by Wilbur Smith
It highlighted the resemblances of the two brothers, and also pointed out their physical differences. The natural hair colouring was identical but Steven's was fashionably longer, curling on his collar at the back, and appreciably greyer at the temples and streaked at the front.
Steven's face was heavier, with the first trace of jowls, and his colour was higher, perhaps the first ruddy warnings of heart malfunction or merely the banner of good living in his cheeks. Yet with the wig on his head, Peter's own face seemed much fuller.
Next Peter shaped the mustache, trimming it down into the infantry officer model that Steven favoured. There had been a good selection of artificial moustaches to choose from in the cosmetic section, amongst a display of artificial eyelashes and eyebrows, but none had been exactly right.
Peter had to work on it carefully with the scissors, and then tint it with a little silver.
When he fastened it in place with the special adhesive gum, the result was quite startling. The mustache filled out his face even further, and of course the eyes of the twins were almost exactly the same shape and colour. Their noses were both straight and bony.
Peter's mouth was a little more generous, and did not have the same hard relentless line of lip but the mustache concealed much of that.
Peter stood back and examined himself in the full-length mirror.
He and Steven were within a quarter of an inch in height, they had the same breadth of shoulder. Steven was heavier in the gut, and his neck was thickening, giving him a thrusting bull-like set to his head and shoulders. Peter altered his stance slightly. It worked. He doubted that anybody who did not know both of them intimately would be able to detect the substitution. There was no reason to believe that Caliph or any of his closest lieutenants would have seen either Steven or Peter in the flesh.
He spent an hour practising Steven's gait, watching himself in the mirror, trying to capture the buoyant cockiness of Steven's movements, searching for little personal mannerisms, the way Steven stood with both hands clasped under the skirts of his jacket; the way he brushed his mustache with one finger, from the parting under his nose left and right.
Clothing was not a- serious problem. Both brothers had used the same tailor since Sandhurst days, and Steven's dress habits were invariable and inviolable. Peter's knew exactly what he would wear in any given situation.
Peter stripped off wig and mustache and repacked them carefully in their Galeries Anspach plastic packets, then buttoned them into one of the interior divisions of the Hermes case.
Next he removed the Cobra parabellum from another division. It was still in the chamois leather holster, and he bounced the familiar weight of the weapon in the palm of his hand. Reluctantly he decided he could not take it with him. The meeting would almost certainly be in England, The contact that Steven had had on Thursday had clearly originated in London. He had to believe the next contact would be in that same city. He could not take the chance of walking through British customs with a deadly weapon on his person. If he was stopped, there would be publicity.
It would instantly alert Caliph. He would be able to get another weapon from Thor Command once he was in England. Colin Noble would supply him, just as soon as Peter explained the need, he was certain of that.
Peter went down and checked the Cobra pistol into the safe deposit box of the hotel reception office, and returned to his room to face the wearying and indefinite wait. It was one of a soldier's duties to which he had never entirely accustomed himself he always hated the waiting.
However, he settled down to read Robert Asprey's War in the Shadows, that definitive tome on the history and practice of guerrilla warfare down the ages. He managed to lose himself sufficiently to be mildly surprised when he glanced at his watch and saw it was after eight o'clock. He ordered an omelette to be sent up by room service, and ten seconds after he replaced the receiver, the telephone rang.
He thought it might be a query from the kitchen about his dinner order.
"Yes, what is it?" he demanded irritably.
"Peter?"
"Steven?"
"He has agreed to a meeting." Peter felt his heart lunge wildly.
"When? Where?"
"I don't know. I have to fly to Orly tomorrow.
There will be instructions for me at the airport." Caliph covering and backtracking. Peter should have expected it. Desperately he cast his mind back to the layout of Orly Airport. He had to find a private place to meet Steven and make the change-over. He discarded swiftly the idea of meeting in one of the lounges or washrooms. That left one other location.
"What time will you be there?" Peter demanded.
