We like to keep our visitors happy. My guess - subject to checking - is you'll fly to Lydda this hour tomorrow. That doesn't tell you anything about when Lindsay lands. Frankly, I don't know that myself yet. A night in Grey Pillars for you...'
Grey Pillars was local slang for GHQ, Middle East. It was a residential district of solemn buildings cordoned off from the rest of Cairo by wire fences. Carson had stood up behind his desk as though the interview were over. Whelby, remaining in his chair, recrossed his legs.
'A room here, this one, if available, would suit me better. I didn't come out here to be confined to a POW camp. I do have the freedom to make my own decisions...'
It was a statement, not a question. Spoken in the same offhand, 'amiable manner. Carson half-closed his eyes, adjusted his Sam Browne belt and holster.
'Give me a reason. Just for the record.
'Security. The opposition has to be keeping Grey Pillars under surveillance. I'm anonymous here, as anonymous as I can get. No guards, please. I can look after myself.'
'Agreed! And you can have this room. Major Harrington will be in touch with you. Incidentally, your flight to Lydda will be from Heliopolis Airport, not Cairo West. You'll be aboard a Yank plane again.'
'For the same reason - the passenger manifests?'
'You're catching on quickly. The RAF just won't fly you over Sinai without a name. Next of kin in case of a crash, and all that red tape. The Yanks don't often pile up a machine, by the way...'
Carson put on his peaked cap. He hoisted a slow salute, held it for longer than the regulation period, staring again at Whelby, went to the door and said only one more thing.
'I'll book you in here on my way out. You don't need to go anywhere near the reception desk. You don't exist …'
'Lydda!' Harrington exploded in his second-floor office at Grey Pillars. 'Palestine is a minefield! I don't like it one little bit...'
'Do it...'
Carson stood gazing out of the window across the sun-baked garden below, across the wrought-iron railings beyond, across the quiet tree-lined street. He could just see the checkpoint everyone had to pass through before penetrating the holy of holies.
'That last radio signal from Len Reader - tell me what it said again, if you please...'
'In a nutshell we have a map reference for where the Dak is to land in Bosnia. Identification signals agreed prior to the plane landing - Jerry often lights fires marking out a fake strip. It's a straight exchange - a consignment of weapons and ammo for Lindsay. They've OK'd it upstairs. Reader's next signal is the go-ahead.'
'And the Dakota is where?'
'Waiting at Benina Airport with the cargo already aboard. The pilot is instructed to fly back to Cairo West afterwards.'
'You're a trier, Harrington - I'll give you that. Lydda I said and Lydda I meant. Inform the pilot of his new instructions.'
'Will do.' Harrington hesitated. 'What did you make of Tim Whelby? Oh, and when does he arrive here …' 'He doesn't. He's staying in Room 16 at Shepheard's. That's the way he wanted it.'
'Christ! This is a funny one. He should be here...'
'I know.' Carson turned away from the window as a whisper of breeze - God knew where from - rustled the heavy net curtains. 'On the other hand it may be a good idea that he doesn't get a shufti inside the nerve centre. I have two men who know what he looks like - they observed his arrival from a gharry - posted so they can see if he leaves the hotel.'
'What's the big idea? So he leaves the hotel for, a look-see at the delights of Cairo, maybe. a visit to a belly-dancers' dive...'
'He gets followed well and truly. Said he wanted to stay under cover. His behaviour was very logical. Let's see whether he stays inside the pattern he laid down for himself...'
'You still haven't told me what you really think of him,' Harrington commented.
Carson paused, holding the handle of the door. His impassive, erudite features froze into a frown of
concentration. He liked to consider what he was going to say before replying.
&nb
sp; 'I wouldn't go into the jungle with him, he said and left the room.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
At precisely 8 am the following morning Whelby again rapped on the door of Room 24. One hour later than the previous day. Again the door was opened at once by the small bony man. Whelby thought he looked even more skeletal than on his last visit. Perhaps he was fasting, he thought wryly.
'You have news?' Vlacek asked as soon as they were standing on the balcony.
'I've managed Lydda Airport, God knows how. 'When does he arrive?'
'I don't bloody know. You want it all packed up and tied with pink ribbon?'
