On Dangerous Ground (2 page)

Tanner did as he was told and passed it to him. The single sheet of paper was headed “Supreme Allied Commander South East Asia Command.” Mao had signed it, not only in English but in Chinese, with Mountbatten countersigning.

“There you are, Jack,” Campbell said as he folded it. “Piece of history here. If Mao wins, Hong Kong will stay British until July first, twenty ninety-seven.”

“You think it will happen, Laird?”

“Who knows. We’ve got to win the war first. Pass me my Bible, will you?”

Tanner went to the dresser where the Major’s toilet articles were laid out. The Bible was about six inches by four with a cover of embossed silver, a Celtic cross standing out clearly. It was very old. A Campbell had carried it to war for many centuries. It had been found in the pocket of the Major’s ancestor who had died fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie at Culloden. It had been recovered from the body of his uncle, killed on the Somme in 1916. Campbell took it everywhere.

Tanner opened it. The inside of the Bible’s cover was also silver. He felt carefully with his nail; it sprang open revealing a small hidden compartment. Campbell folded the sheet of paper to the appropriate size and fitted it in, closing the lid.

“Top secret, Jack, only you and I know it’s there. Your Highland oath on it.”

“You have it, Laird. Shall I put it in the hold-all, Laird?”

“No, I’ll carry it in my map pocket.” There was a knock at the door, Tanner went to open it and Flight Lieutenant Caine stepped in. He was carrying heavy flying jackets and sheepskin boots.

“You’ll need these, sir. We’ll probably have to go as high as twenty thousand over part of the Hump. Bloody freezing up there.”

The young man looked tired, dark circles under his eyes. Campbell said, “I’m sorry about this. I know you’ve only just got in.”

“That’s all right, sir. I carry a co-pilot, Pilot Officer Giffard. We can spell each other. We also have a navigator and wireless operator. We’ll make out.” He smiled. “One can hardly say no to Lord Mountbatten. All the way to Delhi on this one, I see.”

“That’s right. Then onwards to London.”

“Wish I was doing that leg of the trip.” Caine opened the door and looked out at the rain. “Never stops, does it? What a bloody country. I’ll see you at the plane, sir.”

He went out. Campbell said, “Right, Jack, let’s get moving.”

They pulled on the flying boots, the heavy sheepskin jackets. Finally ready, Tanner picked up his hold-all and the Major’s.

“On your way, Jack.”

Tanner moved out. Campbell glanced around the room, reached for his cap and put it on, then he picked up the Bible, put it in the map pocket of his flying jacket, and fastened the flap. Strange, but he felt more than tired. It was as if he had reached the end of something. His Highland blood speaking again. He shrugged the feeling off, turned, and went out into the rain, following Tanner to the Dakota.

To Kunming from Chungking was four hundred and fifty miles. They took the opportunity to refuel and then pressed on to the most hazardous section of the trip, the five hundred and fifty miles over the Hump to the Assam airfields.

Conditions were appalling, heavy rain and thunderstorms, and the kind of turbulence that threatened to break the plane up. Several hundred aircrew had died making this run over the past couple of years, Campbell knew that. It was probably the most hazardous flying duty in the RAF or the USAF. He wondered what persuaded men to volunteer for such work and while thinking about it, actually managed some sleep, only surfacing as they came into their Assam destination to refuel.

The onward trip to Delhi was another eleven hundred miles and a completely different proposition. Blue skies, considerable heat, and no wind to speak of. The Dakota coasted along at ten thousand feet and Caine, leaving the flying to Giffard, came back and tried to get a couple of hours’ sleep.

Campbell dozed again and came awake to find the wireless operator shaking Caine by the shoulder. “Delhi in fifteen minutes, Skipper.”

Caine got up, yawning. He grinned at Campbell. “Piece of cake this leg, isn’t it?”

As he turned away there was an explosion. Pieces of metal flew off the port engine, there was thick black smoke, and as the propeller stopped turning, the Dakota banked and dived steeply, throwing Caine off his feet.

Campbell was hurled against the bulkhead behind with such force that he was almost knocked senseless. The result was that he couldn’t really take in what was happening. There was a kind of nightmare as if the world was breaking up around him, the impact of the crash, the smell of burning and someone screaming.

