'To h.e.l.l with Peters. You're yellow, Grant. Even Jo had a belly-full more guts than you had.' He glanced at Rawcliff, 'Am I right, soldier? Is he yellow?'

'No comment.'

In the distance they saw the white-clad figure of Thurgood them. Ryderbeit said, 'Right. We're -. ..15 down these bodies and taking them to the end of the beach where we bury them. Keep their clothes to wash off any blood and prevent messing up the truck.'

'What sort of story have you got to explain the shooting?' said Rawcliff.

'I'll think of something. We'll just have to double security round the wire, if anyone starts getting suspicious.'

Thurgood came up, peering curiously at the carnage. 'What the devil's been going on?'

'Don't ask stupid questions,' said Ryderbeit. 'You and Rawcliff get shovels.

Jo, you go back into town and alert Peters and Ritchie. Matt, you've got two jobs now - your electrical toys and keeping the labour force quiet. If anyone asks about that shot, tell 'em I'm a White African hunter and I spotted a bird on the sh.o.r.e. Tell 'em I'm going to have it for dinner. Make a joke of it. And make sure it sticks.

'But if any of those boys still looks suspicious, and begins gossiping, make a note of them. It's too late in the day to start being chivalrous,' he added ominously. 'Now let's get to work.' The three dead men were .disposed of, as soon as Jo had driven off into town to fetch Peters.

The bodies were buried swiftly, without ceremony, in a single shallow grave under the Salt Flats at the end of the peninsula. Their clothes and doc.u.ments were then burned, and the monkey-wrench from the Suzuki washed off and thrown out to sea. Ryderbeit had taken charge of the three hand-guns, while Rawcliff had been given the job of scrubbing the blood and other mess off the concrete ap.r.o.n in front of the deserted terminal.

When Peters returned - alone, without Jo or Ritchie - he listened to their account of the incident in silence. Rawcliff could not know exactly what version the men would already have heard from Jo: but if she had emphasized his own initial heroics, Peters was not pa.s.sing out any medals. His only comment was to repeat that security should be stepped up round the wire and that there must be special surveillance over the Cypriot ground-crews. Matt Nugent-Ross was to keep his ears open for any loose talk.

Peters then demanded that Ryderbeit hand over the three pistols and his own telescopic rifle. To Rawcliffs surprise the Rhodesian agreed, but with a sly ambiguous grin.

Four.

The atmosphere inside the hangar had changed. The team had become quiet, wary, oppressed by the salty heat, the perpetual shattering roar of machinery, each guarding his own conscience, of guilt or doubt, satisfaction or relief, at the thought of the three impostors, dead and buried under the blue haze at the end of the peninsula.

Guy Grant had shed all pretence of authority, even self-respect. His manner was now abject, his body still bent with pain, while he worked in a muddled and desperate way, trying to master the baffling complexities of the Hercules'

control-panel. Ryderbeit had continuously to go to his a.s.sistance, even to help him decipher instructions from the handbook.

At two o'clock they broke for lunch. They ate the same rations as the ground-crew, sitting together at a modest distance from the Cypriots, from where Matt was supposed to eavesdrop on the men's conversation, in case they were having doubts about those two shots. But, since the butchery outside the terminal, the American had become unnaturally calm, preoccupied. He hardly touched his meal, of salami, bread and feta cheese, and only kept up a pretence of listening to the desultory chatter of the local ground-crew.

Later he rejoined Rawcliff at the controls of his Hercules. It was clear that Nugent-Ross drew a certain comfort and rea.s.surance from Rawcliff's presence.

The American was essentially a civilized man who found himself confused by the spiritual isolation of the others, shocked by their primitive values - of greed, leavened with varying degrees of violence, as their sole motivating force.

For some time he continued checking the switch-boxes and rows of contact-breakers, while Rawcliff stared through the smoked windows to where Peters was limping about, shouting orders at the ground-crews. Suddenly Nugent-Ross sat back and pulled from under his jacket a miniature thermos flask, leather-bound, with_ a silver drinking-cap. 'Fancy a dry martini?' Hehanded it across to Rawcliff, in the seat beside him. 'I think I can guarantee it's the best, and probably the only dry martini you'll get during your stay.'

Rawcliff unscrewed the top, poured it full and tasted it. The American had not been boasting: it had just the correct amount of French, the right chill and sharpness; all it lacked was the olive on a stick.

'Thank you.' He started to pa.s.s the thermos back, but Nugent-Ross shook his head: 'Sorry, friend. But I don't partake.'

'Because it's against the rules?'

'The h.e.l.l with the rules.'

Rawcliff nodded, 'Never drink during the day and never on the job?' He began to screw the cap back on again.

'No, Mr Rawcliff. Never during the day, never on the job, never off the job.

