The Leader And The Damned

The Scots burr became more pronounced. Inside that stocky body Whelby sensed the power and drive of a locomotive. They were fencing for supremacy, of course. The first encounter – clash – was always vital. It established the pattern of authority from which there would be no deviation.

'That's the word I used,' Whelby said quietly.

'We fix the route. We fix the timing. We deliver the goods. You escort them back to London.'

`These details have been arranged for how long? Hours? Days?'

'Days.'

Carson left it at that. His hands were clasped again, he sat motionless, blue eyes staring at the man opposite.

'And the route?' Whelby insisted.

'Yugoslavia to Benghazi in Libya. Dakota touches down at Benina airfield – isolated, out in the desert. Refuels. Then on to Cairo West…'

'No!' Whelby's tone was sharp, inflexible. 'The arrangement has been known for days, so there could have been a leak. Lindsay is a prime target. From Benina I want him flown to Lydda in Palestine. I'll be there to meet him. The chap will be exhausted after his experiences, then the flight. A couple of days in an unexpected place, somewhere in Jerusalem will do nicely. The route change will counter any leak. London isn't happy about the security out here…'

'Poor old London…'

'They could send someone else out, wielding an axe. A word to the wise. Just between the two of us. Lydda. Please?'

Carson sat like a man carved out of mahogany. Incredible how still he could remain for long periods. Whelby was careful not to add a word. He could sense the Scot weighing up the pros and cons. Whelby knew there was a logic to his argument difficult to refute. He had been careful not to sound threatening, simply a man reporting how things stood, his tone almost sympathetic. You know how things are, I don't make the rules. A word to the wise…

'Lydda it is,' Carson announced eventually. 'We like to keep our visitors happy. My guess – subject to checking – is you'll fly to Lydda this hour tomorrow. That doesn't tell you anything about when Lindsay lands. Frankly, I don't know that myself yet. A night in Grey Pillars for you…'

Grey Pillars was local slang for GHQ, Middle East. It was a residential district of solemn buildings cordoned off from the rest of Cairo by wire fences. Carson had stood up behind his desk as though the interview were over. Whelby, remaining in his chair, recrossed his legs.

'A room here, this one, if available, would suit me better. I didn't come out here to be confined to a POW camp. I do have the freedom to make my own decisions…'

It was a statement, not a question. Spoken in the same offhand, 'amiable manner. Carson half-closed his eyes, adjusted his Sam Browne belt and holster.

'Give me a reason. Just for the record.

'Security. The opposition has to be keeping Grey Pillars under surveillance. I'm anonymous here, as anonymous as I can get. No guards, please. I can look after myself.'

'Agreed! And you can have this room. Major Harrington will be in touch with you. Incidentally, your flight to Lydda will be from Heliopolis Airport, not Cairo West. You'll be aboard a Yank plane again.'

'For the same reason – the passenger manifests?'

'You're catching on quickly. The RAF just won't fly you over Sinai without a name. Next of kin in case of a crash, and all that red tape. The Yanks don't often pile up a machine, by the way…'

Carson put on his peaked cap. He hoisted a slow salute, held it for longer than the regulation period, staring again at Whelby, went to the door and said only one more thing.

'I'll book you in here on my way out. You don't need to go anywhere near the reception desk. You don't exist…'

'Lydda!' Harrington exploded in his second-floor office at Grey Pillars. 'Palestine is a minefield! I don't like it one little bit…'

'Do it…'

Carson stood gazing out of the window across the sun-baked garden below, across the wrought-iron railings beyond, across the quiet tree-lined street. He could just see the checkpoint everyone had to pass through before penetrating the holy of holies.

'That last radio signal from Len Reader – tell me what it said again, if you please…'

'In a nutshell we have a map reference for where the Dak is to land in Bosnia. Identification signals agreed prior to the plane landing – Jerry often lights fires marking out a fake strip. It's a straight exchange – a consignment of weapons and ammo for Lindsay. They've OK'd it upstairs. Reader's next signal is the go-ahead.'

'And the Dakota is where?'

'Waiting at Benina Airport with the cargo already aboard. The pilot is instructed to fly back to Cairo West afterwards.'

'You're a trier, Harrington – I'll give you that. Lydda I said and Lydda I meant. Inform the pilot of his new instructions.'

'Will do.' Harrington hesitated. 'What did you make of Tim Whelby? Oh, and when does he arrive here…' 'He doesn't. He's staying in Room 16 at Shepheard's. That's the way he wanted it.'

'Christ! This is a funny one. He should be here…'

'I know.' Carson turned away from the window as a whisper of breeze – God knew where from – rustled the heavy net curtains. 'On the other hand it may be a good idea that he doesn't get a shufti inside the nerve centre. I have two men who know what he looks like – they observed his arrival from a gharry – posted so they can see if he leaves the hotel.'

'What's the big idea? So he leaves the hotel for, a look-see at the delights of Cairo, maybe. a visit to a belly-dancers' dive…'

'He gets followed well and truly. Said he wanted to stay under cover. His behaviour was very logical. Let's see whether he stays inside the pattern he laid down for himself…'

'You still haven't told me what you really think of him,' Harrington commented.

Carson paused, holding the handle of the door. His impassive, erudite features froze into a frown of concentration. He liked to consider what he was going to say before replying.

'I wouldn't go into the jungle with him, he said and left the room.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

At precisely 8 am the following morning Whelby again rapped on the door of Room 24. One hour later than the previous day. Again the door was opened at once by the small bony man. Whelby thought he looked even more skeletal than on his last visit. Perhaps he was fasting, he thought wryly.

'You have news?' Vlacek asked as soon as they were standing on the balcony.

'I've managed Lydda Airport, God knows how. 'When does he arrive?'

'I don't bloody know. You want it all packed up and tied with pink ribbon?'

'Pink ribbon?' Vlacek continued in the same calm monotone but Whelby shivered inwardly at the little man's next words. 'This is not a joke, I trust? This is a serious matter we find ourselves engaged on. What route?'

'Yugoslavia to Benina airfield outside Benghazi to Lydda after refuelling at Benina. Good enough for you?'

`So you will go to Lydda.'

'Today sometime. From Heliopolis Airport.'

'Then go to Jerusalem. to wait. Hotel Sharon. I shall be…'

“In Room 24! 1 can remember a simple fact like that.'

They were firing questions and answers back at each other like ping-pong, neither liking the other, each wishing to make the meeting as short as possible. Whelby put both hands in his tunic pockets, thumbs tucked outside. He didn't look at the little man as he made the statement, brushing aside interruptions.

'I have now done all I can so far. Harrington may call to see me at any moment, so please listen. I cannot guarantee I will be staying at the Hotel Sharon. There may be a very short time lapse between my hearing when Lindsay is coming in, his arrival and our subsequent departure…'

'I said two days.'

Vlacek hardly seemed to be listening. In his left hand he held a tiny, green-enamelled cup of Turkish coffee; in his right, one of his foul-smelling cheroots. He took alternate sips of coffee and puffs at the cheroot, his brown, glassy eyes staring into the distance.