And it's here, it's my guess, that Ritchie's little Beachcraft Duke comes into its own. It's going to be parked down there waiting for us. It'll be a bit of a squeeze, but it's just about big enough to guarantee us all a safe getaway.

And at the same time none of us - not even you - knows the target, until it's. .h.i.t. You like it?'

'Except for one small detail,' said Matt. 'Young Ritchie's up there flying one of the Hercules. So who flies the Beachcraft?'

'That Frenchman who's arrived - Serge. Why not? He seems to know a lot about aircraft. And it doesn't take a genius to learn how to fly a plane.'

'I guess not. You've been pretty smart so far, friend. The way you. say it, it all fits together - except for those d.a.m.ned loudspeakers.' He paused. 'Let me ask you straight, Rawcliff. Why are you telling me all this?'

'Because even the most perfect operation usually has its Achilles' heel.' He gave him a sour grin, 'You're that heel, Matt. You hold the ace, remember.'

The American gave a sad smile. 'Okay, friend, I'll level with you. Jo told you - and she told me that she'd told you. I used to work for the Company - on a kinda freelance basis. Now I'm lapsed, like a bad Catholic. But you know what they say about Intelligence work? It's like the Church, or the CP. Once you've signed on, it's for the duration. Okay, so you expect me to put it all over on the hot-line to Langley? And what would I tell them, for Chrissakes? h.e.l.l, I don't know anything. G.o.d's truth I don't! I don't know, and young Jo doesn't know. None of us knows!

'But one thing I can tell you, friend. Whoever's behind this, is playing it pretty long. And very close to the chest. And my hunch is, it's a mighty big game, and I just hate to think what the stakes are!'

'But you must have some ideas? Another hunch?"

'Yes, I just might. For instance, I just might think like Sammy back there at the cafe when we first met. That maybe this is one of those games with a fixed pack - and that maybe the house knows it's fixed. Or better still, prefers not to know. I mean, why do you think they've gone for a bunch o' amateurs and oddb.a.l.l.s like us in the first place? Because the professionals have all got records - files a mile high. They'd leave a paper-chase all over the Middle East, if they were let loose. But take a cheap killer like Peters - a chancer like Sammy - a psycho like Thurgood. Or just poor saps like you and me. Some of us may be crooks, some not. But n.o.body's interested. We don't fit in, we're not programmed, we don't even begin to rate in the big league. So n.o.body's going to get s.h.i.t on their fingers when the operation comes off, or doesn't.

Either way, one thing's sure - n.o.body's gonna miss us.'

'Except my poor b.l.o.o.d.y wife and kid.'

There was a long silence between them.

'G.o.d, I could do with that drink,' said Matt. 'Or maybe I'd just better watch you drink? There's still some left.'

Rawcliff ignored the offer. He had drunk too much already, yet he still felt unpleasantly sober. 'Whichever way it falls, I think we're going to be killingpeople, Matt. They may be people we're not supposed to like, or they may be friends. Israelis, Arabs, Cubans. Even Russians -"advisers", of course.

Somewhere down in the so-called Soviet "sphere of influence" - like most of Ethiopia, or South Yemen. All just about within the range of a Hercules, on a one-way ticket. Or Iran. n.o.body likes them much - not even the Russkies.'

Nugent-Ross nodded. 'That would be mighty convenient, I guess? Kinda soft on the old conscience. Unless, of course, you're one of those limousine-liberals.'

'It's still killing people, Matt. And killing them in a very nasty way. I'm not going to give you a lot of soft humanistic b.a.l.l.s at this stage. I'm telling you straight out that you're the only one who can stop this operation.

Screw it up at the source.'

The American leaned his head back and ran his fingertips slowly down his neck, then back up again, his mouth pulling a long, clownish face at the ceiling.