"Cooks have got me onto the early flight. I'll be there at eleven fifteen."
"I'll be there before you" Peter told him. He knew the Sabena timetable by heart and all senior Narmcc, executives had special VIP cards which assured a seat on any flight.
"I wil I book a room at the Air Hotel on the fourth floor of Orly South terminal in your name," he told Steven now.
"I'll wait in the lobby. Go directly to the reception desk and ask for your key. I will check behind you to make certain you are not followed. Do not acknowledge me in any way.
Have you got that, Steven?"
"Yes."
"Until tomorrow, then." Peter broke the connection, and went through into the bathroom. He studied his. own face in the mirror.
"Well, that takes care of getting a weapon from Thor." Caliph had not set the meeting in England. It was clear now that Paris was only a staging point, and that in his usual careful fashion Caliph would move the subject on from there perhaps through one or more staging points, to the final rendezvous.
The subject would go in unarmed, and unsupported and Peter was certain that afterwards Caliph would take his usual pains to ensure that the subject would be unable to carry back a report of the meeting.
I am drawing two cards inside for a straight flush, and Caliph is the dealer from a pack that he has had plenty of time to prepare, Peter thought coldly, but at least the waiting was over. He began to pack his toilet articles into the waterproof Gucci bag.
Sir Steven Stride marched into the lobby of Orly South Air Hotel at five minutes past noon, and Peter smiled to himself in self-congratulation. Steven was wearing a blue double-breasted blazer, white shirt and cricket-club tie, above grey woollen slacks and black English handmade shoes none of your fancy Italian footwear for Steven.
It was Steven's standard informal dress, and Peter had only been wrong about the tie he had guessed that it would be an I Zingari pattern. Peter himself wore a doublebreaster and grey slacks under his trench coat and his shoes were black Barkers.
Steven's eyes flickered around the lobby, passing over Peter sitting in a far corner with a copy of Le Monde, then Steven moved authoritively to the reception desk.
"My name is Stride, do you have a reservation for me?" Steven spoke slowly, in rich plummy tones, for very few of these damned people spoke English. The clerk checked swiftly, nodded, murmured a welcome and gave Steven the form and the key.
"Four One Six." Steven checked the number loudly enough for Peter to hear. Peter had been watching the entrance carefully; fortunately there had been very few guests entering the lobby during the few minutes since Steven's arrival, and none of those could possibly have been Caliph surveillance. Of course, if this was a staging point, as Peter was certain it was, then Caliph would have no reason to put surveillance on Steven not until he got much closer to the ultimate destination.
Steven moved to the elevator with a porter carrying his single small valise, and Peter drifted across and joined the small cluster of guests waiting at the elevators.
He rode up shoulder to shoulder with Steven in the crowded elevator, neither of them acknowledging the other's existence, and when Steven and the porter left at the fourth stage Peter rode on up three floors, walked the length of the corridor and back, then took the descending elevator to Steven's floor.
Steven had le
ft the door to 416 off the catch, and' Peter pushed it open and slipped in without knocking.
"My dear boy." Steven was in his shirt sleeves. He had switched on the television, but now he turned down the sound volume and hurried to greet him with both affection and vast relief.
"No problems?" Peter asked.
"Like clockwork," Steven told him. "Would you like a drink? I got a bottle in the duty-free." While he hunted for glasses in the bathroom, Peter checked the room swiftly. A view down towards the square functional buildings of the market that had replaced the picturesque Les Halles in central Paris, matching curtains and covers on the twin beds, television and radio sets, between the beds, modern soulless furniture it was a room, that was the most and the least that could be said for it.
Steven carried in the glasses and handed one to Peter.
"Cheers!" Peter tasted his whisky. It was too strong and the Parisian tap water tasted of chlorine. He put it aside.
"How is Caliph going to get instructions to you?"
