roulette at the luggage carousel - will they arrive or won't they?
carrying the dik-dik skin in the nylon bag under his arm, and with Royan
limping on her cane on his other arm, Nicholas sauntered through the
green channel of HM Customs, as innocent as a cherub from the roof of
the Sistine Chapel.
"You are so brazen," she whispered to him once they were through and
clear. "If you can lie so convincingly to Customs, how can I ever trust
you again?"
Their luck held. There was no queue at the taxi rank, and in a little
over an hour after touch-down the taxi deposited them on the pavement
outside Nicholas's town house in Knightsbridge. It was only eight-thirty
on a Monday morning.
While Royan showered, Nicholas went down to the corner shop under an
umbrella to fetch some groceries Then they shared the task of cooking
breakfast, Royan taking care of the toast while Nicholas whipped up his
speciality, a herb omelette.
"Surely you're going to need expert help when we go back to the Abbay
gorge?" Royan observed, as she let the butter melt into the hot toast.
I already have the right man in mind. I have worked before," he told
her. "Ex-Royal Engineers. Expert with hi in diving and underwater
construction. Retired and living in a little cottage in Devon. I suspect
he is a little short of the ready, and bored out of his considerable
mind. I expect him to jump at any opportunity to alleviate either
condition."
As soon as they had finished breakfast, Nicholas told her, "I will do
the dishes. You take the films of the stele to be developed. There is a
one-hour service at the branch of Boots opposite Harrods."
"That's what I call a fair distribution of labour," she remarked with a
long-suffering air. "You have a dishwasher, and it's raining again
outside."
"All right," he laughed. "To sweeten the pill, I'll lend you my
raincoat. While you are waiting for the films to be developed you can go
shopping to replace the togs you lost in the rockfalls I have some
crucial phone calls to make."
As soon as she had left, Nicholas settled at his desk with a notepad at
one hand and the telephone at the other.
His first call was to Quenton Park, where Mrs. Street tried not to show
how delighted she was to have him home.
"Your desk is about two feet deep with mail awaiting your return. It's
mostly bills."
"Cheerful, aren't we?"
"The lawyers have been pestering me, and Mr Markham from Lloyd's has
been ringing every day."
"Don't tell any of them that I am back, there's a good girl." Nicholas
knew exactly what they wanted from him the same thing that persistent
callers always wanted, money. In this case it was not simply five
hundred guineas for an overdue tailor's bill, but two and a half million
pounds. "It's probably better if I stay in York, rather than at
Quenton," he told Mrs. Street. "They won't be able to find me at the
flat."
He pushed his debts to the back of his mind, and concentrated on the
task at hand. "Have you got your pencil and notepad ready? All right,
here's what I want you to do."
It took him ten minutes to finish his dictation, and then Mrs. Street
read it back to him. "Okay. Get on with it, will you. We'll be back this
evening. Dr Al Simma will be staying indefinitely. Ask the housekeeper
to prepare the second bedroom for her at the flat."
Next he rang the number in Devon, and while the phone rang he imagined
the converted coast guard's cottage of the cliffs overlooking a, grey,
storm-whipped on top winter sea. Daniel Webb was probably in his
workshop in the back garden, either tinkering with his 1935 Jaguar, the
great love of his life, or tying salmon flies. Fishing was his other
passion, the one that had originally brought them together.
"Hello?" Daniel's voice was guarded and suspicious.
Nicholas could imagine him, his bald head freckled like a plover's egg,
gripping the telephone with a hairy, workscarred fist.
ave a job for you. Are you a starter?"
"Sapper, I
"Where are we headed, Major?" Although it had been three years, he
recognized Nicholas's voice instantly.
"Sunny climes and dancing girls. Same pay as the'last time.
"I' a starter. Where do we meet?"
"At the flat. You remember it from last time.
bring your slide rule." Nicholas knew that Tomorrow. Danny put no store
by these newfangled pocket computers.
"The jag is still in good nick. I'll leave early and be there for lunch
tomorrow."
Nicholas hung up, and then made two more calls: one to his Jersey bank,
and the other to the Cayman Islands.
The funds in both his emergency accounts were running low. His budget
for the expedition that he hadmorked out with Royan on the flight was
two hundred and thirty thousand. Like all budgets, he knew that it was
optimistic.
"Always add fifty percent," he warned himself "Which that the cupboard
will be bare by the time we are mean finished. Let's hope and pray that
you are not pulling our legs, Taita."
He gave the passwords to the respective bank account ants and instructed
them to make transfers into his holding accounts, ready to draw on
immediately.
There were two more calls he had to make before they left for York. The
fate of all their plans hung on them, and the contacts that he had for
both of them were at the best tenuous, and at the worst chimerical.
The first number was engaged. He rang it five times more, and on each
occasion got- the irritating high-pitched busy tone in his ear. He tried
one last time and was answered by a reassuring west country accent.
"Good afternoon. British Embassy. How may I help you?, Nicholas glanced
at his wrist-watch. There was a three-hour time difference. Of course,
it would be afternoon in Addis.
"This is Sir Nicholas Quenton-Harper calling from the UK. Is Mr Geoffrey
Tennant, your military attache, available, please Geoffrey came on the
line almost immediately. "My dear boy. So you made it all the way home.
Lucky you."
"Just thought I would set your mind at rest. Knew you would be losing
sleep."
"How is the charming Dr Al Simma?"
"She sends her love."
"I wish I could believe you." Geoffrey sighed dramatically.
"Big favour, Geoff. Do you know a Colonel Maryam Kidane at the Ministry
of Defence?"
"First-rate chap," Geoffrey affirmed immediately. "Know him well. Played
tennis with him last Saturday, actually.
Demon backhand."
"Please ask him to contact me urgently." He gave Geoffrey the telephone
number of the flat in York. "Tell him it's in connection with a rare
breed of Ethiopian swallow for the museum collection."
(up to your shenanigans again, Nicky. Not enough that you get slung out
of Ethiopia on your ear. Now you are trading in rare birds. Probably
CITES Schedule One.
Endangered species.)
"Will you do it for me, Geoff?"
"Of course. Serve to Lead, old boy. Always the sucker."
"I owe you one."
"More than one. Half a dozen, more like it." He had less success with
his next call. International Enquiries gave him a number in Matta. On
his first attempt he received an encouraging ri riging tone.
me," he pleaded in a whisper, but on
"Pick it up, Jan the sixth ring an answering machine cut in.
"You have reached the head office of Africair Services.
There is nobody available to take your call at the moment.
Please leave your name and number and a short message after the tone. We
will get back to you as soon as possible.