Wings of the Morning (16 page)

He dropped Alexa onto the floor on the other side and steered her before him out of the cubicle. To his relief, Miranda was there and waiting, poised between the run of basins and the exit door.
She was ashen, her hands clinging to the handle of a small Qantas crew bag which she ripped open, pulling out a uniform and shoes. Alexa was motionless, perhaps the best help she could have given
them. Conrad pulled off her smart Paris dress and Miranda struggled her into the uniform, lifting one foot at a time to get on the shoes and finishing with the airline cap crammed on her head.

Miranda linked her arm tightly through Alexa’s and carried the flight bag. She opened the door, looked out and nodded to Conrad. He moved in front of the two girls and left the Ladies,
moving in a diagonal across the transit lounge to distance himself from them before walking up behind the few passengers who were waiting to go through onto the hot tarmac. He reached into his
pocket for his passport and transit card. Behind him, he heard the click of the girls’ heels on the tiled floor. Miranda was chattering brightly. They hardly broke step as they passed through
the separate barrier reserved for crew members.

Conrad passed out of transit and walked under the broiling sun to the aircraft. He took his turn, climbed the steps and settled back into his seat beside the Aussie farmers. He closed his eyes
but remained electric inside. He had hoped to spirit Alexa away, not to rub out a couple of objectors in the process. If they found the evidence quickly, they would keep the aircraft on the ground
and take their time with a search. Conrad balled his fists in his lap, forced himself to stillness, longed to hear the distinctive whistle of four jet engines spooling up, willed the Boeing to
start moving.

Back in the arrivals hall, Mr Riaz had waited after Eboli and the girl walked off with their minders. He knew they would take some time, but after ten minutes he felt a pricking concern and
moved quietly to check things. He walked nimbly on his small feet down the length of the hall, bowing politely to various officials as they stood at their posts. He reached the lavatory block and
went into the Gents to find Georges Eboli looking renewed. Mr Riaz complimented him gravely and asked about Jamil, ‘the large man who accompanied you down here.’

Georges looked at himself in the mirror as he gave a final tweak to his tie.

‘I heard him leave when I was shaving a few minutes ago. I imagine he’s waiting outside’.

‘Very good,’ said Mr Riaz, ‘I will await you in the hall.’

He stepped back through the entrance with alarm bells going off in his head. He crossed the corridor and pushed open the door to the Ladies. The empty room yawned at him. One cubicle was closed
and locked against his push. He looked around and saw Jamil’s knife discarded on the floor. Riaz gasped, took a firm grip on himself and started to compute in his very sharp brain the most
likely explanation and the best course of action now open to him.

He went back into the hallway and allowed the door of the Ladies to swing shut. At that moment, Georges Eboli emerged into the hall.

‘I have found Jamil,’ Mr Riaz said calmly, ‘a policeman has informed me that he was satisfied you had all you required and he went to morning prayers. He will rejoin us
shortly. And now, I will accompany you and we will pass through customs together. Then, Mr Eboli, you will have truly arrived in Bahrain.’

‘Surely we must wait for Miss Labarre.’

‘Oh, you are too late for that. It is rare indeed for a lady to complete her toilette before a gentleman, but it has been so on this occasion. She returned to our group and I have already
escorted her through.’

Mr Riaz beamed at Georges, who shrugged and resumed his walk. He was feeling restored and confident. The two men carried on their way to the customs post. When they stopped for Eboli’s
documents to be checked, Riaz spoke to one of the two European men waiting at the barrier and then he turned to Georges.

‘Please proceed with my staff who will escort you to our limousine, Mr Eboli. I will delay you only a few minutes, but I must pay my respects to our Airport Director before I leave. It is
our custom, you know.’

Georges nodded, content to follow his porter and a gaggle of retainers as they made their way towards the smart cars parked in the reserved lane outside the terminal building. Mr Riaz crooked
his finger at the tough Russian named Gorki, and together they walked quickly back to the lavatory block and into the Ladies. The closed cubicle still held its secrets but Gorki made short work of
the door and the grim burdens lying across the pedestal were exposed.

