'Just tell me what you do know.'

'Well. We can start with the basic principle of the ordinary auto-pilot. You set a two-dimensional course, and if the plane is blown off-course by even a few degrees, the mechanism automatically corrects it. Right. So just imagine that principle magnified a million times, on a three-dimensional pattern. A flight-plan is fed into a computer, but instead of a static number of degrees, yogi have a constantly fluctuating pattern, sometimes altering every few seconds. A plane can be programmed to fly as low as fifty feet. The distance doesn't matter - just makes the tape longer.

'Now, in whatever direction you fly from Cyprus, you're initially over water, which presents no problem. But sooner or later - unless the target's somewhere on the coast - you hit mountains. And that's where the real beauty of these machines comes in. Every peak and ridge and valley is antic.i.p.ated - every contour programmed to within a few feet. You're a pilot - you'll know a lot better than me. How many changes of height and direction do you think you'd have to make, flying at fifty feet over mountains:"

"At exactly fifty feet, or even approximately? It couldn't be done. Certainlynot in a Hercules.'

'Mortal man couldn't do it, maybe. But these computers send out an impulse which is the equivalent of dialling a hundred long-distance telephone numbers every second. Every contour of the ground, every thousandth of a degree in change of course, is fed to the controls through the autopilot. But what's even more beautiful is that if some unexpected hazard crops up - a large ship, another low-flying aircraft, even a ground-to-air missile - the machine instantly picks up the impulse from the plane's radar and changes course accordingly.'

'And in the meantime what's happened to the real pilots? - what you call us mere mortals?'

'I guess you've jumped. You checked your parachute lines yet?''

'Can't these gadgets take off and land?'

'No, that's the one thing those babies can't do - at least, not with any reasonable margin of accuracy.'

From behind them they heard a grunt as one of the fleet of Suzuki jeeps started up, its lights beginning to move fast across the runway towards the gates.

'And what are the odds of one of the machines going wrong?' Rawcliff said.

'On just the one run? Because that's all it's gonna be. Maybe one in a million. h.e.l.luva lot more than getting beat holding a running flush to the king.'

'And how much does one of these things cost?'

'Christ. I don't think anybody's ever put a commercial value on them. They're .used in the Cruise-Missile, and variations of them have been developed for s.p.a.ce satellites. But, so far, only an outfit like the Pentagon can afford them.'

'Then who the h.e.l.l fixed it so that six of these b.l.o.o.d.y machines were slipped aboard Ritchie's air-taxi at Le Bourget? And right under the noses of the French authorities?'

Nugent-Ross sat stroking his jaw. 'You've been listening to Ryderbeit again?

He's got a theory that the French are somehow behind all this - though it's obviously not official, and you wouldn't get anyone admitting it. But the French are pretty advanced in modern technology, specially in the line of war-games. And they're not particularly scrupulous about whom they sell to either. Anyway, there's no proof that those airport officials knew just what was in those boxes.'

'Somebody must have known. And from what you say about the cost, somebody with a lot of money. Not to mention influence. You think these things could have found their way on to the open market?'

'Anything can be got on the market, providing the price is right.' The American's hand closed round a fistful of pebbles and he gave Rawcliff a slow smile! 'You're really a lot better off, if you don't push this. h.e.l.l, knowing the source of the stuff isn't gonna to pay you any dividends. The prize money'11 stay the same - and so will the risks.' He paused and let the pebbles slip one by one through his fingers. 'Don't mind my observing, friend, but youseem a straight enough guy. I might even guess you had scruples. Yet you didn't seem too d.a.m.ned upset when those three boys got themselves butchered this morning.'

'Maybe it's the stiff upper lip. I didn't kill them, remember. I'll go along with the odd bit of grievous bodily harm - in self-defence - but I haven't signed on to kill people. Even if that killing's being done by my own side.'

He took another drink from the flask. 'But don't let's f.u.c.k about with the health of our souls, Matt. Concentrate on the practical side. For instance, if you were to open one of those machines, how would you go about reading the flight-plan? And most important, the destination?'