'Okay, preacher, let's have it all! You want me to be the real Good Guy - the one who steps in where others fear to tread and saves thousands of human lives? You want me to take a screw-driver and f.u.c.k up those machines just before the final take-off? So you guys jump out and the planes fly on out of control, then crash harmlessly? And who's gonna pick up the price-tag? Because the big boys who are pulling the strings behind this one aren't stupid, for Chrissake! They'll know it's me - or they'll suspect it is. And suspicion's enough for their kind.'

He sat back and lit another cigarette. 'Sorry, friend. You just handed me the wrong script. Heroes are made of sterner stuff. Anyway, what the h.e.l.l does it matter? Do I have to give you Hamburg and Dresden and all that s.h.i.t? Not to mention the big bang over Hiroshima. The only difference is, the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who flew those missions were just picking up their Government pay-cheques - those that ever got back to draw them. You and I and the rest of us - we'll be creaming it off from some nice respectable Swiss bank, with no questions asked.'

Rawcliff just sat and nodded. 'I think I'll have that drink after all, Matt.'

He took a long pull at the flask, then added casually, 'I told you I was married, didn't I?'

'You did mention it.'

'But I didn't tell you what my wife does? She's a clever girl - very much in your line of country.' And he told the American the name of the multinational for which Judith worked.

Now that the moment had come, he felt a kind of frenzied numbness, a resignation to the inevitable. The drink had sapped some of the tension from his body, but the strain was beginning to tell now - the nervous hangover from anxiety and lack of sleep, his muscles already stiffening after the long night's work. Like a good pilot, he must keep his hands firmly on the controls - sit tight, stay calm, wait for the turbulence. Or the crash.

Instead, he found himself again listening to that soothing drawl, as Matt took the bait, 'It's a mighty long shot, friend - with mighty little time to act.

But that's one of the biggest corporations in the business. And if your wife's really on the ball -' He let the words hang. Rawcliff gave him no prompting.

Matt had lit another cigarette, taking his time. 'She's ideally placed, of course - London being the biggest computer centre in Europe. All she has to do is make a few initial inquiries. There'd be nothing lost, and it just mightpay off. I'm a.s.suming here that the systems were programmed in London. I know the equipment's French. In fact, as Sammy thinks, the French may be behind this whole caper. But London's already been used as the main base for recruiting personnel. It's also not only a computer centre - it has the best mapping services in the world, outside Washington.

'Now it's my guess that they'll have used the most detailed existing aerial survey maps for the source-data - they wouldn't have wanted to draw unnecessary attention to themselves by making their own maps. So I suggest your wife starts with the big London mapping libraries. It shouldn't be too difficult for her to find out if someone's recently used micro-dotted data on the most up-to-date, large-scale aerial surveys, covering several thousand square miles within range of Cyprus. Probably somewhere in the Middle East - including Israel and the area west of the Red Sea and the Arabian Peninsula.

Most of it's not been extensively mapped, and most of the maps will be specialized stuff, done for geological surveys looking for oil and minerals, or by satellite reconnaissance, for military purposes. Specialized, but not necessarily cla.s.sified.

'Or, if she really struck lucky, she might even get a lead on the actual computer that did the original processing. There can't be many of them around - they're not things you pick up at the local hardware store. But her company will have access to them, or at least be able to identify them. And computer people gossip. Programming one of those guidance-systems would have been a big job, and must have attracted attention.

'Once she finds the processor, it should be relatively simple for her to track down the second computer - the one which would have to have been programmed by the first, to feed the data on to tape. Six tapes on ca.s.sette, no bigger than cigar-boxes, which at some time, some place, are going to be slotted into those six little machines waiting out at the airport.'

Rawcliff licked his lips. His mouth felt dry and sour with the aftertaste of adrenalin. He could have done with a beer, but didn't want to risk going downstairs again unnecessarily, or drawing attention to himself by calling Room Service. If Peters was doing his job, he'd have certainly bought the complicity of the hotel staff. Which reminded Rawcliff of that beaky-faced young man from the third floor.

He stared back at Nugent-Ross. 'You make it sound too easy.'

