At the foot of the steps leading up to Shepheard's he stopped to mop sweat off his forehead. The warmth of the naked sun beat down. The street was faintly blurred with heat dazzle. As he put his handkerchief away he glanced at his watch. The timing was tricky.
Inside the crowded lobby overhead fans whirred, stirring up turgid air. He strolled up the staircase and paused in an empty corridor, studying the room numbers and waiting to see if anyone followed him. When he was satisfied he continued along the quiet corridor and rapped, an irregular tattoo, on the door of Room 24.
Inside Room 16 the phone rang. A short, burly Scot, his fair hair clipped short, dressed in the uniform of an army Lieutenant, picked up the receiver. His voice was abrupt, very Scots, a bit of a drowned mumble.
'Yes? Who is it?'
'Harrington. The package is about to be delivered to you. And it could be damaged goods. Oh, I had a chat with that new chap in the mess.'
'And?'
'Worries me. Chucked a question at him out of the blue. When he did reply he stuttered. A man does that when you throw him off balance. Only time he did it. Just a thought. Probably nothing in it…'
'Thanks for calling. See you later.'
The man called Jock Carson clasped his hands on the table and gazed out of the window. Probably nothing in it… Translation: alarm bells screaming like bloody banshees.
In response to Whelby's rappings on the door of Room 24 the door opened immediately and a small man in crumpled khaki drill civvies ushered the Englishman inside. He closed the door and locked it.
''Vlacek?' Whelby murmured. 'The mosquitoes are biting well…'
'Malaria is a burden Allah wishes us to bear,' Vlacek replied.
'I've only got minutes,' Whelby said irritably. He looked round the room, noted the mess of discarded clothes on the bed, then he stared at the open French windows.
'The balcony, I think. Room 16 is on the other side of the hotel, isn't it? You're quite sure.'
'Quite certain, dear sir. Yes, let us converse together on the balcony.'
Vlacek, nominally a Pole from the Russian border region, had a typical Slav face. High cheekbones, prominent nose and jawline. Everything bony. Brown eyes like glass. Hands long-fingered, fleshless, with a wiry strength. Strangler's hands.
He spoke English carefully, slowly, with a thick accent. He had trouble with his 'r's and his voice was soft. He padded after Whelby onto the balcony in tennis plimsolls, making no sound so the Englishman was startled to find the Pole alongside him. After a quick glance in either direction from the balcony, Whelby began speaking.
'London has sent me to bring back Lindsay. He's apparently alive in 'Yugoslavia. There's talk of a Dakota airlifting him out. Presumably to here on the first stage of his trip back to London…'
'Not here.' The little man shook his head and lit a cheroot. 'And he must never reach London alive. That's my responsibility. Yours is to see the Dakota lands at Lydda Airport. That's in Palestine…'
'I know. But why Palestine?'
'I need him kept there two days. That will give me the time to complete my mission. Two days..
'That could be really difficult. They'll want to rush him home. I might manage the switch to Lydda – but two days…'
'Tell them you need it for initial debriefing. And Lindsay will be tired. Insist he needs a rest before he completes the journey to London…'
'Why Palestine?' Whelby asked for the second time.
It was becoming a duel for control between the two men. Vlacek seemed to be deliberately not answering his questions. Whelby made a great show of looking at his watch. Five minutes more at the outside. Carson might start coming to look for him.
'In Palestine,' Vlacek explained in his slow monotone, 'many English troops and policemen are shot in the back by the Jews. It is not like Egypt. Palestine is a volcano, ready to erupt – one more murder will be put down to another Jewish outrage. If possible, we meet here one hour later tomorrow; if not possible, one hour later the following day, and so forth…'
'And supposing I can't get away from them, which is likely?'
'I shall know if you have left for Palestine. Contact me at the Hotel Sharon in Jerusalem. Again, Room 24…'
'And now I really must go. This very minute.. '
Lieutenant Carson is a high-ranking officer in Intelligence.'
Whelby left the quiet little man standing on the balcony, gazing into the distance as he smoked the cheroot clamped between tobacco-stained teeth. He thought. Vlacek one of the most sinister men he had ever met and tried to recall what he reminded him of.
He had opened the door and glanced into the still- deserted corridor before leaving the room when he remembered. Those eyes like glass. A lizard.
In the corridor Whelby paused before making for Room 16. He had two minutes to kill before his appointment with Carson. Two minutes to regain his normal poise.
What a shit of a rush it had all been in London after his interview with Colonel Browne. And rushes were dangerous. The urgent call from a public phone box to Savitsky. The effort to get over to the Russian in innocent-sounding language the sudden development dropped on him by Browne. Savitsky's instruction for them to meet each other at Beryl's place,… to see how the poor girl is getting on. Eight hours from now suit you?'
God, they must have moved in Moscow! Savitsky's signal would put the cat among the pigeons. But they had managed it – Whelby gave them full marks for trying. He had joined Savitsky for breakfast at the Strand Palace Hotel close to the river. No food coupons needed, thank God.
'We have put a man into the same Cairo hotel where you make your rendezvous with your British contact,' Savitsky had told him.
The Russian, dressed like a British businessman, had even found a corner table where they were invisible to the remainder of the restaurant. He was good on small details.
'His name is Vlacek,' Savitsky had continued. 'He will wait in Room 24 until you arrive. For days, if necessary. He will live in that room. The password is…'
At certain stages in their hurried conversation Savitsky had gone vague on Whelby. At the time the Englishman had put it down to the hellish rush – verging on panic – of the whole operation.
'Who is this Vlacek? Is he underground?' Whelby had asked.
'Good God, no!' Savitsky had been shocked. 'He's a Pole, employed in some capacity by the British with a propaganda unit. He can walk the streets openly in Cairo. Just don't be seen together in public, that's all…'
Now, standing in the corridor of Shepheard's, Whelby wondered about Vlacek's real status. He had talked – albeit subtly – as though he were Whelby's superior. The unnerving suspicion crossed the Englishman's mind that he had just conversed with a professional executioner.
Harrington had been jocular, extrovert, affable. Jock Carson was dour, watchful, guarded. There was no shaking of hand's. He closed the door and gestured towards a chair on one side of a glass-topped table. As the stockily-built Scot walked round to sit in the facing chair, Whelby studied him.
First the two, full lieutenant's pips on either shoulder. He had thought they might be new, fresh from the store. They were well-worn, like the face with the beaked nose, the heavy-lidded eyes. Carson wasted few words.
'We expect – God and the weather willing – to have Wing Commander Lindsay in Cairo for you to escort him home within one or two weeks. You, of course, have never been here. The passenger manifest of the Liberator bomber which flew you from London shows only the names of eleven passengers. You will maintain a very low profile while you wait…'
'Hold on a minute, Lieutenant. I do have some say in how this matter is handled. Your discretion I appreciate. May I ask the proposed route along which Lindsay will travel to reach Cairo?'
' Proposed? '