The Leader And The Damned

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…'

'That'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.'

For once Whelby was not dissembling. And he had always liked women, had got on with them. She was American, maybe thirty, her well-built figure hugged closely by her tropical, two-piece suit.

'Allow me…'

In the most natural manner he reached over and helped her fasten her safety belt. She relaxed and watched him with her large grey eyes, their faces inches apart. Gently, he took hold of her slim, longfingered hands and clasped them together, much to her amusement.

'There. Relaxed?'

'Very. Thank you. I'm Linda Climber. On vacation from the American Embassy…'

'Peter Standish. On vacation from life…'

They shook hands. She made a point of re-clasping hers again afterwards. Her hair was very dark, shoulder-length. Whelby was sure she had visited the hairdresser before boarding the aircraft. She had thick, dark eyebrows – not those horrible, plucked slashes. Her nose was long and straight, her mouth wide and full-lipped, her chin firm. She sat quite still while he studied her with a half-smile, something shy in his manner.

'You'll know me again,' she said and smiled with her lips meeting. 'If you're wondering why I'm alone, my husband has had to fly off somewhere. You wouldn't know a quiet hotel in Jerusalem?'

'Now, I just might. Hotel Sharon. But since I've n. of s… s… tayed there we must inspect it first. A friend told me about the place. Friends are not always reliable. Hotels go up, they go down.'

'But I'd be imposing on you…'

'I have official transport waiting for me at Lydda. It would be a pleasure – for me – if we could travel together.'

Whelby had a way with women. Back home other men envied him his gift, but it incurred no dislike – probably because he never seemed a woman-chaser. With his charm, his diffidence, his shyness, they fell into his lap. It was one step from his lap to his bed.

On the surface it was quite out of character for him to mix with strangers while he was on a mission. His action had been partly whim – Linda Climber was an attractive woman with legs that made a normal man's mind move in one direction. But she was also excellent cover.

If he could decently park her at the Hotel Sharon it gave an excellent reason for visiting the place when he had to contact. Vlacek. It would also neutralise Sergeant Mulligan – ghastly-sounding name – on the drive from Lydda to Jerusalem.

'We'll change places,' he said later, 'then you can see out of the window. There's something to see…'

Her hand, surprisingly cool, brushed his as he stood in the corridor while they switched seats. She peered out of the window and he leaned across to see for himself. He had timed it well.

'See that hard division, that line with and ochre desert on this side and an endless green oasis coming up…'

'It's as straight as a ruler.'

'Egypt, the Sinai Desert, this side. Palestine – the fields cultivated by the Jewish people on the other.'

'It's two different worlds, Peter. Alien to each other?'

The remark kept coming back to him later after they landed. It's two different worlds… Alien to each other. Like the two alien worlds he held inside his own head. Kept always separate from each other. He smiled as she said something, her pale face flushed with pleasure.

By the time they were landing at Lydda he knew she was ready for an adventure. He had done nothing special to lead her on. It was a relationship which the younger Wing Commander Lindsay could never have contrived.

He took an instant dislike to Sergeant Mulligan, a dislike he was careful to conceal. Mulligan, a tall, terse man of about thirty years old with his hair cut very short, reciprocated his attitude, but not his finesse.

“I have an American lady with me, a Mrs Climber. I'm going to see her settled in a hotel in Jerusalem.'

'Who is she? Sir…' As an afterthought. 'Security here is very tight.'

'I'll take full responsibility, Sergeant You know the Hotel Sharon? She'll probably want to put up there, subject to seeing the place…'

He made it sound as though the suggestion had come from Linda. They waited in blazing sunshine as she alighted from the plane. Lydda Airport was little more than a field with the grass trimmed short – like Sergeant Mulligan's hair.

'She's from the American Embassy in Cairo,' Whelby murmured. 'Nothing to worry about.'

'If you say so…'

Disapproval of the whole arrangement was patent in Mulligan's voice and manner. He was courteous when introduced, then led the way towards an armoured car standing close to a building. Beneath dark, bristly brows his eyes darted everywhere, one hand close to the holster at his right side. Whelby noticed the flap was now unbuttoned.