'Not easy. But maybe not too difficult, either, with a bit of luck.' He gave a loose shrug, 'It's a lot better idea than risk horsing around with those machines and getting the finger put on us. At least this way we might find out where we stand. The final flight-plan - full details of where you jump, plus the destination and objective of the whole operation.'

Rawcliff nodded. 'It's a better idea, Matt, because it lets you off the hook.

Isn't that it?'

The American ignored the taunt. He had lit another cigarette and sat breathing smoke peacefully at the ceiling.

'And what does my wife do when she gets hold of this second computer?'

'If she knows her way around, and has the right contacts, she might get hold of a copy of the print-out. Officially, it would be confidential, but if the job was done under the cover of a commercial firm - as I suspect it would have been - security wouldn't be too rigid. As I said, the computer world's too small - nice and select, like a good club, with a lot of loose talk betweenthe members. If your wife's as good as you think she is, she'll know what to look for, and where to look.'

'And if the new schedule's as tight as Serge suggested it is, she'll have twenty-four hours, from the time I contact her', Rawcliff said. 'Only her company doesn't work a twenty-four-hour day. Or if the weather doesn't clear soon, forty-eight hours, at the most.' He realized he was already trying to stall, find excuses, kill off the whole idea before it got out of hand.

'You can give her at least one hard lead,' said Matt. 'The fact that they're not using the ordinary auto-pilot, but instead, this very latest guidance-system, can only mean one thing. A belly-hugging flight, over difficult and well-defended terrain. Which rules out the sea and empty desert.' He paused. 'Do you know anything about air-defences of the Middle East?'

'Not a lot. Flying BEA, we weren't exactly expecting to be shot at.'

Nugent-Ross nodded without humour, 'Egypt's got the biggest variety of hardware - mostly the old Russian stuff she collected between the '67 and '73 wars. SAM-3's and the later SAM-7, the "Grail". And recently, the US has been equipping her with the "Chaparral". Egypt's worth checking first - an outward flight following the established pattern of the mercy-mission down the Red Sea - to the Ogaden maybe, or to the Horn of Africa - then taking the belly-hugging computerized return flight over the desert. Target - the crowded centre of Cairo. Since the Camp David Agreement, there are plenty of Arab organizations crazy enough to try it. All they need is someone to write out the cheque - someone equally crazy, like Gadaffi.'

'What? Wipe out Cairo? And what good's that going to do anyone?'

Nugent-Ross smiled. 'Good doesn't come into it, friend. You might ask what good did the Olympic Ma.s.sacre do anyone? Or hijacking aircraft, or shooting up international airports?'

'Okay, Matt. How about Tel Aviv for the target? Or Jerusalem - preferably when the Knesset's sitting? Only Jo would have warned them first, of course.'

Again the American let the jibe pa.s.s. 'Possible. But over their western approaches the Israelis have got the best early-Darning system outside the US and the Soviet Union. If these people of ours were trying to hit a target in Israel, they'd more likely send in the flights from the south, over Saudi Arabia. The Saudis have got a pretty good defence-system too, using British "Bloodhounds" and the more recent French "Crotale" missile - only they've got one h.e.l.luva lot o' ground to cover, so their air-defences are mostly in the north and east, against attacks from Israel and Iraq - and more recently, against Iran. Not forgetting the Russkies, of course.

'Yeah, we'd do well to consider Saudi Arabia.' Matt spoke as though he were thinking aloud now. 'She may be the traditional seat of Islam, and is also fully committed to the cause against Israel. But she still doesn't have many friends in the Islamic world, outside little Jordan and the Emirates. Camp David has ruled out Egypt, and -she's far too reactionary for the leftist Arab states, like Syria, Iraq and Algeria, or a quasi-Marxist religious fanatic, like Gadaffi.

