‘It is no business of mine,’ Steiner added, ‘to advise you to kill yourself. I am merely giving you the option.’
‘That’s very kind of you. And at what time is my presence required at the Palace?’
‘His Highness is dining early with a delegation of Japanese industrialists. He does not expect to be late. I have received instructions to have you driven to the roadblock at 11.30. From there you will be escorted to his private apartments. Just one other thing…’ He paused, as though unexpectedly embarrassed. ‘Of course — I rely entirely on your judgement in this matter. But it is possible — in this heat, perhaps — that your period might be premature?’
‘No.’ She gave a sharp humourless laugh. ‘And what if it had been?’
‘It might have been awkward. For you, I mean.’
They did not speak again until they reached the house.
CHAPTER 35
Ryderbeit and Packer took off from Beirut International Airport at 6.42 p.m. local time. Customs and Immigration formalities had once again been leisurely and affable; the official who had inspected the Fieseler Storch was obviously more interested in the plane than in anything it might be carrying.
Their only visible luggage was a paper carrier bag containing two bottles, of Scotch and arak, which Ryderbeit had bought at the duty-free shop. For the moment, these worried Packer rather more than the two MI6 carbines, with six clips of ammunition each, screwed down under the main tail-strut.
Packer guessed that somewhere along the chain of command at the airport, and probably fairly high up, the right words had been said, the right money exchanged; for the Lebanon was still in a state of civil war, and the Fieseler Storch did not look like just another playboy’s toy.
Among the shoals of brightly coloured small aircraft in the area reserved for private planes, it stood out like an old cutlass on a dinner table. As a museum piece, it was still camouflaged — sky-blue on the underneath, desert-brown on its sides and roof and the top of its high wings — though someone had tactfully painted out the black indented crosses on the wingtips and the swastikas on the tail.
Ryderbeit had spent a quarter of an hour inspecting her, unscrewing the cowlings and groping around in the engine until his hands and arms were smeared with fresh oil. His silence seemed to indicate a morose, professional satisfaction.
There was a fifteen-minute delay before they reached final clearance for take-off, while they waited for a jumbo and a DC 10 to come in. The cockpit, which was the size of the front seat of a sports car, was fitted with a large modern radio that took up most of Packer’s leg room, in the rear observation seat. The screws looked brand-new. And Packer guessed that it had been installed in the last forty-eight hours.
Just before take-off, Ryderbeit reached back for the carrier bag 286 and took a long drink of whisky from the bottle. His eye looked back at Packer and crinkled. ‘Take it easy, soldier. Most times you fly commercial airways you don’t see the pilot — nor do you see him the night before or the morning after. But that doesn’t mean to say you haven’t got a piss artist up front.’ He cackled. ‘I’ve known pilots — real respectable ones — who’d no more fly without a bottle than without radar. Most of them are never drunk, never sober. Me, if I don’t have a drink I fly lame.’
The engine was not anxious to start, and Ryderbeit talked to it in a mixture of English and Afrikaans as though it were some new pet. To Packer the controls appeared remarkably few and simple. An American voice finally came over the radio: ‘German bird-dog, you are cleared for take-off. But shake it up — we’ve got a Pan-Am 747 coming in on your tail.’
Ryderbeit grinned, and the little plane began to move. They took off in less than forty yards. Packer watched the floating compass settle on to north-north-east; the altimeter needle quivering up to 2000 metres.
It was already very cold, and very noisy. Packer pulled a thick sweater and anorak from behind his seat. It had been too hot on the ground to put them on, but up here it was like dressing inside a deep-freeze. Ryderbeit, on the other hand, seemed immune to the cold: he was still wearing his bush shirt under a light canvas jacket, khaki trousers and black suede boots, with his snow goggles pushed up on to his forehead. His hands on the controls were supple and perfectly steady; the only trace of his Italian rampage was his greenish pallor. He had shown no symptoms of tension or anxiety since waking at noon; and his one emotional outburst had been annoyance at not being able to get any Havana cigars at Beirut Airport.
He had stuffed the weather reports into the canvas pocket of his door; they were cleared to fly only as far as Tripoli, then west to Cyprus. The long leg east across Syria and Iraq would have to be flown blind, without radar or storm alerts.
The weather report indicated no cloud, with light south-easterly winds. Perfect conditions, Ryderbeit had said: perfect conditions, that was, for anyone wanting to go water-skiing or give an outdoor barbecue in Beirut or Limassol. It did not take into account sandstorms or mountain turbulence 500 miles to the east.
Ryderbeit had the maps — given him by Pol — spread out on his lap. Communication was difficult except by shouting; and once they were airborne Ryderbeit’s expression had become one of serene but intense concentration. He was in a world of his own, and he loved it.
They followed the coast for twenty minutes, until they saw the grey smudge of a
