Colin Forbes - The Leader And The Damned

'We're sending in a Dakota to airlift Lindsay out of Yugoslavia. Your arrival could be said to be timely…'

'How do you know where he is? He reached the Allied Military Mission, then? You've established radio contact…'

Whelby was breaking all his rules, asking a series of direct questions, but he spaced them out, speaking in a sleepy drawl.

'You'll have to let me keep my little secrets, too, sir. No offence meant. Here we are. A very private room. Feel the temperature rising? We have KD outfits in various sizes here for you to change into. You'll fry in that suit – besides looking as conspicuous as a scorpion on a chupatti…'

Whelby had to admit this deceptive-looking buffoon was pretty well organized. Left alone in a sparsely furnished room with a cement floor, he chose from an array of suits in varying sizes spread out across a trestle table. He had just finished changing when someone knocked on the door.

'Do come in,' Whelby called out.

'I say, you look pretty chipper – as to the manner born…'

'I noticed the other passengers leave by a bus – taking a shufti out of that window. What transport do I get?'

'Shufti! Sounds as though you're picking up the lingo out here fast.'

For the first time Whelby studied Harrington more closely as he finished doing up the breast-pocket buttons on his tunic. The foppish moustache was misleading – it drew your attention away from the shrewd grey eyes which seemed to record every tiny movement you made. A dozen years from now, Whelby reflected, you'll know me if I'm dressed up as an Arab.

'Now transport, you said.' Harrington twirled his moustaches like a music-hall comedian 'One jeep. I drive. You admire the scenery. Monty got rid of all the staff cars before Alamein. He had them dropped into the Med, I think. Too comfortable. Say the word and we're off!'

'I'm supposed to meet a Lieutenant Carson at Shepheard's Hotel.'

'That's the ticket. Just spoke to Jock – that's Carson – on the blower while you were changing. Wanted to know the moment you hit solid sand in one piece. You found the Gents over there? You're settling in nicely, you are. Off we go. Tally-ho!'

There was a little mystery here, thought Whelby, as they drove along a tarmacadam road coated with powderish sand across the desert. Major Harrington as escort from Cairo West. Lieutenant Carson waiting at Shepheard's. Something told Whelby they had been juggling ranks, like shuffling a pack of cards. He had the distinct impression that 'Jock' was running this show.

'Pyramids coming up,' Harrington chattered on. 'Obvious remark of the year! You can climb that one. Cheops…' He pointed, driving with one hand on the wheel. 'The Turks – or somebody – stripped off the marble. Like giant stepping stones – you have to watch it. They're just too big to stride up. Go up at one of the corners. Bit of a scramble. Marvellous view from the top, right out over the Delta…'

'I must try it one day.'

'Drive you out there, if you have the time…'

The three ancient edifices were grouped close together. They were sharp-edged against the clearest of blue skies. Already the sun was warm on Whelby's back.

They left the desert abruptly, turning a sharp corner left and the road stretched ruler-straight as far as the eye could see. Weird two-storey villas, a mixture of different European architectures, lined the road.

'Mena House Hotel over there,' Harrington continued. 'Looks as though the bloody Russians are going to win the war for us. Don't know about you, I wouldn't like that.'

'I ex… pect… we'll con… tribute… our bit when the right moment arrives.'

As he stuttered his reply Whelby was aware Harrington had turned towards him, was studying his profile. He sensed a change in his brief relationship with Harrington – like a cog missing a ratchet.

'All the rich Wogs live in these crazy houses, Harrington said in the same tone. 'They say a lot of pre-war Italian architects put up these Walt Disney efforts.'

For the rest of the journey they travelled in silence.

'Could you drop me short of Shepheard's? Say a hundred yards?' Whelby requested. 'Better I'm not associated with the military. Nothing personal, of course.'

'Of course. Will do. Room 16…'

'I know.'

Whelby cut him off abruptly. He had retired into his shell, a reaction which intrigued Harrington. They were driving slowly through the streets crowded with Arabs. Dragomen, who earned their living as tourist guides, stared at Whelby.

'You will get noticed,' Harrington warned. 'A stranger from far away – your knees aren't browned.

We did our best – giving you trousers instead of shorts. Face and hands will give you away. White as the virgin snow…'

Whelby was sniffing the mixture of eastern smells – rubbish rotting in the gutters, the indefinable odour of eastern bodies, eastern bazaars. He found it comforting, familiar. Market stalls overflowing with coloured bead necklaces and other junk narrowed the street. A cacophony of voices arguing in Arabic. Harrington handled the jeep with great skill, weaving nimbly in and out, sliding past a camel with inches to spare…'

'There it is, that building in the distance. See it?' he asked. 'Right. You disembark here. Twenty minutes to your appointment. Jock likes people who get there bang on time.'

'Thank you for the lift…'

Whelby stepped down on to the crowded pavement, carefully avoiding the foetid gutter. Harrington never looked at him as he drove off while Whelby paused in front of a shop window. The glass was smeared but his reflection was clear enough to act as a mirror, to see if he was being followed.

A horse-drawn gharry pulled in to the kerb. The Arab driver was pointing something out to his passengers, a couple of British officers. Brown as a berry, Whelby noticed, glancing casually over his shoulder. Old hands.

Just the types they'd use if they were tracking him. The ideal shadow would have been an Arab. But they wouldn't use one for him. Wogs couldn't follow him into Shepheard's. Whelby was experiencing two conflicting emotions.

He was revelling in the atmosphere of noisy, alien chaos, which reminded him of his childhood in India. The wary side of his head suppressed the feeling. All his defences were coming down, like the closing of a portcullis Had he passed muster with Harrington? On balance, he thought so. The gharry moved on and he followed in its wake. The officers inside couldn't see through the back of the raised canopy.

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.