The Leader And The Damned

Chapter Forty-One

Squadron-Leader Murray-Smith, a small, compact man who sported a small, dark, neat moustache sat behind the controls as he flew the Dakota across the Mediterranean towards Yugoslavia. A conceited bastard – in the opinion of his colleagues – he was also endowed with guts.

At Benina airfield in Libya he had sprung his decision in the mess at the last moment. Normally, an officer of his rank would not have undertaken the mission.

'Is that wise?' the station commander had enquired.

'And who is interested in your wisdom?' Murray- Smith had rapped back. 'I'm in charge of this show. I'm taking the Dak myself,' he repeated. 'God knows they've been trying to get this poor swine, Lindsay, out of the shit long enough.'

'It's your decision.'

'Nice to know you've grasped the situation so rapidly. Conway can be my co-pilot. All right, Conway? Happy, Then smile, blast you!

'Whisky' Conway, nick-named for an obvious liking, had been anything but happy and suspected he had been chosen out of sheer malice. Murray-Smith had recently overheard himself referred to in one of

Conway's more inebriated moments as 'that Pocket Fuhrer'.

As the plane flew on at ten thousand feet Conway, acting as map-reader, had a large-scale map spread out over his lap. He didn't know it but this was the reason Murray-Smith had press-ganged him into the job; he was probably the most brilliant navigator between Algiers and Cairo.

'Looks as though the Met stupes got it right for once,' remarked Murray-Smith. 'Sheer bloody fluke, of course…'

The sky was an empty sea of pale blue without a wisp of cloud in sight. Below them the Med was another equally deserted and calm sea of deeper blue. Murray-Smith checked his watch. He never trusted the flaming instrument panel when there were alternative aids at his disposal. He was a terror with the ground staff.

'I have to pilot this flying coffin,' was his favourite phrase. 'You keep both bloody feet safely on terra firma, Corporal,' he had told the mechanic before takeoff. 'One screw loose, up here…' He had tapped his head. '… Or inside here..' He had slapped his hand against the fuselage… 'And I'm a goner.'

Oh, Squadron-Leader Murray-Smith was the cherry on the cake in his world. People ran when they saw him coming – in the opposite direction.

'Be there in sixty min. Agreed, Conway?' he asked as he banked the machine a sliver to maintain course.

'Sixty minutes, sir, and we land in The Cauldron…'

'Heljec, or whatever your bloody name is, here we come!' Murray-Smith shouted. 'We've got the guns, you've got the man, so no frigging about…`

Oh, Christ, thought Conway, he's enjoying himself.

Hartmann and Paco had walked slowly along the full length of the makeshift airstrip, followed by a rebellious Heljec while they examined every inch of the ground. The German had imposed his personality on the Partisan leader, stopping every now and again to insist on the removal of a rock projecting a few centimetres above the surface. Paco acted as interpreter. Afterwards the defective patch had to be filled in with grit and hard-packed soil from a large wicker basket two Partisans carried.

'No wonder they never get anywhere in this benighted country,' Hartmann grumbled. 'Sloppy. I'm sorry, I'm talking about your home…`

'I'm half-English,' she reminded him. 'And I don't think I'm going to want to come back here. Ever. I can't get out of my mind what the Amazon Brigade did.'

'Go and cheer up Lindsay…'

'When we've finished this job. The plane should be here soon. It's nearly eleven o'clock.'

Lindsay, aware that Hartmann was doing the job he should have attended to, sat on a rock feeling exhausted. The glandular fever was sapping him again. He cursed the timing. Dr Macek appeared from behind a boulder and felt his forehead.

'We are not feeling in love with the world?' he enquired.

'Not too bad. I should be over there, with Hartmann and Paco.'

'No temperature. A period of convalescence is needed. It is good that the plane is coming after so many months…'

'I want to thank you for all you have done…'

'But it is my profession. Thank me by resting when you arrive at your destination. Maybe we shall meet again one day.'