'Forget it. For a start, the machines haven't even been loaded yet. And my guess is they won't be, till just before the I final mission. But even then, the tape by itself isn't enough. To get a proper reading you'd need a full print-out, and about the only way of getting that would be to track down the original processor that programmed the source-data - in this case, probably a bank of large-scale aerial survey maps, reduced to micro-dots. And you can be darn certain the job wasn't done here in Cyprus. There are probably only a few machines capable of that kinda work in the whole of Western Europe.'

Rawcliff took a last pull at the flask, then handed it back to Nugent-Ross.

Then for a wild moment he was on the point of telling him about Judith's work with computers. If what the American had just said was true, she'd certainly be in a far better position - through the resources of her corporation - to trace the material than Nugent-Ross was, stranded out here on a beach in the middle of nowhere.

Together they began to walk up the shingle to the Salt Flats and across the buckled runway. The night air smelt fresh and clean, and at that moment Rawcliff longed for it to swallow him up - longed never to return to that oily stinking hangar, where six giant transports, each bearing the respectable emblem of the International Red Cross, were waiting to be fitted with powerful broadcasting equipment and a guidance-system used in the Cruise-Missile.

It was with weary relief that at ten o'clock he heard Peters decree that they could all return to town and get some sleep. According to Thurgood's radio, the ship was not due now before three in the morning.

Ryderbeit was the only one to stay - officially to keep a watch over the ground-crews - but apparently content to remain sleeping comfortably on the concrete ap.r.o.n under the stars.

Six.

When he was in Paris, Charles Pol usually stayed at the Lotti, where they kept a permanent suite at his disposal; but on this visit he preferred the relative anonymity of the Hotel Dumini, a small select establishment off the Rue St Honore, which catered for the better cla.s.s of American visitor.

On that Monday afternoon, while more than two thousand kilometres away the six Hercules transports were being primed in a desolate corner of Cyprus, Pol entered the wine-red lobby of the hotel, replete from an extended luncheon at Laserre's, to be handed two messages by the liveried porter.

They were two telephone numbers: one in Geneva, one local. Pol sighed and waddled back out to his chauffeur-driven Citroen CX 2400, with its smokedwindows and Swiss Zollamt plates, which gave it virtual immunity from parking restrictions.

The driver dropped him at a quiet cafe behind the Place Vendome where there was a comfortable telephone booth, well-insulated from the other clients. He called Geneva collect and listened intently, the sweat crawling down his great egg-shaped face, while the voice the other end translated Peters' telex message which had been received less than an hour earlier.

Pol made no comment. He was a shrewd gambler and he did not expect the odds always to run in his favour. The demise of the three paramilitary Cypriots would only present minor problems, for he had faith in the absolute venality of Captain Spyromilio of the Larnaca Police - even if it did add marginally to expenses.

He dialled the second number, to an apartment in the Sixteenth Arondiss.e.m.e.nt.

It was answered by a woman. He asked for Yves. The man's voice was low and abrupt: he agreed to meet Pol in an hour, at a cafe on the Champs Elysees.

Pol returned to the hotel where he ordered half a bottle of champagne which he drank in the bath; dried his ma.s.sive rolls of fat, washing them down with eau de cologne and dusting them off with scented talc.u.m powder; carefully arranged the spiral of hair round the crown of his head and patted down the lick of kiss-curl over his eye; combed out his goatee beard, which had attracted minuscule sc.r.a.ps of his excellent lunch; then changed into a fresh-set of clothes, including an outsize slub-silk suit and silk shirt.

He arrived at the cafe a strategic five minutes late, aware that his appearance always attracted attention. His guest had chosen an inside table, away from the crowd. He was a thin, straight man with a narrow face and short-cropped hair. He had been a parachute Colonel in Algeria and had excellent contacts with La Police Parallele, that twilight adjunct of the French Secret Service, whose existence is officially denied by the French authorities, and whose methods and activities are not inconvenienced by the scrutiny of any Government department. Pol, with his fetish for intrigue, had soon cultivated in Colonel Yves a useful employee. The man was sipping iced tea when Pol joined him. Pol ordered an enormous cake. The Colonel said, 'You may be having a little trouble - with the Americans.'

'Continue.'

'The man called Nugent-Ross. As you know, he used to work lor Westinghouse in Athens. He had dealings with his Emba.s.sy there in the early seventies.'

Pol took his time answering. He ordered a bebe Scotch with his cake and sat munching thoughtfully. 'You are telling me 'I am telling you only what I know.

