Adam Hall - Quiller Solitaire

I looked away from him, swinging a glance past the flat expressionless faces of the two hit men to take in the clock on the dashboard behind them. I had fourteen minutes left, which didn't worry me because I could do all I needed to do on the telephone in that time. But it worried me that London might not be able to call off whatever forces they'd sent in before we got to the rendezvous.

I looked back at Muhammad Ibrahimi and found his eyes on me. 'But there's time,' I told him, for me to make quite sure we're not heading straight into an ambush, you and I. All I need is to use the telephone.'

It would have been nice if I could have pressed him harder, told him he'd be a bloody fool if he didn't let me use the phone, so forth – it would have saved time. But that wouldn't be the right approach for a man like Ibrahimi; he was infinitely more refined, more subtle than Dieter Klaus, and he was involved with Nemesis, perhaps, not because he was in essence a violent man but because he had a violent antipathy, like most Arabs, to the West, and in this operation the West was probably the target.'

'Why didn't Monsieur Klaus,' Ibrahimi said at last, 'permit you to use the telephone?'

'He didn't trust me.'

'Why should I trust you?'

'You don't have to.'

'You would agree to speak to your contact in French?'

'Of course. And we can leave the receiver on the console and I'll use the microphone.' Doing it like that, he could listen in to London.

I waited, and through the windscreen watched a light aircraft making a turn on its way in to Dar-el-Beida, the top of its wings flashing silver as it caught the moonlight.

7:02 on the clock. We were running it terribly close, but I couldn't hurry him, Ibrahimi.

Then he said: 'You may use the telephone.'

'May the wisdom of Islam be praised.' The console was between the two jump seats and I told the guards in German, 'I'm going to make a call. Don't get excited.'

As I leaned towards them to touch out the number they went for their guns at much the same speed as a striking snake and held them against their thighs with their fingers inside the trigger guards, a pair of Walther PPK.22s, all right at close range but not man-stoppers. The number I touched out belonged to the signals link unit in London that we use if we're being watched: it's untraceable even by British Government agencies.

There was quite a bit of crackle going on, possibly because we were near a major airport. 7:03 on the clock. Then the ringing tone began and someone picked up almost at once.

'Hello?

'Extension 91,' I said.

There's no Extension 91: I was simply telling them I had opposition company, and they would pass it on when they made the link direct to the board for Solitaire in the Signals room.

It would be Carey on the board at this hour: he would have taken over from Matthews at six this evening, London time. I didn't know Carey but I wasn't worried: he'd be bright and fast or he wouldn't be in Signals.

'Yes?

'Je voudrais parler a Monsieur Croder, en francais.'

'Hang on.'

All the board crews knew a smattering of the European languages, enough to know which was which. Croder, as Chief of Signals, was fluent in French and German, and I needed to speak to him in any case because he'd have the authority to do what I needed done.

'Croder.'

He'd got to the board very fast: I'd been cut off from Signals ever since I'd hung up last night after talking to Cone in Berlin, and they didn't know whether I was still operational or blown out of existence or running loose like a mad dog in the dark with the opposition closing in on me. I'd set up the Miniver rendezvous with Cone but when the executive is right in the heart of the opposition network anything can happen.

'Mr Croder,' I said in French, 'I'm within twelve minutes of the rendezvous and I need to know whether you feel it's still secure.'

It was an awful lot to hit him with because he knew I was with the opposition – he'd been given the Extension 91 bit and he'd have to assume they were listening to every word he said. I'd also spoken in what amounted to broad speech-code, and what I'd just said had got to be decoded as, Have you sent counter-terrorist forces there? If he had, the rendezvous wouldn't be secure, and that was the key word in my question.

'One can never be sure,' he said, 'can one?'

He was filling in, asking for more data. He knew I was with the opposition but he also knew that I wasn't talking under duress: nobody was holding a gun to my head and telling me what to say. I was saying exactly what I wanted to, or I would have slipped in the prescribed warning straight off the bat: Mr Croder, I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm within twelve minutes… so forth. I hadn't done that, so he knew four things: I was in the company of the opposition, I was not speaking to him under duress, I meant every word I was telling him, and we were both being overheard. This information was automatically going onto a tape and a printout sheet as we talked.

'You understand,' I said, 'that if there's been the slightest chance of a security leak, with the risk of police or counter-terrorist or other forces waiting for us at the rendezvous, we can't keep it. Our client is concerned about it, and so am I. This is a rather important deal for us, but I'm calling it off unless you feel the rendezvous is absolutely uncompromised.'

He now had the whole thing, and I waited.

Clock: 7:04. Eleven minutes.

Ibrahimi was watching my face, looking for any kind of giveaway as I talked.

The two hit men watched my hands, which were on my lap again.

The limousine rolled smoothly under the African moon, with the ruby marker lights on radio masts in the area winking against the sky.

Croder's voice came. 'You shouldn't have anything to worry about.'

I felt cold suddenly. He'd thought out precisely what he must say to give me the clearest signal he could.

He'd sent people there.

He'd told me I shouldn't have anything to worry about but that was very different from saying I had nothing to worry about. He would have said exactly that, if the rendezvous were clear. He hadn't. It wasn't.

His voice came again. 'Do you feel you should cancel everything, then?'

He was throwing the ball to me and I tossed it back.

'Do you?'

I waited. He'd say yes or no. If he said yes it would mean he'd sent people there and couldn't get them out. If he said no it would mean he could.

I watched the ruby lights through the windscreen, letting them float through my mind, relaxing, because nothing must show in my eyes when Croder answered me.

His voice came, 'No.'

The ruby lights floated.

'All right,' I said. We'll keep the rendezvous.'

There was silence for a moment except for the crackle of interference on the line. Then Croder said, 'Of course, you'll have to watch out for the airport police. I can't give you any guarantees: this deal is illegal.'

It was a warning. He was going to call off the people he'd sent there – SAS, GSG-9, the Algerian units, whoever they were – but he couldn't be responsible for local forces. He could signal them that the rendezvous had been called off, tell them to leave, but he couldn't make it an order. They weren't under his authority.

'We'll watch out,' I said, 'for the police.'

He said good luck and shut down the call and I reached forward to touch the End button and sat back again and looked at Muhammad Ibrahimi.

'So what do you think? I asked him.

In a moment he said, 'Monsieur Klaus is eager to possess the warhead. Very eager.'

And if Ibrahimi didn't get it for him his life might not be worth very much.

'Then you're prepared to go in?' I asked him.

'Yes.'