'Somehow I don't think so…'

Macek nodded, a smile on his gentle face, and walked away. The whole plateau was deserted in the brilliant morning light apart from the group checking and putting finishing touches to the airstrip. Heljec had cleared the plateau of men and weapons, concentrating them on the rim at the head of ravines – inside the ravines – leading up to the plateau. He was convinced he had sealed off all approaches to his temporary stronghold.

Lindsay made the effort, forced himself up off the rock and trod step by dragging step towards the airstrip. He used the stick Milic had fashioned for him. Poor Milic, killed in the German mortar attack a hundred years ago. Milic who was never mentioned, whose existence most of the Partisans had forgotten. 'How's it going, Hartmann?' he called out. 'Plane's due soon now, isn't it?'

'The airstrip is level, my friend,' the German replied. 'As level as it ever will be. And yes, the Dakota should arrive any moment if it's on time.'

'If it ever finds us, you mean.'

'Surely you have faith in the RAF?' Hartmann spoke jocularly, realizing what the walk was costing Lindsay. He deliberately made no attempt to help the Englishman: Lindsay wouldn't welcome being treated as a cripple. 'He will come in from the south, so that is the direction we should watch…'

'I'm as nervous as a girl about to have her first baby,' Paco said. 'Isn't it ridiculous?'

'We're all a bit on edge,' Lindsay reassured her as he halted and lifted a hand to scan the sky.

Was it old instincts returning? A throwback to the days when, behind the controls of a Spitfire over the glorious green fields of Kent, he had learned to look everywhere. Constantly…'

He looked to the south, as Hartmann had suggested, then continued searching the sky slowly in a three-sixty degree radius. Not a cloud anywhere. Incredible after yesterday's snow. The jagged peaks of mountains silhouetted against the blue. Nothing to the east. East-north-east. Nothing. He turned slowly, circumscribing the points of the compass. He had always been noted for his exceptional far-sighted vision. Soon he would be facing due north. He turned through a few more degrees. Oh, my God! No!

'All aboard for the Clipper! See it coming over that ridge – there, to the south…'

It was Reader joining them with his transceiver carried inside his back-pack. He had been to the high point of the plateau, attempting a last-minute contact. The elevation had given him the first sighting of the approaching Dakota.

'Look to the north, you stupid sods!' shouted Lindsay. 'The Germans are coming – a whole armada of troop transports…'

Aboard the Dakota Conway was hammering his clenched fist on his lap with excitement. He smashed a hole in the map.

'There's the plateau! There's the marker – the Communist star, five-pointed, laid out with rocks. God, there's not a helluva lot of margin for error…'

'Calm down, man,' Murray-Smith reprimanded. 'I can land this on a bee's bum…'

'And that's about what it is!'

Conway snatched up a pair of field-glasses and focused on the tiny figures staring up towards the Dakota. One of them waved a stick with one hand, elevated the other in the thumbs-up sign. Then he began gesturing madly with the stick.

'I think that's Lindsay down there, the one with the stick. He's waving the thing about like a lunatic. Understandable, I suppose…'

'Considering the whole bloody Luftwaffe is coming in from the north, it is understandable,' said Murray-Smith in a tone of biting sarcasm. 'We're much closer, we might just make it.

'God Almighty…'

For the first time Conway saw what Murray-Smith had spotted seconds earlier. A fleet of dark blips growing larger as he watched them. Jerry troop transports. At a fairish height. Well spread out and stepped in layers, no one aircraft above another.

'A parachute drop is my bet,' said Murray-Smith. 'A major operation. Down we go. Let's just hope they've dug all the rocks out of that airstrip. We'll know soon enough, won't we?'

Jaeger, with Schmidt alongside, equipped with their chutes ready for the drop, sat in the command plane. The flight from Zagreb had been uneventful, the first off-key occurrence being when Colonel Stoerner, the paratroop commander, had been urgently summoned to go and see the pilot.