'But then, there's another obvious target - that deranged Messiah in Iran, and his mob-apostles, who regard the Sunni rulers of Saudi Arabia as heretics, d.a.m.ned in the eyes of Allah. And the Saudis are certainly contenders! The Russians don't like her rulers, because they're politically pro-West. Whilefrom the West's point of view, Saudi Arabia's an economic pain in the a.r.s.e.

She's got us all over that oil-barrel, and she knows it. Which suggests another possibility. The old Dirty Tricks Department. A freelance operation, under clandestine leadership, financed through a money-laundry in Lichtenstein or Switzerland, with no messy footprints leading back to Washington or Whitehall or Paris, or wherever. Though I doubt the West's got the b.a.l.l.s to try it.' He paused, spreading his hands across his naked knees. 'It was just a thought. Otherwise, we'll just have to wait and see what your wife can turn up. Are you agreeable?"

'You mean, is she agreeable?' Rawcliff had stood up. 'I can only ask her. But she's going to need some details about these machines of yours.'

'Tell her it's a Tetra-Lipp Retropilot Mark 100/4.'

Rawcliff had found a pad of hotel notepaper by the bed and was scribbling down further technical details, most of which was gibberish to him, but which he confidently believed that Judith would understand. It gave him an odd queasy feeling - this electric bond between her and Matt, which had about it a disconcerting stench of intimacy, as though she were already involved, drawn unwittingly, innocently, into a swamp of conspiracy that was very probably leading to some act of b.l.o.o.d.y horror.

He looked at his watch. 'The Post Office'll be closed by now. I'm not going to risk calling her from here,' he added in a voice betraying the first twinge of doubt, 'or from my own place - even if I could get through.'

'It opens again at five.' The American sounded too bland. 'Time for the weather to settle - for you to have a better idea of when you'll be flying.'

Or time to change my mind, Rawcliff thought. He had begun to open the door, to make sure the corridor was clear, when Nugent-Ross called after him, 'Just one other thing! Tell her to make sure the track's virgin. I mean, we want to make sure that no one else has been sniffing around before her.'

Rawcliff turned. 'This isn't going to get her into any kind of trouble, is it?'

The American gave him a watery smile. 'What - in a nice civilized city like London? h.e.l.l, she'll only be asking a few questions. Part of her job.' He raised a limp hand. 'So long, friend. Good luck.'

Rawcliff again took the stairs, and again met no one. The clerk was snoozing behind his desk; the man didn't even notice him leave.

He waited up in his room in the Lord Byron until 4.50, before slipping out, unseen. The street was still full of wind -short tepid blasts that churned up the dust and slammed windows and shutters, and set the nerves on edge. A subtle feverish wind, like the mistral or the sirocco, which can unhinge even the most balanced mind.

It was after the siesta, and crowds hurried and jostled, down the pavements, as he headed east on to Kitieus Street, past the Swedish Consulate, grey and shuttered, and remembered wondering afterwards, what the h.e.l.l did the Swedes need a. Consulate for in a G.o.dforsaken place like this? Presumably a relic of the old UN Force. And a lot of b.l.o.o.d.y use they'd be to him now.

It was at the turning down to the Post Office that he knew he was being followed. It was a visceral instinct, like that of a nervous animal. Nothing more than the tap of ghost footsteps, and when he looked back, just thehurrying crowds - black cropped hair and shawled heads bent against the wind.

An empty cigarette-packet came bouncing and spinning down the gutter towards him.

He arrived outside the Post Office at a few minutes past five. The big iron gates had been folded back and the first crush had already pa.s.sed through, ready to grapple with the mindless obstructions of the local bureaucracy.

Rawcliff was busy looking for the counter which dealt with international telephone calls, and for a moment his guard dropped. Another couple of seconds and he would have walked smack into Jim Ritchie.

Perhaps it was the neurotic effect of the wind, after the long waiting, with too many of Taki's thick Greek coffees, but he now reacted with that same fearful instinct, stepping swiftly sideways behind a marble pillar. He knew at once that it was absurd, that he was getting jumpy, losing his grip, for Ritchie was the one member of the team - with the possible exception of Ryderbeit - whom he didn't have active cause to distrust.