Mr Riaz was a resourceful man. The basic explanation was obvious. No time to waste now in working out the details. The girl must by now be back on the plane and whoever had helped her, probably
that guy with the landing card, must be there with her having taken out two of his prime assets. The priority was to stop the departure. With the plane anchored to the ground by red tape and edict
from Air Traffic Control they could sort this out, secure the girl and go to work on her accomplice: there would be time to see if Eboli had been in on it. But once Qantas took off, proof,
retribution and the ‘product’ would be gone forever and there would indeed be hell to pay from his Master.

All of this whistled through his head. He gave Gorki a simple set of instructions. Stay here, do not move or let anyone in under any circumstances. Wait for my return. A curt nod in response and
then Riaz was scuttling off on his short legs. He knew exactly what he was doing. He couldn’t issue an order to the airport management. He didn’t have the blood or the breeding, not
even the nationality. He had the brains, however, and he knew where to get the clout. The Master was qualified and well respected too, even by those who knew him well enough to overlook his
peccadilloes.

Mr Riaz knew exactly where to find him. He would be in the upstairs gallery, concealed behind a pillar, pawing the ground and just waiting for her to walk the last few yards into his clutches.
Mr Riaz sprinted up the stairs and was horrified to find he was wrong. The watching point had been abandoned and the Client had sought out his car and chauffeur, relocating into the public car park
from where he could monitor progress unobserved.

Mr Riaz dashed out of the terminal in search of the Master’s car. He expected to see it right outside but there was no sign. Desperate and despairing, he cast his net wider and finally
located his Master’s Cadillac. As he scuttled towards it, he heard the thunder of engine power and looked up to see the Kangaroo symbol sail over his head. Mr Riaz stopped to vomit on the
scorching tarmac. Allah alone knew what would happen next.

It went worst for Georges Eboli. They did not believe his protestations, nor did they wish to. Georges succumbed to merciful heart failure about a week later in one of the dungeon cells beneath
the Master’s remote villa. He first endured relentless physical abuse and degradation, much of it orchestrated by Mr Riaz who was desperate to redirect the incandescent wrath of his deviant
Master.

On the Qantas jet, Alexa was in a state of gibbering collapse. They drugged her and cuddled her, but had neither the knowledge nor medication to provide lasting assistance. Peter Bushell took a
critical personal decision. At Karachi, where they handed over to another crew, he chose to leave Keith Curtis and the rest. He continued as a passenger in the aircraft, watching over Alexa and
sitting by her all the way to Sydney.

Conrad Aveling left the plane in Singapore, on plan and on time. He was horrified by Alexa’s condition but he had no skills to help her now, and no one to whom he could turn. He had to
trust Peter Bushell. He said nothing of the Bahrain incident to his brother officers and the men of his unit. He did, however, take the first opportunity to ring home. He had one task for his
mother and she acted urgently. Lady Aveling got hold of David Heaven to say he must tell Alexa’s parents that she was in Australia, to be contacted through Peter Bushell — number
provided. The Labarres were mystified but quick to comply. Two days later, they flew from Paris to Sydney.

Kingston Offenbach also spoke to David, and filled in the background of his chance involvement. He would not say more, except to comment on the providence which had placed Connie in the right
place at the right time.

And in France, in deep Dordogne countryside at the end of February, Thierry Cestac was feeling well fed and rested. He returned to Paris and to his house in the Latin Quarter. There was no
message from Georges Eboli. There was no message from Alexa Labarre. He contacted his banker and confirmed that no final payment from Bahrain had reached his account. Cestac was nothing if not a
realist. The absence of news spoke volumes. Something had gone wrong or just maybe he had been double crossed by Mr Riaz. Whichever, he could do little more. He might get the chance of revenge on
Riaz, but the girl and Eboli were gone forever. It was a pity about the money.