'We must be bloody near the target,' said Schmidt. 'And I'm sweating…'

'Who isn't?'

The paratroopers sat in two rows, facing each other along the fun length of the aircraft. The drop controller stood by the door now. Jaeger glanced along the rows of faces frozen in rigidity, beads of perspiration on their foreheads. No one was speaking. Jaeger could smell the tension, the raw fear.

The men stared straight ahead. Unnaturally still. The only sound the steady purr of the plane's motors, the creak of a harness. It never got any easier with each drop. With every operation there was a ten per cent ratio of nervous breakdowns. Among those who did survive.

'Funny,' Schmidt whispered, 'our last time was Maleme airfield in Crete. I can't even recall which year that was. I can't think…'

Jaeger looked up as Stoerner came back from the pilot's cabin and grasped his arm. A bullet-headed veteran, he looked odd; he had hardly any eye-lashes. He tugged at Jaeger's arm.

'A word with you. Up front…'

Which meant a crisis had arisen before the operation had even started. Jaeger puzzled over possibilities as he followed the paratrooper down the centre of the aircraft. An hour earlier a small plane had flown towards the target, keeping well clear of the plateau. The pilot had reported back that the Partisans were still in position. So…

He entered the cabin, crouching to ease his parachute through the narrow opening. Stoerner, able – but impetuous – in Jaeger's opinion, closed the door. He pointed ahead with a stubby finger. Jaeger could see the Dakota clearly.

'We're just in time,' Stoerner said throatily. 'Watch that English pilot run for it…'

'He isn't going to,' Jaeger replied. 'He's landing – he's got guts…'

'He's a maniac!' Stoerner stared ahead. 'He hasn't the time…'

'Don't count on it. I'm going back. Send me out of the aircraft first. Then Schmidt and the rest.'

'You want to be brave? Be brave…'

Stoerner made a gesture as much as to say you wish to commit suicide it's OK by me. The gesture was wasted. Jaeger had left the cabin. This time he did not return to his seat. He waved to Schmidt to join him and stood by the drop controller.

The red light was on. Jaeger attached his snap catch to the overhead wire as the door was opened. A blast of chilly air dispersed the sweat-laden atmosphere inside the fuselage within seconds. Schmidt attached his own snap catch.

'Trouble?' he asked, his mouth close to Jaeger's ear.

'The British are taking Lindsay out. At this very moment a Dakota is landing on top of the plateau. It will all hinge on minutes. When we hit the ground shoot up the Dakota – stop it taking off. That's the first priority.'

As he spoke Jaeger double-checked his machine- pistol. Satisfied that it was in working order, he took off the magazine and thrust the weapon, butt first, into the breast of his jacket.

There was a stirring of systematic activity inside the aircraft as men made their way to join the queue.

The usual mix of relief and apprehension on their faces, Jaeger noted. Relief that the waiting period was over. Apprehension as to what was going to greet them on the plateau – if their 'chutes opened. Stoerner had earlier told Jaeger that over half of them had only made one practice drop. Germany was running out of time – and trained men. Jaeger waited for the green light.

'A bee's bum it is,' Squadron-Leader Murray-Smith said cheerfully as the plateau rushed up to meet them.

'God! They were told the minimum length,' Conway gasped.

The landing wheels touched down, bumped, the wingtips hardly wobbled. Murray-Smith slowed the machine at the extreme limits of safety. He pouched his lower lip, a sign of intense concentration as the Dakota swept on towards the northern rim where the plateau fell into eternity.

He had almost stopped when he performed a manoeuvre that almost gave Conway a nervous breakdown. He circled the machine through one hundred and eighty degrees, ending up on the airstrip – facing south, ready for immediate take-off. Against all regulations he did not switch off the engines.

'Open the cargo door,' he snapped at Conway. 'We've got to get this gang of Wogs moving.'

