Parker said, ‘That’s just the first bit—now we run into more problems.’
Jeanette leaned forward. ‘What problems?’ she asked sharply.
Parker swished his drink around in his glass. ‘Normally a Mark XI torpedo has a short range—a bit over three miles. Anythin’ you shoot at you can see, an’ any damn’ fool can see a ship three miles away. But you’re different—you want to shoot at somethin’ that’s clear over the horizon. You saw the distance we just travelled.’
‘That shouldn’t be much trouble,’ said Eastman. ‘Not if you have a good navigator who knows where he is.’
‘The best navigator in the world can’t tell his position to a quarter-mile in the open sea,’ said Parker flatly. ‘Not without an inertial guidance system which you couldn’t afford even if the Navy would sell you one. You can’t buy
those
on the war surplus market.’
‘So what’s the answer?’ asked Jeanette.
‘That big derrick on the
Orestes
is about fifty feet above the water,’ said Parker. ‘If you put a man up there in a sort o’ crow’s nest he could see a shade over eight miles to the horizon. What you’ve got to do is to put up a light on shore about the same height or higher, an’ if it’s bright enough it’ll be seen sixteen miles or more out at sea by the chap in the crow’s nest. But it needs to be done at night.’
‘It’s going to be a night job, anyway,’ said Eastman.
Parker nodded. ‘It needs polishin’ up a bit, but that’s the general idea.’ He paused. ‘There might be a few lights along the coast so you’ll need to have some way of identifying the right one. You could have a special colour or, better still, put a switch in the circuit an’ flash a code. The man in the crow’s nest on the
Orestes
should have a telescope—one o’ those things target shooters use would do, an’ it should be rigidly fixed like a sort o’ telescopic sight. As soon as he sees the light through it he presses the tit an’ away goes the torpedo. An’ it might help if he’s on intercom wi’ the helmsman.’
‘Ideas come thick and fast from you, don’t they?’ said Eastman admiringly.
‘I just try to earn me money,’ said Parker modestly. ‘I have a stake in this, you know.’
‘Yeah,’ said Eastman. ‘Another two hundred thousand bucks. You’re earning it.’
‘There might be even more in it for you, Parker,’ said Jeanette and smiled sweetly at Fuad. ‘Youssif is neither poor nor ungenerous.’
Fuad’s face set tight and firm and he hooded his eyes. To Abbot he looked as generous as someone who had just successfully robbed the church poor-box.
Jeanette’s car was still awaiting them when they arrived back in the yacht harbour. ‘I have something to show you,’ she said to Abbot and Parker. ‘Get in the car.’ To Eastman she said, ‘You stay with Youssif and check over with him what I’ve told you. See if either of you can find any holes in it.’
She got into the car and sat next to Abbot and the car pulled away. Abbot wanted a chance of a private word with Parker who, intoxicated by success, had been shooting his mouth off a little too much. He would have to talk to him about that. He turned to Jeanette. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Back to where you came from this morning.’
‘There are no surprises there,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen everything.’
She just smiled at him and said nothing, and the car drifted opulently out of Beirut along the Tripoli road back to the torpedo shed. It turned into the yard, and she said, Take a look inside, then come back and we’ll talk about it.’
He and Parker got out and walked towards the shed. Just before they opened the door, Abbot said, ‘Wait a minute, Dan; I want to talk to you. I don’t think you should give them too much—as you were doing on the way back today. If that hellcat gets the idea she doesn’t need us we might be in trouble.’
Parker grinned. ‘They need us,’ he said positively. ‘Who is goin’ to put new batteries into that torpedo? Eastman wouldn’t have a clue, for one. We’ll be all right until the end, Mike.’ His face sobered. ‘But what the hell is goin’ to happen then I don’t know. Now let’s go in an’ see what the big surprise is.’
They went into the shed. Parker switched on the lights and stood transfixed at the top of the stairs. ‘Bloody hell!’ he burst out. ‘They need us an’ no mistake.’
