Since the kidnapping he had been drinking more than ever before in his life, he realized. It could exert an insidious hold when a man was lonely and in grave doubt. He would have to begin watching it. He took a sip of the smoky amber liquid and turned to look at himself in the mirror across the room.
Since he had been back in Brussels, he had worked out each day in the gymnasium at the NATO officers” club where he still had membership,
and his body was lean and hard with a belly like -a greyhound’s only the face was ravaged by strain and worry and, it seemed, by some deep unutterable regret.
He turned back towards the bedroom of the suite, and the telephone rang.
“Stride,” he said into the mouthpiece, standing still naked with the glass in his right hand.
“Please hold on, General Stride. We have an international call for you.” The delay seemed interminable with heavy buzzing and clicking on the line, and the distant voices of other operators speaking bad
French or even worse English.
Then suddenly her voice, but faint and so far away that “Peter,
are you there?” it sounded like a whisper in a vast and empty hall.
“Magda?” He felt the shock of it, and his voice echoed back at him from the receiver; there was the click before she spoke again, that switch of carrier wave that told him they were on a radio telephone link.
“I have to see you, Peter. I cannot go on like this. Will you come to me, please, Peter?”
“Where are you?”
“Les Neuf Poissons.” Her voice was so faint, so distorted, that he asked her to repeat it.
“Les Neuf Poissons The Nine Fishes,” she repeated.
“Will you come, Peter?”
“Are you crying?” he demanded, and the silence echoed and clicked and hummed so he thought they had lost contact, and he felt a flare of alarm so his voice was harsh as he asked again. “Are you crying?”
“Yes.” It was only a breath, he might have imagined it.
“Why?”
“Because I am sad and frightened, Peter. Because I am alone, Peter. Will you come, please will you come?”
“Yes,” he said.
“How do I get there?”
“Ring Gaston at La Pierre Benite. He will arrange it. But come quickly, Peter. As quickly as you can.”
“Yes.
As soon as I can but where is it?” He waited for her reply, but now the distances of the ether echoed with the sound of utter finality.
“Magda? Magda?” He found himself shouting desperately, but the silence taunted him and reluctantly he pressed a finger down on the cradle of the telephone.
“Les Neuf Poissons,” he repeated softly, and lifted the finger.
“Operator,” he said, “please get me a call to France Rambouillet
47-87-47.” And while he waited he was thinking swiftly.
This was what he had been subconsciously waiting for, he realized.
There was a feeling of inevitability to it, the wheel could only turn it could not roll sideways. This was what had to happen.
Caliph had no alternative. This was the summons to 3.38 execution. He was only surprised that it had not come sooner. He would see why Caliph would have avoided the attempt in the cities of
Europe or England. One such attempt well planned and executed with great force had failed that night on the road to Rambouillet. It would have been a warning to Caliph not to underestimate the victim’s ability to retaliate for the rest, the problems would have been almost the same as those that Peter had faced when planning the strike against
Caliph herself.
The when and the where and the how and Caliph had the edge here.
She could summon him to the selected place but how incredibly skilfully it had been done. As he waited for the call to Rambouillet,
Peter marvelled at the woman afresh. There seemed no bottom to her well of talent and accomplishments despite himself, knowing full well that he was listening to a carefully rehearsed act, despite the fact that he knew her to be a ruthless and merciless killer, yet his heart had twisted at the tones of despair in her voice, the muffled weeping perfectly done, so he had only just been able to identify it.
“This is the residence-of Baroness Altmann.”
“Gaston?”
“Speaking,
sir.”
“General Stride.”
“Good evening, General. I was expecting your call. I spoke to the Baroness earlier. She asked me to arrange your passage to Les Neuf Poissons. I have done so.”
“Where is it, Gaston?”
“Les Neuf Poissons it’s the Baroness’s holiday island in the Iles sous le Vent it is necessary to take the UTA flight to Papeete-Faaa on Tahiti where the Baroness’s pilot will meet you. It’s another hundred miles to Les Neuf Poissons and unfortunately the airstrip is too short to accommodate the Lear jet one has to use a smaller aircraft.”
“When did the Baroness go to Les Neuf Poissons?”
“She left seven days ago, General, “Gaston answered, and immediately went on in the smooth, efficient secretarial voice to give Peter the details of the UTA flight. ” The ticket will be held at the UTA checkin counter for you, General, and I have reserved a nonsmoking seat at the window.”
“You think of everything. Thank you, Gaston.” Peter replaced the receiver, and found that his earlier exhaustion had left him he felt vital and charged with new energy. The elation of a trained soldier facing the prospect of violent action, he wondered, or was it merely the prospect of an end to the indecision and the fear of unknown things? Soon, for good or for evil, it would be settled and he welcomed that.
He went through into the bathroom and pitched the whisky that remained in his glass into the hand basing
The UTA DC 10 made its final approach to Tahiti from the east,
slanting down the sky with the jagged peaks of Moorea under the port wing. Peter remembered the spectacularly riven mountains of Tahiti’s tiny satellite island as the backdrop of the musical movie South
Pacific that had been filmed on location here. The volcanic rock was black and un weathered so that its crests were as sharp as sharks”
fangs.
They arrowed down across the narrow channel between the two islands, and the runway seemed to reach out an arm into the sea to welcome the big silver machine.
The air was heavy and warm and redolent with the perfume of frangipani blossoms, and there were luscious brown girls swinging and swaying gracefully in a dance of welcome. The islands reached out with almost overpowering sweetness and friendliness but as Peter picked his single light bag out of the hold luggage and started for the exit doors, something unusual happened. One of the Polynesian customs officers at the gate exchanged a quick word with his companion and then politely stepped into Peter’s path.
“Good afternoon, the smile was big and friendly, but it did not stretch as far as the eyes. “Would you be kind enough to step this way.” The two customs men escorted Peter into the tiny screened office.
“Please open your bags, sir.” Swiftly but thoroughly they went through his valise and crocodile-skin briefcase; one of them even used a measuring stick to check both cases for a hidden compartment.
“I must congratulate you on your efficiency,” said Peter, smiling also, but his voice tight and low.
“A random check, sir.” The senior officer answered his smile.
“You were just unlucky to be the ten thousandth visitor. Now, sir, I
hope you won’t object to a body search?”
“A body search?” Peter snapped, and would have protested further, but instead he shrugged and raised both