He opened the cabin door and jumped to the ground, an absurdly small figure among the Partisans crowding towards him. He spotted the man limping forward with a stick, the stained and worn RAF jacket, the smashing blonde by his side.

'Lindsay?'

'Yes. I…'

'Which wallah is in charge of this show?'

'Heljec here. Paco can interpret for you…'

'No time for flaming interpreters. They'll understand me. Just watch…'

They won't let me board the plane till they have the guns and ammo…'

'Won't they, by God! We'll see about that…'

He ran to the cargo door where Conway had already lowered several wooden boxes with rope handles into the hands of the waiting Partisans. Flicking open the catches on one box, he threw back the lid, gathered up a random collection of sten guns and thrust them into Heljec's arms. Grabbing hold of Lindsay with one hand he gestured into the aircraft with a stabbing thumb, talking non-stop to Heljec.

'You've got your bloody guns! I've risked my life to bring you this frigging lot! Lindsay goes aboard now! In case you haven't noticed, you've got visitors – not the sort I'd ask to my mess…'

He was miming madly. Pointing to the aircraft. Making more stabbing gestures towards the Luftwaffe armada which was almost on top of the plateau, shouting at Heljec as though he were dressing down some useless mechanic.

It was comic, if the situation hadn't been so desperate. The small man standing up to the six foot two Heljec. And he had been right, he needed no interpreter. Heljec stared at him in amazement, then began distributing the sten guns and magazines.

'Well, get aboard, for Christ's sake!' Murray-Smith told Lindsay. 'Conway, give him a hand – he's got a gammy leg. Expect me to do every flaming thing? As usual…'

The exchange took place very rapidly. The cargo hold was emptied. Lindsay was hauled aboard, Conway helping from above, Hartmann from below. Next the German hoisted Paco aboard and Reader climbed inside by himself.

'What about Hartmann?' Paco snapped.

She reached down and helped him inside. Conway closed the door as Murray-Smith appeared from the direction of the cabin. His manner was abrupt and urgent.

'Come on through here! We've got seats. This isn't one of those Yank Liberators where you roll about like peas out of a pod. Sit down in the bloody seats! Strap yourselves in with the bloody belts! This is going to be a rough take-off – a very rough take-off. Turbulence won't be the word for it…'

'And turbulence isn't the word for you, mate,' Reader said as he sagged into a seat.

He was talking into a void. Murray-Smith was already back in his cabin, seated behind the controls. He peered out at the umbrella-like objects blossoming above in increasing numbers.

'Here they come, Conway. Whole flaming army of them. Time we used our return ticket…'

The Dakota seemed to commence take-off with incredible slowness as Paco watched from her window seat. They were crawling when she saw the first German land, roll over, detach himself from his harness and crouch, aiming his machine-pistol.

'Oh, my God, Lindsay…!'

She clearly recognized Jaeger. He was aiming the muzzle of his weapon at the pilot's cabin. More paratroopers landed. Heljec, armed with one of the new stens, rose up from behind a rock and fired half a magazine in one lethal burst.

Jaeger was pushed forward by the shock of the bullets, his face distorted with agony. What does a man think in his last moments? Dear Magda, We've had a marvellous life… He was dead before his body hit the ground. Paco felt physically sick. A vivid image came into her mind. The Four Seasons Hotel in Munich. Dining with Jaeger, so smart in his uniform, so courteous, so… Oh, hell!

The aircraft picked up speed as Murray-Smith, looking neither to right nor left, headed for take-off. He could hear above the engines the rattle of machine-pistol fire, the spatter of bullets entering the fuselage, the crack! of grenades detonating. He ignored it all.

Lindsay saw the so familiar figure of gentle Dr Macek rise up behind a rock, holding something as though about to hurl it. A burst of rapid fire threw him backwards out of sight. Lindsay had no doubt Macek had just died.

'They just got Macek: he said to Paco who was sitting beside him. 'Poor sod…'

'Christ, what is it all about?'