'We travel in this thing?' Whelby called out.

'You must be joking,' Linda Climber whispered. 'I'll snag my stockings.'

Mulligan stopped in the lee of the armoured car, a narrow space between the vehicle and the building. He gave his lecture in short, sharp bursts. A British soldier seated behind the controls stared down at them, frozen-faced.

'This armoured car is a good introduction to what you've come to,' Mulligan began. 'Did you by any chance when you flew in see the straight line, desert one side, fields on the other?'

'We did.. Whelby replied in a bored tone.

'Both of you listen. It may save your lives. South of that line is Egypt, peace now Monty's put a boot up Rommel's backside. North of that line – here where you're standing – we're in a state of war. Don't go roaming round on your own. If you do go out, avoid back alleys.'

'Is all this really necessary, Sergeant? You're frightening the lady.'

'I'm trying to scare the living daylights out of her…' The sergeant regarded Whelby with active dislike. 'I had twenty-four men in my unit. Note the past tense. In the past eight weeks three of them have been killed by the murdering swine in the Jewish underground. Shot in the back. Never had a cat's chance in hell. They're worse than the Germans – at least they wore uniform and fought clean. That's it. We travel in that.'

He pointed to a staff car with amber net curtains drawn over the windscreen and parked in shadow.

'The armoured car?' queried Whelby. The driver had started up the engine. The protective metal plates vibrated.

'This poor bastard leads the way. We follow one hundred yards behind. Then if the Jews have sown any mines he takes the blast. Say thank you to Corporal Wilson up there…'

Open hostility now, in Mulligan's speech and manner. Whelby pursed his lips, carefully not looking up at Wilson. The sergeant walked them to the staff car, then turned to Linda Climber, his voice soft and polite.

'I'll. take your case. You get inside and make yourself comfortable. It'll be all right. Not far to Jerusalem…'

He held open the rear door, took her elbow in his free hand to help her inside, ignoring Whelby. She leaned forward on the edge of the seat and smiled with genuine sympathy.

'Thank you, Sergeant. I'm beginning to understand how awful it must be. Please do say thank you to Corporal Wilson from me, if that isn't ridiculous…'

'He likes an attractive lady. It'll make his day…'

The road to Jerusalem from Lydda was uphill, a series of steep bends which took them higher and higher above the plain. Ideal ambush country. Sergeant Mulligan drove, a sub machine-gun on the empty passenger seat beside him. Drove keeping a good hundred yards clearance from the armoured car grinding ahead up the ascent.

The staff car was a luxurious vehicle with spacious room in the back. A sheet of sliding glass – closed before they started – divided them from Mulligan and gave them privacy to chat. Linda Climber, normally ebullient, was quiet for the early part of the journey. Whelby squeezed her hand once reassuringly and was then careful to say nothing. He always let a woman make the running. At the outset.

They had almost reached the top of their zigzag ascent, could feel the road levelling out, when Whelby leaned forward and slid back the glass panel.

'Could you stop a hundred yards short of the Sharon? Give me a moment to inspect the place?'

'I think that could be arranged…'

'Will that iron monster still be keeping us company?'

'Corporal Wilson will escort us inside Jerusalem and will then go his own way.'

The clipped tone, the distant glance Mulligan shot over his shoulder at Whelby expressed his controlled fury at the reference to 'that monster'. Whelby closed the panel and smiled to himself. It had worked. He had distanced himself from the probing Mulligan.

'I don't think he liked what you just said,' Linda remarked.

'I'm not very good at expressing myself. I think I did put my foot in it. What do you do at the embassy? Or am I being nosey?'

'I'm an assistant to one of the officials. It sounds very grand but really I just type, take down the odd letter in shorthand – my shorthand's good – and do masses and masses of filing. You must be an important man – to warrant this attention and protection – or am I being nosey?'

