The writing was the same regular, unnatural script, so that Peter realized that the writer had used a stencil to form each letter, one of those clear plastic cut-out stencils obtainable from any toy store or stationery department. A completely effective method of disguising handwriting.
A finger you have already, next you will have the hand, then another hand, then a foot, then another foot and at last the head.
The next package will arrive on April 20th, and there will be another delivery every seven days.
To prevent this you must deliver a life for a life. The day Dr. Kingston Parker dies, your daughter will return to you immediately, alive and suffering no further harm, Destroy this letter and tell nnobody, or the head will be delivered immediately.
The letter was signed with the name which had come to loom so largely in Peter’s life:
“CALIPH’
The shock of it seemed to reach to the extremities of his soul. To see the name written. To have complete confirmation of all the evil that they had suspected, to see the mark of the beast deeply printed and unmistakable.
The shock was made greater, almost unbearable, by the contents of the letter. Peter found that such cruelty, such utter ruthlessness, tested his credibility to its limits.
The letter was fluttering in his hands, and he realized with a start of surprise that he was shaking like a man in high fever. The porter carrying his black crocodile valise was staring at him curiously, and it required a huge physical effort to control his hands and fold the sheet of white paper.
He stood rigidly, as though on the parade ground, until the elevator door opened and then he marched stiffly down the passage to his suite. He gave the porter a banknote, without glancing at it, and the moment the latch clicked closed, he unfolded the sheet again, and standing in the centre of the living-room floor, scanned the stilted script again, and then again until the words seemed to melt together and lose coherence and meaning.
He realized that for the first time in his life he was in complete panic, that he had lost all resolution and direction.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, counting slowly to one hundred, emptying his mind completely, and then giving himself the command: “Think!” All right, Caliph knew his movements intimately. Even to when he was expected at the Dorchester. that? Cynthia, Colin Noble, Magda Altmann and the secretary at Rambouillet who had made the reservation, Colin’s secretary at Thor, the Dorchester staff, and anybody else who had made even an idle study of Peter’s movements would know he always stayed at the Dorchester. That was a cul-de-sac.
“Think!” Today was April fourth. There were sixteen days before Caliph sent him Melissa-Jane’s severed hand. He felt the panic mounting again, and he forced it back.
“Think!” Caliph had been watching him, studying him in detail, assessing his value. Peter’s value was that he could move unsuspected in high places. He could reach the head of Atlas by simply requesting an audience. More than that, he could probably get access to any head of state if he wanted it badly enough.
For the first time in his life Peter felt the need for liquor.
He crossed quickly to the cabinet and fumbled with the key. A
stranger’s face stared at him out of the gilt-framed mirror above it.
The face was pale, haggard, with deep parentheses framing the mouth.
There were plum-coloured bruises of fatigue below the eyes, and the gaunt, bony jaw was gunmetal blue with a new beard and the sapphire blue of the eyes had a wild deranged glitter. He looked away from his own image. It only increased his sense of unreality.
He poured half a tumbler of Scotch whisky, and drank half of it straight off. He coughed at the sting of the liquor and a drop of it broke from the corner of his mouth and trickled down his chin. He wiped it away with his thumb, and turned back to study the sheet of white paper again. It was crumpled already, where he had gripped it too hard. He smoothed it carefully.
“Think!” he told himself. This was how Caliph worked, then.
Never exposing himself. Picking his agents with incredible attention to detail. Fanatics, like the girl, Ingrid who had led the taking of
Flight 070. Trained assassins, like the man he had killed in the river at La Pierre Brute.
Experts in high places, like General Peter Stride. Studying them,
assessing them and their capabilities, and finally finding their price.
Peter had never believed the old law that every man had his price.
He had believed himself above that general rule.
Now he knew he was not and the knowledge sickened him.
Caliph had found his price, found it unerringly. Melissa-Jane.
Suddenly Peter had a vivid memory of his daughter on horseback,
swivelling in the saddle to laugh and call back to him.
“Super-Star!” And the sound of her laughter on the wind.
Peter shivered, and without realizing it he crumpled the sheet of paper to a ball in his fist.
Ahead of him he saw the road that he was destined to follow. With a new flash of insight, he realized that he had already taken his first steps along the road. He had done so when he had put the gun to Ingrid in the terminal. of Johannesburg Airport, when he had made himself judge and executioner.
Caliph had been responsible for that first step on the road to corruption, and now it was Caliph who was driving him farther along it.
With a sudden prophetic glimpse ahead, Peter knew it would not end with the life of Kingston Parker. Once he was committed to Caliph, it would be for ever or until one of them, Peter Stride, or Caliph, was completely destroyed.
Peter drank the rest of the whisky in the tumbler.
Yes, Melissa-Jane was his price. Caliph had made the correct bid.
Nothing else would have driven him to it.
Peter picked the booklet of matches off the liquor cabinet and like a sleepwalker moved through to the bathroom. He twisted the sheet of paper into a taper and lit the end of it, holding it over the toilet bowl. He held it until the flame scorched his fingers painfully, then dropped it into the bowl and flushed the ash away.
He went back into the lounge, and refilled the glass with whisky.
He picked the comfortable armchair below the window and sank into it.
Only then did he realize how very weary he was. The nerves in his thighs quivered and twitched uncontrollably.
He thought about Kingston Parker. A man like that had an incalculable amount to offer mankind. It will have to look like an assassination attempt aimed at me, Peter thought. One that finds the wrong victim.
“A bomb,” Peter thought. He hated the bomb. Somehow it seemed to be the symbol of the senseless violence which he hated. He had seen it used in Ireland and in London town, and he hated it. The undirected destruction, mindless, merciless.
“It will have to be a bomb,” he decided, and with surprise he found that his hatred had found a new target. Again for the first time ever, he hated himself for what he was going to do.
Caliph had won. He knew that against an adversary of that calibre there was no chance they would find where Melissa-Jane was hidden.
Caliph had won, and Peter Stride sat the rest of the night planning an act which he had dedicated his life, until then, to prevent.
cannot understand why we haven’t had the demand A contact yet.”
Inspector Richards ran his hand distractedly across his pate,
disturbing the feathery wisps that covered it and leaving them standing out at a startled angle.
“It’s five days now. Still no demands.”
“They know where to contact Peter,” Colin Noble agreed.
“The interview he gave covered that.” Peter Stride had appeared on
BBC TV to broadcast an appeal to the kidnappers not to maim his daughter further, and to the general public to offer any information that might lead to her rescue.
On the same programme they had displayed the police identikit portrait of the driver of the maroon Triumph prepared by the one witness.
