Operation Omega

by Hilary Green

  They were both silent for a moment. Leo shifted her position and winced. Stone looked around the cellar. A few feet away there was a dark heap of some kind, covered with a tarpaulin. There was no window or hatch which might have communicated with outside. He struggled to his feet and made a tour of inspection, finding it surprisingly difficult to keep his balance with his arms tied behind him. There was no way out except by the door through which they had come in. Finally he investigated the heap under the tarpaulin. He could not tell what it consisted of, but it was something firm but yielding, like bales of straw or sacks of grain. He went back to Leo.

  ‘Come over here. We can lean against this. It’ll be more comfortable.’

  She got to her feet and stumbled after him and they both flopped down against the tarpaulin. With something to lean against the discomfort of their pinioned arms was temporarily lessened. They sat close together, their shoulders touching. Leo looked at him.

  ‘Well, what now?’

  ‘Now we wait for Nick and Pascoe to do their stuff,’ he responded, with more optimism than he felt.

  ‘It could be a long wait,’ she commented. ‘We could be anywhere, for all they know.’

  ‘That copper in the Sierra must have reported in when the horse-box cut him off,’ Stone pointed out. ‘That, and the fact that they haven’t heard from us, will have alerted them to the fact that something’s gone wrong. And don’t forget the chopper. They should be able to get a good idea of the general area from the last reports and there’s your car and the Rolls standing out there, plus a rather bent aeroplane. He can hardly miss that lot.’

  ‘They’re hardly likely to leave them standing out there, are they?’ Leo pointed out. ‘There’s plenty of room in those barns to hide a fleet of cars.’

  ‘It’ll take time to get them all out of sight, though,’ he said. ‘The chopper may spot them first.’

  ‘He may,’ Leo said, and left it at that.

  He leaned sideways and rubbed his cheek against her hair. Then he said suddenly,

  ‘Why the hell are we sitting here like this, doing nothing? Twist round so that I can get at those ropes and see if I can undo them.’

  They wriggled round so that they were back to back and after some manoeuvring Stone managed to get his fingertips on the knots at Leo’s wrists; but with his arms fastened tightly at the elbows as well he was rapidly losing all feeling in his hands and the knots were tight.

  ‘This could take some time,’ he muttered.

  ‘This is where we pay the price for clean living,’ Leo remarked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if either of us smoked we might have a lighter. Then we could have burned through the ropes.

  ‘You’ve been watching too much TV,’ he told her. ‘You don’t think they’d have left us a lighter, if we had one, do you?’

  He worked away for a while in silence. Then she said,

  ‘Stone, you remember those long stories we were always going to tell one another—when we knew each other well enough?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, perhaps this is the right moment. What do you think?’

  He moved his fingers down and pressed hers, which were very cold.

  ‘Yeah, why not?’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘So, you were in the RAF. Pilot?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Fighters? No, don’t tell me—naturally. So what made you leave?’

  He considered. ‘Partly because a fighter pilot’s active life isn’t a very long one, and I didn’t fancy a desk job. Partly because I got fed up with having to say “sir” to anyone who had more gold braid on his sleeve than I did. And partly…’

  ‘Partly...?’

  ‘Because to be a pilot in the RAF you have to be “an officer and a gentleman”. They succeeded in making the first out of me but they never quite managed the second bit.’

  ‘Really?’ she sounded amused. ‘Why was that?’

  He was silent for a moment, working away at the knots. Then he said,

  ‘I suppose because when you grew up in a children’s home in Birkenhead you never feel quite at ease passing the port in the officers’ mess.’

  ‘A children’s home?’ she repeated softly. ‘Why, Stone?’

  A pause. Then, ‘If you ever hear anyone calling me a right bastard, don’t contradict them. Technically they’re being completely accurate.’

