terror and I saw his mouth gabbling a torrent of words that were swept away on the gases of the jet noise as the pilot brought all four engines up to full power.
Behind the noise of the jets, the cameo was mute, like some parody of a silent film. In the dim light of the overcast day, the submachine-gun made orange fire as it twisted in her hands. Greenwood cowered, holding up a slim hand in supplication, but he was torn in two by the stream of large-calibre bullets. Mrs Bekuv tightened her hold upon the gun to prevent it spraying upwards, and this tension contorted her face with a grimace of rage and hate that one would have expected only from a bad actor. Greenwood's blood spurted high enough to spatter the underside of the jet plane's wing tip. And then the Bekuvs and Red Bancroft were lost to view behind a confusion of blue uniforms as the flight-crew surrounded them.
'Run, Red,' I yelled, and half expected that she'd bring the Bekuvs back. But Professor Bekuv was pointing a gun at her. My words were lost on the wind, and anyway it was too late.
'Don't shoot,' said Mann.
I looked down and he'd rolled over to get a view of what was happening. His trenchcoat was filthy and his hair matted with mud and with the blood that was running down the side of his face. 'Hit one of the Algerian flight- crew, or even the goddamned airplane, and we'll have an international incident on our hands.'
'I thought we already had one,' I said. But I lowered my gun, and watched as Mrs Bekuv pushed Red Bancroft and her husband up the steps and into the plane. The door clamped shut and the airliner vibrated against the wheel-brakes and the lights winked. Mann's radio phone buzzed. I picked it up.
'Tower to Major Mann,' said the radio. 'The captain requests that we remove the passenger steps.'
Mann was groggy. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. 'Remove the steps,' I told them.
Mann saw the blood down the front of my shirt and realized that it was his own. He reached up to his head and touched the place where the bullet had nicked his skull. The pain of it made him suck his teeth very hard, but it was only when he turned far enough to see the airliner that he said, 'Ouch!'
'You saved me,' said Mann. 'And it was close — damned close.'
'Yes,' I said. 'Another rumble like that and I ask for a no-claims discount on my life insurance.'
'Mark-up one favour,' said Mann, and punched my arm in appreciation.
'Hart tried to protect Greenwood,' I said. 'Did you see that?'
Mann gave a grim little smile. 'Hart didn't want to lose a good hostage,' he said.
'Perhaps,' I said.
'And our Miss Bancroft wasn't working hard to jog anyone's gun arm out there, was she?' said Mann.
'Perhaps she didn't get much of a chance,' I said.
'And perhaps we've lost her to Madame Bekuv. Perhaps, instead of gaining a defector, we've lost an operative.'
I watched as the steps were driven away and the Ilyushin released its wheel-brakes on the port side and swung round to face the feeder channel. The rising heat of the jets turned the airport buildings into grey jelly, and sent us enough unburned hydro-carbons to make our eyes water. The jets fanned over the apron, to make the puddles shimmer, and to gentry ruffle the clothing of the two dead men.
I switched Mann's radio to the control frequency and heard the Algerian pilot say, 'Tower — this is Alpha double eight requesting take-off clearance.'
The reply came promptly, 'Roger Alpha double eight, cleared to runway two five, cleared for take-off. Wind two seven zero, at eight knots gusting fifteen..' I switched it off, and we watched the Ilyushin trundle off to the far end of the runway.
Mann was bleeding badly. 'We'd better get along to the doctor,' I said.
'You feeling sick?' Mann inquired politely.
The Ilyushin's engines came to full power, one at a time. Then, with all brakes released, it grew bigger and bigger, until, when it seemed it must roll over us, it lifted. With a brain-numbing roar it passed low over our heads.
'Yes,' I said.
Chapter Twenty-one
The town of Algiers fits snugly into the curve of its massive bay. It is a city of narrow alleys and steep staircases, hovels and office blocks, secret gardens and boulevards. At its feet there is a busy port. Behind it, the roads hairpin up into the lush green hills and pine forests, climbing ever higher into the Atlas Mountains. It's an uncomfortable place. Of the whole African coastline, only the Red Sea gets hotter in summer, and few places get as much rain in winter. It was dark by the time we arrived and raining heavily.
Percy Dempsey was at the airport. He'd brought his own personal Peugeot 504. You'll not see many of those broken down along the desert tracks, polished silver by the sand. Down south in the Sahara there were only Peugeots, and Landrovers, and the smart little cars that came in by transporter. And Percy's was special; he'd taken the sump away, to provide a flat underside. The oil was pumped out of a tank in the boot. It reduced the luggage space but it was a small price to pay for a desert-worthy car.
Percy Dempsey was wearing a suit — perhaps the cable, and the C.I.A. contact-man, had given him hopes of a long-term contract with the Americans — and a waistcoat, and a public-school tie, Charterhouse as I remember it. The grubby trenchcoat let him down, or did he think that was
'I sent one of my people down to Ghardaia,' said Percy. 'If they are going south to the Sahara they will have to go that way.'
'Has he got a two-way radio in the car?' said Mann.
'That would be rather dangerous, Major,' said Percy. 'Only the police are permitted such luxuries. In any of these towns and villages you can find the police station, simply by looking for the only building with a radio mast.'
Percy murmured some gentle Arabic oath as the truck ahead of us stopped and signalled that it was going to turn into the docks.
'How will we know what's happening down there?'
'My man's based in a hotel, Major. We can speak to him on the phone.' A driver behind us sounded his horn, and so did another behind him.
'We don't even know they will go south,' said Mann. 'They might just transfer to the Aeroflot flight and continue through to Moscow.'
'I thought we'd have something to eat,' said Percy. 'They won't be here for hours. You made good time.' The truck turned, and we moved on into the city.
'They sold them only enough fuel to get to London. That will delay their arrival time by nearly two hours,' I told him.
'You're not worried that they might change planes in London?' Percy asked.
'That will be prevented,' I said. We stopped at a big intersection while a traffic cop twirled a baton and blew his whistle.
'Bekuv will go south all right,' said Percy. 'I had that feeling when we met him that day. He had unfinished business here in the desert.' He turned off the main boulevard into a succession of ever narrower streets.
'Where were you when we needed you?' said Mann sarcastically.
'Hindsight,' admitted Percy. 'Pure hindsight, I admit. But if you think about his indecision that day…' He pointed. 'This is the Kasbah,' he said. 'That's the big market.'
Mann nodded.
Percy said, 'People only go south if they have a purpose. You don't go into the Sahara to hide. Are they looking for something? Do you know what?' He parked the car in a space marked private.
'No,' I said.
'Big or small?'
'Big,' I said.
'How the hell could you know that?' said Mann.