Lying on trestles below them were
three
torpedoes.
Abbot’s mouth was suddenly dry. ‘Three more! That’s a hell of a lot of heroin.’ He was filled with the terrible necessity of getting the information out to where it would do some good. But how the hell could he? Every step he took, every move he made, was under observation.
‘If they think I’m goin’ to start a bloody one-man production line they can think again,’ Parker grumbled.
‘Quiet, Dan, for God’s sake!’ said Abbot. ‘I’m trying to think.’ After a while he said, ‘I’m going to try to pull a fast one on that bitch outside. You back me up. Just remember that you’ve had a hard day and all you want to do is to go to bed.’
He left the shed and crossed the yard to where the car was waiting. He bent down, and said, ‘Quite a surprise. Are all those going to be loaded and shot off at once?’
Jeanette said, ‘It’s what Jack calls the jackpot. There’s more money in it for you, of course.’
‘Yes,’ said Abbot. ‘We’ll have to discuss that—but why do it here? Why don’t you and me and Dan take the night off to celebrate—say at the Paon Rouge.’ He grinned. ‘It’s on me—I can afford it now.’
Parker said from behind him, ‘Count me out, I’m too tired. All I want is me bed.’
‘Well, that doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ll trust me to fix the finance with Jeanette?’
‘O’ course. You do what’s right.’ Parker passed his hand over his face. ‘I’m goin’ to turn in. Good night.’
He walked away, and Abbot said, ‘What about it, Jeanette? I’m tired of being cooped up in this place. I want to stretch my wings and crow a bit.’ He gestured towards the shed. ‘There’s a lot of work in there—I’d like to have a break’ before we start.’
Jeanette indicated her clothing. ‘But I can’t go to the Paon Rouge dressed like this.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Abbot. ‘Give me two ticks while I change, then I’ll come with you to wherever you live. You change, and we go on the town. Simple.’
She smiled thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that might be a good idea. How are you as a lady’s maid? I gave my girl the day off.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Abbot heartily. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
Five hours later he swished brandy around his glass, and said, ‘You drive a hard bargain, Jeannie, my girl, but it’s a deal. You’re getting us cheap, I hope you know that.’
‘Mike, don’t you care about anything except money?’ She sounded hurt.
‘Not much,’ he said, and drank some brandy. ‘We’re two of a kind, you and me.’ He signalled to a waiter.
‘Yes, I think we are alike. I feel much closer to you than I do to poor Jack.’
Abbot quirked an eyebrow. ‘Why
poor
Jack?’
She sat back in her chair. ‘He was annoyed that you were on Stella today. I think he’s becoming jealous. If you stay with us—with me—that will have to be settled, and settled for good.’ She smiled. ‘Poor Jack.’
‘He’s living with you, isn’t he?’ said Abbot. ‘I think those were his clothes I saw in the wardrobe.’
‘Why, I believe you are jealous, too,’ she cried delightedly.
He felt a cold shiver at the nape of his neck as he pictured Jeanette and Eastman lying in bed together while she discussed the possibility of one John Eastman knocking off one Michael Abbot. This she-devil was quite capable of playing both ends against the middle. She believed in the survival of the fittest, and the survivor would get first prize—her lithe and insatiable body. It wasn’t a bad prize—if you could stand the competition. The trouble was
that if you played by her rules the competition would be never-ending.
He forced a smile. ‘I like you and money in roughly equal proportions. As for Jack Eastman, I suggest we leave that problem for a while. He still has his uses.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But don’t leave it too long.’
He pushed back his chair. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to see a man about a dog. I’ll be back in a moment.’
He walked quickly into the foyer and into one of the few rooms in the Phoenicia where he could get away from Delorme. He locked himself in a cubicle, took an envelope from his pocket and checked the wording on the single sheet of paper inside. Then he reinserted the sheet, sealed the envelope and addressed it carefully.
He found an attendant who obligingly brushed his jacket with subservient attention, and said, ‘I’d like to have this letter delivered to the
Daily Star
office at once.’