  This time she felt for his fingers and squeezed them. After a moment she said,

  ‘But why weren’t you adopted? There’s usually plenty of people only too anxious…’

  Ah, well,’ he said. ‘My mum was all set to keep me, wasn’t she. And she did, until she decided to get married—to a different feller. I was about 3 at the time. He didn’t fancy having another bloke’s kid around. When I was 4 the local authority took me away and put me in a children’s home—for my own safety.’

  There was a long silence. He gave up scrabbling at the rope.

  ‘It’s no good, I’m not getting anywhere with this. I can’t feel my fingers any more.’

  ‘Let me try yours,’ she suggested, her voice unusually husky.

  They rearranged their positions and he felt her icy fingers on his wrists. She said,

  ‘And you stayed there—in the home?’

  ‘Oh, I was fostered three times. It never worked.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Not their fault. I just couldn’t forgive them for not being my proper family. I either made myself such a pest that they gave up and took me back to the home or I ran away. The last time I was 12.1 spent a month living rough on the docks in Liverpool before they found me.’

  ‘And yet you managed to end up as an officer in the RAF?’

  ‘I was lucky. I had a good brain, and in those days education was still selective in that area. Getting into the grammar school did more for me than any foster family. And there were two masters at the school; one of them turned me from a playground thug into the school expert on the martial arts, the other one taught me maths. There’s a wonderful stability about figures. No matter what happens, or what you’re feeling like, two and two will still make four—and mathematical problems always have a solution, if you work at them long enough. When I left school I had to leave the home, too. That’s the way it goes. One of the services seemed the obvious solution—a job, a place to live and a kind of substitute family. I fancied flying, so I picked the RAF; went in at the bottom and worked my way up. The day I got my wings was about the best day of my life—except for one thing.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘All the other blokes had their families there—doting mums, proud dads, girl-friends…’

  ‘I should have thought you could have mustered three or four girl-friends,’ she commented.

  He grinned briefly. ‘Yeah, well, that was the problem. There were three or four; but not one special one. And I couldn’t very well ask them all, could I?’

  She tugged at the rope around his wrists and gave a small groan of frustration.

  ‘This is hopeless! I can’t shift it. Hang on, let me have a try with my teeth.’

  She twisted over and after a moment he felt her cheek against his hand and her teeth tugging at the rope. After a moment she mumbled,

  ‘What did you do after you left the RAF?’

  ‘Worked for anyone who’d pay me to fly a plane. Preferably somewhere I’d never been to before, somewhere where there was something exciting happening. I ended up flying for the guerrillas in El Salvador. Then I helped one of our people to get out of the country when the secret police were on his trail. I came back to London for a spot of leave and recognized a guy who’d been a top man in their secret police posing as a respectable business man. It turned out he was there to assassinate a prominent dissident who’d been given asylum and was getting his government a lot of bad publicity. I went to the authorities and they passed me on to Pascoe. I helped him nail the bloke and he offered me a permanent job.’

 
‘No planes in Triple S,’ Leo said indistinctly.

  ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘But I’d got the flying bug out of my system by then. That was…’

  ‘Nearly three years ago,’ she supplied.

  ‘You’ve been asking questions,’ he accused her.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘About Nick, as well as you.’

  ‘How much did Pascoe tell you?’

  ‘Just about as much as he told you about me, I should imagine,’ she said. ‘Which was the length of time you’d been with Triple S. Anything before that is a closed book, to everyone but him.’

  Stone remembered the scene in Pascoe’s office and said nothing. Leo sat up.

  ‘I’ve got to take a break. My jaw aches and the taste of that rope makes me want to throw up.’

  ‘Let me try again,’ he suggested.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t move. I’ve loosened it a bit, but if you start wriggling about it’ll tighten up again. Just hang on a minute.’

  Stone drew up his knees and leaned forward with his head on them, trying to get some relief from the cramping pains which were spreading down his back. He heard Leo turn away and spit onto the floor.

  ‘God! I think they’ve used that rope for stringing up dead pigs or something!’