You will no doubt draw your own conclusions.'

Pol nodded and scooped up the remains of his cake, leaving his plate as clean as a cat's. He was not troubled by Yves' revelation: his own life was one elaborate web of intrigue in which friendships and loyalties were minor luxuries, to be enjoyed or dispensed with at a whim of the changing wheel of fortune and circ.u.mstance. The one to Pol was the game. At the end of the day you either won or you lost.

He gave the Colonel his puckish, red-lipped grin. 'I do not take the CIA too seriously. It is a fatted calf, fed on the feeding off thousands of minor agents and informers, some of them professionals, most of them amateurs, many of them charlatans. 'And their information - valuable, useless, or merely planted - is all scrambled up and processed by computers, from whose final data whole teams of keen young men from Langley, Virginia, labour day and night at their infinite reports which are duly studied and evaluated by specialists, committees, Senators, even by the President himself - after which decisions are relayed back to the men in the field, usually of the most ludicrous irrelevance to the problem at hand. And all this takes time. Which means that time, for the moment, is on our side.'

Pol picked some crumbs out of his beard; he always enjoyed a little sermon at the expense of the Americans. He rubbed his hands together. 'No, my dear Yves!

We have little to fear from the CIA. Since Vietnam and that connerie at Watergate, the organization is an emasculated beast. Besides,' he added, giving his girlish giggle, 'like our late unhappy colleague, Mousieur Rebot, the American's knowledge of the operation is either deceptive or irrelevant.

In any event, we must a.s.sume that Washington and London know by now about Larnaca. And with your friends with the SDECE and its tentacles into Switzerland, they will no doubt have been able to establish and confirm the existence of the Red Cross mission which is using long-range transport aircraft, And if poor Rebot mentioned to them the putative objective of Eritrea, so much the better. By now they will be scurrying around like blind mice, sniffing the cheese but not being able to find it!'

He sipped his whisky and beamed at the small grey Colonel in front of him.

'You have something else to tell me, I think?'

'There is a man staying at a hotel in Larnaca. Name of Klein. He is a Jew, with dual American-Israeli nationality.'

Pol turned and ordered another cake and a second whisky - a large one this time. 'You don't like Jews, do you?'

The Colonel shrugged. 'They are very intelligent - but it is a morbid intelligence. They are faithful only to their own kind. They are not to be trusted.'

'You are a cynic, man cher Yves. Are you now going to tell me that this man Klein works for both the Americans and the Mossad?'

'The Mossad is to be taken very seriously, Charles.'

'I entirely agree. How strong is your proof?'

'You have a man working for you called Ryderbeit. Another Jew, n'est-ce pas? A former employee - from Indo-China?'

'Please don't remind me. I lost a great deal of money over that business.'

'But Ryderbeit didn't?'

'Are you attempting to tell me that Ryderbeit works for the Mossad?' Pol said.

'He used to hold a Rhodesian pa.s.sport - which was inconvenient, to say the least. He is now a citizen of Luxembourg - thanks to yourself - and has a reputation of being a dangerous mercenary. Un urai pro.'

Pol allowed his belly to swell up over the edge of the table. 'I would not employ him if he were anything else.' 'He is the most serious of your agents in this operation, and the most trusted?'

'He does not know the final objective.'

There was a pause, while the waiter put down Pol's second cake and whisky.

Colonel Yves remained content with his half-drunk gla.s.s of iced -tea.

'You have still given me no evidence, Yves.'

'I have a reliable source in Rome. He has never let me down yet. He tells me that you have a leak in Larnaca.'

Pol raised his scant eyebrows. 'Eh bien?'

'As you know, Rome is an open city, as far as Intelligence is concerned.

Italian security is laughable. The Israelis have a very effective network there, monitoring the whole of the Eastern Mediterranean. They are treating your Larnaca operation as a potential priority.'

Pol sat inspecting his spoon. 'If your contact can identify this Israeli connection, I can promise you a handsome bonus.'

'Entendu. But I must warn you, there will be expenses.'

'Yves, you know I have many faults, but meanness is not one of them.'

The Colonel gave a brisk nod and stood up. He felt mildly irritated. Pol's personality was a ma.s.s of puzzling contradictions. 'Permit me to say so, Charles, but you seem remarkably complacent about this whole affaire?'