The attendant looked dubious but brightened immediately as he heard the crisp rustle of folding money. ‘Yes, sair; I’ll ‘ave it delivered.’
‘It’s important,’ said Abbot. ‘It must get there tonight.’ He added another banknote. ‘That’s to make sure it arrives within the hour.’
Then he straightened his shoulders and went back to where the she-spider was waiting.
Sir Robert Hellier sat behind his desk and looked at the newspaper. It was the Beirut English language paper,
Daily Star,
which he had flown to London regularly. He ignored the news pages but turned to the classified advertisements and ran his fingers down the columns. This he had done every morning for many weeks.
Suddenly he grunted and his finger checked its movement. He took a pen and slashed a ring round an advertisement. It read:
Mixed farm for sale near Zahleh. 2,000 acres good land; large vineyard, good farmhouse, stock, implements. Box 192,
He heaved a sigh of relief. He had lost contact with Abbot and Parker many weeks previously and had been worried about it, but now he knew they were still around he felt better. He re-read the advertisement and a frown creased his forehead as he groped for the pen.
Five minutes later he found he was sweating. Surely he had made a mistake in his calculations. Got a few too many noughts mixed in somewhere or other. The 2,000 acres mentioned in the advertisement meant that the Delorme woman intended to smuggle 2,000 pounds of heroin—that was the jumping-off point. He began right again from the start and worked it out very carefully. The end result was incredible.
He looked at the final figure again and it still shattered him. $340,000,000.
That was what 2,000 pounds of heroin would be worth to the final consumers, the drug addicts who would pay their $7.00 and $8.00 a shot. He wrote down another figure. $100,000,000.
That was what Delorme would be paid if the dope could be safely delivered inside the States. He expected the whole thing would be worked out on a credit basis—not even the Syndicate could be expected to raise that much capital at one time. The stuff would be cached and doled out a few pounds at a time at $50,000 a pound, and Delorme would be creaming the lot. She had organized the whole business right from the Middle Eastern poppy fields, had taken all the risks and would take all the profits, which were enormous.
With shaking fingers he picked up the telephone. ‘Miss Walden: cancel all my appointments for an indefinite
period. Get me a plane reservation for Beirut as soon as possible, and a hotel reservation accordingly—the Saint—Georges or the Phoenicia. All that as soon as possible, please.’
He sat and looked at the advertisement, hoping to God that whoever had set it in type had made a misprint and that he was embarking on a wild goose chase.
He also hoped he could hear from Warren because Warren and the three men with him had also gone missing.
Entry into Iraq was not too difficult. They had visas for all countries in the Middle East into which it had been thought the chase might lead them, and Hellier had provided them with documents and letters of introduction which apparently carried a lot of weight. But the Iraqi officer at the border post expressed surprise that they should enter via Kurdistan and so far north, and showed an undesirable curiosity.
Tozier made an impassioned speech in throat-rasping Arabic and this, together with their credentials, got them through, although at one time Warren had visions of a jail in Iraqi Kurdistan—not the sort of place from which it would be easy to ring one’s lawyer.
They filled up with petrol and water at the border post and left quickly before the officer could change his mind, Tozier in the lead and Follet riding with Warren. At noon Tozier pulled off the road and waited for the other vehicle to come up. He pulled out a pressure stove and said, ‘Time for a bite to eat.’
As Follet opened cans, he said, ‘This isn’t much different from Iran. I don’t reckon I’m very hungry—I’m full of dust.’
Tozier grinned and looked at the barren landscape. The roads were just as dusty here, and the mountains as bleak as on the other side of the border. ‘It’s not far to
Sulaymaniyeh, but I don’t know what we’ll do when we get there. Take it as it comes, I suppose.’
Warren pumped up the pressure stove and put the water to boil. He looked across at Tozier, and said, ‘We haven’t had the chance of talking much. What happened back there?’
‘In the
qanat?
’
‘Yes,’ said Warren quietly.
‘It collapsed, Nick. I couldn’t get through.’