"Got them already." Steven went to his blazer, hanging over the back of the chair, and found a long white envelope in the inside pocket. - "This was left at the Air France Information Desk." Peter took the envelope and as he split the flap he sank onto one of the armchairs. There were three items in the envelope.
A first-class Air France airline ticket, a voucher for a chauffeur-driven limousine and a hotel reservation voucher.
The air ticket could have been purchased for cash at any Air France outlet or agency, the limousine and hotel bookings could have been made equally anonymously.
There was no possibility of a trace back from any of these documents.
Peter opened the Air France ticket and read the destination.
Something began to crawl against his skin, like the loathsome touch of body vermin. He closed the ticket and checked the two vouchers; now the sick feeling of betrayal and evil spread through his entire body,
numbing his fingertips and coating the back of his tongue with a bitter metallic taste like copper salts.
The air ticket was for this evening's flight from Orly to Ben-Gurion Airport in Israel, the hired-car voucher was good for a single journey from there to Jerusalem, the hotel voucher was for a room in the King David Hotel in that ancient and holy city.
"What is it, Peter?"
"Nothing," said Peter, only then aware that the sickness must have shown on his face. "Jerusalem," he went on.
"Caliph wants you in Jerusalem." There was one person in Jerusalem at that moment.
Somebody who had been in his thoughts almost unceasingly since last he had embraced her in the darkness of Bora-Bora Island so very long ago.
Caliph was in Jerusalem, and Magda Altmann was in Jerusalem and the sickness was heavy in the pit of his stomach.
The deviousness of Caliph.
No, he told himself firmly. I have travelled that road already.
It cannot be Magda.
The genius of Caliph, evil and effortless.
It is possible. He had to admit it then. With Caliph, anything is possible. Every time Caliph shook the dice box the numbers changed, different numbers, making different totals but always completely plausible, always completely believable.
It was one of the basic proven theorems of his trade that a man, any man, was blinded and deafened and rendered senseless by love.
Peter was in love, and he knew it.
All right. So now I have to try and free my mind and think it all over again, as though I were not besotted.
"Peter, are you all right?" Steven demanded again, now with real concern. It was impossible to think with Steven hovering over him. He would have to put it aside.
"I am going to Jerusalem in your place," Peter said.
"Come again, old boy?" We are changing places you and U "You won't get away with it." Steven shook his head decidedly. "Caliph will take you on the full toss." Peter picked up his Hermes case and went through into the bathroom. He worked quickly with the wig and artificial mustache and then called.
"Steven, come here." They stood side by side and stared at themselves in the mirror.
"Good God!" Steven grunted. Peter altered his stance slightly, conforming more closely to his brother.
"That's incredible. Never knew you were such a good-looking brighter," Steven chuckled, and wagged his head wonderingly. Peter imitated the gesture perfectly.
"Damn it, Peter." The chuckle dried on Steven's lips.
"That's enough. You're giving me the creeps." Peter pulled the wig off his head. "It will work."
"Yes," Steven conceded. "It will work but how the hell did you know I would be wearing a blazer and greys?"
"Trick of the trade, Peter told him. "Don't worry about it.
Let's go through the paperwork now." In the bedroom they laid out their personal documents in two piles, and went swiftly through them.
The passport photographs would pass readily enough.
"You have to shave your soup-strainer," Peter told him, and Steven stroked his mustache with one finger, left and right lingeringly, regretfully.
"Is that absolutely necessary? Id feel like I was walking around in public with no trousers on." Peter took the slim gold ball-point from his inside pocket and a sheaf of hotel stationery from the drawer.
He studied Steven's signature in the passport for a minute, and then dashed it off on the top sheet.
"No." He shook his head, and tried again. It was like Steven's walk, cocky and confident, the "T" was crossed with a flourishing sword stroke of the pen.
In sixty seconds he had it perfected.
"With that wig on your head you could walk into my bank any day and sign for the whole damned bundle," Steven muttered uneasily. "Then go home and climb into bed with Pat."
"Now, there is an idea." Peter looked thoughtful.