Ritchie had just come out of one of the phone-booths reserved for local calls.

He had paused and stood studying a slip of paper; then he crumpled it up, seemed about to toss it into a spitoon, changed his mind and stuck it in his trouser pocket.

Rawcliff was reminded of that sheet of hotel note-paper 223 from the Sun Hall, with his scribbled instructions to Judith from Matt Nugent-Ross. He had spent nearly half an hour lying on his bed, memorizing them - a string of computer jargon and meaningless digits - until he had felt confident enough to flush them down the lavatory.

Ritchie had walked past without seeing him, and had now disappeared into the street. At the same instant Rawcliff knew, with irrational certainty, that someone was watching him.

He edged his way round the pillar, his eyes smarting from the dust and wind.

Huddled queues, patient faces peering through the grilles. He waited twenty seconds, then pushed his way back towards the entrance. Through the moving gaps in the dense rackety traffic, he saw Ritchie opening the front pa.s.senger-door' of a car parked directly across the street, under a 'no-waiting' sign. It was a big chocolate-brown American sedan. Rawcliff glimpsed the beaky profile of the driver, with his untidy black hair, as Ritchie climbed in beside him.

But instead of the car starting, a second car now appeared, and pulled up directly behind the first. It was a Mini: and although Rawcliff could not see, he knew that it would be an Italian-built Innocenti. A tall man in an open-necked shirt got out. He did not look like a Cypriot, nor did Rawcliff think he was English: a long scooped-out face, high forehead and rimless spectacles. Rawcliff watched him through the traffic, as he came round the Mini, paused by the sedan, and opened the rear door.

Rawcliff had started down the steps of the Post Office. He could see Ritchie turned in his seat, talking to the man in the back. Then the driver joined in.

A few more words were exchanged. Ritchie nodded, reached over the seat and shook hands with the tall man. It was an oddly formal, un-English gesture for Ritchie. He said something to the driver, then got out and began walking rapidly away down the street towards the seafront. The tall man had climbed out again and gone back to the Mini.

Rawcliff did not stay to see the two cars drive away, but returned to the cool vault of the Post Office hall. He was still I in no real hurry - the two-hourtime difference meant that his call would reach Judith at her office around 3.30 pm, which, with luck, should catch her nicely between lunch and her regular Tuesday afternoon sales conference, which Rawcliff knew to his annoyance often went on late. But first he had to endure the maddening anxiety of waiting a quarter of an hour in a queue, before he could place his call, through the international operator; while another ten minutes pa.s.sed until a woman's shrill voice called out his London number, with the 499 Mayfair prefix barely intelligible above the babble of the crowded hall.

He still had that uncomfortable feeling of being watched, though his sense of disquiet was now concentrated on what he was going to tell his wife, as he pulled the padded door shut, sealing himself off in the hot airless cell of the telephone-booth.

He lifted the receiver and stood listening to the familiar English girl repeating mechanically the name of the multinational for which Judith worked.

He gave her the extension number. No tell-tale clicks. It was a public switchboard, for Christ's sake. The line was very clear, as he now heard that exasperating languid voice of his wife's secretary. He explained who he was, and she told him to hang on. He could feel the receiver already growing clammy under his hand.

'h.e.l.lo, Charles?' She sounded very close, in that dark quiet place, and at the same time stiff and remote, a tone he recognized all too well from when he rang her up after a row the night before, waking with a headache, to find that she'd already left for the office.

He kept the preamble down to a minimum. Told her not to worry, and that he was doing his job in Cyprus, that it would soon be over, and that he was all right - above all, he was all right. He didn't give her time to press him. He asked her to get ready to take notes; then he rested back against the wall of the cabin and began to recite, slowly, like some idiot incantation, the instructions that Matt had given him.

