'A friend of mine would like to give you lunch tomorrow. One o'clock at the "Escargot" in Greek Street. Do you know it?'

'I'll find it. Who am I to ask for?'

'A Mr Peters. So he can expect you at one?'

'Thank you.' Then with a spurt of adrenalin, Rawcliff added, 'Over and out.'

Back in the kitchen he launched into a carefully prepared, diluted version of Mason's story - some people were looking for a qualified contract-pilot to fly some heavy drilling equipment to the Middle East. He didn't know whether it would come to anything, but he gathered that they were offering good money and he thought he would at least follow it through. His manner was artificially casual, and they both knew that he was a feeble liar; but Judith to emphasize her reaction, said nothing, except one oblique remark about life insurance. He was chronically inept at paperwork and knew that he was poorly insured, shouldanything happen to him. But he refused to rise to the bait. Just before they went to sleep, she said, 'Do you know how much they're offering for this job?'

'I'll know tomorrow. I'm having lunch with them.'

'Well, it'll be nice to have something to put in the bank. And it'll give you a break, won't it?'

'I suppose so.' Like h.e.l.l it would.

He somehow got through the morning, without a drink and without losing his temper with Toby Hyde-Smith. He wondered who they would send. It was unlikely to be the crazy Thurgood - he had been no more than a casual contact. And Ritchie was just one of the hired help. Newby was the most likely, with this man Peters as the next one up in the chain of command.

He considered how they would react. If they were really in a hurry and wanted an extra bona fide pilot for the mission, they'd hardly have reason to complain if he stepped in where Mason-feared to tread. In fact, they'd have every right to be grateful.

He took a taxi up to Soho, arriving at the restaurant ten minutes after he was due. No point in appearing too keen. 'Is Mr Peters here yet?'

The waiter consulted his book. 'He's expecting you, sir? Table for three, sir, over there,' and he began to lead the way, into the dining-room. There was only one man at the table, sitting with his back to them. He did not get up, just nodded, as Rawcliff sat down opposite him against (he wall. The waiter said, 'Monsieur would like something to drink?'

Rawcliff saw" that the man was having nothing. He said, 'I'll wait for the wine.'

'Very good, Monsieur.'

The man looked at him with a steady grey stare. 'Flight-Lieutenant Mason?

Peters.'

'The waiter told me it was a table for three.' Rawcliff glanced at the third place between them.

'He'll be joining us when we've eaten. You know him. Mr Newby.' The wine-waiter arrived, but Peters waved him away, without consulting Rawcliff.

'I was told to expect a much younger man, Mason.'

He had a long, hard, flat face with a sloping forehead, like a cricket bat.

His skin was smooth and dry, closely shaven, and his age might have been anything between thirty-five and fifty. Rawcliff was puzzled by his voice: it had the same dull intonation as the voice on the phone, but with an occasional clipped vowel that gave it a curious primness. A colonial voice. South African.

* 37 Rawcliff had antic.i.p.ated the man's remark, and had his answer prepared. He had even made a check-call that morning to the local RAF Recruiting Centre in Wandsworth, and had learnt that he still had more than ten years in hand, as a full-time pilot, before the statutory age limit of fifty-seven. But surprisingly, Peters seemed to let the matter slide. Instead he added, 'How long have you been with the RAF?' Here Rawcliff had decided to play safe. His true 'Service' background was so murky, its details blurred and often overlapping, that he could afford to be deliberately vague, in the sure knowledge that Peters - and whoever was behind him - would never be able to check his full file, even if such a thing existed.

He pretended to show more interest in the menu, as he said, 'Pushing fifteen years, with the odd break.' He looked up. 'I'm sorry you were hoping for someone younger.' But his smile was not returned.

'Been in the RAF most of your life then, Mason?'

'More or less.'

'I'd put you in your mid-forties. So you enlisted at about thirty? Bit late, wasn't it? What did you do before that?'

Rawcliff paused strategically; the waiter was taking their order. The restaurant was only half-full, the tables well s.p.a.ced. 'I knocked about a bit.

Learnt a few tricks - the odd skulduggery and rough stuff, on Her so-called Majesty's Service, in a few far-flung spots, before we hauled down the flag for the last time.'

'Ever killed anyone, Mason?'

'Sorry, mate. Secrets of the trade.'

Peters' face was as expressionless as the restaurant furniture. 'You mentioned the "odd break", during your RAF service?'