'You're being nosey,' he said easily. 'Don't be impressed by my reception. I'm taking a vacation – as you Americans call it – myself. They said to me, "Do us a favour, old chap, carry these papers to Jerusalem for us. They're rather important. We'll lay on transport for you at Lydda."' He smiled diffidently. 'I'm really nobody…'

The lie came out smoothly, convincingly. He had thought it up on the spur of the moment. They didn't speak again until they had arrived in Jerusalem and Corporal Wilson's 'monster' trundled off in a different direction at an intersection.

Whelby returned to where Mulligan had parked the staff car by the kerb a hundred yards from the Hotel Sharon. He opened the front passenger door, dipping his head, checked to see that the divider panel was closed, sealing off the rear where Linda Climber sat waiting, and spoke so quietly Mulligan had to lean over to catch what he said.

'The Hotel Sharon looks reasonable enough for Mrs Climber. I think I'll bunk down there myself.' 'The barracks for you. All laid on.'

'Which is just the place anyone looking for me will watch. I do have freedom of action. I intend to exercise it. This fits the bill nicely – an out-of-the-way hotel. Security, Sergeant Mulligan. I'm not an amateur.'

He was adopting the same tactics he had used with Carson in Cairo when the Lieutenant had tried to incarcerate him in Grey Pillars He spoke as though there was simply no point in arguing the matter. Mulligan had one more try, keeping his own voice in low key.

'Even at that small hotel you'll have to register, show your passport…'

'I'm travelling on false papers…'

'Jesus Christ! You people think you're God.'

'Make up your mind which of those exalted gentlemen you want me to be. Meantime, give me a phone number where I can contact you. I'm in Room 6 at the Sharon.'

He took the folded piece of paper on which Mulligan, tight-mouthed, had scribbled the phone number, then opened the rear door. Linda emerged onto the pavement, shook the creases out of her skirt and turned to take her suitcase from Mulligan. A pale hand, Whelby's, grasped the handle, nodded to the sergeant and took her arm.

'I've inspected the Hotel Sharon. It's not the Waldorf, but it's clean and the menu looks edible.' They crossed a paved street. Very few people about. On the opposite pavement Whelby paused and gestured into the distance with his head. 'Amazing, really. As a small boy at Sunday school they gave me coloured pictures of ancient Jerusalem – like large postage stamps to paste into a book. One picture each week. The place looks exactly like those pictures…'

In 1943 Jerusalem still had its biblical atmosphere. Set in a bowl, it was encircled by a rim of seven hills. There was a deceptive air of peace, of the stability of centuries.

'It's quite overwhelmingly beautiful,' said Linda. 'You took your case when you went to inspect the hotel. Where is it?'

'In reception…' He began walking again. 'I told you I was on my vacation. They have reserved Room 6 for me. They're holding Room 8 for you. The choice is yours. Stay here if you like it. If not, I'll find you somewhere else.'

The Sharon was a long-fronted, two-storey building built at the beginning of time. It had a shallow roof of once-red tiles now mellowed to faded terracotta. Four steps led up to a wooden verandah railed off from the street where small tables sported red-check table-cloths. Dense creeper snaked up the supports and enveloped the walls, peering in at the open windows.

'It's lovely,' said Linda.

'It's up to you,' Whelby replied. Not pressing.

Sitting stiffly behind the wheel of the parked staff car, Mulligan watched them mount the steps. His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror, his hand whipped to the sub machine-gun as he heard footsteps approaching. Then he relaxed. The clatter of hobnail, Army boots. Corporal Wilson, blank-faced as ever, opened the front passenger door. Mulligan gestured for him to get inside.

'Did they spot me bringing up the rear, Sarge?' Wilson asked.

'Quite sure they didn't. Glad to see you in one piece.'

'What's going on? Or shouldn't I ask?'

'On this one, the more you know the better,' Mulligan replied. 'Especially as I'll need you as back-up. Where have you parked the armoured car?'

'In a side street fifty yards back. Nobby Clarke in charge till I take over. I thought we was takin' our pick-up back to the barracks.'