'Pink ribbon?' Vlacek continued in the same calm monotone but Whelby shivered inwardly at the little man's next words. 'This is not a joke, I trust? This is a serious matter we find ourselves engaged on. What route?'
'Yugoslavia to Benina airfield outside Benghazi to Lydda after refuelling at Benina. Good enough for you?'
`So you will go to Lydda.'
'Today sometime. From Heliopolis Airport.'
'Then go to Jerusalem. to wait. Hotel Sharon. I shall be...'
“In Room 24! 1 can remember a simple fact like that.'
They were firing questions and answers back at each other like ping-pong, neither liking the other, each wishing to make the meeting as short as possible. Whelby put both hands in his tunic pockets, thumbs tucked outside. He didn't look at the little man as he made the statement, brushing aside interruptions.
'I have now done all I can so far. Harrington may call to see me at any moment, so please listen. I cannot guarantee I will be staying at the Hotel Sharon. There may be a very short time lapse between my hearing when Lindsay is coming in, his arrival and our subsequent departure...'
'I said two days.'
Vlacek hardly seemed to be listening. In his left hand he held a tiny, green-enamelled cup of Turkish coffee; in his right, one of his foul-smelling cheroots. He took alternate sips of coffee and puffs at the cheroot, his brown, glassy eyes staring into the distance.
'I'll do my best.'
'Two days are essential.'
Whelby didn't reply. He deliberately wrinkled his nose to show his distaste for the smell. It had no effect on Vlacek. He had great economy of movement, Whelby noticed. He decided to take the offensive and end the interview.
'You can get to Lydda in time? With my flying there today?'
'Of course...'
'Then that's it. I must get back to my room. I don't admire this arrangement of our meeting in the same hotel'
'I am very persona grata in Cairo..
'Not with me, you're not. Now, I'm going.. '
'Two days, Mr Standish.'
Whelby left the room with the same caution he had displayed the previous day. Walking rapidly along the corridor, turning a corner to his own room, he had a nasty shock. Outside his door stood Harrington, his hand, raised to rap on the panel.
'Ah, there you are...' The Major carefully omitted any name and waited while Whelby inserted the key, opened the door and gestured for his visitor to precede him. As he closed the door Harrington sniffed and pulled a face.
'A smell of cheap cigar - reek might be a better word. You must be keeping bad company. Are you?'
'The lobby downstairs has all the sweet aromas of the East...'
This brief exchange, jocular, penetrating, alerted Whelby. Harrington was an expert interrogator. He recognized the style. The casual question. Left drifting in mid-air. Then the silence which instilled in the suspect a compulsive urge to reply, to say something.
'Do sit down,' Whelby suggested. 'Something to drink? Coffee? The hard stuff?'
Harrington chose the hard-backed chair at the glass-topped table, forcing Whelby to sit in the other
chair so they faced each other. Like an interrogation session.
'Nothing for me,' Harrington said amiably. `Sun's hardly up over the horizon. Never before the clock strikes twelve. The clock is striking twelve for you...'
He paused as Whelby slowly sat down opposite him. There had been an ominous ring to the phraseology. Could Harrington possibly have found out about Vlacek? And just how 'persona grata' was the little man in Cairo? With an effort of will Whelby suppressed his anxieties. The first-class interrogator permitted the suspect to destroy himself with his own fears. He waited, saying nothing.
'Heliopolis at noon,' Harrington continued eventually. 'The plane takes off for Lydda. I've squared it with the Yanks. I drive you out there, point you in the right direction. Then it's up to you. The cover story is you're a pal of mine who's going on sick leave. Exhausted with overwork. You look a bit peaky, come to think of it. Getting you down? The responsibility, I mean?'
'I'll cope. What job do I have? The Yanks are a sociable lot...'
'Admin,' Harrington said promptly. 'Covers a multitude of nothings. You're hitching a ride. No one will bother about your identity. Were you in the lobby when I arrived?'
Quite diabolical, the technique, Whelby thought Just when you think he's given up he comes zooming back at a tangent. Should he lose his temper? He decided against that. He stretched both arms and stifled a yawn.
'We sit around here till noon?' he enquired.