Never, period. I got my own rules.' He took the little thermos and sat for a moment weighing it in his hand as though it were some object of infinite value; then slipped it back inside his deerskin jacket. He looked at Rawcliff and gave a quick funny laugh.

'It's okay, I'm not crazy. Not quite, anyway. Just that I used to be hooked on the stuff. I carry this little baby around with me, like a kinda talisman.'

'What's the trouble, Matt?'

'Trouble? Nothing. That's the trouble. I don't feel anything. I don't love, I don't hate, I don't even scare any more.'

'What happened?'

It was a few moments before he answered. 'You told me you've got a wife and kid? Must be a darn terrible responsibility coming out here and being at the mercy of people like Grant and Peters and the rest?'

Rawcliff said nothing.

'Did 1 tell you I was once married myself? It was after I flunked out of Oxford and Princeton, and got my DD from the Marines. My pa fixed me a job out West with a big electronics corporation that was just going into the computer business. Then I met this girl - very special she was. Married her after six months and we had a baby girl. I'd never been too darned keen on children, but my G.o.d. I went really crazy about that kid.' His voice was gentle, calm, completely under control.

'Everything seemed pretty good between us. Trouble was, I liked a drink or two - only my wife didn't exactly approve. After the kid was born, she made me give it up. It was okay for about a year, then I began to slip. It was one Sat.u.r.day morning. I had to go into the office, and afterwards I got together with some of the boys at the local bar. Somehow after the first couple of drinks it didn't seem to matter. When I finally got home I felt just fine.

Then I made my second big mistake. I started to justify myself. My G.o.d, Rawcliff, there's nothing so disgusting as a drunk trying to justify himself!

She didn't 'try to argue. She just took the kid and said she was going out shopping and that she hoped I'd be sober when she got back. 'That's what did it. I guess I just wanted a fight. I went round the corner and bought a bottle of rye. An hour later she hadn't come back. I went outside and saw the car was still in the garage. She's taken the kid in the stroller.

I got in the car and started to drive. I didn't know what I was doing, except that I was vaguely looking for them. Everything I saw was double and I kept on veering over to the left of the road. I took a turn, and must have been going a lot too fast, because I went into a skid and lost control. There was a woman with a child crossing the road and I hit them both.

'I remember feeling the, b.u.mp as both wheels went over them, and I panicked and pushed the wrong pedal. I finished up in a front garden. The cops were there with sirens and there was, an ambulance and d.a.m.n great crowd, and they pulled me out and I saw the woman and child, and the smashed stroller lying in this great G.o.dd.a.m.n pool of blood. You can guess the rest?'

For some time the two of them sat and listened to the m.u.f.fled din of the hangar from through the plastic soundproofing. Rawcliff had noted that this was the plane's only concession to basic comfort - although it would make little difference when those four mighty engines were at full-throttle.

He was not horrified by what he had just heard, not even embarra.s.sed. He felt merely a pitying disgust - with the man's self-indulgent stoicism, his wretched leather-bound silver talisman full of chilled martini.

He glanced at his watch. With the two hour forward time-zone in London, little Tom would be just about having his tea, before Judith came to collect him: while Judith herself would probably be winding, up the last post-prandial conference discussing in-put data and print-outs and interface, and all the other stylized jargon of the computer world.

And he realized, with wry dismay, that his wife had at least one thing in common with Matt Nugent-Ross. Both were computer experts. The difference was that she, and the people she worked with, were professionals. They all had offices and secretaries and stable salaries, and homes to go back to when the day was done. They weren't sitting out on a limb, in a forlorn corner of the Eastern Mediterranean, at the mercy of unknown forces masquerading under the sanctimonious credentials of the International Red Cross. And it was then that the germ of an idea began to nag at the back of his mind. If those six guidance-systems were the computerized lock at the heart of this whole mysterious operation, then Judith might just possibly provide the key which could open it. He was confident that she knew quite as much about computers as this sad, broken ex-lush who didn't give a d.a.m.n whether he lived or died, and to h.e.l.l with the mission and the money! Judith would at least be a lot more reliable.

His instincts rejected the idea at once. The very thought of involving her - and, by implication, Tom - made him feel slightly ashamed. But once the germ had been planted, it was not so easily eradicated. It had already begun to mature and multiply.

Presently Nugent-Ross said, 'Well, I guess I'd better get going. Thai guy Grant's got problems. Forget about the electricals - he can't even tell the difference between the fuelmixture readings. He doesn't need me - he needs a G.o.dd.a.m.n flying instructor. Jesus help him when he's alone up there in the blue!'

Rawcliff looked at him solemnly. 'I'm sorry, Matt. I haven't been much help.'

'Sure you have. You listened.' He stood up, stretching his cramped musclesbetween the two seats. 'Watch yourself. I don't like the idea of Peters having pocketed those three guns.'

