Ireland because he was familiar with the terrain, and had friends there. It was his old stamping ground when he was with the Provos.
He could move and disappear, get things fixed.” Colin paused and saw the sceptical expression on Peter’s face.
“Well, look at it this way, Peter baby. He had a woman negotiate the lease on the Old Manse Kate Barry, she called herself and signed it on the lease so that was one ally. There must have been others,
because he was able to buy a stolen and reworked automobile he would have had difficulty doing that in Edinburgh or London without the word getting about.” Peter nodded reluctantly. “All right, having the Irish connection helped him, Ad But there was the other side of the coin. O’Shaughnessy had enemies, even in the Provos. He was a ruthless bastard with a bloody record. We can only believe that one of those enemies saw the chance to make a score the one who sold him the stolen auto, perhaps. We have had the recording of the tip-off call examined by language experts and had a run against the voice prints on the computer. Nothing definite. The voice was disguised, probably through a handkerchief and nose plugs, but the general feeling is that it was an Irishman who made the call. The boffins from the telephone department were able to test the loading of the line and guess it was a call from a foreign country very likely Ireland, although they cannot be certain of that.” Peter
Stride raised one eyebrow slightly, and Colin chuckled weakly and waved the cheroot at him in a wide gesture of invitation.
“Okay. That’s my best shot,” he said. “Let’s hear you do better.
If you don’t like my theories, you must have one of your own.”
“You are asking me to believe it was all a coincidence; that O’Shaughnessy just happened to run into an old enemy who just happened to tip us off twenty-four hours before the deadline for Melissa-Jane’s hand to be amputated. Then it just so happened that we reached Laragh at exactly the same moment as O’Shaughnessy was pulling out and making a run for it. Is that what you want me to believe?”
“Something like that,“Colin admitted.
“Sorry, Colin. I just don’t like coincidence.”
“Shoot!” Colin invited. “Let’s hear how it really happened.”
“I don’t know,” Peter grinned phicatingly. “It is just that I have this feeling that Caliph doesn’t deal in coincidence either. I have this other feeling that somehow Gilly O’Shaughnessy had the death mark on his forehead from the beginning. I have this feeling it was all part of the plan.”
“it must be great fun to have these feelings.” Colin was prickling a little.
“But they sure as hell aren’t much help to me.) “Take it easy.” Peter held up one hand in surrender. “Let’s accept tentatively that it happened your way, then-“
“But?“Colin asked.
“No buts not until we get some more hard evidence-“
“Okay,
buster.” There was no smile on Colin’s face now, the wide mouth clamped in a grim line. “You want hard evidence, try this one for size-“
“Hold it, Colin,” Parker shot in quickly, authoritatively.
“Wait for a moment before we come to that.” And Colin Noble deflated with a visible effort, the cords in his throat smoothing out and the line of mouth relaxed into the old familiar grin as he deferred to Kingston Parker.
“Let’s backtrack here a moment,” Parker suggested. “Peter came up with the name Caliph. In the meantime we had picked up the same name but from an entirely different source. I promised Peter I would tell him about our source because I think it gives us a new insight into this entire business.” He paused and tinkered with his pipe, using one of those small tools with folding blades and hooks and spikes with which pipe smokers arm themselves. He scraped the bowl and knocked a nub of half-burned tobacco into the ashtray, before peering into the pipe-the way a rifleman checks the bore of his weapon. Peter realized that Parker used his pipe as a prop for his performances, the way a magician distracts his audience with flourishes and mumbo jumbo He was not a man to underestimate, Peter thought again for the hundredth time.
Kingston Parker looked up at him and smiled, a conspiratorial smile as if to acknowledge that Peter had seen through his little act.
“Our news of Caliph comes from an unlikely direction or rather,
considering the name, a more likely direction.
East. Riyadh to be precise. Capital city of Saudi Arabia, seat of King Khalid’s oil empire. Our battered and beleaguered Central
Intelligence Agency has received an appeal from the King following the murder of one of his grandsons. You recall the case, I’m sure–2
Peter had a strange feeling of deji-vu as he, listened to Kingston
Parker confirming exactly the circumstances that he and Magda Altmann had discussed and postulated together, was it only three weeks before?
You see the King and his family are in a very vulnerable position really. Did you know that there are at least seven hundred Saudi princes who are multimillionaires, and who are close to the King’s affections and power structure? It would be impossible to guard that many potential victims adequately. It’s really damned good thinking you don’t have to seize a hostage with all the attendant risks. There is virtually an unlimited supply of them walking around, ripe for plucking, and an inexhaustible supply of assassins to be either pressured or paid to do the job, just as long as you have the information and leverage, or just enough money. Caliph seems to have all that.”
“What demand has been made upon Khalid?“Peter asked.
“We know for certain that he has received a demand, and that he has appealed to the CIA for assistance to protect and guard his family.
The demand came from an agency or person calling himself Caliph. We do not know what the demand is but it may be significant that Khalid and the Shah of Persia have both agreed that they will not support a crude oil price increase at the next pricing session of OPEC, but on the contrary they will push for a five per cent decrease in the price of crude.”
“Caliph’s thinking has paid off again,” Peter murmured.
“It looks like it, doesn’t it.” Parker nodded, and then chuckled bitterly. “And once again you get the feeling, as with his demands to the South African Government, that his final objective is desirable even if the way he goes about procuring it is slightly unconventional,
to say the least.”
“To say the very least,” Peter agreed quietly,
remembering the feel of Melissa-Jane’s fever-racked body against his chest.
“So there is no doubt now that what we feared, is fact.
Caliph exists-” said Parker.
“Not only exists, but flourishes,” Peter agreed.
“Alive and well with a nice house in the suburbs.” Colin lit the stub of his cheroot before going on. “Hell! He succeeded at
Johannesburg. He is succeeding at Riyadh where does he go from there why not the Federation of Employers in West Germany? The Trade Union leaders in Great Britain? Any group powerful enough to affect the fate of nations, and small enough to be terrorized as individuals.”
“It’s a way to sway and direct the destiny of the entire world you just cannot guard all the world’s decision makers from personal attack,
Peter agreed. “And it’s no argument to point out that because his first two targets have been South Africa and the oil monopoly, then the long term results will be to the benefit of mankind. His ultimate target will almost certainly be the democratic process itself.
I don’t think there can be any doubt that Caliph sees himself as a god. He sees himself as the paternal tyrant. His aim is to cure the ills of the world by radical surgery, and to maintain its health by unrestrained force and fear.” Peter could remain seated no longer. He pushed back his chair and crossed to the windows, standing there in the soldier’s stance, balanced on the balls of his feet with both hands clasped lightl behind his back. There was an uninspiring view of the high barbed-wire fence, part of the airfield and the corrugated sheet wall of the nearest hangar.
A Thor sentry paced before the gates with a white MP.
