The Alamut Ambush

Razzak laughed. 'Sergeant-Major Jahein has a very low opinion of Captain Majid – and bad as it is for discipline, I must agree with him. Majid is a nuisance. But fortunately he is an obedient nuisance, so he doesn't get in the way too much – like now, for instance. Let's get out of here before he comes back, Jahein.'

Jahein jerked the big car forwards, narrowly missing the Triumph, and embarked on a clumsy turning operation, swearing continuously under his breath.

'A tank driver – I warned you,' said Razzak. 'And not even a very good tank driver. But there's nothing wrong with his nerve. Slow down, man – I must give a word of praise to the man who had the right of it.'

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They were alongside the open doorway in which the big man in the Fair Isle pullover was still standing, evidently determined to see them out of Bunnock Street.

Razzak wound down the window and leaned out.

'Bloody Gyppo,' the man said loudly and clearly.

Razzak observed him in silence for five seconds. Finally he extended two fingers of his mangled right hand in the universal signal of contempt.

'Up yours, Jack!' he said without heat. 'Drive on, Jahein.'

Jahein jammed his foot down on the accelerator and his hand down on the horn and shot down the street in a deafening turmoil of noise which ended with a squeal of tyres as he skidded out of Bunnock Street on to the main road without either slowing or looking for other traffic.

'Diplomatic immunity is a wonderful thing,' Razzak said happily.

'It's a great comfort to Jahein, anyway – he thinks it covers accidental death too.'

Jahein shook his head in disagreement and gabbled again hoarsely in Arabic.

'Speak in English, man! I've told you before it is disrespectful to speak so in front of my guests!'

Jahein tossed his head and grunted.

Razzak shrugged his shoulders and. turned to Roskill. 'It isn't that the old dog can't learn new tricks,' he apologised. 'He speaks English perfectly well – though with a slight Australian accent.

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The Australians taught him all he's ever learnt – to swear, fight dirty, drive a tank and hate Pommie bastards. Perhaps that's why I can't get him to talk in English, the obstinate swine: you can thank the 9th Australian Division for that. But a loyal old swine – all he was saying was that if the Israelis wouldn't kill me, then I was born to hung and not die in a car crash.'

Roskill watched the traffic lights ahead turn from amber to red and prayed that Jahein's instinct was sound as the Mercedes whipped across the intersection.

'And he may be right at that,' mused Razzak. 'If Captain Majid has his way I shall probably hang sooner or later. But in the meantime, where can we take you, Squadron Leader?'

Meeting Razzak, the unknown quantity, had not been on the schedule for tonight. But perhaps the Egyptian wasn't quite such a question mark since he'd turned up at the Ryle reception: once more it brought him face to face with Hassan. Except that seemed to make nonsense of what had just happened – and not happened –

in Bunnock Street.

Unless...

Roskill relaxed. 'Your driver seems to know where he's going already.'

'Jahein?' Razzak chuckled. 'Jahein simply likes driving – give him a car and a tankful of petrol and he'll drive nowhere for hours on end. He isn't going anywhere at the moment. Just away from Captain Majid. And he's still learning to find his way round London too.'

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Roskill watched Jahein slide the big car through a gap in the traffic just ahead of a taxi which had the right of way. Whatever the old dog didn't know, he had nothing to learn about driving; that first impression had been false.

The light from a blue neon sign momentarily illuminated Razzak's face sharply. There was nothing left of the chuckle on it: the eerie blueness stripped away the fat, leaving it hard and serious. That was another first impression gone – there was always supposed to be a thin man screaming to get out of every fat one, and that flash had betrayed a lean bedouin inside the carpet salesman.

'Well, if you could drop me near St. Paul's, that would do very well,' said Roskill. 'It's not far from here.'

'I think Jahein can manage that,' Razzak murmured, settling back comfortably, his hands interlocking over the bulge of his stomach.

The gesture transmitted itself to the man behind the wheel as if by telepathy; as Razzak sat back the car's speed dropped to a sedate crawl. Getting to any destination too quickly wasn't part of the action.

'I suppose you're curious about my having you followed tonight,'

the Egyptian began conversationally.

'Under the circumstances I think I should be grateful.'

'My dear fellow! Think nothing of it! I'm sure you would have done as much for me. Besides, I owe you an apology – I couldn't think what there was to interest you in the Ryle Foundation. But there obviously is something, that's quite clear.'

Razzak was evidently prepared to be disingenuous. But it was a dummy2

game two could play.

'You owe me an apology for the Van Pelt report, certainly.'

'The Van Pelt – ?' Razzak began to laugh. 'Yes, that was rather naughty I must admit. The Van Pelt report – quite unforgiveable!'

The hands across the stomach shook as he laughed. 'Naughty', with its nursery and pansy connotations, struck Roskill as both inadequate and out of place in Razzak's excellent vocabulary.

Unless – a second thought arrived almost simultaneously – unless it was literally accurate: that saying of Chairman Mao's hadn't struck quite true either.

So the inconvenient report had simply been a figment of Razzak's imagination – a mere joke at Roskill's expense, damn the man!

'And you really don't think there's anything to interest us in the Ryle?'

'Not nothing of interest, Squadron Leader, but nothing to interest you. I thought weapons and guidance systems were your specialities, not – ' Razzak paused momentarily ' – counter-subversion. I thought that was the Special Branch's job.'

He sounded perfectly matter-of-fact and only mildly curious. Far too mild and matter-of-fact to be true: they both knew that this was the opening bid.

'You know about the Foundation then?'

'My dear fellow – I know it's being used by someone, if that's what you mean. You don't think I'd be interested in good works for their own sake, surely?'

'And who would "someone" be?'

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'That would be telling, wouldn't it! Can you tell me what's happened to make it so interesting?'

'Is that the basis for an exchange, Colonel Razzak?'

'It could be.'

Roskill thought furiously. Of all men, Razzak probably had most to offer and would give least. But even what he didn't give aught be of interest. And after Bunnock Street it was possible that the Egyptian's role might not be quite what they had imagined...

'Didn't you know the heat was on?'

'The heat?'

'Someone – possibly your "someone" – tried to kill one of our civil servants a couple of days ago. Didn't you know?'

'Civil servants?' Razzak sounded surprised.

'A rather top man. And you haven't heard?'

'I only got back from Paris this afternoon. Who was it?'

'A man called Llewelyn. I think you know him.'

'Llewelyn!'

'Does that surprise you?'

Razzak didn't reply immediately. It looked very much as though the news had genuinely surprised him. And that, Roskill thought grimly, was significant in itself, because it hadn't surprised Llewelyn. Yet what seemed to have thrown the Egyptian was not the deed itself, but the target.

'Llewelyn!' Razzak muttered to himself. 'The fools! The stupid, dummy2

criminal fools!'

'Which fools do you mean?'

Razzak turned towards him. 'You say they failed though? They didn't get Llewelyn?'

Roskill blessed the semi-darkness of the car which concealed the anger he felt burning his cheeks: No, you bastard, they didn't get Llewelyn – they got Alan Jenkins. Is that what you want to hear?