'Our own judgement, John,' she repeated. 'We make the decisions now. Don't you see that this can be the beginning of a new life?'
He gathered the papers on the desk into an untidy pile.
'Except for Andre,' he said harshly.
'She'll have to wait. There are other people dying besides her.'
He had to accept the logic of the statement. It did not make him dislike it less. He admired and was fond of Madeleine Dawnay, and was all the more nauseated by the familiar, corrupting scent of power which he now sensed around her.
'To hell with everything,' he said. 'I can't think any more tonight. We may as well try to get a little sleep before the wind decides to blow the roof off.'
They walked from the building together. The residential area was a shambles of mud and rubble. But their quarters provided makeshift shelter. Fleming wished Dawnay goodnight and went to his own chalet. The windows had gone and he could look past the shattered palm trees to the building opposite where the sick quarters were. The nurse had found a hurricane lamp from somewhere. It was the only light in the pitch black darkness - a dull yellow blob which drew his eyes like a magnet, mesmerising his mind. He fell into a half sleep, thinking of the life that still flickered near that puny flame.
He was roused by Abu Zeki.
'Much has happened,' Abu said, struggling to control his emotions. 'The storm, yesterday, it was very bad in the mountains. My home has gone.'
Your family?' Fleming sat up.
'Lemka and Jan - they are alive. My mother-in-law. She is dead.' Abu's voice faltered. 'She had laid down with little Jan in her arms, beneath her. When I arrived - I, I thought they were both dead. Then Jan began crying. He was saturated in blood, his grandmother's blood.'
'Where is Lemka?'
'She was in a cave with Professor Neilson. She'd gone up with food. Neilson made her stay when the storm came.
They came down just after I'd rescued Jan. I'm afraid Lemka is very bitter - about all that Professor Dawnay and you - all that we have been doing here.'
'Not bitter, Abu; just right.' Fleming felt the familiar hopelessness closing down on him. 'It's no use saying I'm sorry. What about Yusel and Neilson?'
'Yusel is safe, so far. He had gone to my house to talk to Neilson about taking out the bacteria on his next flight. But Kaufman followed him. Yusel was beaten up. Then they took him back to Baleb. I suppose he'd have been killed in the house if they hadn't. Then in the early hours, while we were getting my wife and the child settled in a neighbour's house, he arrived in an Intel car. Kaufman had sent him back, with a note for Neilson. Yusel gave us the news that Mm'selle Gamboul was dead.'
'A note for Neilson!' Fleming exclaimed. 'What did it say?'
'Kaufman wanted to see him. He promised there would be no danger. Yusel insisted it was a trap, but Mr Neilson said he wanted to go. I brought him down with me. He's waiting in the reception building now for Kaufman to come from town.'
Fleming sprang off the bed. 'I'll get over there. You'd better come too, Abu. If it's one of Kaufman's usual pistol and dagger efforts I want to be around.'
Both men hurried to the executive building. In the keen light of dawn the damaged facade looked cheap and tawdry.
There had also been considerable damage in the vast entrance hall, some of it the obvious results of looting by the demoralised guards.
'Kaufman will be sitting in the seat of the mighty - in Gamboul's office. You'd better wait down here, Abu. Warn us if anyone arrives,' Fleming ordered.
He ran lightly up the staircase. One of the double doors of the director's office was slightly ajar, and he sidled along the wall until he could listen.
Kaufman's guttural voice was unctuous and polite. 'The plane is coming from Vienna, I hope, Herr Neilson,' he was saying. 'It should arrive very soon. It will be loaded immediately.
You must expect an uncomfortable flight. Conditions are still bad everywhere.'
'And some written proof of your proposals?' Neilson asked coldly.
'I have obtained a letter from the President,' said Kaufman.
'That makes this matter official, but of course, everything will be done by us.'
It was the comment Fleming had expected; had been waiting for. He pushed open the door and walked in. Kaufman looked up, startled, and then went on talking as if he had seen no one.
'We, that is to say Intel, will make the anti-bacteria and market it, though we will not hold our fellow human beings to ransom. That was Fraulein Gamboul's idea. I stopped it.'
Fleming strode forward. 'You're not in a position to dispense charity, Kaufman.'
'And you are not entitled to be in this office without permission,'
retorted Kaufman.
'There are no Azaran guards to protect you now,' Fleming said, 'not even a receptionist.' He moved closer to Neilson so that they both faced the German.
Kaufman picked up his case and extracted a cigarello. He kept the match against the glowing end for longer than necessary. His hand was shaking a little.
'It is no use bearing old grudges,' he said, removing the cigarello. 'One does what one has to do for the superiors one works for. One does as they order. But at the same time one tries to do good.' There was a whine in his voice as he uneasily watched his visitors.
Neilson stood up, clenching the edge of the desk. His knuckles were white with the pressure he put into the grip.
'You killed my son,' he said with deceptive quietness. 'He was shot before the eyes of his mother and myself at your order. If I'd had the means and if you weren't still essential to fly me out I'd have killed you the moment I entered this office.'
'Please.' said Kaufman.
'How did Gamboul die?' Fleming snapped.
'The balcony of her house. It fell. I was there. I saw it. She was mad, completely mad. I couldn't save her.'
'Did you try?'
'No,' the German yelled. 'I could have dragged her inside when the building started to fall. But I didn't. I chose to save - '
' - Your own skin?
'The world!' Kaufman stood up and faced them defiantly across the desk. He saw a faint derisive smile on Fleming's face and no smile at all on Neilson's, and before either man could move he had dodged round the chair and darted to a small door that led to a private staircase. He tore it open and then backed away. Yusel was standing there, expressionless, with a small curved Bedouin knife in his hand. Kaufman moved back to the desk. 'You cannot get in my way like this!' His voice rose. 'I am doing business fairly. I'm trying to help you all!'
Fleming moved nearer the window. 'The weather is holding up,' he said. 'The plane should get through on time.
Before it arrives, you'll provide the help you talk about.
You'll confirm your orders for Professor Neilson's flight.
You'll make quite certain that it flies to London. That's the last thing you'll organise here. Get on with it.'
Kaufman hesitated, then nodded. He picked up a pen and reached to a side drawer in the desk as if to take a note-heading.
He moved amazingly quickly. In a split second he had leaped up, a gun in his hand, and moved backwards to the outer door.
'This is not your game, gentlemen,' he taunted them. 'You should not try it.' Then he turned and ran for the stairs.
Fleming and Neilson were close on his heels, but he gained his lead as he leaped recklessly downstairs.
