the waterproof Gucci bag.
Sir Steven Stride marched into the lobby of Orly South Air Hotel at five minutes past noon, and Peter smiled to himself in self-congratulation. Steven was wearing a blue doublebreasted blazer,
white shirt and cricket-club tie, above grey woollen slacks and black
English handmade shoes none of your fancy Italian footwear for
Steven.
It was Steven’s standard informal dress, and Peter had only been wrong about the tie he had guessed that it would be an I Zingari pattern. Peter himself wore a doublebreaster and grey slacks under his trench coat and his shoes were black Barkers.
Steven’s eyes flickered around the lobby, passing over Peter sitting in a far corner with a copy of Le Monde, then Steven moved authoritively to the reception desk.
“My name is Stride, do you have a reservation for me?” Steven spoke slowly, in rich plummy tones, for very few of these damned people spoke English. The clerk checked swiftly, nodded, murmured a welcome and gave Steven the form and the key.
“Four One Six.” Steven checked the number loudly enough for Peter to hear. Peter had been watching the entrance carefully; fortunately there had been very few guests entering the lobby during the few minutes since Steven’s arrival, and none of those could possibly have been Caliph surveillance. Of course, if this was a staging point, as
Peter was certain it was, then Caliph would have no reason to put surveillance on Steven not until he got much closer to the ultimate destination.
Steven moved to the elevator with a porter carrying his single small valise, and Peter drifted across and joined the small cluster of guests waiting at the elevators.
He rode up shoulder to shoulder with Steven in the crowded elevator, neither of them acknowledging the other’s existence, and when
Steven and the porter left at the fourth stage Peter rode on up three floors, walked the length of the corridor and back, then took the descending elevator to Steven’s floor.
Steven had left the door to 416 off the catch, and’ Peter pushed it open and slipped in without knocking.
“My dear boy.” Steven was in his shirt sleeves. He had switched on the television, but now he turned down the sound volume and hurried to greet him with both affection and vast relief.
“No problems?” Peter asked.
“Like clockwork,” Steven told him. “Would you like a drink? I
got a bottle in the duty-free.” While he hunted for glasses in the bathroom, Peter checked the room swiftly. A view down towards the square functional buildings of the market that had replaced the picturesque Les Halles in central Paris, matching curtains and covers on the twin beds, television and radio sets, between the beds, modern soulless furniture it was a room, that was the most and the least that could be said for it.
Steven carried in the glasses and handed one to Peter.
“Cheers!” Peter tasted his whisky. It was too strong and the
Parisian tap water tasted of chlorine. He put it aside.
“How is Caliph going to get instructions to you?”
“Got them already.” Steven went to his blazer, hanging over the back of the chair, and found a long white envelope in the inside pocket. - “This was left at the Air France Information Desk.” Peter took the envelope and as he split the flap he sank onto one of the armchairs. There were three items in the envelope.
A firstclass Air France airline ticket, a voucher for a chauffeur-driven limousine and a hotel reservation voucher.
The air ticket could have been purchased for cash at any Air
France outlet or agency, the limousine and hotel bookings could have been made equally anonymously.
There was no possibility of a trace back from any of these documents.
Peter opened the Air France ticket and read the destination.
Something began to crawl against his skin, like the loathsome touch of body vermin. He closed the ticket and checked the two vouchers; now the sick feeling of betrayal and evil spread through his entire body,
numbing his fingertips and coating the back of his tongue with a bitter metallic taste like copper salts.
The air ticket was for this evening’s flight from Orly to
BenGurion Airport in Israel, the hired-car voucher was good for a single journey from there to Jerusalem, the hotel voucher was for a room in the King David Hotel in that ancient and holy city.
“What is it, Peter?”
“Nothing,” said Peter, only then aware that the sickness must have shown on his face. “Jerusalem,” he went on.
“Caliph wants you in Jerusalem.” There was one person in Jerusalem at that moment.
Somebody who had been in his thoughts almost unceasingly since last he had embraced her in the darkness of Bora-Bora Island so very long ago.
Caliph was in Jerusalem, and Magda Altmann was in Jerusalem and the sickness was heavy in the pit of his stomach.
The deviousness of Caliph.
No, he told himself firmly. I have travelled that road already.
It cannot be Magda.
The genius of Caliph, evil and effortless.
It is possible. He had to admit it then. With Caliph, anything is possible. Every time Caliph shook the dice box the numbers changed,
different numbers, making different totals but always completely plausible, always completely believable.
It was one of the basic proven theorems of his trade that a man,
any man, was blinded and deafened and rendered senseless by love.
Peter was in love, and he knew it.
All right. So now I have to try and free my mind and think it all over again, as though I were not besotted.
“Peter, are you all right?” Steven demanded again, now with real concern. It was impossible to think with Steven hovering over him. He would have to put it aside.
“I am going to Jerusalem in your place,” Peter said.
“Come again, old boy?” We are changing places you and U “You won’t get away with it.” Steven shook his head decidedly. “Caliph will take you on the full toss.” Peter picked up his Hermes case and went through into the bathroom. He worked quickly with the wig and artificial mustache and then called.
“Steven, come here.” They stood side by side and stared at themselves in the mirror.
“Good God!” Steven grunted. Peter altered his stance slightly,
conforming more closely to his brother.
“That’s incredible. Never knew you were such a good-looking brighter,” Steven chuckled, and wagged his head wonderingly. Peter imitated the gesture perfectly.
“Damn it, Peter.” The chuckle dried on Steven’s lips.
“That’s enough. You’re giving me the creeps.” Peter pulled the wig off his head. “It will work.”
“Yes,” Steven conceded. “It will work but how the hell did you know I would be wearing a blazer and greys?”
“Trick of the trade, Peter told him. “Don’t worry about it.
Let’s go through the paperwork now.” In the bedroom they laid out their personal documents in two piles, and went swiftly through them.
The passport photographs would pass readily enough.
“You have to shave your soup-strainer,” Peter told him, and Steven stroked his mustache with one finger, left and right lingeringly,
regretfully.
“Is that absolutely necessary? Id feel like I was walking around in public with no trousers on.” Peter took the slim gold ball-point from his inside pocket and a sheaf of hotel stationery from the drawer.