'Don't worry. He almost certainly had his own already. And one gun's enough, for a man like Peters.'

The American squeezed his shoulder. 'If you need a friend, you got one. I've an idea they're at a premium round here.'

'Thanks for the drink, Matt.'

'De nada!'

It was around mid-afternoon, and Ritchie had been gone for more than two hours. And Peters had driven off once again presumably to inform his masters of the 'termination' of the three Auxiliary Militiamen: for while nominally in command here in the field, Peters was no more than altar-boy in the hierarchy of the organization. When he returned, an hour later, he was alone;"he had also shed the plaster from his foot, though his head was still held rigid by the pink halter. If he had any news, he wasn't sharing it. His face was as expressive as a potato.

Rawcliff was up in his Hercules, making a final check of the controls, running through them with the swift precision of a pianist rehearsing to play without music-sheets, until he felt confident enough that he could reach any switch or lever with his eyes closed. Flying a Hercules solo doesn'%allow for fumbling, for hesitation or the least error of judgement.

He heard a step behind him and turned, to see Thurgood staring down from over his shoulder. The man's clipped moustache was smudged with oil, making it look as though it had been grown to disguise a hare-lip.

He had come aboard carrying a heavy black case, which he now placed between the seats and opened, to reveal a ma.s.s of electrical equipment. He behaved as though Rawcliff were not there. He took out an insulated Philips screw-driver and began to remove some panels under the lower battery of controls.

'Do you mind telling me what you're doing?' Rawcliff asked.

'Fixing the auto-pilot.'

'The auto-pilot's okay. Nugent-Ross checked the circuits and they're all functioning.'

'I don't care what Nugent-Ross said. I'm putting in some extensions.'

'What for?'

Thurgood turned, his eyes swelling open like those of some deep-sea fish. 'Ah yes. Mister Rawcliff. The one who asks too many questions.'

'That's right.' He gave a slow nod, not looking at Thurgood. 'I suppose your extensions wouldn't have anything to do with those boxes of flowers I and Grant brought in yesterday?'

'f.u.c.k off, Rawcliff,' Thurgood said softly. 'You talk like that and you end up under the sand, like those three wog-police this morning.'

Rawcliff nodded again. 'Friendly sort of fellow, aren't you, Flight-Lieutenant?' The pale eyes stared at him for a moment, then Thurgood turned and reached into the case for a bunch of wires and clips.

Rawcliff was in no mood to start an argument with Thurgood, whose proximity in the cabin gave him a nasty, uneasy feeling, like being with a dog that might turn vicious at any moment.

Without a word he left the man to it. and went down the plane and out into the hangar, to get some of the gritty black coffee which the ground-crew kept bubbling over a kerosene stove. In the absence of Peters he took the opportunity to stretch his legs.

He already knew that the six boxes, which they had flown in from Le Bourget, had been stowed in a locked office at the back of the hangar. But he now made another interesting discovery. At the end of the hangar, beyond the last aircraft, and half-hidden behind two mobile generators, stood a stack of six unpacked cases, each stamped with the name of a well-known j.a.panese make of hi-fi equipment. And behind them he counted eighteen pairs of huge loudspeakers.

He made a mental calculation, as he strolled casually away: one hi-fi set and three pairs of speakers for each aircraft. Then he observed something that he should have noticed before. The external fuel-tanks under each wing had been fitted with an empty metal bracket through which a locking-screw could be inserted. There were also two pairs of wires running under the wings and into the cabin of each aircraft.

He returned to his own plane, to find Thurgood putting the finishing touches to his work on the auto-pilot. He knew that it would be useless to try and seek an explanation from him, even if Thurgood could give one: although Rawcliff was fairly certain that the man was responsible for the wiring under the wings. It was too menial a task for an expert in high-technology like Matt Nugent-Ross.

Without a word, Thurgood packed his equipment back into the case and lugged it away down the tunnel of the aircraft, out through the loading-bay - leaving Rawcliff to ponder upon two further mysteries.

For a start he decided to a.s.sume that Thurgood's work on the auto-pilot was not unconnected with those six secret boxes locked in the back office - each containing, he was d.a.m.n sure, a computerized guidance-system, to be installed and activated, at some stage, by Matt. Along with a hi-fi set and three pairs of giant loudspeakers - the third pair to be fitted at the rear of the plane, since which Rawcliff had now traced a further pair of wires leading from the control-cabin to another locking-bracket secured above the loading-bay.

At this point his curiosity was tempered with relief. At least you couldn't create much havoc with a hi-fi set and a battery of loudspeakers. A propaganda mission, perhaps? Yet any broadcast, even over the most powerful equipment, would be hopelessly drowned out by the roar of the Hercules' four engines. So why put a fleet of one of the world's largest, noisiest transport-planes into the air and have them fly pilotless, merely to broadcast the briefest of messages to some unknown ma.s.s-audience below?