‘No hope for Ben?’
Tozier shook his head. ‘It would have been quick.’
Warren’s face was drawn. He had been right when he told Hellier that blood would be shed, but he had not expected this. Tozier said, ‘Don’t blame yourself, Nick. It was his own choice that he went back. He knew the risk. It was a damn-fool thing to do anyway, it nearly did for us all.’
‘Yes,’ said Warren. ‘It was very foolish.’ He bent his head so that the others could not see his face. It was as though someone had stabbed a cold knife into his guts. He and Ben were both medical men, both lifesavers. But who had been the better—Ben Bryan, for all his foolishness and idealism, or Nicholas Warren who had brought him to the desert and his death? Warren did not relish that ugly question.
They were half-way through lunch when Tozier said casually, ‘We’ve got visitors. I’d advise against sudden moves.’
Despite himself Warren hastily looked around. Follet went on pouring coffee with a steady hand. ‘Where are they?’ he asked.
‘There are a couple on the hill above us,’ said Tozier. ‘And three or four more circling around the other side. We’re being surrounded.’
‘Any chance of making a break?’
‘I don’t think so, Johnny. The guns are too hard to get at right now. If these boys—whoever they are—are serious they’ll have blocked off the road ahead and behind. And we
couldn’t get far on foot. We’ll just have to wait until we find out the score.’ He accepted the cup of coffee from Follet. ‘Pass the sugar, Nick.’
‘What!’
‘Pass the sugar,’ said Tozier patiently. ‘There’s no point in getting into an uproar about it. They might be just curious Kurds.’
They might just be too goddam curious,’ said Follet. ‘That guy Ahmed is a Kurd, remember.’ He stood up slowly and stretched. ‘There’s a deputation coming down the road now.’
‘Anyone we know?’
‘Can’t tell. They’re all wearing nightgowns.’
Warren heard a stone clatter behind him, and Tozier said, ‘Easy does it. Just get up and look pleasant.’ He stood up and turned, and the first man he saw come into view was Ahmed, the son of Sheikh Fahrwaz. ‘Bingo!’ said Tozier.
Ahmed stepped forward. ‘Well, Mr Warren—Mr Tozier; how nice to see you again. Won’t you introduce your companion?’ He was smiling but Warren could detect little humour in his face.
Playing along, he said, ‘Mr Follet—a member of my team.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Ahmed brightly. ‘But wasn’t there another man? Don’t tell me you’ve lost him?’ He surveyed them. ‘Nothing to say? I’m sure you’re aware that this is no fortuitous encounter. I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Now why should you do that?’ asked Tozier in wonder.
‘Need you ask? My father has doubts about your safety.’
He waved his hand. ‘You would not believe what dreadful people roam these hills. He has sent me to escort you to somewhere safe. Your escort, as I am sure you are aware, is all around to…er…protect you.’
‘To protect us from ourselves,’ said Warren ironically. ‘Aren’t you off your beat, Ahmed? Does the Iraqi government know you are in the country?’
‘What the Iraqi government does not know would take far too long to detail,’ said Ahmed. ‘But I suggest we go. My men will put your picnic kit back in your vehicles. My men will also drive your vehicles—to save you from needless fatigue. All part of the service.’
Warren was uncomfortably aware of the rifles held by Ahmed’s men and of the wide circle drawn about them. He glanced at Tozier who shrugged, and said, ‘Why not?’
‘Very good,’ said Ahmed approvingly. ‘Mr Tozier is a man of few words but much sense.’ He snapped his fingers and his men moved forward. ‘Let us not waste time. My father is positively aching to…interrogate you.’
Warren did not like the sound of that at all.
The three of them were crammed into the back of one of the Land-Rovers. In the front seats were a driver and a man who sat half-turned to them, holding a pistol steadily. Sometimes, as the vehicle bounced, Warren wondered if the safety-catch was on because the man kept his finger loosely curved around the trigger, and it would not have taken much movement to complete the final pressure. Any shot fired into the back would have been certain to hit one of the bodies uncomfortably huddled among the photographic equipment.