DAVID HEAVEN — 1970

November of that same year was a watershed month for David. He spent nearly three weeks in southern Africa, starting in Mauritius where he signed a contract with a sugar cane
company before travelling on to Johannesburg. There, he went to see Piet Soldemeyer as planned.

Soldemeyer was a middle man, his outfit even smaller than Kirchoff and Son. He had good connections in the mining sector and he wanted supply out of Europe for materials handling equipment. The
introduction to him had come via a mysterious figure from Sol’s past, a man called Gluchamheig whom he had met ‘on a train’. This Glucky was in costume jewellery but had a chance
to get into industrial diamonds, importing from Piet Soldemeyer — except he knew nothing of import/export which is where Kirchoff and Son came in. There was huge volume and money at stake,
hence Sol’s excitement.

Piet turned out to be about David’s age, maybe a few years older, and they got on well enough together. They spent a couple of days talking through the basic business, eating and drinking
together in the evenings and David had started to wonder when they were going to get to the diamonds when Piet had broken it to him over a late night whisky. It was all to do with people way up
north in South West Africa.

‘I’ve set it all up for you, man. You can check it out for yourself and report back properly to your boss and the diamond buyer guy, Glucky isn’t it?’

David nodded as his eyes wandered round the crowded, noisy club in which the thumping music was keeping their conversation discreet.

‘Only take a week or maybe less. Meanwhile, I’ll be seeing the mining guys here so we can talk some turkey when you get back and then you’ll be flying on home with a fistful of
orders.’

He didn’t wait for a reply, getting up to push his way to the bar for more drinks. David wasn’t going to argue. He was excited by the prospect of this trip into the unknown and
anyway; it sounded necessary if he was going to get any further with this diamond business by which Sol was setting such store.

Next day, he took a flight from Johannesburg to Windhoek. He was met by the character Piet had told him to expect, a great bull of a guy who introduced himself as Klaus Wallisch and took him to
a small hotel for that night. Wallisch was taciturn on the short drive, saying that he would explain more during the long journey they had to make the following day. David should have a quick meal
in the hotel and get an early night. He must be ready to leave at 6 am. David wasn’t. He woke at midnight in a muck sweat and knew he was going down with a fever. With luck, it wasn’t
too bad, he told himself and nothing he hadn’t experienced many times before in Africa. He had pills and potions with him. He would just need fresh water and time in bed. They would be
delayed, but too bad.

That wasn’t the reaction of Wallisch when he crashed into his room at first light. He was in a fair state as he took in David’s condition and he made for an intimidating sight. With
much swearing and frustration, he finally conceded that David could rest up for the day but warned they would have to drive all night to regain the schedule. He was calmer, however, when he
returned in the early evening to find David better, but still pretty weak. Wallisch remained insistent that they had to go, but he gave David plenty of time to get his things together and he
followed this with an outline brief as they sat over a cup of tea before leaving.

Wallisch seemed surprised that Piet Soldemeyer had said so little. He was silent for a moment, then gave a grunt as he ran horny hard hands over his grizzled, clean shaven face and scalp before
speaking with his heavy, Afrikaans accent. He gave David a concise background, concentrated on politics and mostly on SWAPO — the South-West Africa People’s Organization. It was loosely
formed in late ’66, he explained, and had developed into a fully fledged guerrilla group with a clear agenda, nothing less than full independence from South Africa.

‘You can read all that in any library,’ said Wallisch, fixing David with his gimlet eye, ‘what you won’t find is how organised SWAPO is already, and how determined. The
South Africans don’t want to launder their linen in public, but they’re fighting an increasingly tough war and the name of their game is to stop arms getting through to us. And I do
mean ‘us’. SWAPO isn’t a Black African movement, it’s mixed race and I am myself a member of the Command Council, in charge of the north of this territory which will be
called Namibia when we’ve won’.