'You damned well do. I've been rushed off my feet since we met yesterday. My top informant links the theft of three sten guns and thirty mags from an army depot at Tel-el-Kebir with a coming attempt on the life of Lindsay...'
Whelby was startled. He allowed the reaction to show. And his companion's eyes never left his face. Blank. That's how Harrington had gone. Blank in expression, in tone of voice.
'Where's Tel-el-Kebir?' Whelby asked.
'Good question. It's the RAOC depot. Here in Egypt, halfway between Cairo and Ismailia on the Canal.'
'So they must still think he's flying in here. If your information is correct. Excuse me, but it takes some believing.'
'This informant — he's underground, of course — has never been wrong.' Harrington studied Whelby who pulled at a loose button on his cuff. He never bothered much about clothes. Again Whelby remained silent, refusing to jump into the inviting void.
'I'm waiting for you to ask the obvious question, the one anyone in your position would have jumped in with,' Harrington remarked.
The pressure was building up. Harrington was dropping the I know you won't mind my asking you this, old boy, manner. He was openly querying the state of Whelby's bank balance. Still, an outburst of temper would be unwise.
'And what question might that be?' Whelby asked.
'Who is behind the assassination attempt...'
'The Germans, undoubtedly, I presume. Whelby looked surprised at the turn the conversation had taken. 'That is, if there is anything in this rumour. You must grant me the right to reserve my judgement.'
'Reserve yourself a seat at the opera. It isn't the Germans - and my source is the cat's whiskers. Accept that and we'll go on from there, shall we? The whisper is it's the Russians who don't want Lindsay to go home.'
The American plane took off from Heliopolis at exactly noon. Harrington, shading his eyes with his hand against the glare of the sun, watched it disappear towards Sinai, spewing out a dirt trail in its wake.
From a building behind him Carson, wearing dark glasses, walked out with his slow, deliberate tread to join him. They stood together in uneasy silence for a moment.
'What do you think?' Carson asked.
He removed his glasses, folded them and tucked them inside a case. His movements were careful, precise.
'He's a funny, I'll swear it,' Harrington replied. 'Prove it.'
'Can't. Know anyone who smokes cheap cigars, maybe cheroots? With a smell like camel dung?'
'No. Why?'
'He carried the stench with him when I met him at Shepheard's. It only lingers a short time - comes from being in the close, repeat close, proximity of someone who smokes the things. But he gave the impression he hadn't spoken to a soul. And he's good at parrying leading questions...'
'Tha
t's to be expected - considering where he comes from.'
They stood in the heat of the noonday sun, hardly aware of it. They had been out there so long. They were in a backwater now, and both men knew it. The war had gone away from them, far away. The tide had gone out - and would never come back again.
But there were still thin threads linking them to the Balkans. To Greece. To Yugoslavia. They stayed a while longer in the sun because here they could talk in perfect secrecy.
'I've an odd feeling,' Harrington said. 'A very strong feeling that there's something terribly important here - in the palm of our hands. This Wing Commander Lindsay. We've got to get him out alive. I'm horribly afraid...'
It was such an uncharacteristic remark that Carson stared at him. Harrington was still gazing into the sky where the plane had now disappeared, as though he'd have given his right arm to be aboard.
'Who did you contact in Jerusalem?' Carson asked.
'Sergeant Terry Mulligan, Pale4ine Police. He's meeting this Standish off the plane at Lydda. Remember him?'
'Tough as old hickory. Wouldn't trust his own grandmother. But why the Palestine Police instead of the Army?' Carson queried.
'He's used to intrigue, to grappling with thugs in the gutter.'
'That's a good reason.'
'Dealing with Standish, I'd say it is. He smells of intrigue - as well as of cheap cigar smoke. Mulligan will spot that smell the moment Standish steps off the plane.'
Aboard the plane there were no more than half-a-dozen passengers. When they took off from Heliopolis they all occupied isolated seats. Whelby sat by a window, staring out at the hard ochre of the Sinai Desert, flat as the proverbial billiard table. In the distance rose mountains like black cinder cones, trembling in the dazzle of a heat haze. He became aware that someone had paused by the empty seat next to him. Cautiously, he glanced up.
'Do tell me to go away if you want to be alone, but when I'm flying I do like company...'
'Please join me - I'm feeling lonely myself.'