This time she was too confused, or perhaps still too angry, in her quiet, over-controlled way, to ask for a full explanation. She let him go on, telling her to cover the whole area of the Middle East and north-west Africa, concentrating on the full area round the Red Sea - Egypt, Saudi Arabia, the southern approaches to Israel.

Even before he had finished, he was feeling foolish, aware of the melodramatic absurdity of the whole thing. It was not only preposterous, impossible, it was b.l.o.o.d.y daft - a deliberate diversion by that American to keep him happy, or at least keep him busy.

Somehow he managed to maintain the pretence, stressing the urgency of her task, and of the maximum time-limit of forty-eight hours in which to accomplish it. There was a dead silence. It was very hot in the booth and he was p.r.i.c.kling with sweat. He heard her cool voice, 'It's no good my asking what all this is about?'

'No, love. But it's very important - that's all I can tell you.'

Her next words had the sudden chill edge of hysteria, 'Oh G.o.d, Charles, I hope you know what you're doing! Please -for the sake of me and Tom -!' But he cut in quickly, closing his eyes with dread, promising to call her again, without fail, at eight o'clock tomorrow evening - Wednesday, her time. He calculated, perhaps recklessly, that the relief-flight must be back well before then.'

He hung up with a sense of weary anguish. He had forgotten about Ritchie andthe ubiquitous beaky-faced young man from the Sun Hall, and the tall stranger and the familiar two cars. He didn't even worry any more about being followed, as he stepped "back into the noisy hall and paid the woman at the desk, from a grubby wad of Cypriot notes which he had changed, at a humiliating rate, with Taki. The call to London had taken a sizeable bite out of his remaining cash resources.

Outside, the wind had not let up and the sky was crowded with scudding grey clouds - the shreds of the c.u.mulus-nimbus, still rising dark above the sea.

Dusk was closing in and he returned to the Lord Byron, feeling deeply depressed. The hotel had a clogged, grimy smell that made him feel dirty. Taki was presiding behind the empty bar. No sign of Ryderbeit or Thurgood. A radio played very loud bazouki music. Taki beamed at him and gave a broad gesture, 'You drink, my friend?'

Rawcliff stopped long enough for a beer. The Cypriot added, 'Today weather no good for aeroplanes! Perhaps tomorrow good - yes?'

'Yes.' Rawcliff considered going up to find Ryderbeit on die chance that he might be sober and awake. But what did he have to tell him? That he'd just put in motion a ridiculous plan to try and scupper the operation? Ryderbeit wouldn't like that. He wouldn't like it at all. He might be a shatterpate adventurer, but he was also a professional. He had been paid to do a job, and he would do it, and make sure that he got paid at the end of it. Judith would be wasting her time, as far as Sammy Ryderbeit was concerned.

Rawcliff finished his beer and went up to his cheerless room. No lifts in this hotel. No sound from the other rooms. He imagined Thurgood's gruesome white body stretched but somewhere near, his manic energy spent, recharging himself for the next bout. G.o.d knew what Ryderbeit was up to.

He stood naked in the narrow shower cubicle, watching die water drain away in a rusty pool round his feet. There was a c.o.c.kroach on the wall, like an enormous blood-blister. He reached out to squash it with his thumb, and heard the door of his room click behind him. He had left it unlocked. He turned and saw Jo staring unashamedly at him. He nodded to her, as though he were expecting her. She was wearing a nondescript headscarf and plain cotton skirt -which was no doubt why he had failed to pick her out of the crowd in the Post Office, or in the street outside, although he had known all along that there'd been someone. A professional. At least he could give her credit for that.

She came in and sat down on the bed. 't.i.t-for-tat, Mr Rawcliff. I call Rome, you call London. Only you spoke for longer than I did.'

He bent down and picked up his pants, noticing with mild relief that they were clean. 'It was my wife. Any objections?'

'Why should I? I don't know about Peters, though.'

He pulled on his pants. 'What do you want, Jo?'