'I've been wondering that ever since I first flew to Berchtesgaden,' Lindsay replied.

After months of pain, endless trudging and ever- present fear in the winter of the Balkans, their first sight of North Africa was unforgettable. Peering from the windows of the Dakota, the warm ochre of the flat Libyan desert spread out to the horizon.

Still over the intense blue of the Med, they saw the white ribbon of surf separating sea from shore. The plane began its descent. Ten minutes later Murray-Smith touched down at Benina. The door was opened by Conway and glorious heat flooded inside the machine.

'Half an hour's wait here while we refuel,' Conway told them. 'You have to disembark so you can stretch your legs but don't wander out of sight of the plane. Dr Macleod is waiting for anyone who requires medical attention…'

'I'd like to thank the pilot,' said Lindsay. 'Wouldn't advise that, Wing Commander, if I may say so. He's a bit of a character, is Squadron-Leader Murray-Smith. Never can tell how he's going to react. In any case, a fresh pilot is taking you on to your final destination.'

'Which is?'

'Haven't a clue. Sorry, sir…'

They strolled about in the glowing heat with an odd sense of disorientation. Lindsay decided it was caused by the feeling of vast space after the claustrophobic atmosphere of Bosnia. He also decided it was time to extract information from Reader. Paco and Hartmann followed him.

'I believe I out-rank you, Major Reader,' Lindsay began. 'I wouldn't normally give a tinker's cuss on that score but now I need to know. What is our, destination? Cairo? Tunis?'

'Lydda, Palestine…'

'That's crazy…' Lindsay's tone expressed sheer disbelief.

'Could we have a little chat on our own? Maybe stroll over to the airfield building in case you'd like to take the weight off your feet

…'

Lindsay made his apologies to Paco and Hartmann and headed away from the building. He was soaking up the heat like a sponge after the chilling cold of Yugoslavia. When they were out of hearing he stopped and faced Reader,

'How much do you know? I want all of it. Something smells rotten. We're flying in the wrong direction – my destination is London.'

'The planes for London fly from Cairo West!. 'Crazier still! Why fly me to Lydda first?'

'Security I understand. And someone is waiting for you at Lydda, a chap flown out specially from London. So you are enjoying five-star treatment.' 'What chap?'

'A Peter Standish…' Reader hesitated. meet him by the end of the day so I may as well tell you. Standish is a cover name. I'm talking about Tim Whelby.'

'I see.'

Lindsay started his dot-and-carry tread across the hard rock of the desert. You couldn't see Benghazi at all – it was over the far side of a low ridge, on the edge of the sea. Nothing but desert and heat dazzle and one building and one Dakota and a fuel truck alongside. He heard Reader following him, then quicken his pace to catch up.

'So,' Reader said, 'you've had a minute to think about it – I'd appreciate hearing what's wrong. Tim Whelby is harmless enough. Never going to set the world on fire, likes to keep on the right side of everybody..

'Oh, you've spotted that intriguing trait?' 'Intriguing?'

'Have you ever noticed…' Lindsay continued walking while he talked – he was feeling better than he had for months -. that he takes great pains to get on with the Indians and the university crowd?'

The 'Indians' were those members of the SIS recruited from the Indian Civil Service. They tended to be hard-nosed men, wedded to tradition, inflexible where change was concerned but loyal to the Crown.

The 'university' men were dons from Oxford, intellectuals who approached every problem with an open mind. They formed a second clique, apart from the traditionalists. You belonged to one club or the other. It was rare for a man to span both worlds.

'Well,' Reader agreed, 'come to think of it, I suppose you are right. Isn't that one up to Whelby?' 'Another thing – I always got the feeling he was acting a part, that no one ever met the real man 'I can't change the route now. It's all laid on.' 'Laid on by who?'

