The Alamut Ambush

'There won't be a next time, Squadron Leader. I'll see to that'

'No good. This isn't the Gaza Strip, and they don't get one free shot here. We want these chaps, Colonel – and if you won't give 'em to us we're going to get them ourselves, no matter who they are.

Whatever you may hear, that's how it's going to be.'

'I see.' Razzak considered Roskill''s angry words in silence for a moment. 'Well, I can tell you this, Squadron Leader: there is a – a new group that may be mixed up with the Ryle Foundation. I didn't know they had reached London, but if they have this might be their work. If you can hold off for forty-eight hours I could probably dummy2

pinpoint them. But you must hold off.'

'Hold off?'

'That's right. Do nothing – and whatever you do, don't phone me at the embassy, or I shall have someone like Majid breathing down my neck and getting in the way. You can phone Jahein at his flat –

he can stay home and watch television – he'll either have a message, or he'll know how to get to me.' He fished a crumpled envelope from his pocket and laboriously wrote a number on it.

'Phone him there. But whatever you do, don't start stirring things up in the wrong places.'

Roskill took the envelope. Either Razzak had been scared into making a genuine offer, or he was simply trying to buy time.

'And just what are the wrong places?'

Razzak looked at him steadily. 'The Ryle Foundation for a start.

And I don't want the Israelis breathing down my neck either – don't start chasing them. It's bad enough having to put up with Majid.'

'That's asking one hell of a lot, Colonel – you're asking me to sit twiddling rny thumbs. I'm not sure I can do that without knowing exactly what you are supposed to be doing.'

The Egyptian took a deep breath. 'Does the name Hassan mean anything to you?'

Roskill cocked his head – it had to be the right note of interest now, with no hint of the surprise which tightened his guts.

'Hassan who?'

'Hassan will do for now — it doesn't matter whether it's a real man or just a murderous bloody-minded idea. But that's what I'm after, dummy2

Roskill – that's what I'm after.'

'And if you find him you'll give him to us.'

'Give him to you?' Razzak growled. 'If I find him, you can rely on that. And just you make sure of him, by God. Because if it was Hassan who bombed Llewelyn's car and he finds me sniffing around, he'll put my name to the top of his list!'

IX

HOWE HAD GONE off duty when Roskill finally got through to the department again; a much younger voice answered him, making no trouble – as Howe undoubtedly would have done –

when he asked to be put straight through to the technical section stand-by man.

He had toyed with the idea of asking for further details about Razzak, until he remembered what Audley had said earlier: it was vital that Llewelyn should be kept in the dark about what they were doing, and any official request they made would go straight back to him.

So the bugger of it was that they were thus effectively cut off from their own information services and thrown back on their own resources. Which was fine for Audley, but rendered Roskill himself almost powerless – and, damn it, that might well be just what Audley was counting on! Even calling the technical section was a risk, but it was one risk that had to be taken. The Triumph dummy2

was probably safe enough in Bunnock Street – it always had been in the past. But if any hopeful car thief tried his hand on it the results might be catastrophic. And that was the risk that could not be taken.

Roskill sighed. At least the car was a loose end that could be tied up, a tangible object that could be tested and made to produce facts. It belonged to the world he understood, not to Audley's world of possibilities and theories and hypotheses.

There was a soft Highland voice on the other end of the phone. So Alan's senior partner, Maitland, was no longer on duty; it was a cold, sad thought that by routine it should have been Alan himself who answered him now.

'You've a little trouble with your car?' The man softly rolled each V; it was a comforting, competent sound – the sound of the ever-reliable Scot, resigned to getting the English out of trouble.

Roskill explained the Bunnock Street nightmare as simply as he could.

'That was verra smart of you, sir.'

'It was lucky, certainly.'

'Aye, lucky too,' the Scot conceded, 'And that would be a two-year-old car of yours?'

'Three-year-old, actually. How do you know?'

'The new Triumph has a steering lock – it would be a verra difficult car to move, and you say they didn't have much time.'

dummy2

'I don't quite see why they had to move it at all.'

'Well, it depends on what they've done to it. But likely they preferred to work in a more private place. It's surprising how much people notice. But no matter – it's enough to know that they moved it and we shan't be