"Oh, the usual stint with the Special Air Service. I'm on the Reserve, of course,' he added, telling the half-lie with casual conviction.

'In what Zones of Operation?'

Rawcliff gave an easy smile: 'Oh come on, Peters, you're not so green as to expect me to answer a question like that?'

'It's something you didn't tell us the other evening.'

'I wasn't asked. I was simply told you wanted a qualified pilot who could handle a Hercules, solo - getting her off the ground and back down again in the minimum s.p.a.ce, with a full pay-load, on bad terrain, and flying at low levels.'

There was a pause while the waiter served the first course. 'Have you fixed your leave?' Peters asked.

'You give me the dates and I can arrange it - three weeks compa.s.sionate, and more if necessary.'

'Three weeks should be sufficient.' Peters' face was stiff with courteous disdain. 'I thought the RAF were overstretched?'

Rawcliff ignored him, and poured some water from the carafe. He regretted now that he hadn't asked for that drink. 'Before I make any formal request to my station, I want the answer to three questions. How much money? Where are we flying to and from? And what are we carrying?'

Peters picked a sliver of lettuce from his teeth. 'Ten thousand sterling upfront. Another forty thousand when the job's done.'

The two of them ate for a moment in silence. Rawcliff relaxed and smiled. 'No go, Peters.'

Peters just sat facing him.

'It's too much money,' Rawcliff said. 'Five thousand - for a simple contract job - I'd take my leave and jump at it. But fifty thousand? Oh no. You're buying more than a pilot, Peters. You're either buying secrecy or paying danger-money - big danger-money - or both. I've got a secure job and a family to support, and I'm not walking into this like a blind kitten.'

Peters pushed his plate away and touched a napkin to his lips. His eyes did not move from Rawcliff. 'You've obviously had time to think this over, Mason.

As a professional serving officer, you must be familiar with receiving your orders on take-off - sealed orders which you only open when you're airborne.'

'Under very special circ.u.mstances.'

'These are very special circ.u.mstances.'

'The only difference being that I won't be a serving * 39 officer. I'll be doing it for the money. And I shall want to know exactly what the job is.'

There was another pause. The waiter was hovering with two plates of rare steak; a second waiter brought up the vegetables. At the door a small dark man was handing in his coat. Peters glanced across the restaurant, towards the entrance. He looked bored. 'Will you excuse me a moment?'

Rawcliff watched him stroll towards the door. His movements were loose and athletic. Rawcliff noticed that the small dark man had disappeared.

He sat behind his steak and waited. He wondered what they'd do, even in deepest Soho? They'd scarcely put the hard arm on him here. Anyway, what did they have to lose? They wanted to buy a run-of-the-mill pilot for a small fortune, so why shouldn't Rawcliff be their man? With a flash of conceit, he considered himself a cut above Mason. It was just a question of convincing Peters and Newby.

The two of them came back across the restaurant; Peters pulled back the table and the little dark man took his seat beside Rawcliff. He was plump and glossy, with long black eyelashes on a soft round face that looked as though it had been faintly powdered; and he smelt of after-shave. He was one of those people you expect to see at any big international airport, in the bar of the best hotels, the best restaurants, the most fashionable nightclubs; and he would probably specialize in tall flashy girls. Rawcliff would have given a lot to have been able to look at his pa.s.sport -a.s.suming that he had only one.

The man had taken the wine-list, ignoring Rawcliff altogether. He ordered a c.o.c.ktail, giving the waiter precise instructions. His voice was relaxed, pleasant, with a faintly cosmopolitan intonation; Rawcliff wondered, like Mason, was it Jewish? Greek? Mongrel Mediterranean?

The man turned to him with a little sigh. 'Who are you?'

'The name is Rawcliff. Charles Rawcliff. I took a call from Mr Peters last night.'

The man smiled. 'As I understand it, Mr Rawcliff, the call was in fact made tosomeone named Flight-Lieutenant Mason.' He held out his hand, and Rawcliff caught the glint of the diamond ring. 'I'm John Newby. Would you mind explaining how you come to be here?'

'Not at all.' Rawcliff had also antic.i.p.ated this new scene, and had prepared his lines accordingly. In a way, he felt he had a definite edge over Flight-Lieutenant Mason: for instead of a time-serving greenhorn who could be weaned off the rule-book over a few brandies, Rawcliff was confident that his own career, fragmented though it had been, was much more in line with what this smooth-talking Newby, and his South African sidekick, were pitching for.

