“Yes.”
“How?”
“Christ, Peter. It’s more than my life is worth.”
“We’ll come back to it,” said Peter impatiently. “Go on, tell me about Aaron
Altmann.”
“That was a disaster. I chose Aaron as the man I would recruit. He seemed exactly the kind of man we needed. I had known him for years. I knew he could be very tough when it was necessary. So I
approached him. He seemed very eager at first, leading me on. Getting me to explain the way Caliph would work. I was delighted to have recruited such an important man. He intimated that he would contribute twenty-five million dollars to the funds of the association, so I
passed a message to Caliph. I told him that I had almost succeeded in recruiting Baron Altmann-” Steven stopped nervously, and dropped the stub of his cigarette onto the damp turf, grinding it out under his heel.
“What happened then?” Peter demanded.
“Caliph responded immediately. I was ordered to break off all contact with Aaron Altmann at once. I realized I must have chosen a potentially dangerous person. You tell me now he was Mossad. I did not know that but Caliph must have known it. I did as I was told and dropped Aaron like a hot chestnut and four days later he was abducted. I had nothing to do with it, Peter. I swear to you. I
liked the man immensely. I admired him-“
“Yet he was abducted and horribly tortured. You must have known that Caliph had done it, and that you were responsible?”
“Yes.” Steven said the word flatly, without evasion. Peter felt a small stir of admiration for that.
“They tortured him to find out if he had passed the information you had given him about Caliph to Mossad,” Peter insisted.
“Yes I expect so. I do not know.”
“If the picture I have of
Aaron Altmann was correct they received no information from him.”
“No.
He was like that. They must have lost patience with him in the end to do what they did to him. It was my first moment of disillusionment with Caliph,” Steven muttered sombrely.
They were both silent now, until Peter burst out angrily.
“My God, Steven, can’t you see what a disgusting business you are mixed up in? “And Steven was mute. “Couldn’t you see it?” Peter insisted, the anger raw in his voice. “Couldn’t you realize it from the beginning?”
“Not at the beginning.” Steven shook his head miserably.
“It seemed a brilliant solution for all the diseases of the
Western world and then once I began it was like being on board a speeding express train. It was just impossible to get off again.”
“All right. So then you tried to have me assassinated on the Rambouillet road?”
“Good God, no.” Steven was truly appalled. “You’re my brother,
good God-“
“Caliph did it to stop me getting close to Aaron’s widow who was out to avenge him.”
“I didn’t know a thing about it, I swear to you. If Caliph did it, he knew better than to let me in on it.” Steven was pleading now. “You must believe that.” Peter felt a softening of his resolve, but forced back the knowledge that this man was his brother, someone who had been very dear over a lifetime.
“What was your next operation for Caliph then?” He asked without allowing the softness to reach his voice.
“There wasn’t-“
“Damn you, Steven, don’t lie to me.” Peter’s voice cracked like a whiplash. “You knew about Prince Hassled Abdel HayeV
“All right. I arranged that. Caliph told me what to do and I did it.”
“Then you kidnapped Melissa-Jane and had her mutilated-“
“Oh God! No!”
Steven’s voice was a sob.
To force me to assassinate Kingston Parker-“
“No, Peter. No!”
“And then to kill Magda Altmann-“
“Peter, I swear to you. Not
Melissa-Jane. I love her like one of my own daughters. You must know that. I had no idea it was Caliph.” Steven was pleading wildly now.
You have to believe me. I would never have allowed that to happen. That is too horrible.” Peter watched him with a steely merciless glint of blue in his eyes, cold and cutting as the edge of the executioner’s blade.
“I will do anything to prove to you I had nothing to do with
Melissa-Jane. Anything you say, Peter. I’ll take any chance to prove it to you. I swear it to you.” Steven Stride’s dismay and sincerity were beyond question. His face was drained of all colour and his lips were marble white and trembling with the strength of his denial.
Peter handed the shotgun to his brother without a word.
Startled, Steven held it for a moment at arm’s length.
“You are in bad trouble, Steven,” Peter said quietly. He knew that from now on he needed Steven’s unreserved and whole-hearted commitment. He could not be forced to do what he must do at the point of a shotgun.
Steven recognized the gesture, and slowly lowered the gun. With his thumb he pushed across the breech- locking mechanism, and the weapon hinged open. He pulled the cartridges from the double eyes of the breeches and dropped them into the pocket of his shooting jacket.
“Let’s get down to the house, Steven said, his voice still unsteady with the trauma of the last minutes. “I need a stiff whisky-“
“There was a log fire burning in the deep walk-in fireplace of Steven’s study. The portals were magnificently carved altar surrounds from a sixteenth century German church, salvaged from the ruins of World War
II
Allied bombing and purchased by Steven from a Spanish dealer, after -having been smuggled out through Switzerland.
Opposite the fireplace, bow windows with leaded panes and ancient wavy glass looked out over the rose garden.
The other two walls housed Steven’s collection of rare books, each boxed in its individual leather-bound container and lettered in gold leaf. The shelves reached from floor to the high moulded ceiling. It was a passion that the brothers shared.
Steven stood now in the fireplace with his back to the flames, one hand clasped in the small of his back, hoisting up the skirts of his tweed jacket to warm his backside. In the other hand he held a deep crystal tumbler, still half filled with whisky, hardly diluted by the soda he had dashed into it from the syphon.
Steven still looked shaken and pale, and every few minutes he shivered uncontrollably, although the room was oppressively heated by the blazing fire and all the windows were closed tightly.
Peter sprawled in the brocade-upholstered Louis Quatorze chair across the room, his legs thrust out straight and crossed at the ankles, hands thrust deeply into his pockets, and his chin lowered on his chest in deep thought.
“How much was your contribution to Caliph’s war chest?” Peter asked abruptly.
“I was not in the same class as Aaron Altmann,” Steven answered quietly. “I pledged five millions in sterling over five years.”
“So we must imagine a network extending across all international boundaries.
Powerful men in every country, each contributing enormous sums of money and almost unlimited information and influence-” Steven nodded and took another swallow of his dark, toned whisky.
There is no reason to believe that it was only one man in each country. There may be a dozen in England,
