I got my jacket. It was the same kind as Maitland's, black, padded, Berlin style. I like them; they're good in cold climates and short, hip-length: you can't run in an overcoat, you can't turn, spin, kick, roll, rebound, dear God, my brain was working like a chicken's with its head cut off- those buggers had guns, it wouldn't matter what I was wearing, how fast I could run, they'd pick me off, concerted fire power.
I left my bathroom stuff and the flight bag where they were and hung the swimming trunks a servant had lent me to dry on the window sill; then I went to the door and jerked it open and the gun was in his hand before I took another step, they were nervous, these people, didn't want to have Klaus shouting at them again. But I could have taken him, this one little peon, because I was alone with him and there are so many moves you can make if you've done it often enough; his weak point was that the gun gave him confidence while I was barehanded, and I'd work on that. But I couldn't do it before he'd got the first shot out and even though it'd go wide of the mark it would make a noise and the others would come and Klaus would have me wiped out because I would have blown my cover and he'd know there wasn't a nuke waiting for him at Dar-el-Beida, finito.
'That way!'
I was going down the arabesque staircase in front of him and took a wrong turn at the bottom and not by accident, I wanted to rile the little bastard, ease the resentment. I turned the other way and went into the open courtyard. It was quiet here, deserted except for Maitland: he was standing at one end of the pool, staring down into the water. It was still now, and no longer tinged with the blood of the Arab boy. The voice of the muezzin had stopped, and the only sound beyond the high white walls were women's voices and the distant ring of cooking pots.
A ripe orange fell, on the far side of the courtyard, and burst among the dry scimitar leaves of the eucalyptus. I felt, for these few moments, a profound peace settling like gossamer on my soul, something close perhaps to what the two Iranians were feeling, and for the same reason: we weren't long for this world now.
'Hello,' Maitland's voice came from across the courtyard, and I remembered how it had been when I'd first found Helen, this man's wife, standing as still as this on the frozen lawn in Reigate, the day before yesterday. She'd sensed my presence and turned and said, Hello.
'Where's Klaus?' I asked him.
'Coming. We'll be taking off at seven.'
I went over to him, not hurrying, looking into the pool, watching his short dark reflection. 'The deal I made,' I said, 'is for the exchange to take place at 7:15.'
'We're not taking the warhead on board.' Maitland's eyes were still shining; his excitement was burning in him like a fever. 'It's going on a later plane.'
With the conventional explosive: with the teddy bear.
'Fair enough. I wouldn't want any last-minute complications – this is quite an important deal for me.'
He watched me for a moment, his eyes bright, and I wondered if he knew what the orders were that Klaus had given Muhammad Ibrahimi: that I was not to survive the rendezvous. Maitland would probably know, yes, had possibly advised it, even insisted on it, for the sake of absolute security, and some of the unholy light in his eyes could be there because he knew he was talking to a dead man. I'd seen a degree of fascination in Klaus's look when he'd been watching the two Iranians.
'Dieter Klaus,' Maitland said slowly, 'hasn't planned this operation to include the risk of last-minute complications.'
He didn't know I was English, this man, as English as he was. It'd be funny if we'd been to prep school together – he looked about my age. Not that it would have made any difference to our relationship. KGB Colonel Kim Philby had been an Englishman too.
'I'm reassured,' I said, and then Klaus came into the courtyard with his four bodyguards and an Arab in a jump-suit and a military-style jacket, compact and black-bearded.
'I don't think you've been formally introduced,' Klaus said in French, 'have you? Muhammad Ibrahimi – Hans Mittag. I know you'll get on very well. You'll be going to the airport with a driver and three guards for your own protection.' He was in a black flying-jacket with a fur collar, had a pair of military field-glasses slung round his neck. 'I'm sure your associate has taken every precaution' -his black eyes were locked on mine – 'and that he too has protected the rendezvous from unwanted attention. Or am I perhaps over-confident?' His French was stilted but I got the message.
'The counter-terrorist people,' I said in a moment, 'are quick off the mark these days. You know that. It wouldn't be the first time an arms dealer's come unstuck.'
Telephone.
It was all I wanted: a telephone.
Klaus said at once – 'You think there's the chance of a security leak?'
'Not really. I run a tight show, like you. But nothing in this life's ever certain, is it? I think you're right: I ought to phone my contact.'
He became very still. I was running things terribly close, but it was so tempting, because if I could get London direct on the dial and use speech-code and warn them off the rendezvous they'd have time to signal whatever forces they'd sent into Dar-el-Beida and clear them out before I got there with Ibrahimi. I'd have a clear field with no one to mess me up if I could do anything useful.
'There's no time,' Klaus said, 'to phone anyone now.' He checked his watch. 'You're leaving here in fifteen minutes, and if your associate has left the rendezvous open to exposure it won't be my fault if you get shot. You understand me?'
'I don't need fifteen minutes to -'
'Do you understand?'
He was standing in front of me with the look on his face I'd seen when he'd killed the dog and when he'd killed the Arab boy, and I was ready for him to blow, had the angles worked out as a matter of routine, the synapses flashing throughout the system and devouring data and sifting it and presenting the analysis for the motor nerves, and if Klaus had made any kind of move I would have gone straight into the killing area and he would have started choking on his own blood as the bullets went into me from the guards.
I don't know if he knew I was ready for him, but I don't think so, because it would have been a challenge and he would have accepted it and come for me, just as a dog will do if you stare it down.
Adrenalin running in the veins like strong red wine: I could taste it in my mouth. He went on staring at me. 'Yes,' I said, 'I understand.'
'I want that warhead.'
'Of course. And I simply hate to sound tactless, but does Monsieur Ibrahimi have the funds?' I looked at the Arab.
'I have the funds,' he said, 'in cash.'
'In hundred-dollar bills?
'That is correct.'
Klaus stood back, and Maitland joined him. 'I hope all goes well,' I said, 'with the operation. It'll give me a certain sense of satisfaction in the morning when I read the headlines, to think I played a minor part.'
Klaus left his eyes on me for a moment and then swung away, didn't answer, knew I wouldn't see any headlines in the morning. Maitland went with him through the archway that led to the forecourt, where chrome glinted under the first faint light of the moon. Two of the guards followed them; two stayed behind. They were both men, both European, probably German; they were flat-faced, crew-cut and had eyes with the indifference in them that we see in animals, but I made them change, moving my hand suddenly to tug the zip of my jacket higher, and they became the eyes of the animal that sees the prey.