He gave them most of it straight - how he had learnt his flying during National Service, giving full particulars of his experience with different aircraft, flying hours, safety record etc., and included only those dates and places where they didn't seem to matter, or couldn't be checked. For the rest, the old Official Secrets Act was implied; and Newby was tactful enough not to press him. Two details which he did leave out were his little trouble with the bottle, and how he had finally flunked the special psychological screening interview which they held at regular intervals back at their place outside Cobham, when he'd one day let slip that he had an unfortunate aversion to killing.

He concluded with a brief, more or less truthful account of his career as a civil airline pilot, until he'd fluffed that one too - though again he wasn't going to volunteer the information unless specifically asked.

Neither of them had interrupted once. Not a muscle in Peters' face had moved; while Newby had sat watching him, almost unblinking, from under his long black eyelashes. When Rawcliff finally stopped speaking, Newby gave a purring laugh and signalled dexterously to the wine waiter. 'You would like a little liqueur, perhaps, Mr Rawcliff? For myself, I sometimes take an iced Grand Marnier. It braces me for the afternoon, without making me too sleepy. Such a bore to be sleepy in the afternoon.' He leant back and patted his well-tailored stomach. 'I must say, I admire your nerve.' He nodded at Peters: 'Ten out of ten for nerve.'

Peters gave Rawcliff a hard glare. Newby nodded his sleek furry head. 'So you no longer fly - professionally? But you ' 41 still do have a valid pilot's licence, of course?'

'Yes. I fly with a local club outside London.' A lie, but one he'd decided to risk: it made the record sound better. In any case, Newby seemed satisfied.

'Quite so - keeps your hand in.' Newby had glanced at Peters. 'I don't think we should blame Mr Rawcliff too severely for this little muddle. Although I am disappointed in Flight-Lieutenant Mason. I had urged him to be discreet. He seemed a dull young man, but basically sound. Yet I was wrong.' His moist black eyes had moved back to Rawcliff, and his next words held a hidden edge of menace, 'I hope we will not be disappointed in you, Mr Rawcliff?'

Rawcliff was listening to the murmur of lunchtime talk; then Newby added brightly, almost off-hand, 'What do you do now, Mr Rawcliff?'

'I'm in the wine business.'

'I see. And is that profitable? You don't mind my asking, but under the circ.u.mstances I feel justified in knowing a little about you?'

'No - to both questions.' 'Quite so.' Newby gave a tactful nod. 'And why did you stop being a pilot?'

'They chucked me out.' To h.e.l.l with them! he thought. If they were serious - as he suspected they were - they'd have to know sooner or later. Anyway, they were paying for the meal. 'I'd had a few drinks. Nothing unusual. If anyone tells you that civil airline pilots never drink for forty-eight hours before flying, they're talking through their a.r.s.es. We drink like everyone else - sometimes like fishes, particularly on a long run. It's like driving over the limit-it's all right until you make a mistake and get caught.'

'What were the details?' said Peters. It was the first time he had spoken since Newby's arrival.

'Gib - one of the worst spots in Europe. The regular pilot's nightmare. Runway half out to sea and about 300 yards too short for comfort, with a nasty steep right-angled turn on the approach. It was night, p.i.s.sing with rain, and I'd laced my coffee with a few brandies. I wasn't in the least drunk - only afterwards my b.l.o.o.d.y little co-pilot blew the whistle on me. We burst a tyre on touch-down - no fault of mine - and nearly lost a wing. So, after the Inquiry, I had to kiss goodbye to all those hostesses, my pay-cheque and pension rights, and was out on the streets.'

Peters was tapping the table with the edge of his hand. 'You say the runway was three hundred yards too short? Three hundred yards might be all you get with a Hercules.'

'So Mason told me.'

'What else did Mason tell you?' said Newby.

'He told me just what you'd told him - which wasn't much. I don't see what the problem is,' Rawcliff added, with energetic self-confidence. 'Surely one pilot's as good as another - for your sort of job?'

'Quite. Providing he is discreet. We are paying for discretion, too, Mr Rawcliff.' He smiled. 'You have a saying, do you not - that discretion is the better part of valour?' He spoke dreamily, as though the words contained some original wisdom which he had only just discovered. 'Discretion and valour - that is what we are paying for.'

