'Lydda!' Harrington exploded in his second-floor office at Grey Pillars. 'Palestine is a minefield! I don't like it one little bit…'
'Do it…'
Carson stood gazing out of the window across the sun-baked garden below, across the wrought-iron railings beyond, across the quiet tree-lined street. He could just see the checkpoint everyone had to pass through before penetrating the holy of holies.
'That last radio signal from Len Reader – tell me what it said again, if you please…'
'In a nutshell we have a map reference for where the Dak is to land in Bosnia. Identification signals agreed prior to the plane landing – Jerry often lights fires marking out a fake strip. It's a straight exchange – a consignment of weapons and ammo for Lindsay. They've OK'd it upstairs. Reader's next signal is the go-ahead.'
'And the Dakota is where?'
'Waiting at Benina Airport with the cargo already aboard. The pilot is instructed to fly back to Cairo West afterwards.'
'You're a trier, Harrington – I'll give you that. Lydda I said and Lydda I meant. Inform the pilot of his new instructions.'
'Will do.' Harrington hesitated. 'What did you make of Tim Whelby? Oh, and when does he arrive here…' 'He doesn't. He's staying in Room 16 at Shepheard's. That's the way he wanted it.'
'Christ! This is a funny one. He should be here…'
'I know.' Carson turned away from the window as a whisper of breeze – God knew where from – rustled the heavy net curtains. 'On the other hand it may be a good idea that he doesn't get a shufti inside the nerve centre. I have two men who know what he looks like – they observed his arrival from a gharry – posted so they can see if he leaves the hotel.'
'What's the big idea? So he leaves the hotel for, a look-see at the delights of Cairo, maybe. a visit to a belly- dancers' dive…'
'He gets followed well and truly. Said he wanted to stay under cover. His behaviour was very logical. Let's see whether he stays inside the pattern he laid down for himself…'
'You still haven't told me what you really think of him,' Harrington commented.
Carson paused, holding the handle of the door. His impassive, erudite features froze into a frown of concentration. He liked to consider what he was going to say before replying.
'I wouldn't go into the jungle with him, he said and left the room.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
At precisely 8 am the following morning Whelby again rapped on the door of Room 24. One hour later than the previous day. Again the door was opened at once by the small bony man. Whelby thought he looked even more skeletal than on his last visit. Perhaps he was fasting, he thought wryly.
'You have news?' Vlacek asked as soon as they were standing on the balcony.
'I've managed Lydda Airport, God knows how. 'When does he arrive?'
'I don't bloody know. You want it all packed up and tied with pink ribbon?'
'Pink ribbon?' Vlacek continued in the same calm monotone but Whelby shivered inwardly at the little man's next words. 'This is not a joke, I trust? This is a serious matter we find ourselves engaged on. What route?'
'Yugoslavia to Benina airfield outside Benghazi to Lydda after refuelling at Benina. Good enough for you?'
`So you will go to Lydda.'
'Today sometime. From Heliopolis Airport.'
'Then go to Jerusalem. to wait. Hotel Sharon. I shall be…'
“In Room 24! 1 can remember a simple fact like that.'
They were firing questions and answers back at each other like ping-pong, neither liking the other, each wishing to make the meeting as short as possible. Whelby put both hands in his tunic pockets, thumbs tucked outside. He didn't look at the little man as he made the statement, brushing aside interruptions.
'I have now done all I can so far. Harrington may call to see me at any moment, so please listen. I cannot guarantee I will be staying at the Hotel Sharon. There may be a very short time lapse between my hearing when Lindsay is coming in, his arrival and our subsequent departure…'
'I said two days.'
Vlacek hardly seemed to be listening. In his left hand he held a tiny, green-enamelled cup of Turkish coffee; in his right, one of his foul-smelling cheroots. He took alternate sips of coffee and puffs at the cheroot, his brown, glassy eyes staring into the distance.
'I'll do my best.'
'Two days are essential.'
Whelby didn't reply. He deliberately wrinkled his nose to show his distaste for the smell. It had no effect on Vlacek. He had great economy of movement, Whelby noticed. He decided to take the offensive and end the interview.
'You can get to Lydda in time? With my flying there today?'
'Of course…'
'Then that's it. I must get back to my room. I don't admire this arrangement of our meeting in the same hotel'
'I am very persona grata in Cairo..
'Not with me, you're not. Now, I'm going.. '
'Two days, Mr Standish.'
Whelby left the room with the same caution he had displayed the previous day. Walking rapidly along the corridor, turning a corner to his own room, he had a nasty shock. Outside his door stood Harrington, his hand, raised to rap on the panel.
'Ah, there you are…' The Major carefully omitted any name and waited while Whelby inserted the key, opened the door and gestured for his visitor to precede him. As he closed the door Harrington sniffed and pulled a face.
'A smell of cheap cigar – reek might be a better word. You must be keeping bad company. Are you?'
'The lobby downstairs has all the sweet aromas of the East…'
This brief exchange, jocular, penetrating, alerted Whelby. Harrington was an expert interrogator. He recognized the style. The casual question. Left drifting in mid-air. Then the silence which instilled in the suspect a compulsive urge to reply, to say something.
'Do sit down,' Whelby suggested. 'Something to drink? Coffee? The hard stuff?'
Harrington chose the hard-backed chair at the glass-topped table, forcing Whelby to sit in the other chair so they faced each other. Like an interrogation session.
'Nothing for me,' Harrington said amiably. `Sun's hardly up over the horizon. Never before the clock strikes twelve. The clock is striking twelve for you…'
He paused as Whelby slowly sat down opposite him. There had been an ominous ring to the phraseology. Could Harrington possibly have found out about Vlacek? And just how 'persona grata' was the little man in Cairo? With an effort of will Whelby suppressed his anxieties. The first-class interrogator permitted the suspect to destroy himself with his own fears. He waited, saying nothing.
'Heliopolis at noon,' Harrington continued eventually. 'The plane takes off for Lydda. I've squared it with the Yanks. I drive you out there, point you in the right direction. Then it's up to you. The cover story is you're a pal of mine who's going on sick leave. Exhausted with overwork. You look a bit peaky, come to think of it. Getting you down? The responsibility, I mean?'
'I'll cope. What job do I have? The Yanks are a sociable lot…'
'Admin,' Harrington said promptly. 'Covers a multitude of nothings. You're hitching a ride. No one will bother about your identity. Were you in the lobby when I arrived?'
Quite diabolical, the technique, Whelby thought Just when you think he's given up he comes zooming back at