As near as he could tell their route curved back to the east, almost as far as the Iranian border, and then straightened out in a northerly direction, heading deeper into the mountains. That meant they had circled Sulaymaniyeh, which was now left behind them. They followed a truck, a
big tough brute which looked as though it had been designed for army service, and when he was able to look back he saw the other Land-Rover from time to time through the inevitable dust-cloud.
The man with the gun did not seem to object to their talking but Warren was cautious. The fluent Oxbridge accent that had come so strangely from Ahmed had warned him that no matter how villainous and foreign the man appeared it did not automatically follow that he had no English. He said, ‘Is everyone all right?’
‘I’ll be fine as soon as whoever it is takes his elbow out of my gut,’ said Follet. ‘So that was Ahmed! A right pleasantspoken guy.’
‘I don’t think we should talk too much business,’ said Warren carefully. ‘Those little pitchers might have long ears.’
Follet looked at the pistoleer. ‘Long and goddam hairy,’ he said distastefully. ‘Needing a wash, too. Ever heard of water, bud?’
The man looked back at him expressionlessly, and Tozier said, ‘Cut it out, Johnny, Nick’s right.’
‘I was just trying to find out something,’ said Follet.
‘You might just find out the hard way. Never make fun of a man with a gun—his sense of humour might be lethal.’
It was a long ride.
When night fell the headlights were switched on and the speed dropped but still they jolted deeper into the mountains where, according to Warren’s hazy memory of the map, there were no roads at all. From the way the vehicle rolled and swayed this was very likely true.
At midnight the sound of the engine reverberated from the sides of a rocky gorge, and Warren eased himself up on one elbow to look ahead. The lights showed a rocky wall straight ahead and the driver hauled the Land-Rover into a
ninety-degree turn and then did it again and again as the gorge twisted and narrowed. Suddenly they debouched into an open place where there were lights dotted about on a hillside and they stopped.
The rear doors opened and, under the urged commands of the man with the gun, they crawled out. Dark figures crowded about them and there was a murmur of voices. Warren stretched thankfully, easing his cramped limbs, and looked about at the sheer encroaching hills. The sky above was bright with the full moon which showed how circumscribed by cliffs this little valley was.
Tozier rubbed his thigh, looked up at the lights in the cliff side, and said sardonically, ‘Welcome to Shangri-la.’
‘Very well put,’ said Ahmed’s voice from the darkness. ‘And just as inaccessible, I assure you. This way, if you please.’
And if I don’t please? thought Warren sourly, but made no attempt to put it to the test. They were hustled across the valley floor right to the bottom of a cliff where their feet found a narrow and precipitous path which wound its way up the cliff face. It was not very wide—just wide enough to be dangerous in the darkness, but probably able to take two men abreast in full daylight. It emerged on to a wider ledge halfway up the cliff, and he was able to see that the lights came from caves dotted along the cliff face.
As they were marched along the ledge he peered into the caves, which were pretty well populated. At a rough estimate he thought that there could not be very much less than two hundred men in this community. He saw no women.
They were brought to a halt in front of one of the larger caves. It was well illuminated and, as Ahmed went inside, Warren saw the tall figure of Sheikh Fahrwaz arise from a couch. Tozier gave a muffled exclamation and nudged him, ‘What is it?’ he whispered.
Tozier was staring into the cave, and then Warren saw what had attracted his attention. Standing near Fahrwaz was a short, wiry, muscular man in European clothing. He lifted his hand in greeting at Ahmed’s approach and then stood by quietly as Ahmed talked to Fahrwaz. ‘I know that man,’ whispered Tozier.
‘Who is he?’
‘I’ll tell you later—if I can. Ahmed’s coming back.’
As Ahmed came out of the cave he made a sign and they were pushed further along the ledge and out of sight of Fahrwaz. They went about twenty yards and were stopped in front of a door let into the rock face. Someone opened it with much key-jangling, and Ahmed said, ‘I trust you won’t find the accommodation too uncomfortable. Food will be sent; we try not to starve our guests…unnecessarily.’
