Десмонд Бэгли - The Spoilers

The road crossed the valley and rose again to climb the side of the mountain on the other side. In the far distance a cloud of brick-red dust picked out by the sun indicated a speeding car. ‘That’s Speering,’ said Follet. ‘Andy is still in the valley bottom. If we can see Speering then he can see us. If he doesn’t know we’re following him then he’s blind or dead drunk.’

‘It can’t be helped,’ said Warren grimly. ‘That’s the way it is.’

‘You can tell me something,’ said Follet. ‘What the hell happens at sunset? Have you thought of that?’

Warren had thought of it and it had been worrying him. He looked at his watch and estimated that there was less than an hour to go. ‘We’ll keep going as far as we can,’ he said with no expression in his voice.

Which was not very far. Within half an hour they came upon the other Land-Rover parked by the roadside with Ben Bryan flagging them down. Just beyond him Tozier was standing, looking over the mountains. Follet halted and Warren leaned from the window. ‘What’s up, Ben?’

Bryan’s teeth showed white against his dusty face and the mountain wind whipped his hair. ‘He’s beaten us, Nick. Take a look over there where Andy is.’

Warren stepped down and followed him towards Tozier who turned and said, ‘You tell me which way he went.’

There were five possible exits from the rocky area on top of the plateau. ‘Five roads,’ said Tozier. ‘You tell me which one he picked.’

‘No tracks?’

‘The ground is hard where it isn’t naked rock.’ Tozier looked about. ‘This seems to be a main junction, but it isn’t on the map.’

‘The road we’ve been travelling on isn’t on the map, either,’ said Warren. He squatted and balanced the clipboard on his knee. ‘I reckon we’re about there.’ He made a small cross on the map. ‘About thirty miles inside Kurdistan.’ He stood up and walked to the edge of the road and gazed westward to where the setting sun fitfully illumined the storm clouds over the red mountains. ‘Speering could be heading clear to the Iraqi border.’

‘He won’t make it tonight,’ said Tozier. ‘Not on these roads in these mountains. What do we do, Nick?’

‘What the devil can we do?’ said Warren violently.

‘We’ve lost him right at the start of the game. It’s four to one against us that we pick the right road — a sucker bet.’ He suppressed his futile rage. ‘We can’t do much now. It’s nearly dark so we’d better make camp.’

Tozier nodded. ‘All right; but let’s do it out of sight of any of these roads.’

‘Why? What’s the point?’

‘No point, really.’ Tozier shrugged. ‘Just on general security principles. It gets to be a habit in my game.’

He walked towards the trucks leaving Warren in a depressed mood. We’ve blown it at this end, he thought; I hope to God that Mike and Dan have better luck. But he did not feel like betting on it — that would be another sucker bet.

‘This is the life,’ said Michael Abbot. He sipped from a tall frosted glass and watched with more than idle interest as a nubile girl clad in the briefest of brief bikinis stepped on to the diving-board. She flexed her knees, stood poised for a moment, and then cleft the air in a perfect swallow dive to plunge with minimum splash into the Mediterranean.

Dan Parker was unimpressed. ‘We’re wastin’ time.’

‘It can’t be hurried,’ said Abbot. He had talked this over with Parker before, and Dan had reluctantly agreed that this was the best way. There were two possible approaches that could be made; the approach direct, which was to introduce themselves to the Delorme woman as potential allies. The trouble with that was that if it failed then it was a complete failure with nothing to fall back upon. The approach indirect was to somehow make Delorme come to them. If it did not work within a reasonable period of time then the direct approach was indicated.

Abbot leaned forward to watch the girl who was now climbing out of the water. ‘We’ll get there in time.’

‘So we sit around in this fancy hotel while you get pissed on those fancy drinks. Is that it?’ Parker was feeling edgy. He was out of place in the Hotel Saint-Georges and he knew it.

‘Take it easy, Dan,’ said Abbot calmly. ‘It’s early days. If we can’t approach her then we have to find out who her friends are — and that’s what we’re doing now.’

Jeanette Delorme moved in the highest Lebanese society; she lived in a de luxe villa in the mountains at Hammana, and she could afford to eat two days running at the Hotel Saint-Georges. Getting close to her was the problem. Somehow they had to snuggle up to her and that, thought Abbot, was like snuggling up to a rattlesnake. He had read the dossier on her.

The only approach, as he saw it, was to find out who her associates were — her more disreputable associates — and then to lay out some ground bait. It was going to be very slow — much too slow for the liking of Dan Parker — but it was the only way. And so they were sitting in a discreet corner of the Hotel Saint-Georges while Delorme lunched with an unknown friend who would be checked on as soon as they parted. The previous day had been a repetition — and a bust. Her companion then had proved to be a paunchy Lebanese banker of pristine reputation and decidedly not disreputable enough for their purpose.

Abbot watched the girl step on to the diving-board again. He said suddenly, ‘Do you know why this hotel is called the Saint-Georges, Dan?’

‘No,’ said Parker briefly in a tone which indicated that he could not care less.

Abbot waved his glass largely. ‘Saint George killed the dragon right here in Beirut. So they tell me. Probably here in Saint George’s Bay. But I’ve always thought the Christians pinched that bit from Greek mythology — Perseus and Andromeda, you know.’ He gestured towards the girl on the diving-board. ‘I wouldn’t mind slaying a dragon myself if she were the prize.’

Parker moved restlessly in his chair, and Abbot thought he would have to do something about him. Dan would be all right once he had something to do with his hands, but this alien environment tended to unnerve him. He said, ‘What’s on your mind, Dan?’

‘I still think this is a waste o’ time.’ Parker took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘I wish I could have a beer. What wouldn’t I give for a pint?’

‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t have that,’ said Abbot, and looked about for a waiter. ‘Why didn’t you order one?’

‘What! In this place?’ Parker was surprised. He associated English beer with the Edwardian glass of a London pub or the low beams of a country inn. ‘I didn’t think they’d serve it in a place as posh as this.’

‘They make a living by serving what people want,’ said Abbot drily. ‘There’s a Yank behind us drinking his Budweiser, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t have your pint.’ He caught the eye of a waiter who responded immediately. ‘Have you any English beer?’

‘Certainly, sir, what would you like? Bass, Worthington, Watney’s...’

‘Watney’s’ll do fine,’ said Parker.

‘And I’ll have another of these.’ Abbot watched the waiter depart. ‘See, Dan, it’s easy.’

‘I’d never ‘a’ thought it,’ said Dan in wonder.

Abbot said, ‘If an English millionaire comes here and can’t get his favourite tipple he raises the roof, and that’s bad for business. We’ll probably have to pay a millionaire’s price, but it’s on the old expense account.’

Dan’s wonder increased even more when he was presented with a pewter tankard into which he promptly disappeared. He came up for air with froth on his upper lip. ‘It’s a bit o’ right stuff,’ he said. ‘Cold but in good condition.’