'Whelby, I suppose…' Reader gave way to a burst of irritation. `Damnit, I've been out of touch, marooned in bloody Yugoslavia like you. Take it up with Whelby – when we get to Lydda. If anyone is after your hide – if that's what's bothering you – who's going to dream of your turning up at a one-eyed dump like Lydda?'

'Whelby.'

When they boarded the Dakota for the second leg of their flight Lindsay was surprised. He had chosen a window seat by himself, expecting Paco to sit with Reader. She sat in the adjoining seat next to him without a word and proceeded to fasten her seat belt.

'You're not bored with my company I hope?' she murmured as the new pilot taxied for take-off. 'I can always move, there's any amount of room…'

'No, you're welcome. I had thought…'

'That I'd choose Len Reader as a travelling companion? I can see the answer in your expression. You still haven't caught on, have you?'

'Am I being a bit slow…?'

He was still unsure of himself where women were concerned. A rebuff was something he always feared. He might have shot down six Germans over Kent and the Channel but in some ways he was still immature, shy of coming out of his shell.

'Yes!' Her voice was low, vehement. 'You are just a little bit slow and a girl doesn't like to have to make all the running…'

'But you said…'

'I know what I said back in Yugoslavia – but what chance did there seem to be that any of us would ever get out alive? And I said also that I was suspicious of Reader. I was. I wanted to be sure we hadn't a dummy slipped in amongst us…'

'A dummy?'

'A German masquerading as an Englishman, for Christ's sake. It's a technique they've used before – with hellish consequences. Remember I was educated in England, so I know quite a lot about the place. I used every bit of knowledge I could drag back to test Reader, to try and catch him out. The easiest way for a girl to test a man is to pretend to be keen on him -in the hope that he'll let down his defences. God, Lindsay, sometimes I think you're thick…'

She slipped her small hand over his, just resting it there. He jerked his head round and stared at her. She had that marvellous half-smile on her face. Her greenish eyes, half-closed, were smiling, too. She rested her head on his shoulder.

'Oh, Lindsay, Lindsay, you stupid man…'

'Bloody thick,' he agreed. 'Thick as three props…'..

He was choked with emotion, found it difficult to form the words. He took her hand, it really seemed so very small, and squeezed it as he swallowed. She understood.

'Lindsay, will you take me to London? I want to see the Green Park again…'

'Green Park, just Green Park…'

'They have those big birds by the pool, the funny ones with great pouches…'

'Pelicans. That's St James's Park. I'll show you the whole of London. Then we'll go out into the countryside…'

'I'd like that.' She turned her head on his shoulder and her hair brushed his cheek. 'I know a little village in Surrey, near Guildford. All huddled down in the folds of the hills…'

'Peaslake?'

'You know it, too!' She sat up and her face glowed. 'Oh, this is wonderful. I'm never going back to Jugoslavia. I've got dual nationality, you know – a British passport..

'I didn't know – you never told me. It will make things so much easier. Haven't you Got any people back in Yugoslavia?'

'No ties. I'm an only child – so after both my parents were killed in the Belgrade bombing I was completely on my own.' She slipped her arm inside his. 'I'm not going to let you out of my sight until we get to London. Does that make me a forward hussy? I don't care. I don't care…!'

For that short time, as the Dakota droned steadily on towards Palestine, they must have been very happy. Across the gangway in the window seat Reader, who had exceptionally acute hearing, listened to most of their conversation without wishing to.

He kept his eyes turned towards the window, gazing at the sea they crossed for most of the flight. He was convinced that neither Lindsay nor Paco had any idea they were over the Med. As she repeated I don't care…! Paco clasped her free hand over her mouth.

'God, was I shouting? The whole aircraft must have heard…'

'You were.. It must have done. And I don't care either. One thing, we may not travel together all the way until we arrive in London…'

'And why not?'

'Security. I have a job to complete. Which reminds me – I'd like a quick word with Reader over there. Won't be long – and don't get up. I can squeeze past…' He put a hand on her leg to support himself and held it there for a moment.