But Rawcliff wasn't here on some fact-finding mission. What he didn't understand, he was deliberately meant not to understand. That was part of what he was being paid for, after all.

Five.

It was nearly four o'clock when the Beachcraft Duke drifted in over the Salt Lake. Ritchie touched down neatly between the rows of oil-drums and taxied across to the hangar where he tucked the little plane between two of the Hercules. Next to the pair of giants, the Beachcraft looked sleek and fragile, painted in its streamlined white and blue, with 'Come Fly With Me' rippling down its side, beneath the curtained windows. At least it leant a touch of cla.s.s to the scene, Rawcliff thought.

At first he had been puzzled by Ritchie's trip. Why hadn't the man flown him and Grant straight down to Larnaca in the first place, instead of landing at Nicosia? But Ryderbeit -a master of indiscretion - had hinted that Ritchie was taking no chances. On all accounts the Beachcraft must remain 'clean'. Its cargo of the six mysterious boxes, which had been surrept.i.tiously exchanged at Le Bourget for Grant's houseplants - probably with the connivance of the French authorities, Rawcliff suspected - would have been 'cleared' well in advance through Nicosia Customs, no doubt after the right palms had been well-greased and crossed with silver. But for some reason Ritchie had wanted to log his flight into Nicosia with all the correct doc.u.mentation stamped and signed for the record - something that was not possible here at Larnaca. He had also been logged out again, with official clearance to fly to Crete. Only he hadn't arrived; and liaison between the little Mediterranean airports was so notoriously haphazard that it might be weeks before the Beachcraft was registered as missing: and by that time it would be too late.

It was now obvious that Ritchie's little air-taxi had been designated for a vital role in the final act of the operation.

Yet there was a discrepancy here. Four hours was a long time in which to accomplish a bare half-hour drive up to Nicosia, plus the few minutes it took to fly back to Larnaca, even taking into account the laborious sloth and incompetency of Greek bureaucracy.

He seemed relaxed, as jaunty as ever, and even made light of the killing that morning. 'Bit of a bloodbath, old sport -from what Jo told me! According to her, you were quite a hero.'

So Ritchie had called in at the Sun Hall Hotel -presumably before driving up to Nicosia - in order for Jo to have told him about the shooting. And Ritchie's relationship with the girl hardly indicated a couple of hours'

malingering round the pool. Like the rest of them, he could ill afford to waste time, and should have been just as answerable to Peters' discipline schedule. So what had young Ritchie been doing all that time, before leaving for Nicosia?

For the moment it would have to remain just one more thing that he was being paid not to understand.

They had broken to eat again at eight pm. The heavy a.s.sembly work had finally been completed. The ground-crews had only to finish spraying on the huge red crosses and bogus black serial numbers,using sheets of stencilled plastic, on to the top and undersides of the wings, on the mighty tail-fins and along the fuselages.

Peters had given orders that the minimum of lights were to be shown; but it was a clear night, and although there was no moon the stars were bright enough to read by. Thurgood was fiddling with a powerful R/T set that looked as though it could rouse Peking; Ritchie had taken off the covers of one of the Beachcraft's engines and was tinkering inside; while Ryderbeit lay stretched out asleep on the concrete outside the hangar.

Only Guy Grant and Jo were absent. Grant had finally succ.u.mbed to his damaged groin, complaining of giddiness and vomiting. Peters, without compa.s.sion, had told him to take one of the jeeps and to go back to the hotel; while Ryderbeit had taunted him with the image of Jo binding up his swollen b.a.l.l.s.

Through the starlit darkness Rawcliff could just make out the faint figure of Matt Nugent-Ross, sitting alone on the beach beyond the runway. Rawcliff, in need of fresh air after the fumes of the hangar, strolled out to join him.

The American was throwing pebbles at the slow lapping waves. He did not seem to hear Rawcliff come up behind him; but . then, without turning, he spoke, 'Like a drink, friend?' He reached into the pebbles beside him and took out his flask.

Rawcliff sat down beside him and took a sip. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

'Everything okay?' Matt said at last.

'Do you know what all that hi-fi and loudspeaker stuffs about, Matt?'

'Nope. That's Thurgood's line.'

'Okay. So you're way up in high technology. You also got all sentimental this morning about being my friend. I'm going to take you up on that, Matt.'

Rawcliff eyed him under the bright vault of the night-sky. 'I want to know about those guidance-systems.'

There was a long pause. The American went on throwing pebbles, watching them skim the crest of the little waves until they disappeared into the darkness.

'I can give you a load o' technical detail,' he said at last. 'Given time, I could even tell you how they work. What I can't tell you is how they're programmed - from where and where to. Nor why.'