'So did I, Wilson, so did I. Said pick-up has a mind of his own. Nice chap. Swallows his vowels and loses most of his consonants. He's bunking down – his own phrase – at the Sharon. So, I'll need a couple of uniformed men patrolling the front. That makes them targets for the Jew bombers. I want your armoured car with its Lewis gun and all the trimmings in a side street to back up my men. I'll phone your Colonel Payne as soon as I get back, but I'm sure he'll agree.'

'He will after the recent bit of help you gave…'

'So Bloody Mr Standish of no vowels and few consonants will be tying up six of my men every twenty-four hours and more of yours. If he'd gone to the barracks no extra manpower would have been needed. Blast him! '

'What about the tart! Nice looking piece. He's gone off with her?'

'Which I think is the attraction about staying at the Sharon.' Mulligan took off his police cap and scratched at his stubble of hair. 'You know something, Wilson? Never assume the obvious in this world. Just before I drive back I'm going in to check that hotel register…'

'Our rooms are next to each other,' Linda observed as she held the key without inserting it in the lock. She gave Whelby a sideways glance. 'Room 8 for me, Room 6 for you..

'You heard Mulligan describe the situation out here. I thought you'd feel… safer.'

He stood holding both cases. His own, collected from reception where he had left it on his earlier visit to the hotel, hers which he had insisted on carrying up the ancient flight of stairs.

'That was nice of you. Let's inspect it.'

Unlocking the door, she walked into an old- fashioned but well-furnished room. Another door led to the bathroom. She chuckled and put a hand over her mouth.

'My, just look at the bed…'

It was very big with great brass rails surmounted with acorn-shaped decorations. The French windows were open and the view looked across to the distant Mount of Olives. Whelby placed her case on a chair and stood beside her. She waited for him to touch her but he remained aloof, an absent-minded expression on his pale face.

'I have to deliver those papers,' he remarked and checked his watch. 'Could you wait till two, and join me downstairs for some lunch?'

'I'd love that. I'm going to take a peek at the shops…'

'Be careful how you go. Two o'clock. And keep your door locked at all times.'

'Yes, Sergeant Mulligan…'

He closed the door on the outside and waited in the corridor. Only when he heard her lock it did he move quickly. Carrying his case he headed for the staircase and ran lightly up to the next floor. Room 24 was at the far end of a corridor which was deserted and smelt of floor polish.

In response to his knock the door was opened as though the occupant, Vlacek, had been waiting for him.

It was a peacetime scene. The morning sun a warm glow on the fertile green of the polo field. The only sounds the click of polo stick against ball, the gentle thump of horses' hooves.

Jock Carson was in the middle of a chukka when he saw Harrington on the edge of the field, waving a piece of paper to catch his attention. Gezira Sporting Club was on an island in the middle of the Nile, facing Cairo to which it was linked by bridges.

Carson waved his stick to warn the other players. He trotted the horse off the field, dismounted, produced a lump of sugar which his steed dutifully made disappear, then handed the animal over to a waiting Egyptian.

'Trouble?' he asked as he walked alongside Harrington towards the pavilion, reading the message.

'At last!' Harrington sounded excited. 'Signal from' Reader in Yugoslavia. Deal clinched. Three hundred sten guns with thirty mags apiece. In exchange we get Lindsay…'

'We have to get more weapons to Libya?'

'No! That's the marvellous thing. This bloody Heljec, or whatever his name is, started out wanting twenty-five pounders, a whole armoured division – you name it. Reader has bartered him down to what is already aboard the Dakota waiting at Benina! Fabulous chap!'

'I see the signal confirms a map-reference for a landing zone in Bosnia. For how long?' The turf was springy under their feet, the bedlam of Cairo's daytime existence a thousand miles away. 'We'll have to get moving.'

'I've got the jeep waiting. Bet I break my record back to Grey Pillars.'

Carson was mopping sweat from his brow and neck with the towel handed to him by the Egyptian steward. He frowned as he continued studying the signal.

'I've got the most horrible feeling about this business. Something's wrong. It's going to end badly, very badly…'