Desmond Bagley - The Spoilers / Juggernaut

He grinned in the semi-darkness. ‘Does that include Jack Eastman?’

‘Never mind Jack Eastman,’ she said, her voice suddenly sharp. ‘Jack will do what I tell him. He doesn’t …’ She stopped speaking and made a sinuous movement so that her breasts nuzzled his chest. ‘ I’ll keep you very happy,’ she whispered.

The music stopped and she stepped away from him after a lingering moment. He escorted her back to the table and thought he saw a satirical gleam in Eastman’s eye.

‘I’m not tired yet,’ she said. ‘It’s nice having three escorts. Come on, Jack.’

Eastman took her on to the floor again and Abbot dropped into the chair next to Parker. He found he was sweating slightly. Must be the heat, he thought, and picked up his newly refilled champagne glass.

Parker looked at the throng on the dance floor. ‘That woman scares me,’ he said gloomily.

‘What did she do – try to rape you on the floor?’

‘Bloody near.’ Parker’s brow turned pink again. ‘By God, if my missus could have seen me there’d be a divorce tomorrow.’ He tugged at his collar. ‘She’s a man-eater, all right.’

‘It seems as though our jobs are neatly allocated,’ said Abbot. ‘You look after the torpedo and I look after Jeanette.’ He sipped his champagne. ‘Or she looks after me, if I understood her correctly.’

He found he was smiling.

They stayed for quite a while at the Paon Rouge, dining and watching the cabaret. They left at about two in the morning to find the Mercedes waiting outside. Eastman got in the front next to the driver, and Abbot found himself rubbing shoulders and legs with Jeanette who wore a shimmering silver cape.

The car moved away, and after a while he looked out of the window at the sea and said, ‘It would be helpful if I knew where we were going.’

‘You’ll find out,’ she said, and opened her cigarette case. ‘Give me a light.’

He flicked his lighter and saw Parker sitting on the other side of Jeanette, easing his tight collar. ‘You’re the boss.’

The car proceeded smoothly on the road out of Beirut towards Tripoli and he wondered where it was taking them – and why. He did not wonder long because presently it swung off the road and drew up in front of a large wooden gate which was swung open by an Arab. The car rolled into a large yard and stopped.

They got out and Abbot looked around. As far as he could see in the darkness it seemed to be some sort of factory. A large shed loomed against the night sky, and beyond the moon sparkled on the sea. ‘This way,’ said Eastman, and Abbot followed him into an office.

The first thing he saw when the lights snapped on was his own suitcase against the wall. ‘What the hell …?’

‘You’ll be staying here,’ said Eastman. ‘There are two beds in the next room. No bathroom, I’m afraid – but there’s a wash-basin.’ He glanced at Jeanette and then his gaze came back to Abbot. ‘You should be quite comfortable,’ he said sardonically. ‘Ali will do your cooking.’

Jeanette said, ‘You’ll stay here until after the trials of the torpedo. How long you stay depends on yourselves.’ She smiled and said lightly, ‘But I’ll come to see you – often.’ She turned to Parker and said abruptly, ‘How long to make the conversion?’

Parker shrugged. ‘Two weeks – with the right equipment. A hell of a long time, or never, without it. But I’ll have to have a torpedo first.’

She nodded. ‘Come with me.’ They followed her from the office and across the yard to the big shed. Ali, the Arab, produced a big key and unlocked the door, then stood back to allow them to enter. The shed was on two levels and they came out on a platform overlooking the main workshop. A flight of wooden stairs led down to ground level.

Abbot looked over the rail, and said, ‘Well, I’m damned! You were pretty sure of us, weren’t you?’

Illumined under harsh lighting was a sleek and deadly-looking torpedo set up on trestles, gleaming because of the thin film of protective oil which covered it. To Abbot it looked enormous, and the first thought that came into his head was: How in hell did this bitch lay her hands on a torpedo at three days’ notice?

Warren checked the maps again, and his pen traced out the record of their journeys. The two weeks they had spent in Kurdistan had been wasted, but he did not see how they could have done differently. There had been a chance, admittedly a slim one, of running across Speering, and they could not have passed it by. But it had been a futile two weeks.

So they had returned to Tehran in the hope of finding something, what he did not know. All he knew was that he had failed, and failed dismally. Every time he had to write to Hellier confessing failure he cursed and fretted. The only bright spot was that Abbot and Parker seemed to be making good in the Lebanon – it seemed that his ‘insurance policy’ might pay off in the end. But now they had dropped out of sight and he did not know what to make of it.

Johnny Follet took it all phlegmatically. He did not know what Warren was looking for so assiduously, nor did he care so long as he was paid. He had long ago written off his resentment against Warren and was quite enjoying himself in Tehran, and took it as a pleasant and exotic holiday. He wandered the streets and saw the sights, and presently found himself some congenial companions.

Ben Bryan was also uneasy, if not as much as Warren, but that may have been because he did not have Warren’s overall responsibility. He and Warren pored over the maps of northwest Iran trying to figure out where Speering could have gone to ground. ‘It’s no use,’ said Ben. ‘If these maps were up to the standard of British Ordnance Survey we might have a hope, but half the damned roads up there aren’t even shown here.’

‘So what do we do?’ asked Warren.

Ben did not know, and they all idled in low gear.

Andy Tozier had a problem – a minor problem, true – but still a problem, and it puzzled him mightily. He was losing money steadily to Johnny Follet and he could not see how the trick was worked. The money he lost was not much when considered against the number of games played, but the steady trickle annoyed him.

He spoke to Warren about it. ‘On the face of it, it’s a fair game – I can’t see how he does it.’

‘I wouldn’t trust Johnny to play a fair game,’ said Warren. ‘What is it this time?’

‘It goes like this. We each have a coin, and we match coins. We don’t toss them, so the element of chance is eliminated as far as that goes – we each have control as to whether we show a head or a tail. Got that?’

‘It seems all right so far,’ said Warren cautiously.

‘Yes,’ said Tozier. ‘Now, if I show heads and he shows tails he pays me thirty pounds. If I show tails and he shows heads he pays me ten pounds.’

Warren thought about it. ‘Those are two of the four possible occurrences.’

‘Right!’ said Tozier. ‘The other two occurrences are both heads or both tails. If either of those happen I pay him twenty pounds.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Warren, and scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘There are four possible cases of which you can win two and he can win two. Taking all four cases as equal – which they are – if they all happen you will win forty pounds – and so will he. It seems a fair game to me.’ It also seemed a childish game but that he did not say.

‘Then why the hell is he winning?’ demanded Tozier. ‘I’m nearly a hundred pounds down already.’

‘You mean to say that you never win?’

‘Oh, no. I win games and so does he – but he wins more often. It’s a sort of see-saw, but he seems to have more weight than I have and my money tends to roll towards him. The thing that makes me wild is that I can’t figure the gimmick.’