  ‘Your turn,’ he said. ‘I’ve finished my story.’ Then he remembered how Pascoe had warned them against asking questions that might bring back memories of her time at Oxford. ‘Why did you give up acting?’ he added.

  ‘Do you mean why did I leave the RSC, or why did I give it all up when I left Hollywood?’

  ‘Well, let’s take the first one first. Why did you leave the Royal Shakespeare Company— that is it, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re learning. Oh, it was a personal thing. Some people would say trivial, except that people’s lives aren’t trivial. There was a man in the company—he’s quite well known now, so I won’t tell you his name. He fell in love with me, or thought he had. Unfortunately he was already married. His wife was an actress too—a very poor one. She was a helpless, neurotic creature who depended on him like a little child. When she found out about him and me she threatened to kill herself if he didn’t stop seeing me. She’d already tried to commit suicide once before when she thought he was going to leave her. I was terrified she might succeed next time and I couldn’t bear the thought of having another—of having somebody’s death on my conscience. The only way for us to stop seeing each other was for one of us to leave the company, so when the film offer came along it seemed like a heaven-sent opportunity.’

  ‘But it must have seemed unfair,’ he said. ‘I mean, I’m not really into theatre but from what I’ve heard you were all set to be one of the great actresses of your generation.’

  ‘You don’t want to believe all you hear,’ she said drily. ‘I was good, but not that good. I was just very lucky. I went into the company at a time when good young actresses were a bit thin on the ground and I got the chance to play two superb parts which happened to suit me perfectly. I played Viola and I played Rosalind. I had a brilliant director to work with, they were two superb productions and I made my name. But I doubt if it would have gone on. I don’t think I’d have stayed in the theatre, whatever happened.’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  ‘Actors are cannibals, you know,’ she replied. ‘They live off each other. And the audience lives off them. It’s like being eaten alive. I couldn’t have stood it for long.’

  ‘Is that why you dropped out after the film?’

  ‘Yes, more or less.’

  ‘It can’t have been easy though. I mean, you had it made—money, fame, all that.’

  All that,’ she repeated ironically. ‘Yes, the backbiting and the scandal and the letters from men threatening to kill themselves if you don’t make a date with them, and their wives threatening to kill you if you do! Not to mention the crazy journalists making up stories about you to fit their editor’s requirements. That was when I first started to disguise myself. I had my hair cut short and a wig made to look like it used to be. That way I could think of Leonora Carr and myself as two different people. Then one day I woke up and said, “What the hell am I doing here?” So I packed a bag and drove to the airport and got on a plane for Athens.’

  ‘Why Athens?’

  She was silent for a moment. Then she said,

  ‘I once spent some time there before when I was feeling pretty low and it helped me. Some people head for the sea when they need spiritual comfort, some head for the desert or the mountains. I go to Greece.’

  ‘So how did you end up working for Triple S?’ he asked.

  ‘While I was in Greece I posed as an author doing research for a book. I met quite a lot of people, including a shipping man—a kind of minor Onassis. After a bit I began to suspect that he was making most of his money from running guns for the PLO and the IRA. The idea of him sitting in his villa on Aegina on the proceeds of people being blown up in Beirut and Belfast made me very angry, so I set about getting some proof. When he came to London on a business trip I followed. I knew James Pascoe slightly—his niece was at school with me—so I went to him and told him what I knew. The man was arrested and convicted…’

  ‘Of course, the Aristarchos case!’ Stone exclaimed.

  ‘That’s the one. After that Pascoe had the idea of setting up the Cavendish Agency. He suggested it to me and I thought it sounded as if—well, as if I might at least be doing something useful. So there it is—and here we are.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he agreed soberly. Then he added suddenly, ‘Leo, we’re crazy. There are two lots of ropes round my arms. It’s pointless you trying to untie me. Turn round and let me see if I can get my teeth into your rope.’

  Chapter 10

  In the van, parked now in the clearing below the tower on Leith Hill, Nick was searching the airwaves for some word from either Stone or Leo.