He was aware of being in water, managed to focus his eyes, and found himself being dragged through a paddy field by a wild-eyed Tanner, blood on his face. The Corporal heaved him onto a dyke, then turned and hurried back, knee-deep in water, to the Dakota which was burning fiercely now. When he was halfway there, it blew up with a tremendous explosion.

Debris cascaded everywhere and Tanner turned and came back wearily. He eased the Major higher on the dyke and found a tin of cigarettes. His hand shook as he lit one.

“Are we hit?” Campbell managed to croak.

“So it would appear, Laird.”

“Dear God.” Campbell’s hands moved over his chest. “The Bible,” he whispered.

“Dinna fash yourself, Laird, I’ll hold it safe for you.”

Tanner took it from the map pocket and then all sounds faded for Campbell, all color, nothing now but quiet darkness.

In Chungking, Mountbatten and Stillwell were examining on the map the relentless progress of the advancing Japanese, who had already overrun most of the Allied airfields in eastern China.

“I thought we were supposed to be winning the war,” Stillwell said.

Mountbatten smiled ruefully. “So did I.”

Behind him, the door opened and an aide entered with a signal flimsy. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but this is from Delhi — marked urgent.”

Mountbatten read it then swore softly. “All right, you can go.”

“The aide went out. Stillwell said, “Bad news.”

“The Dakota Campbell was traveling in lost an engine and crashed just outside Delhi. It fireballed after landing. By all accounts, the documents and my dispatches went with it.”

“Is Campbell dead?”

“No, that Corporal of his managed to get him out. All the crew were killed. It seems Campbell received a serious head injury. He’s in a coma.”

“Let’s hope he hangs in there,” Stillwell said. “Anyway, something of a setback for you, your Chungking Covenant going up in flames. What will you do? Try to get Mao to sign another one?”

“I doubt if I’ll ever get close enough to him again. It was always an anything-is-better-than-nothing situation. I didn’t really expect much to come out of it. Anyway, in my experience, Chinese seldom give you a second bite at the cherry.”

“I agree,” Stillwell said. “In any case, the wily old bastard is probably already regretting putting his signature to that thing. But what about his supplies?”

“Oh, we’ll see he gets those because I want him actively on our side taking on the Japanese. The Hong Kong business was never serious, Joe. I thought we ought to get something out of the deal if we could, and the Hong Kong thing was all that the Prime Minister and I could come up with. Not that it matters now, we’ve got far more serious things to consider.” He walked back to the wall map. “Now show me exactly where those Japanese forward units are.”

1993
LONDON

ONE

NORAH BELL GOT OUT OF THE TAXI CLOSE TO ST. James’s Stairs on Wapping High Street. She paid off the cab driver and walked away, a small, hippy, dark-haired girl in leather jacket, tight black mini skirt, and high-heeled ankle boots. She walked well with a sort of total movement of the whole body. The cab driver watched her put up her umbrella against the heavy rain, sighed deeply, and drove away.

She paused on the first corner and bought an
Evening Standard
. The front page was concerned with only one thing, the arrival of the American President in London that day to meet with both the Israeli and British Prime Ministers, to discuss developments in the Palestinian situation. She folded the newspaper, put it under her left arm, and turned the corner of the next street, walking down toward the Thames.

The youth standing in a doorway opposite was perhaps eighteen and wore lace-up boots, jeans, and shabby bomber jacket. With the ring in his left nostril and the swastika tattooed on his forehead, he was typical of a certain type of gang animal that roamed the city streets in search of prey. She looked easy meat and he went after her quickly, only running in at the last minute to grab her from behind, one hand over her mouth. She didn’t struggle, went completely still which should have told him something, but by then he was beyond reason, charged with the wrong kind of sexual excitement.

“Just do as you’re told,” he said, “and I won’t hurt you.”

He urged her into the porch of a long-disused warehouse, pushing against her. She said, “No need to be rough.”

To his amazement she kissed him, her tongue flickering in his mouth. He couldn’t believe his luck and, still clutching her umbrella, she moved her other hand down between them, brushing against his hardness.

“Jesus,” he moaned and kissed her again, aware that her hand seemed to be easing up her skirt.

