suitcase from Mulligan. A pale hand, Whelby's, grasped the handle, nodded to the sergeant and took her arm.
'I've inspected the Hotel Sharon. It's not the Waldorf, but it's clean and the menu looks edible.' They crossed a paved street. Very few people about. On the opposite pavement Whelby paused and gestured into the distance with his head. 'Amazing, really. As a small boy at Sunday school they gave me coloured pictures of ancient Jerusalem – like large postage stamps to paste into a book. One picture each week. The place looks exactly like those pictures…'
In 1943 Jerusalem still had its biblical atmosphere. Set in a bowl, it was encircled by a rim of seven hills. There was a deceptive air of peace, of the stability of centuries.
'It's quite overwhelmingly beautiful,' said Linda. 'You took your case when you went to inspect the hotel. Where is it?'
'In reception…' He began walking again. 'I told you I was on my vacation. They have reserved Room 6 for me. They're holding Room 8 for you. The choice is yours. Stay here if you like it. If not, I'll find you somewhere else.'
The Sharon was a long-fronted, two-storey building built at the beginning of time. It had a shallow roof of once-red tiles now mellowed to faded terracotta. Four steps led up to a wooden verandah railed off from the street where small tables sported red-check table-cloths. Dense creeper snaked up the supports and enveloped the walls, peering in at the open windows.
'It's lovely,' said Linda.
'It's up to you,' Whelby replied. Not pressing.
Sitting stiffly behind the wheel of the parked staff car, Mulligan watched them mount the steps. His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror, his hand whipped to the sub machine-gun as he heard footsteps approaching. Then he relaxed. The clatter of hobnail, Army boots. Corporal Wilson, blank-faced as ever, opened the front passenger door. Mulligan gestured for him to get inside.
'Did they spot me bringing up the rear, Sarge?' Wilson asked.
'Quite sure they didn't. Glad to see you in one piece.'
'What's going on? Or shouldn't I ask?'
'On this one, the more you know the better,' Mulligan replied. 'Especially as I'll need you as back-up. Where have you parked the armoured car?'
'In a side street fifty yards back. Nobby Clarke in charge till I take over. I thought we was takin' our pick-up back to the barracks.'
'So did I, Wilson, so did I. Said pick-up has a mind of his own. Nice chap. Swallows his vowels and loses most of his consonants. He's bunking down – his own phrase – at the Sharon. So, I'll need a couple of uniformed men patrolling the front. That makes them targets for the Jew bombers. I want your armoured car with its Lewis gun and all the trimmings in a side street to back up my men. I'll phone your Colonel Payne as soon as I get back, but I'm sure he'll agree.'
'He will after the recent bit of help you gave…'
'So Bloody Mr Standish of no vowels and few consonants will be tying up six of my men every twenty-four hours and more of yours. If he'd gone to the barracks no extra manpower would have been needed. Blast him! '
'What about the tart! Nice looking piece. He's gone off with her?'
'Which I think is the attraction about staying at the Sharon.' Mulligan took off his police cap and scratched at his stubble of hair. 'You know something, Wilson? Never assume the obvious in this world. Just before I drive back I'm going in to check that hotel register…'
'Our rooms are next to each other,' Linda observed as she held the key without inserting it in the lock. She gave Whelby a sideways glance. 'Room 8 for me, Room 6 for you..
'You heard Mulligan describe the situation out here. I thought you'd feel… safer.'
He stood holding both cases. His own, collected from reception where he had left it on his earlier visit to the hotel, hers which he had insisted on carrying up the ancient flight of stairs.
'That was nice of you. Let's inspect it.'
Unlocking the door, she walked into an old- fashioned but well-furnished room. Another door led to the bathroom. She chuckled and put a hand over her mouth.
'My, just look at the bed…'
It was very big with great brass rails surmounted with acorn-shaped decorations. The French windows were open and the view looked across to the distant Mount of Olives. Whelby placed her case on a chair and stood beside her. She waited for him to touch her but he remained aloof, an absent-minded expression on his pale face.
'I have to deliver those papers,' he remarked and checked his watch. 'Could you wait till two, and join me downstairs for some lunch?'
'I'd love that. I'm going to take a peek at the shops…'
'Be careful how you go. Two o'clock. And keep your door locked at all times.'
'Yes, Sergeant Mulligan…'
He closed the door on the outside and waited in the corridor. Only when he heard her lock it did he move quickly. Carrying his case he headed for the staircase and ran lightly up to the next floor. Room 24 was at the far end of a corridor which was deserted and smelt of floor polish.
In response to his knock the door was opened as though the occupant, Vlacek, had been waiting for him.
It was a peacetime scene. The morning sun a warm glow on the fertile green of the polo field. The only sounds the click of polo stick against ball, the gentle thump of horses' hooves.
Jock Carson was in the middle of a chukka when he saw Harrington on the edge of the field, waving a piece of paper to catch his attention. Gezira Sporting Club was on an island in the middle of the Nile, facing Cairo to which it was linked by bridges.
Carson waved his stick to warn the other players. He trotted the horse off the field, dismounted, produced a lump of sugar which his steed dutifully made disappear, then handed the animal over to a waiting Egyptian.
'Trouble?' he asked as he walked alongside Harrington towards the pavilion, reading the message.
'At last!' Harrington sounded excited. 'Signal from' Reader in Yugoslavia. Deal clinched. Three hundred sten guns with thirty mags apiece. In exchange we get Lindsay…'
'We have to get more weapons to Libya?'
'No! That's the marvellous thing. This bloody Heljec, or whatever his name is, started out wanting twenty-five pounders, a whole armoured division – you name it. Reader has bartered him down to what is already aboard the Dakota waiting at Benina! Fabulous chap!'
'I see the signal confirms a map-reference for a landing zone in Bosnia. For how long?' The turf was springy under their feet, the bedlam of Cairo's daytime existence a thousand miles away. 'We'll have to get moving.'
'I've got the jeep waiting. Bet I break my record back to Grey Pillars.'
Carson was mopping sweat from his brow and neck with the towel handed to him by the Egyptian steward. He frowned as he continued studying the signal.
'I've got the most horrible feeling about this business. Something's wrong. It's going to end badly, very badly…'
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The phone was ringing in Harrington's office when they arrived back. He flew in from the doorway, skidded across the highly-polished floor – as he'd done so often before – recovered his balance, laid one – hand on the desk and grabbed up the receiver with the other before it stopped ringing.
'Harrington…'
'This is Linda Climber. That is the American Embassy? Embassy is what I said. You want it a third time?'
'Harrington at your service, as always. A package has arrived for you from New Jersey.'
They had established positive identities. Sliding into his seat, Harrington gestured towards the extension
