The Leader And The Damned

Chapter Thirty-Seven

'Oh, I don't know about that,' said Len Reader, 'he's just out of sorts. Not up to this kind of lark. He's one of the blue-eyed pilots from 1940. That was a million years ago – the Battle of Britain. Maybe he needs a woman,' he added with a wink.

'You bastard.,.!'

Paco's response was venomous. Crouched down beside Lindsay she had been dabbing the Englishman's feverish forehead with a cold damp cloth. Standing up suddenly, she drew back her right hand to slap Reader's face. He grasped her wrist in mid- swing and grinned.

'Don't tell me you've gone soppy over him, because I won't swallow that one. You're a real woman, you need a real man…'

'You are interfering with my patient…' The mild voice spoke from the entrance to the abandoned hovel. Reader swung round and faced Dr Macek who went on smiling as he regarded the Englishman through his rimless glasses. 'That I can't allow. You realize if I summon Heljec I can have you shot? Sorry to put it in such crude terms…'

'Bugger the lot of you creeps…'

Reader let go of Paco, his face flushed with annoyance. He walked out quickly, still holding the sten gun.

'We've just got rid of an expert in crude terms,

Paco said as she massaged her wrist where Reader had gripped her. 'I said at the beginning I didn't like that man…'

'And how is our patient?' Macek enquired, coming forward and frowning as he looked down at Lindsay who lay with his eyes closed on a makeshift straw palliasse. 'Sweating like a pig as they say. Unfortunate phrase…'

Paco waited while Macek examined the Englishman. They were many miles, many weeks, away from the gorge where Colonel Jaeger had turned the tables on Heljec. Lindsay's glandular fever had grown steadily worse. He had become so weak and feverish a makeshift stretcher had been cobbled together at Macek's insistence and two Partisans carried him.

Their new temporary headquarters – one of a recent dozen – was a village of single-storey stone houses of the poorest kind. Perched halfway up the side of a mountain in Bosnia it rose in a series of steps, roof upon roof. Abandoned by the inhabitants who had fled before the advance of a German column, it was cautiously re-occupied by Heljec's Partisans.

By now they had made up the numbers lost in the firelight with Jaeger. In his more conscious moments Lindsay had seen the new men coming in. It was a weird phenomenon – they seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He had commented on it to Paco.

'Heljec has a reputation as an aggressive leader who never gives up,' she had replied wearily. 'So they come from scores of miles to find him, to join him as long as they have weapons. Weapons and ammunition are the Danegeld you need for him to accept you.'

Gustav Hartmann had been with them that night. He joined in the conversation. Unusually, he seemed depressed.

'They enjoy it, you see, Lindsay. Fighting. Killing It has been going on for centuries in this accursed cesspit of Europe. They don't mind who they fight – just so long as the killing goes on. Read the history of the Balkans. Short of an enemy, they fight themselves. Croat against Serb, and so on. Tonight the news for you is good, for me it is bad, for all three of us it is terrible…'

'I don't understand,' said Paco.

By now they had come together almost as a small group of intimates. Lindsay, the Englishman; Hartmann, the German; and Paco, part-English, part-Serb. Dr Macek was not yet a fully paid-up member of the club, but he had visitor's rights.

'Reader,' Hartmann explained, 'brilliantly hides his transceiver by night and transports it by day on one of the mules. He has bribed the mule-train driver with gold. He keeps in touch with the outside world.

Stalin has driven back the Wehrmacht along the whole front. So, Lindsay, for you it is official good news. For me it is official bad news. You see?'

'No, I don't,' said Paco. 'You ended up by saying that for all three of us it is terrible…'

'You believe in crystal balls?'

Hartmann took out his pipe and sucked at it enviously. There was no question of lighting it. Heljec had shot one of his own men who had started a bonfire to warm his freezing hands when the temperature had dropped after nightfall.

'Crystal balls? Seeing into the future?' Paco cocked her head to one side and peered quizzically at the German. She had come to like Hartmann. 'Can anyone do that?' she asked.

'Maybe in dreams we see what we would give an arm not to see.'

'Now he talks of dreams…' Paco spread out both hands towards Lindsay propped against a rock in a gesture of helplessness. 'He is making fun of me, Lindsay…'

'I think that when people look back in forty years' time from now,' Hartmann continued, 'they will see what a catastrophe it was to permit Stalin to roll over half, maybe most of, Europe. Generations yet unborn will have their lives blighted by this war.'

'The wise man speaks,' said Paco, pulling his leg. 'Let him go on, interjected Lindsay.

'Wise man, go on…'

'People forget history. Today England fights Germany. England's great enemy was once France, before that Spain. I think England's real ally is Germany, that the day will come when she will realize this. Germany will realize it, too. But how much of the home of civilization – Europe – will have been lost?'

'The whole shooting match,' said Lindsay and fell unconscious.

'Care for a bit of foreign travel, Whelby?' Colonel Browne asked.

'Would it be for long, sir?'

Whelby forced himself to maintain his usual offhand manner, to conceal the shock Browne's suggestion had given him. The idea of no longer being Browne's deputy, of being exiled to a distant outpost away from the centre of operations didn't suit him at all.

He had been summoned urgently to Ryder Street and it was close to midnight. So far as he knew the only two occupants of the building now were himself and Browne. And the caretaker downstairs who unlocked the front door and locked it again after he entered the building.

'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 his 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.

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.

'I wouldn't go into the jungle with him, he said and left the room.