Colin Forbes - The Leader And The Damned

'A smell of cheap cigar – reek might be a better word. You must be keeping bad company. Are you?'

'The lobby downstairs has all the sweet aromas of the East…'

This brief exchange, jocular, penetrating, alerted Whelby. Harrington was an expert interrogator. He recognized the style. The casual question. Left drifting in mid-air. Then the silence which instilled in the suspect a compulsive urge to reply, to say something.

'Do sit down,' Whelby suggested. 'Something to drink? Coffee? The hard stuff?'

Harrington chose the hard-backed chair at the glass-topped table, forcing Whelby to sit in the other chair so they faced each other. Like an interrogation session.

'Nothing for me,' Harrington said amiably. `Sun's hardly up over the horizon. Never before the clock strikes twelve. The clock is striking twelve for you…'

He paused as Whelby slowly sat down opposite him. There had been an ominous ring to the phraseology. Could Harrington possibly have found out about Vlacek? And just how 'persona grata' was the little man in Cairo? With an effort of will Whelby suppressed his anxieties. The first-class interrogator permitted the suspect to destroy himself with his own fears. He waited, saying nothing.

'Heliopolis at noon,' Harrington continued eventually. 'The plane takes off for Lydda. I've squared it with the Yanks. I drive you out there, point you in the right direction. Then it's up to you. The cover story is you're a pal of mine who's going on sick leave. Exhausted with overwork. You look a bit peaky, come to think of it. Getting you down? The responsibility, I mean?'

'I'll cope. What job do I have? The Yanks are a sociable lot…'

'Admin,' Harrington said promptly. 'Covers a multitude of nothings. You're hitching a ride. No one will bother about your identity. Were you in the lobby when I arrived?'

Quite diabolical, the technique, Whelby thought Just when you think he's given up he comes zooming back at a tangent. Should he lose his temper? He decided against that. He stretched both arms and stifled a yawn.

'We sit around here till noon?' he enquired.

'You damned well do. I've been rushed off my feet since we met yesterday. My top informant links the theft of three sten guns and thirty mags from an army depot at Tel-el-Kebir with a coming attempt on the life of Lindsay…'

Whelby was startled. He allowed the reaction to show. And his companion's eyes never left his face. Blank. That's how Harrington had gone. Blank in expression, in tone of voice.

'Where's Tel-el-Kebir?' Whelby asked.

'Good question. It's the RAOC depot. Here in Egypt, halfway between Cairo and Ismailia on the Canal.'

'So they must still think he's flying in here. If your information is correct. Excuse me, but it takes some believing.'

'This informant – he's underground, of course – has never been wrong.' Harrington studied Whelby who pulled at a loose button on his cuff. He never bothered much about clothes. Again Whelby remained silent, refusing to jump into the inviting void.

'I'm waiting for you to ask the obvious question, the one anyone in your position would have jumped in with,' Harrington remarked.

The pressure was building up. Harrington was dropping the I know you won't mind my asking you this, old boy, manner. He was openly querying the state of Whelby's bank balance. Still, an outburst of temper would be unwise.

'And what question might that be?' Whelby asked.

'Who is behind the assassination attempt…'

'The Germans, undoubtedly, I presume. Whelby looked surprised at the turn the conversation had taken. 'That is, if there is anything in this rumour. You must grant me the right to reserve my judgement.'

'Reserve yourself a seat at the opera. It isn't the Germans – and my source is the cat's whiskers. Accept that and we'll go on from there, shall we? The whisper is it's the Russians who don't want Lindsay to go home.'

The American plane took off from Heliopolis at exactly noon. Harrington, shading his eyes with his hand against the glare of the sun, watched it disappear towards Sinai, spewing out a dirt trail in its wake.

From a building behind him Carson, wearing dark glasses, walked out with his slow, deliberate tread to join him. They stood together in uneasy silence for a moment.

'What do you think?' Carson asked.

He removed his glasses, folded them and tucked them inside a case. His movements were careful, precise.

'He's a funny, I'll swear it,' Harrington replied. 'Prove it.'

'Can't. Know anyone who smokes cheap cigars, maybe cheroots? With a smell like camel dung?'

'No. Why?'

'He carried the stench with him when I met him at Shepheard's. It only lingers a short time – comes from being in the close, repeat close, proximity of someone who smokes the things. But he gave the impression he hadn't spoken to a soul. And he's good at parrying leading questions…'

'That's to be expected – considering where he comes from.'

They stood in the heat of the noonday sun, hardly aware of it. They had been out there so long. They were in a backwater now, and both men knew it. The war had gone away from them, far away. The tide had gone out – and would never come back again.

But there were still thin threads linking them to the Balkans. To Greece. To Yugoslavia. They stayed a while longer in the sun because here they could talk in perfect secrecy.

'I've an odd feeling,' Harrington said. 'A very strong feeling that there's something terribly important here – in the palm of our hands. This Wing Commander Lindsay. We've got to get him out alive. I'm horribly afraid…'

It was such an uncharacteristic remark that Carson stared at him. Harrington was still gazing into the sky where the plane had now disappeared, as though he'd have given his right arm to be aboard.

'Who did you contact in Jerusalem?' Carson asked.

'Sergeant Terry Mulligan, Pale4ine Police. He's meeting this Standish off the plane at Lydda. Remember him?'

'Tough as old hickory. Wouldn't trust his own grandmother. But why the Palestine Police instead of the Army?' Carson queried.

'He's used to intrigue, to grappling with thugs in the gutter.'

'That's a good reason.'

'Dealing with Standish, I'd say it is. He smells of intrigue – as well as of cheap cigar smoke. Mulligan will spot that smell the moment Standish steps off the plane.'

Aboard the plane there were no more than half-a-dozen passengers. When they took off from Heliopolis they all occupied isolated seats. Whelby sat by a window, staring out at the hard ochre of the Sinai Desert, flat as the proverbial billiard table. In the distance rose mountains like black cinder cones, trembling in the dazzle of a heat haze. He became aware that someone had paused by the empty seat next to him. Cautiously, he glanced up.

'Do tell me to go away if you want to be alone, but when I'm flying I do like company…'

'Please join me – I'm feeling lonely myself.'

For once Whelby was not dissembling. And he had always liked women, had got on with them. She was American, maybe thirty, her well-built figure hugged closely by her tropical, two-piece suit.

'Allow me…'

In the most natural manner he reached over and helped her fasten her safety belt. She relaxed and watched him with her large grey eyes, their faces inches apart. Gently, he took hold of her slim, longfingered hands and clasped them together, much to her amusement.

'There. Relaxed?'

'Very. Thank you. I'm Linda Climber. On vacation from the American Embassy…'

'Peter Standish. On vacation from life…'

They shook hands. She made a point of re-clasping hers again afterwards. Her hair was very dark, shoulder-length. Whelby was sure she had visited the hairdresser before boarding the aircraft. She had thick, dark eyebrows – not those horrible, plucked slashes. Her nose was long and straight, her mouth wide and full-lipped, her chin firm. She sat quite still while he studied her with a half-smile, something shy in his manner.