John Halkin - Squelch

Jeff glanced out at the white Alpine peaks immediately beneath the Boeing 707, then grinned at Enoch in the co-pilot’s seat beside him. On a passenger flight they would be crowding at the windows by now, the more optimistic among them clicking their cameras through the scratched Perspex. It was Perspex they fitted in these rattling old crates, wasn’t it?

Not that he disliked 707s; they were first-class planes. He’d flown thousands of miles in them, till the controls felt like natural extensions to his own limbs. Only this old lady creaked with arthritis in every joint. It was lucky her four aged Rolls-Royce Conway 508 engines co-operated so courageously. Perhaps they guessed they were on their way home to the country which created them; or else, with the name Rolls-Royce, they couldn’t bear to lose face.

They had stripped out most of the seats to make space for as many crates of monitor lizards as they could squeeze on board. That had caused some delays at Douala, but fortunately their Paying Guest was also late. In fact, this ‘flying ark’ operation was much better cover for him than their original suggestion. Everyone felt happier about it.

At that first meeting in London a couple of months earlier the idea had been that Jeff would ferry the plane back to the UK for overhaul with the Paying Guest travelling as crew. It had sounded a flimsy way of smuggling the ex-president of a neighbouring country out of Africa, but they assured him the right palms had been crossed with silver, so there should be no trouble.

But this lizard plan, they agreed when he put it to them, was far superior.

He’d also been lucky when it came to recruiting the real crew. Enoch he’d known in Nigeria and would have been quite capable of handling the whole operation alone. Pierre as third pilot, from Senegal, was less experienced but totally reliable. They had been together on several less-than-official runs before. Plus a few that were above board.

‘I’m going back,’ he said, getting out of his seat. ‘Need to stretch my legs.’

Enoch nodded.

In the first-class passenger cabin they had left a couple of rows intact. Fred, the expert animal handler who had been sent out ahead by Andrew Rossiter to organise the lizards, lay sprawled in a window seat on the starboard side, fast asleep. On the port side, the Paying Guest sat upright, contentedly turning over the pages of a magazine. Jeff dropped into the seat next to him.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Oh yes!’ He was an unashamedly fat man and his face wrinkled as he smiled. ‘I can’t tell you what a relief it is to get away! There were two attempts by their agents to kidnap me. To take me back over the border for one of their show trials.’

‘Well, that’s all behind you now,’ Jeff assured him. ‘But I need a word about what happens when we land.’

‘Don’t worry! I’ll request political asylum. They won’t refuse me. The Prime Minister is one of my dearest friends.’

‘I was really talking about the lizards.’

‘They smell, my friend. Can’t you smell them? I assume I shall disembark first.’

‘It may not be that easy,’ Jeff told him, and began to explain about the caterpillars.

The old scoundrel, he thought as they talked. If anyone deserved to be put on trial he did, considering the amount of development aid money he probably had tucked away in his Swiss bank accounts. Jeff had known him well in his old West African days. As a young man he’d been in a key position to influence the granting of building contracts and had made a fortune out of backhanders. When he was President that fortune doubled.

‘But there’s no need to worry,’ Jeff explained confidently. ‘We’ve brought safety clothing for you which you’ll be wearing, and in any case you stay on board until we’ve checked everything is clear.’

‘I don’t like it.’ The man’s flabby cheeks were actually trembling. ‘I prefer to land at Heathrow.’

‘The situation at Heathrow is worse,’ Jeff lied. ‘As I said, I take full responsibility for your safety.’

‘You had better, my friend. I’m paying you enough.’

Jeff got up, nodding to Fred who had just woken. He went back to the flight deck. At any rate, he thought, the ex-President was right about one thing. Those lizards in their crates did smell.

‘Is he okay?’ Enoch asked as he slipped back into his seat and adjusted his headset.

‘I guess he is. We’d better call up our private control room to see how things look on the ground.’

At least there would be no trouble with either Enoch or Pierre. With them he’d laid his cards openly on the table, explained what the lizards were expected to do, shown them the safety gear and offered them double the agreed fee. They had accepted.

It was eight a.m. when Alan rang to report he’d established contact with the plane, three days late. The expected call from London had never materialised, nor had the telegram. Ginny had begun to doubt if Jeff would ever return.

In the kitchen she found Bernie had started to tidy up. His face looked strained and tired, not only from overwork. Lesley was still refusing to talk to him, and Mary had been downright aggressive on the phone. It was telling on their own relationship too. Over breakfast they’d picked up last night’s argument about how much longer they could put off moving out and had ended by shouting at each other.

‘That was Alan,’ she told him. ‘I have to get over to Gatwick. The plane’s coming in this morning.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘After all?’ She felt a flood of pleasure, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him as he leaned over the sink. ‘We’ll have to hurry!’

Separate cars, they had agreed. Just in case anything went wrong. Ginny drove the Range Rover, followed by Bernie in a large black BMW he’d rented a few days earlier, wanting something more robust than the Mini in this situation. Ignoring the route signs for the terminal building, they headed for a side gate they had discovered on their first recce. It gave them direct access to the cargo apron. Bernie had used wire cutters on the chain holding the padlock and it still hung there unrepaired.

Adjusting his protective helmet, he went to the gates and pushed them open. Then he came over to the Range Rover and Ginny wound down the window.

‘The place seems deserted,’ he remarked quietly. ‘I’ve never come across anything so dead. No people, no animals, no insects. I wonder if the airport authorities are right not to have at least a skeleton staff here. Or at least a daily check on what’s happening.’

‘We’ll go where we can see the runway,’ she decided. ‘Then I’ll call Alan.’

Ginny waited until Bernie was safely back in his car before driving slowly into the cargo area. Everything had been abandoned in the middle of a busy work shift. Truck-loads of air freight parcels, containers and lorry trailers stood where they had been left. Only the dead and injured had been moved. She manoeuvred the Range Rover through the obstacle course and across the apron, checking in her rear mirror to make sure Bernie was still behind her.

When she stopped he drove around her, ending with the two cars parked side by side facing opposite directions. He wound down his window. They were only inches apart.

‘It’s all clear, love.’

With Jeff’s field glasses she scanned the airfield but saw nothing on the runway, nor in the untended grass on either side. She reached for the car phone which Alan had doctored to plug into CB equipment, providing a direct radio link with the house.

‘Descent check, please,’ Jeff requested.

‘Roger, descent check, captain,’ Pierre responded immediately. ‘Window heat?’

‘High,’ said Enoch.