  ‘Nothing!’ he muttered. ‘Not a dicky-bird!’

  A phone buzzed and Mitch, Triple S’s chief communications expert, picked it up.

  ‘Pascoe, for you on the scrambler,’ he said, handing it over.

  ‘Delta Two,’ said Nick into the phone.

  ‘Any news?’ Pascoe asked.

  ‘Nothing so far,’ Nick replied. ‘How are things at your end?’

  ‘Not good,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’ve informed the PM. We have a direct line to the private office at Number 10, and not surprisingly they’re expecting some results pretty damn soon. We’ve set up road-blocks on all roads within a ten-mile radius of the position where that police car was stopped by the horse-box. And guess what—the owner of the horse-box turns out to be an Iranian business man who has an Arab horse-breeding stud there.’

  ‘Have you checked his place out?’ Nick asked.

  ‘The local police are doing that now, but I don’t anticipate any positive results. After all, they led us right to it.’

  ‘You reckon they went that way just so that he could cut off anyone who happened to be following?’

  ‘That’s my interpretation. But it doesn’t tell us where they were aiming for eventually. If we don’t hear anything from the road-blocks within the next half-hour we shall have to assume they’ve gone to ground somewhere within the ten-mile radius. Any word from the chopper?’

  ‘He says he’s pretty sure that the Rolls isn’t moving along any of the roads in the area to the south of the Downs. No sign of Omega’s Jag, either.’

  ‘Where the devil have those two got to?’ Pascoe demanded. ‘No reports from the police of any crashes?’

  ‘No, sir. We’ve checked. They just seem to have disappeared off the face of the earth at the moment.’

  ‘Well, tell the chopper to keep searching as long as he can; and keep me informed. That’s all for now.’

  Mitch had been speaking on the radio while Nick talked to Pascoe. Now he said,

  ‘Message from the local nick. A farmer has just phoned in to report a quote “female maniac in a white Jaguar” unquote
who almost collided with him head on in one of the lanes near here. He took the registration number— that is one of ours, isn’t it?’

  Nick looked at the number which Mitch had written down.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one we’re looking for. Where exactly did this happen?’

  Mitch consulted the ordnance survey map and laid his finger on a spot.

  ‘There.’

  ‘And there is the place where the police car lost contact with the Rolls,’ said Nick. ‘Just around the corner. Obviously they were trying to bypass the obstruction and pick the Rolls up further on.’

  ‘According to the farmer they were going at about seventy miles an hour along a single-track road,’ Mitch remarked.

  ‘Well, they’d need to, wouldn’t they,’ Nick returned, ‘to make up the difference.’

  ‘Who is this “female maniac” anyway?’ Mitch wanted to know. ‘Doesn’t sound like Stone, letting a woman drive—specially on an outing like that.’

  ‘He probably didn’t have much option,’ Nick said. ‘She’s a very strong-minded lady. Now look, suppose they did pick up the Rolls again—if it stuck to that road they must have been going down onto the lower ground. Mitch, if you’d kidnapped the PM’s son where would you head for?’

  ‘Out of the country—fast,’ Mitch replied.

  ‘Which means either one of the channel ports, or a plane,’ said Nick. ‘Is there an airstrip anywhere near here?’

  ‘Well, if you open that door and hold your hand out with a bun in it you can practically feed the airplanes on their way in to Gatwick,’ Mitch remarked.

  ‘Gatwick!’ Nick leaned over the map. ‘Yes, of course. But surely they wouldn’t have the nerve to head for a public airport. Anyway, they won’t get far if they have. The first thing Pascoe did was to put a call out to all airports, ferries and so on. No, I mean small private airfields.’

  ‘Well, there are several along the south coast; or there’s Biggin Hill to the east.’

  ‘Outside the ten-mile limit.’ Nick said. ‘They’d have been stopped at one of the police check-points. It’s got to be somewhere local. Listen, put a call through to air traffic control at Gatwick. See if they’ve logged any movements by small aircraft in this area.’