Gavin Lyall - Judas Country

We went north. It took us a while to untangle from the Saturday night traffic, but then we were out in the dark, with big notices saying we were welcome tofree Cyprus skimming past at the fringe of the headlights. On a clear straight road, the Escort station wagon got the wind up her tail. From the mile-ometer I'd guess she was only just run in, which might account for some of Kapotas's reluctance in lending her – but either we were getting faster at talking him into things or he was getting defeatist by now. Anyway, I reckon that if a car will do sixty on that sort of road then itshould do sixty.

After a while, I said: 'When you say "scramble" I'm old enough not to ask why – but nowd'y ou mind telling me why?'

'Sure. I've just been admiring your driving.' He sounded just a little breathless.

'Thank you. Do you think the Prof really said something in that call to Jerusalem?'

'I'm bloody sure he didn't. Bruno wouldn't even give his right name on an open line to a Jerusalem Arab.'

'D'you think the Israelis would-?'

'It doesn't matter what they would; it's just a risk he wouldn't take.'

'So…?'

'So the phone call was just to make sure Gadulla was still there, or something like that. So there had to be a letter to follow it up.'

'Two letters. Damn. And I only got one off Papa. Sorry.'

The station wagon hit a rut on a bend and its unladen rear end got slightly airborne. I twitched the wheel here and there and we got back to straight-and-level. I let the speed drift down to fifty.

Ken said:'Thank you… I suppose Papa would choose the Jerusalem letter because it related to the phone call. Bruno may have dropped some sort of hint – and anyway, if the call was in English the letter would be, too.'

The road began to climb, then hooked right, riding up the shoulder of the hills. Raw rock and splashes of sand glowed in our lights. We'd done over ten miles by now; just over the pass and we'd be in sight of Kyrenia itself.

Suddenly, almost too suddenly, we were at the Turkish 'frontier', just a sentry box and an armed Turkish National Guard waving us down sharply. I suppose we were a bit suspicious, at that speed and at that time and in a car that didn't look as if it belonged to a tourist.

A dark wary face with a big moustache peered in at me.

I said: 'Evening. We're a bit late for a party in Kyrenia. D'you want to see my passport?" It didn't matter much what I said: I just wanted him to get my pure English accent.

He grunted and flashed a torch past me at Ken, who was already holding up his passport. 'Is your car?'

'No, our hire car broke down and the hotel lent us this one.'

He swung the torch and searched the back of the car, then grinned vividly. 'Hokay. Have good party.' He waved us on with the Thompson – without a magazine in, thank God.

I steamed off at a gentler speed. Now we were in a sort of no-man's-land, theoretically patrolled by the United Nations when they weren't throwing punches at me in the Atlantis Bar and Grill. Tonight, we didn't see a thing, and probably wouldn't until almost Kyrenia; the Greeks don't usually bother to man their own roadblocks.

I asked: 'Any idea where Papa's house is?'

'Out west, a bit up the coast.' He picked a road map off the plaited cloth atop the dashboard and turned it over to look at the town plans. 'Go in as far as the Town Hall and turn left for Lapithos.'

We came over the crest and started down in gentle swirling curves towards the twinkling lights of the coastline. No lights nearer than a mile, maybe- -except the lights of a parked car. Instinctively, I braked. Our own headlights swung across a bright blue Volkswagen.

Ken said: 'I've seen one like that parked by the hotel.' Maybe I had myself; I braked down to a stop and slipped the lever into neutral. A gun flashed and cracked in the Volkswagen.

Then we were out on the road, rolling and scrabbling for the back of the Escort. Another shot. We huddled in cover, Ken untangling the Smith from his inside pocket. Without any fuss, the Escort began to roll gently away from us. On hands and knees, we scuttled after it, heading towards but past the Volkswagen.

This'd be a great idea if we'd intended it,' Ken grunted. The Escort got faster, and we shifted to a crouching hop, like playing monkeys. The gun banged thinly.

Then the Escort ran off the road, dropping a wheel into a shallow ditch with a groan and a twang. Its headlights stared into a bush; the Volkswagen had become a dark hump behind its own pale parking lights, perhaps fifteen yards away.

Ken leant the Smith and an eyebrow around the rear end of the Escort, the tail light glowing on the side of his forehead and the exhaust huffing in his ear. I heard the hammer click back. I whispered: 'Hold on. I don't think he's shooting at us.'

'He picks his nose damn loud then.'

But I was pretty sure I was right. You can hear a bullet that's meant for you, and it isn't a whistle but acrack: a miniature supersonic bang, in fact. All I'd remembered hearing was the pistol itself – fairly distant. Not even a shot crunching into the Escort, which he could hardly miss. Ken said: 'He's in the Volks or behind it.'

'I think he's bugging out.'

'Well, I'll take the Volks.'

'Don't let's rush into things.'

'If you don't think he's shooting at us, what're you worried about?'

'Being wrong.' Either side of the road, the rocky, bushy hillside staggered in blurred shapes up to meet the starlight. You could hide a battalion out there, I said: 'Anyway, militarily I'm stark naked.'

'So distract him.'

I crawled around to the front of the Escort, took a deep breath and stood up in its headlights and shouted: 'Come out of there! ' – and threw myself flat into the ditch.

Ken's gun banged twice, the glass in the Volkswagen wentspang, and he was zigzagging across the road, firing once more, ripping open the driver's door.

A heavy body slumped out on to his feet. Ken jerked aside into a crouch.

Far down the hill a pistol snapped, like a last farewell. Ken pointed the Smith into the dark, then jerked it down angrily.

I reached into the Escort, switched off the engine and lights, and walked across to look at Sergeant Papa.

'You didn't kill him,' I said. 'Not unless you ricochetted one to come in under his ear. With nice close powder burns, too.' Papa was still warm and limp and there was a tang in the air that was partly powdersmo Ke and partly something stronger.

'Did I hit him?' Ken asked tonelessly. He was standing guard beside us, looking somewhere else.

'You hit him.' There was a starred hole in the Volkswagen's windscreen and a frontal shot had ripped away a lot of Papa's left cheekbone. But the bone glittered white in my match-light, with no more than an ooze of blood. His neck wound was something else, on both sides. It isn't like a gun in the mouth, but it's still a messy way to go. Quick, though.

Being careful where I put my hands, I rolled him on his back and started on his pockets. 'I'd guess somebody beside him in the passenger seat, holding a gun to his neck.' The passenger door was slightly open.

Ken said distantly: 'Papa would have to be under the gun to drive up here at all. As a Greek he'd know it was a dead end for him.

'Sorry,' he added.

'That makes it a nice quiet place for an execution.'

'He wouldn't plan to leave Papa here.'

'Papa maybe, the car no. He'd want that -1 assume it's Papa's car – to get down the hill again. To his own car, probably.'

He looked down to the lights of Kyrenia, glittering as calm as the stars. 'So the bugger's down there somewhere, running like-'

'Nothing we can do.' I finished with Papa's pockets, then turned his head gently to look at the back of his neck.

Ken said: 'You think he was shooting just to scare us off?'