'Why not? The gang I am employing in Cyprus - with the exception of Ryderbeit - are b.u.ms, riffraff, de vrais miserables. The only thing they can do is fly planes. They are not only ignorant of the final objective - they are all totally expendable.

'Now, I think I will finish with a small glace au chocolat.'

The Sun Hall was a modest hotel by first-cla.s.s standards, full of plastic tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs and potted plants that needed dusting. The whole place had a forlorn fly-blown look.

Rawcliff had driven Matt back from the airfield, and now came in with him, postponing the moment when he had to return to the squalor of the Lord Byron.

To h.e.l.l with protocol, he thought - as long as he didn't b.u.mp into Peters.

The lobby was deserted, except for a sleepy clerk; but there were two people at the bar. Jo and Jim Ritchie. Jo was still in her nurse's uniform - presumably to help maintain an 'authentic' image of the mission. But Ritchie had changed into a cream silk shirt under a fawn suede jacket with leather b.u.t.tons, white linen trousers and moccasins. He might have just put down at Le Touquet, ready for a slap-up dinner and a flutter at the Casino de la Foret.

Rawcliff guessed that it must have been Ritchie whom he had heard driving away from the airfield, while he was sitting with Matt on the beach. And again he thought that young Ritchie seemed to spend a lot of leisure-time at the hotel.

It was Jo who first spotted Matt and Rawcliff. 'Come and join us! Peters has already turned in, so we can enjoy ourselves.' Matt made some mumbled excuse and went off towards the lifts; he evidently drew the line at having to stand at the bar, watching other people drink.

Rawcliff stayed.

Jo was sucking from a tall gla.s.s through a straw. She showed no trace of shock, following the morning's ma.s.sacre. Ritchie was on whisky, like all good pilots. He ordered Rawcliff a beer.

'You just missed an ill.u.s.trious guest, old sport. One Captain Spyromilio, Chief of Larnaca Police. All grace and favour, especially with Jo here. Didn't seem to know anything about those three dead hooligans out at the airport. But he's all clued up on the ship that's putting in tonight. Le Corsaire, out of Ma.r.s.eilles. He wants to be there, along with one of his Customs friends.

Claims it's just a formality - for which they will be duly rewarded with the traditional sweetener, of course.' He sipped his whisky. 'Meanwhile, we've got a little problem - rather nearer home. Major Grant. Up in his room with a bottle of whisky, drunk as a skunk.'

'That's helpful. By the way it looks, we'll be making our first dummy flight sometime tomorrow. Does Peters know?'

'Not yet. If you can get him to cooperate, Jo can give him a jab that'll fix him up. I tried, and got told to take a running f.u.c.k at a rolling doughnut.'

Jo smiled over her gla.s.s.

'I'll see what I can do.' Rawcliff finished his beer and turned.

'By the way, he's got a gun,' said Ritchie. 'His old Service revolver from Korea. Claims he keeps it as a memento. I didn't wait to find out if it was loaded or not.'

'Thanks for the tip.' Rawcliff paused. 'Incidentally, did you notice anything odd tonight when you drove in from the airport?'

'Like what?'

'Company. Big dark-brown American car. Local plates -just the driver. It picked me and Matt up just outside town and kept with us as far as the turning into Athens Street, on the corner. I didn't try to lose him.'

Ritchie shrugged, 'This is the town centre, after all - and you were following the main road. Maybe he was too.'

'Maybe. Only there wasn't a lot of traffic around, and he was keeping his distance. Thought I'd just mention it.' He began to walk away.

Ritchie called after him, 'Grant's in two-five, second floor.'

'Good luck!' said Jo.

Rawcliff did not answer. On his way to the lifts he pa.s.sed the switchboard operator, arid noticed the telex machine against the wall, at the back. As the lift door opened, a young man hurried up and stepped in beside him. The door closed and Rawcliff pointed inquiringly at the row of b.u.t.tons. The young man punched the third one, and Rawcliff the second. Neither of them spoke. The stranger had a sallow beaky face and longish, untidy black hair. He didn't look like a tourist, and seemed a little too scruffy to be a visiting businessman. The lift stopped. Rawcliff nodded to him and got out. Room 25 was at the end of the corridor. He knocked, but there was no answer. He knocked again. 'Major Grant!'