‘White-eared bulbuls. I don’t know whether they’re residents, or only like us.’
‘Like us?’
‘Just passing through.’
‘Do you know a lot about birds?’
‘A bit.’ It was odd seeing a domestic side of a tough policeman. I thought I’d rather like him for a neighbour. I don’t know why, but my mind glanced back to the woman again. Would I like her for a neighbour as well? No, I definitely wouldn’t. In fact, the very thought made me shiver. Collins noticed.
‘What’s up? Someone walked over your grave?’
‘No, it was just something I thought on.’
He read my mind. ‘I know, she can do that to you, can’t she? Two hundred years ago they would have burned her. When’s your next shift?’
‘Tuesday. Late. Another day yet. Do you always stay here when you’re off duty?’
‘No, just occasionally. Some of my people are working at this end this weekend, so I decided to be around. It’s an excuse to get away from the office, but they know where to get me.’
‘A change from Spam with everything?’
‘You said it, son. Have you tried the bean salad Yassine serves here?’
‘Yes. He had a place in Ismailia. I first had it there. He used to call it Beirut Sunshine then.’
‘It’s Salamis Sunshine now. That scans better, but it’s probably the same.’ He’d answered my questions but there was still something missing.
Collins left. Pat Tobin replaced him about half an hour later, and Pete slithered in half an hour after that. The woman recovered her book, smiled a mysterious smile and went to find a bench at the other end of the garden.
Pete was dressed like me now, in anonymous KD thins, although he undermined them with his hallmark highly polished black shoes. I stuck with a pair of comfortable old suede desert boots. They were a bit smelly by now, but I could wear them all day without sweating up. Pat asked me, ‘Anything planned for tomorrow, squire?’
‘No, why?’
‘We have, an’ someone asked me to invite you.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Warboys.’
‘I suspect Warboys is bad news, Pat. He has a fanatical gleam in his eyes.’
‘That’s why the GCs don’t fancy him. He out-fanatics the fanatics – most of those SAS guys do.’ At least we’d reached the stage of calling a spade a shovel. I’d worked with a couple of Australian Special Service guys a few years ago, and recognized the type. I respected their stubborn professionalism.
‘What does he want?’
‘To take another drive.’
‘Purpose?’
Pete leaned forward; his small dark eyes were positively glittering. ‘Get that girl back. Maybe even the pilot. He says he knows where she is.’
‘Why us?’ I asked Tobin.
‘Me,’ he told me, ‘because I can lay my hands on the equipment we need, no questions asked. You and Pete because you’re not constrained by Queen’s Regs any more, the way we are . . . an’ all three of us because we got a day off tomorrer, an’ no one will miss us. Good enough?’
‘And you?’ I asked Pete.
‘They paid me.’ And he shrugged. I believed him too. Pete would do anything for money, except, I thought, shave off his silly little Douglas Fairbanks moustache. The trouble with bastards you’d served with was that old ties died hard: ask any serviceman. They only asked a favour in the first place because of what you had been through together, and they didn’t ask it unless they guessed you’d play along. I knew that they wouldn’t have told me the worst yet. I asked, ‘What’s the rest of it?’
‘Maybe a hundred armed GCs up there who’ll guess we’re coming. Whether they decide to do anything about us will depend on whether Grivas wants to cause trouble this week – he likes to keep us on the hop.’
‘And?’
‘We leave from your hut before light tomorrer, so we’re getting out of here in a couple of hours. Check the kit, and a good night’s sleep.’
Pete gave a dry little chuckle. ‘Just like operations, Charlie. Berlin next stop.’ I hoped not. Two of the guys who’d flown in Tuesday’s Child with us had never made it through the war. Pat coughed. He had something more to say.
‘An’ don’t tell your bird what we’re up to. Stay schtum.’
‘She thinks I’m going to be around until tomorrow.’
‘So surprise her!’ he said nastily. ‘She’s only a whore.’
That’s when the second thing happened, because I realized immediately that she was no longer an only anything: she was rather special. I felt my chin lift, and something must have shown on my face because Pat immediately dropped his gaze and looked away.
I had a brief, involuntary mental glimpse of all the girls I’d dated since I first met Grace in 1944 – and there weren’t as many as you’d think. What I realized was that although I’d kidded myself from time to time, I hadn’t had anyone really special since Grace had gone. Steve was out shopping and hadn’t returned before we split, so the practical problem solved itself. We crept away like thieves, and I felt like one.
Chapter Twelve
Let’s Hear It for the Dead Men
Pete and I slept with our small packs made up, and our clothes laid out – both placed on adjacent bunks ready to go. He hadn’t been wrong: it was like old times. Sleep was a long time coming, and I remembered the sounds we used to share in the airfield Nissen hut we called the Grease Pit in 1944. I listened for Marty’s snores, but Marty was dead. When he was drunk he would sleep under his bed, with his arms around an empty bomb casing. The Toff, our mid-upper gunner, would sometimes whistle quietly between his teeth until sleep claimed him: I always knew that, like me, he would have been looking at the ceiling. The Toff was dead as well. Eventually I heard Pete say, ‘G’night, Charlie,’ and roll in his bed to face away from me.
‘G’night, Pete.’
Let’s