"Don't joke about it," Steven pleaded.
"Who's joking?" Peter went through the credit cards, club membership cards, driver's licence and all the other clutter of civilized existence.
Steven's mastery of his brother's signature was not nearly as effective, but after twenty minutes" practice was just adequate for hotel registration purposes.
"Here is the address of a hotel on the left bank. Magnificent restaurant, and the management are very understanding if you should want to invite a young lady up to your room for a drink."
"Perish the thought." Steven looked smug at the prospect.
"It should only be for a few days, Steven. Just keep very low.
Pay cash for everything. Keep clear of the George V or the Meurice, Le Doyen and Maxim's all the places where they know you." They went carefully over the last details of the exchange of identity, while
Steven shaved off the mustache and anointed the bare patch tenderly with Eau de Sauvage.
"You'd better move now," Peter told him at last. "Wear this--" It was Peters buff trenchcoat that would cover his blazer. And let's change ties." Steven was ready, and he stood rather awkwardly by the door, in the tightly fitting trenchcoat.
"Steven, can I ask you a question?" Peter did not know why he had to know now, it had been buried so deeply for so long and yet at this moment it was deadly important to know.
"Of course, old boy." Steven seemed to welcome the postponement of the moment of parting.
"Sandhurst." Peter tried to keep the embarrassment out of his voice. "I never asked you before but you didn't do it, did you, Steven?" Steven met his eyes calmly, steadily. "No, Peter. I did not do it. My word on it." Peter took his brother's proffered right hand and squeezed it hard. It was ridiculous to feel so relieved.
"I'm glad, Steven."
"Take care of yourself, old boy."
"I will,"
Peter nodded. "But if anything happens," Peter" hesitated, " Melissa-Jane--
"Don't worry. I'll take care of it." Why do Englishmen have such difficulty talking to each other, Peter wondered, let alone communicating affection and gratitude?
"Well, I'll be g
etting along then," said Steven.
"Take a guard on your middle stump, and don't be caught in the slips," Peter cautioned him with the old inanity.
"Count on it," said Steven, and went out into the passage, closing the door behind him firmly, leaving his brother to think about Jerusalem.
the name had changed from Lad to BenGurion otherwise the Arrivals Hall was as Peter remembered it. One of the few airports on the globe which has sufficient luggage trolleys, so that the passengers do not have to fight for possession.
In the Arrivals Hall there was a young Israeli driver with the name: Sir Steven Stride printed in white chalk on a schoolboy's black slate.
The driver wore a navy-blue cap with a black patent leather peak.
It was his only item of uniform, otherwise he was dressed in sandals and a white cotton shirt. His English had the usual strong American turn to it, and his attitude was casual and friendly he might be driving the limousine today, but tomorrow he could be at the controls of a Centurion tank, and he was as good a man as his passenger any day.
"Shalom, Shalom," he greeted Peter. "Is that all your luggage?"
"Yes." TeseMer. Let's go." He did not offer to push Peter's trolley, but chatted amicably as he led him out to the limousine.
It was a stretched-out 240 D Mercedes Benz almost brand new, lovingly polished but somebody had painted a pair of squinting eyes on each side of the chrome three pointed star on the boot of the vehicle.
They had hardly pulled out through the airport gates when one of the characteristic aromas of Israel filled the cab of the Mercedes the smell of orange blossom from the citrus orchards that lined each side of the road.
For some reason the smell made Peter feel uneasy, a sensation of having missed something, of having neglected some vital aspect. He tried to think it all out again, from the beginning, but the driver kept up a running commentary as they pulled up the new double highway, over the hills through the pine forests towards Jerusalem, and the voice distracted him.
Peter wished he had kept the list that he had drawn up in the hotel room at Orly instead of destroying it. He tried to reconstruct it in his mind.
There were a dozen items on the plus side. The third was: Magda told me about Cactus Flower. Would she have done so if she was Caliph?