Hands forced Warren through the doorway and he stumbled and fell, and then someone else fell on top of him. When they had sorted themselves out in the darkness the door had slammed and the key turned in the lock.
Follet said breathily, ‘Pushy bastards, aren’t they?’
Warren drew up his trouser-leg and felt his shin, encountering the stickiness of blood. A cigarette-fighter clicked and sparked a couple of times and then flared into light, casting grotesque shadows as Tozier held it up. The cave stretched back into the darkness and all was gloom in its furthest recesses. Warren saw some boxes and sacks stacked against one side but not much more because the light danced about and so did the shadows as Tozier moved about exploratively.
‘Ah!’ said Tozier with satisfaction. ‘This is what we want.’ The flame grew and brightened as he applied it to a stump of candle.
Follet looked around. ‘This must be the lock-up,’ he said. ‘Store room too, by the look of it, but first a lock-up. Every military unit needs a lock-up—it’s a law of nature.’
‘Military!’ said Warren.
‘Yes,’ said Tozier. ‘It’s a military set-up. A bit rough and ready—guerrilla, I’d say—but definitely an army of sorts. Didn’t you see the guns?’ He set down the candle on a box.
‘This is something I didn’t expect,’ said Warren. ‘It doesn’t fit in with drugs.’
‘Neither does Metcalfe,’ said Tozier. ‘That’s the man who was with Fahrwaz. Now I really am puzzled. Metcalfe and guns I can understand—they go together like bacon and eggs. But Metcalfe and dope is bloody impossible.’
‘Why? Who is this man?’
‘Metcalfe is…well, he’s just Metcalfe. He’s as bent as they come, but there’s one thing he’s known for—he won’t have anything to do with drugs. He’s had plenty of opportunity, mark you, because he’s a smart boy, but he’s always turned down the chance—sometimes violently. It’s a sort of phobia with him.’
Warren sat down on a box. ‘Tell me more.’
Tozier prodded a paper sack and looked at the inscription on the side. It contained fertilizer. He pulled it up and sat on it. ‘He’s been in my game—that’s how I met him…’
‘As a mercenary?’
Tozier nodded. ‘In the Congo. But he doesn’t stick to one trade; he’s game for anything—the crazier the better. I believe he was kicked out of South Africa because of a crooked deal in diamonds, and I know he was smuggling out of Tangier when it was an open port before the Moroccans took over.’
‘What was he smuggling?’
Tozier shrugged. ‘Cigarettes to Spain; antibiotics—there was a shortage in those days; and I also heard he was smuggling guns to the Algerian rebels.’
‘Was he?’ said Warren with interest. ‘So was Jeanette Delorme.’
‘I heard a garbled story that he was mixed up in smuggling a hell of a lot of gold out of Italy, but nothing seemed
to come of that. It didn’t make him much richer, anyway. I’m telling you all this to show what kind of a man he is. Anything goes, excepting one thing—drugs. And don’t ask me why because I don’t know.’
‘So why is he here?’
‘Because it’s military. He’s one of the best guerrilla leaders I know. He never was any great shakes in a formal military unit—he didn’t go in for the Blanco, bullshit and squarebashing—but with guerrillas he’s deadly. That’s my guess for what it’s worth. We know the Kurds are having a bash at the Iraqis—Ahmed told us. They’ve imported Metcalfe to help them out.’
‘And what about the drugs which he’s not supposed to like?’
Tozier was silent for a while. ‘Maybe he doesn’t know about them.’
Warren ruminated over that, wondering how it could be turned to advantage. He was just about to speak when the key clattered in the lock and the door swung open. A Kurd came in with a pistol ready in his hand and stationed himself with his back to the rock face. Ahmed followed. ‘I said we don’t starve our guests. Here is food. It may not be congenial to your European palates, but it is good food, none the less.’