Settling himself in the seat next to Reader, he turned away from Paco so she couldn't catch even a snatch of his conversation with the Intelligence Major. He took out the leather-bound diary from his pocket.

"This is strictly between you and me, Reader. This diary is vital. The information is what I'm carrying inside my head – so if my head never reaches London I need a safe place for the diary. Otherwise everything that's happened becomes pointless. That I wouldn't like…'

'What exactly are you asking me to do?'

'You're not fireproof either. Do you know someone in Palestine you can trust, really trust – someone you could deposit this diary with until I send for it?'

'Only a civilian. Chap called Stein. He's a diamond broker. Their careers hinge on their integrity. And he's not mixed up with any of the Jewish gangs. You could trust him with your life…'

'Maybe that's how it's going to turn out…'

Leaving Reader, he was standing in the gangway when Hartmann approached him. The German asked if they could have a quiet word together. They chose two isolated seats d Hartmann began speaking in

English.

'Now we are over Allied territory I can reveal my secret. I've been sent on a special mission by Admiral Canaris, chief of the Abwehr as you know. He instructed me to escape from Germany – which is why I seized on the opportunity to follow you. Rather a nerve-racking business. I had to fool so many people – Gruber, Jaeger, Schmidt, Maisel – the most dangerous adversary. And, of course, Bormann himself…'

'I always sensed there was something odd about you…'

'I thought you did,' Hartmann commented. 'I know the names of the entire anti-Nazi opposition. We tried to pass on our peace proposals to Allied agents in Spain but someone road-blocked us. A man called Whelby was in charge…'

'I know him,' Lindsay replied and left it at that.

'I have to be escorted safely through to London. In return for assassinating Hitler and establishing a civilian, non-Nazi government we are prepared to negotiate a peace settlement. I can only give you names after I have arrived in London. Until then I ask that you alone should know about this matter..

'That is your only passport to safety,' Lindsay told him.

It was still daylight when Moshe, crouched behind the rocks overlooking Lydda airfield, first spotted the Dakota coming in to land. He was aching in every limb from his long vigil but he possessed quite abnormal powers of endurance.

In the canvas satchel by his side was his water- bottle, his few remaining cheese sandwiches and a pair of night-glasses. Dusk would soon spread its dark pall over the silent land and he had no way of knowing whether the aircraft bringing Lindsay might arrive after dark.

He adjusted the binoculars looped round his neck and focused them on the grassy runway. The Dakota flew straight in, touched down and reduced speed as it headed for the reception building. Moshe knew that on the far side of the building beyond his view were parked a staff car and an armoured vehicle.

The man who had been pointed out to him by Vlacek in Jerusalem as Tim Whelby strolled towards the aircraft, hatless and wearing only a tropical drill suit despite the chill of the evening. Moshe locked his lenses on Whelby, waiting for the signal which would identify Wing Commander Lindsay for him.

A metal ladder was placed against the side of the machine by one of the ground staff. Two British soldiers armed with sten guns began patrolling the area round the Dakota. A man appeared at the top of the ladder, a man holding a stick.

Moshe pressed the glasses hard against his eyes as the passenger slowly descended the ladder rung by rung. Reaching the ground, he turned and in the twin lenses Moshe saw his face close up. No doubt about it. This was Lindsay! Then Moshe got his final confirmation of the RAF man's identity.

As Whelby shook hands with Lindsay he casually reached up with his left hand and gripped the lobe of his ear, the signal Vlacek had arranged. Other people were emerging from the aircraft. To Moshe's surprise one of them was a blonde-haired girl – followed in rapid succession by two other men.

Moshe continued his watch. He wanted to observe the system of protection employed, because when Lindsay returned from Jerusalem to fly on to Cairo they would undoubtedly employ the same technique. It was this British habit of clinging to routine which had been the death of them – literally – on so many other occasions.