The chubby hand lifted, cutting Garry off.
'This nonsense you have written about yourself . . . at least, it proves you have imagination.'
Garry stiffened.
'I don't get that. What do you mean?'
Shalik touched off his cigar ash into a gold bowl at his elbow.
'I found your lies amusing,' he said. 'I have had you investigated. You are Garry Edwards, aged twenty-nine, and you were born in Ohio, U.S.A. Your father ran a reasonably successful service station. When you were sufficiently educated, you worked with your father and you came to know about motor cars. You and your father didn't get along. Probably faults on both sides, but that is of no interest to me. You had the opportunity to learn to fly: you took it. You have talent with machines. You got a job as an air chauffeur to a Texas oilman who paid you well. You saved your money. The job didn't interest you. You met a wetback smuggler who persuaded you to smuggle Mexicans into the States. The pay was good, and when the operation was over, you decided to go into the smuggling business. You went to Tangiers, bought your own aircraft and flew consignments of various contrabands into France. You prospered as smugglers do for a time. However, you became greedy as smugglers do and you made a mistake. You were arrested. Your co-pilot managed to get your plane in the air while you were struggling with the police. He sold your plane and banked the money for you to have when you came out of the French prison after serving a three year sentence. You were deported from France and you are here.' Shalik stubbed out his cigar and looked at Garry. 'Would you say my information is correct?'
Garry laughed.
'Dead on the nail.' He got to his feet. 'Well, it was a try. I won't take up any more of your time.'
Shalik waved him back to his chair.
'Sit down. I think you are the man I am looking for. You can satisfy me that you have a pilot's licence and that you can handle a helicopter?'
'Of course,' Garry returned and lugged out a plastic folder which he had brought along and laid it on the desk. Then he sat down again.
Shalik examined the papers which the folder contained. He took his time, then he returned the folder.
'Satisfactory.' He took another cigar from his desk drawer, regarded it carefully, then cut the end with a gold cutter. 'Mr. Edwards, am I right in thinking you would be prepared to handle a job that is not entirely honest so long as the money is right?'
Garry smiled.
'I'd like that qualified. What do you mean . . . not entirely honest?'
'Difficult, unethical work that does not involve the police in any way, but pays handsomely.'
'Can you make it clearer than that?'
'I am offering three thousand dollars a week for a Three-week assignment. At the end of the assignment you will be nine thousand dollars better off. There are certain risks, but I can promise you the police won't come into it.'
Garry sat upright. Nine thousand dollars!
'What are the risks?'
'Opposition.' Shalik regarded his cigar with indifferent, beady eyes. 'But life is made up of opposition, isn't it, Mr. Edwards?'
'Just what do I have to do to earn this money?'
'That will be explained to you tonight. You will not be alone. The risks and responsibilities will be shared. What I want to know now is if you are willing to do three weeks work for nine thousand dollars.'
Garry didn't hesitate.
'Yes . . . I am.'
Shalik nodded.
'Good. Then you will come here at 21.00 hrs. tonight when I will introduce you to the other members of the team and I will explain the operation.' The chubby hand made a slight signal of dismissal.
Garry got to his feet.
'Please don't talk about this assignment to anyone. Mr. Edwards,' Shalik went on. 'You must regard it as top secret.'
'Sure . . . I'll say nothing.'
Garry left the room.
The girl at the desk got up and opened the door for him. He didn't bother to smile at her. His mind was too