Rawcliff said, 'Let's start talking seriously, Mr Newby. Mason's thrown in his hand, and you're probably well shot of him - those RAF boys are trained by the book and they fly by the book. He may have been indiscreet, but at least he put you on to me, and saved you having to waste more time looking for another pilot. I'm qualified, I'm freelance, and the only book I fly by is the plane's handbook.

'Now I'm interested in your proposition - in so far as it goes. Fifty thousand pounds is a nice sum, but it's a lot of b.l.o.o.d.y use if I wind up dead. I want to know exactly how long the odds are - and I know that for that sort of money they're going to be very long.'

Newby moistened his lips and smiled. He had taken out a crocodile cigarette-case from which he selected a black cheroot with a thin gold band.

He offered one to Rawcliff, who declined. 'How sensible,' said Newby, 'I've given up cigarettes myself - they give me asthma. These are not a disagreeable subst.i.tute, providing one does not inhale them. You know the Eastern Mediterranean, of course?'

'I've flown to Greece, and Istanbul. But I wouldn't say I knew much more thanEllinikon and Yesilkoy Airports, and the bars of the King George and the Pera Palace.'

Peters' long face was taut with disapproval. Newby nodded. 'You are not, perhaps, familiar with the Middle East?'

'Not so far. Do you originally come from there, by the way?'

Newby's smile stiffened for an instant, but held firm. 'What a curious question. No, I don't, as a matter of fact. I am British.' Two tendrils of smoke curled out of his small nostrils. 'Mr Rawcliff, I think it is perhaps time that we were frank with you.'

'That's fine by me. It's certainly more than you were with Mason.'

Newby took his gla.s.s of Grand Marnier and sniffed at it delicately. 'Superb.

Your health, Mr Rawcliff.' He was behaving as though Peters were not there.

'Let me first make . what may seem an impertinent observation. I deduce that you are not a man who is familiar with the workings of big business?' He tapped off a finger of ash from his cheroot. 'I'm going to surprise you now, Mr Rawcliff. We are in the charity business - international charity.'

'Is charity big business?'

'My dear sir, it certainly is! It is not just a matter of a few old ladies sending in pound notes, or of students and pretty girls rattling collecting tins in the street. Today the business is ruled by committees and sub-committees and commissions, even ministries. It is not only big business, it is politics. A pot-bellied child, a living skeleton of a woman' -he made a little circle in the air with his cheroot - 'they have ceased to have any importance in themselves', they are mere statistics. What is important is where they come from. The territorial indicative, you might say' - and he smiled at his obscure little joke. 'What State is responsible for them, or what National Liberation Front is claiming them. It is not so much a matter of which people you help, but "of which government or governments are behind the people you are helping.' He used his hands while he spoke, tracing elaborate arabesques in the air with his lighted cheroot.

'Are these unhappy starving people oppressed by a nation which is supported by the West? Is that nation in conflict, and if so, on what side? I don't just mean the goodies and the baddies, the Free World versus the rest. Things have now become so complicated. If you smile at the Chinese, you must also smile, behind your hand, at the deposed butchers of Cambodia. If you are a liberal, you may have rejoiced at the revolution in Iran. But do you also rejoice at the renaissance of Islam - a return to the Dark Ages? As I said, it is so complicated - for those who have ideals, that is. Do you have ideals, Mr Rawcliff?'

'None that would worry you.'

'And, of course, you have nothing against mercy missions?'

'Only that the stuffs usually syphoned off into the fat cats' pockets before the starving ma.s.ses ever get a peek at it. But that's not my problem. I just want the facts - not only my terms of contract but what that contract exactly entails. How many aircraft? Who are my accomplices? Where are we flying from?

And where to?'

Newby blew smoke at the ceiling, then leant forward and crushed out his cheroot. Rawcliff glanced at Peters, whose anger seemed to have temporarilysubsided. He was getting worried by Peters - less as a threat, more as an inhibiting presence.

Newby seemed to think the same thing, at the same time. He said, 'Peters, let me have a chat with Mr Rawcliff. I think that I can handle him alone,' he added, with a t.i.tter. 'I'll settle the bill.'

Peters stood up, gave a quick nod and walked out.

'Who is that b.a.s.t.a.r.d?' Rawcliff said.

'You don't like him? No, I don't entirely blame you. He is excessively security conscious - in the policeman's sense of the word. It has its advantages, but it also becomes socially tiresome. He is not a very cultured man, I'm afraid.'