She found what she was looking for, the flick knife tucked into the top of her right stocking. It came up, the blade jumped, and she sliced open the left side of his face from the corner of the eye to the chin.

He screamed, falling back. She said calmly, putting the point under his chin, “Do you want some more?”

He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life. “No, for God’s sake, no!”

She wiped the blade on his jacket. “Then go away.”

He moved out into the rain, then turned, holding a handkerchief to his face. “Bitch! I’ll get you for this.”

“No you won’t.” Her accent was unmistakably Ulster Irish. “You’ll find the nearest casualty department as fast as you can, get yourself stitched up, and put the whole thing down to experience.”

She watched him go, closed the knife, slipping it back in the top of the stocking, then she turned and continued down toward the Thames, moving along the waterfront, finally pausing at an old warehouse.

There was a Judas gate in the main entrance, she opened it and went in. It was a place of shadows, but at the far end there was a glass office with a light in it. It was reached by a flight of wooden stairs. As she moved toward it, a young, dark-skinned man moved out of the darkness, a Browning Hi-Power in one hand.

“And who might you be?” she asked.

The door of the office was opened and a small man with dark tousled hair wearing a reefer jacket appeared. “Is that you, Norah?”

“And who else?” she replied. “Who’s your friend?”

“Ali Halabi, meet Norah Bell. Come away up.”

“I’m sorry,” the Arab said.

She ignored him and went up the stairs and he followed, noting with approval the way her skirt tightened over her hips.

When she went into the office the man in the reefer coat put his hands on her shoulders. “God help me, but you look good enough to eat,” and he kissed her lightly on the lips.

“Save the blarney.” She put her umbrella on the desk, opened her handbag, and took out a packet of cigarettes. “Anything in a skirt, Michael Ahern. I’ve known you too long.”

She put a cigarette in her mouth and the Arab hurriedly took out a lighter and lit it for her. He turned to Ahern. “The lady is part of your organization?”

“Well I’m not with the bloody IRA,” she said. “We’re Prods, mister, if you know what that means.”

“Norah and I were in the Ulster Volunteer Force together and then the Red Hand of Ulster,” Ahern said. “Until we had to move on.”

Norah laughed harshly. “Until they threw us out. A bunch of old women, that lot. We were killing too many Catholics for their liking.”

“I see,” Ali Halabi said. “Is it Catholics who are your target or the IRA?”

“The same difference,” she said. “I’m from Belfast, Mr. Halabi. My father was an Army sergeant, killed in the Falklands War. My mother, my kid sister, my old granddad, all the family I had in the world, were killed in a street bomb planted by the IRA back in eighty-six. You might say I’ve been taking my revenge ever since.”

“But we are open to offers,” Ahern said amiably. “Any revolutionary organization needs money.”

The door banged below. Ali took the gun from his pocket and Ahern moved to the door. “Is that you, Billy?”

“As ever was.”

“Would that be Billy Quigley?” Norah asked.

“Who else?” Ahern turned to Ali. “Another one the Red Hand threw out. Billy and I did some time together in the Maze prison.”

Quigley was a small, wiry man in an old raincoat. He had faded blond hair and a careworn face that was old beyond his years.

“Jesus, is that you, Norah?”

“Hello, Billy.”

“You got my message?” Ahern said.

“Yes, I drop in to the William of Orange in Kilburn most nights.”

Ahern said to Ali, “Kilburn is what you might call the Irish quarter of London. Plenty of good Irish pubs there, Catholic and Protestant. This, by the way, is Ali Halabi from Iran.”

“So what’s it all about?” Quigley demanded.

“This.” Ahern held up the
Evening Standard
with the headline about the American President. “Ali, here, represents a group of fundamentalists in Iran called the Army of God. They, shall we say, deeply deplore Arafat’s deal with Israel over the new status of Palestine. They are even more unhappy with the American President presiding over that meeting at the White House and giving it his blessing.”

“So?” Quigley said.

“They’d like me to blow him up for them while he’s in London, me having a certain reputation in that field.”

“For five million pounds,” Ali Halabi said, “don’t let us forget that.”

“Half of which is already on deposit in Geneva.” Ahern smiled. “By God, Billy, couldn’t we give the IRA a run for their money with a million pounds to spend on arms?”