questions. Whelby made a great show of looking at his watch. Five minutes more at the outside. Carson might start coming to look for him.
'In Palestine,' Vlacek explained in his slow monotone, 'many English troops and policemen are shot in the back by the Jews. It is not like Egypt. Palestine is a volcano, ready to erupt – one more murder will be put down to another Jewish outrage. If possible, we meet here one hour later tomorrow; if not possible, one hour later the following day, and so forth…'
'And supposing I can't get away from them, which is likely?'
'I shall know if you have left for Palestine. Contact me at the Hotel Sharon in Jerusalem. Again, Room 24…'
'And now I really must go. This very minute.. '
Lieutenant Carson is a high-ranking officer in Intelligence.'
Whelby left the quiet little man standing on the balcony, gazing into the distance as he smoked the cheroot clamped between tobacco-stained teeth. He thought. Vlacek one of the most sinister men he had ever met and tried to recall what he reminded him of.
He had opened the door and glanced into the still- deserted corridor before leaving the room when he remembered. Those eyes like glass. A lizard.
In the corridor Whelby paused before making for Room 16. He had two minutes to kill before his appointment with Carson. Two minutes to regain his normal poise.
What a shit of a rush it had all been in London after his interview with Colonel Browne. And rushes were dangerous. The urgent call from a public phone box to Savitsky. The effort to get over to the Russian in innocent- sounding language the sudden development dropped on him by Browne. Savitsky's instruction for them to meet each other at Beryl's place,… to see how the poor girl is getting on. Eight hours from now suit you?'
God, they must have moved in Moscow! Savitsky's signal would put the cat among the pigeons. But they had managed it – Whelby gave them full marks for trying. He had joined Savitsky for breakfast at the Strand Palace Hotel close to the river. No food coupons needed, thank God.
'We have put a man into the same Cairo hotel where you make your rendezvous with your British contact,' Savitsky had told him.
The Russian, dressed like a British businessman, had even found a corner table where they were invisible to the remainder of the restaurant. He was good on small details.
'His name is Vlacek,' Savitsky had continued. 'He will wait in Room 24 until you arrive. For days, if necessary. He will live in that room. The password is…'
At certain stages in their hurried conversation Savitsky had gone vague on Whelby. At the time the Englishman had put it down to the hellish rush – verging on panic – of the whole operation.
'Who is this Vlacek? Is he underground?' Whelby had asked.
'Good God, no!' Savitsky had been shocked. 'He's a Pole, employed in some capacity by the British with a propaganda unit. He can walk the streets openly in Cairo. Just don't be seen together in public, that's all…'
Now, standing in the corridor of Shepheard's, Whelby wondered about Vlacek's real status. He had talked – albeit subtly – as though he were Whelby's superior. The unnerving suspicion crossed the Englishman's mind that he had just conversed with a professional executioner.
Harrington had been jocular, extrovert, affable. Jock Carson was dour, watchful, guarded. There was no shaking of hand's. He closed the door and gestured towards a chair on one side of a glass-topped table. As the stockily-built Scot walked round to sit in the facing chair, Whelby studied him.
First the two, full lieutenant's pips on either shoulder. He had thought they might be new, fresh from the store. They were well-worn, like the face with the beaked nose, the heavy-lidded eyes. Carson wasted few words.
'We expect – God and the weather willing – to have Wing Commander Lindsay in Cairo for you to escort him home within one or two weeks. You, of course, have never been here. The passenger manifest of the Liberator bomber which flew you from London shows only the names of eleven passengers. You will maintain a very low profile while you wait…'
'Hold on a minute, Lieutenant. I do have some say in how this matter is handled. Your discretion I appreciate. May I ask the proposed route along which Lindsay will travel to reach Cairo?'
' Proposed? '
The Scots burr became more pronounced. Inside that stocky body Whelby sensed the power and drive of a locomotive. They were fencing for supremacy, of course. The first encounter – clash – was always vital. It established the pattern of authority from which there would be no deviation.
'That's the word I used,' Whelby said quietly.
'We fix the route. We fix the timing. We deliver the goods. You escort them back to London.'
`These details have been arranged for how long? Hours? Days?'
'Days.'
Carson left it at that. His hands were clasped again, he sat motionless, blue eyes staring at the man opposite.
'And the route?' Whelby insisted.
'Yugoslavia to Benghazi in Libya. Dakota touches down at Benina airfield – isolated, out in the desert. Refuels. Then on to Cairo West…'
'No!' Whelby's tone was sharp, inflexible. 'The arrangement has been known for days, so there could have been a leak. Lindsay is a prime target. From Benina I want him flown to Lydda in Palestine. I'll be there to meet him. The chap will be exhausted after his experiences, then the flight. A couple of days in an unexpected place, somewhere in Jerusalem will do nicely. The route change will counter any leak. London isn't happy about the security out here…'
'Poor old London…'
'They could send someone else out, wielding an axe. A word to the wise. Just between the two of us. Lydda. Please?'
Carson sat like a man carved out of mahogany. Incredible how still he could remain for long periods. Whelby was careful not to add a word. He could sense the Scot weighing up the pros and cons. Whelby knew there was a logic to his argument difficult to refute. He had been careful not to sound threatening, simply a man reporting how things stood, his tone almost sympathetic. You know how things are, I don't make the rules. A word to the wise…
'Lydda it is,' Carson announced eventually. 'We like to keep our visitors happy. My guess – subject to checking – is you'll fly to Lydda this hour tomorrow. That doesn't tell you anything about when Lindsay lands. Frankly, I don't know that myself yet. A night in Grey Pillars for you…'
Grey Pillars was local slang for GHQ, Middle East. It was a residential district of solemn buildings cordoned off from the rest of Cairo by wire fences. Carson had stood up behind his desk as though the interview were over. Whelby, remaining in his chair, recrossed his legs.
'A room here, this one, if available, would suit me better. I didn't come out here to be confined to a POW camp. I do have the freedom to make my own decisions…'
It was a statement, not a question. Spoken in the same offhand, 'amiable manner. Carson half-closed his eyes, adjusted his Sam Browne belt and holster.
'Give me a reason. Just for the record.
'Security. The opposition has to be keeping Grey Pillars under surveillance. I'm anonymous here, as anonymous as I can get. No guards, please. I can look after myself.'
'Agreed! And you can have this room. Major Harrington will be in touch with you. Incidentally, your flight to Lydda will be from Heliopolis Airport, not Cairo West. You'll be aboard a Yank plane again.'
'For the same reason – the passenger manifests?'
'You're catching on quickly. The RAF just won't fly you over Sinai without a name. Next of kin in case of a crash, and all that red tape. The Yanks don't often pile up a machine, by the way…'
Carson put on his peaked cap. He hoisted a slow salute, held it for longer than the regulation period, staring again at Whelby, went to the door and said only one more thing.
'I'll book you in here on my way out. You don't need to go anywhere near the reception desk. You don't exist…'
