'Get Jo to look at it. I'm sure she'll find it highly attractive.' Ryderbeit lit a cigar and led the way out to the Suzuki. 'He sits in the back,' he said, jerking his thumb toward Thurgood, 'and don't breathe over us. Keep your windows open and your poxy germs to yourself! Thurgood sustained his asinine jabber all the way to the airfield. It had ceased to be comic, and now took on the sinister guise of the true psychotic: he was like an automaton that has been programmed to utter a string of irrelevant phrases, each delivered without the least facial expression, 'Dashed fine to be getting the old kites Hying, eh? I'm looking forward to this shufti!' - scratching all the time as he talked.

Occasionally Ryderbeit would tell him to b.u.t.ton his lip, but it was as though the man had not heard. Nor did he seem to pay the least attention to Ryderbeit's comments to Rawcliff, 'The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's blown a fuse. Holy Moses, I'm glad I'm not going to be up in that plane with him!'

'He looks and sounds sick to me,' said Rawcliff. 'What's that rash he's got?'

'G.o.d knows, but it's something pretty horrible. Just our hick to have one of us go sick, on the morning before takeoff. Grant was bad enough - now we'vegot this! A b.l.o.o.d.y rabid hyena in the back. If there was a moon, he'd be f.u.c.king barking at it!' In his keenness and excitement, Ryderbeit displayed an almost childish innocence. His only concern about the operation was that it should proceed without mishap. He believed in doing a dishonest job honestly - unlike half the other members of the team.

By eight am they were all a.s.sembled out at the hangar, with the exception of Matt Nugent-Ross; he would not be needed until the final flight, when he was to load the guidance-systems, and activate them at some stage during the mission.

Jo was there, in her nurse's uniform, with her Red Cross case. She greeted Rawcliff with a casual nod, while chatting to Ritchie. Rawcliff had to admire her nerve, but then it would have been part of her training. Ritchie .gave him his boyish grin and asked if he'd slept all right 'in that flea-pit of yours', to which Rawcliff made some dim joke about c.o.c.kroaches. He found that he was looking at Ritchie in rather a different light now: no longer as the playboy taxi-pilot hopping over to Deauville for the weekend, but as a cheap informer on a one-night-stand with Whitehall, as well as dealing through a professional street-walker like Klein, whose clients included Langley, Virginia, and Dzerzhinski Square, Moscow.

They were joined by Guy Grant, still sallow, with mushroom-pouches under his eyes; but he had turned himself out in a smart biscuit-coloured suit, and his crisp grey hair was carefully combed and varnished back. He looked at Rawcliff and Jo with a pinched smile, 'It was d.a.m.ned white of you both to look after me the other night. I behaved abominably. Sorry I didn't apologize before, but what with all the loading and everything -' He had drawn Rawcliff aside. 'That Frenchman hasn't said anything about me, has he?'

'I haven't seen him since the other night.' Rawcliff had noticed that Serge was busy listening to the weather reports on Thurgood's radio.

Grant nodded. 'I must say, old bean, I'm as nervous as a kitten!'

'You'll be all right when the time comes," Rawcliff said, without conviction.

'The waiting's always the worst time.'

Jo came up to them and said, 'I've been asked to look at Thurgood's chest.

Sammy thinks he's got foot-and-mouth.' She giggled, just as Thurgood strutted over to them and once more, with evident pride, ripped open his shirt for her to see.

She stood examining him with professional dispa.s.sion. 'How long have you had this?' she said at last.

He gazed at her with his cloudy eyes, the pupils shrunk to black pin-heads, and answered as though in a trance, 'Must've come up during the night. Didn't notice til! this morning, when it began to itch.' He had spoken in his normal voice, as though the ventriloquist's doll had been returned to its shelf.

Ryderbeit shouted at her, 'I should keep your paws well off him, Jo, my darling - he's probably picked that up from some scabby wh.o.r.e. Oswald, you're an evil poxy sod."

Thurgood stared at her blankly. Jo said, 'I don't think it's anything to worry about. Most likely a parasite you picked up from the water, or from something you've eaten.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y bilharzia,' Ryderbeit said. 'If you come with me,'Jo said, 'I'll give you somthing to stop the itching.'

Thurgood followed her meekly away to where she had left her Red Cross kit.

Peters now approached, still wearing dark gla.s.ses and his pink plastic collar.

'Right, that's enough talking. Get into line.' He stepped aside, as Serge arrived. The Frenchman was carrying six plain buff envelopes, which he distributed among the rest of the pilots; then he addressed them, again through Rawcliff, 'These contain your flight-plan. You will have ten minutes to study it before take-off. Remember, you are flying a normal mission, fully 'accredited to the International Committee of the Red Cross. You will maintain normal radio-communication - but you will not, any account, contact me. If, at any point, ground-control orders you to alter course, or even to land, you will obey without question.' He paused, while Rawcliff translated.

Peters listened with a slight scowl.

Serge went on, 'Each envelope also contains your Red Cross identification papers, a certificate of your plane's air-worthiness, insurance doc.u.ments and a full inventory of your cargo. There are also certificates of vaccination against smallpox, typhoid and cholera. You will remember to sign all these before take-off.

'Now - each of you has a valid pa.s.sport and your pilot's licence? You will see from the flight-plan that you will be maintaining a height of four thousand metres, so as not to interfere with normal civilian air-traffic. You may be requested to alter height and direction round Cairo. You will also remain vigilant to the presence of unscheduled military aircraft.

'You will be flying in close diamond-formation, one hundred metres between each aircraft. Monsieur Peters here will lead the formation' - his calm eye ran across the faces in front of him - 'with Monsieur Grant flying to port, alongside Monsieur Ryderbeit. Monsieur Rawcliff will a.s.sume port in the second row, with Monsieur Ritchie to starboard. Monsieur Thurgood will take up the rear.'

Thurgood had come sprinting over, fresh from the attentions of Jo, and stood stiffly to attention, his clipped moustache twitching slightly.

'Your special clothing is over behind the planes.' Serge paused. 'Are there any questions?'

The words sounded almost facetious to Rawcliff. Yes, there were plenty of questions: and as always, not the faintest b.l.o.o.d.y chance of their being answered. The Frenchman concluded: 'So if that is all, au revoir et merde!' ~ which Rawcliff translated, rather lamely, as 'Goodbye and good luck!' At least the man hadn't said Adieu.

They broke away at a trot, like eager schoolboys - all except for Peters who limped morosely behind, still jealous of the Frenchman's authority, and harbouring his deep, festering hatred for Rawcliff.

The special clothing consisted of fur-lined flying boots, standard issue, leather gloves, lunch-packs, and leather jackets lined with lamb's wool, each with a red cross on a white background st.i.tched to the back - seven apiece. Jo took hers and, without discussion, boarded Ritchie's Hercules. It seemed to Rawcliff a gratuitous act of provocation on her part - unless it were her way of showing that she didn't belong to him, and owed him nothing. Ritchie, after all, was her old spookmate, and perhaps sharing the same flight-deck meant asmuch to her as sharing the same bed? Rawcliff just hoped she'd be safe up there with him - that, considering the amount of time that Ritchie had spent away from the field, he'd done his homework on the plane.

Once inside his own plane he felt the old familiar surge of excitement, as he switched on and checked each dial, which he had wiped clean of grease: checked flaps, air-pressure, oil and fuel-mixtures, hydraulics, undercarriage, brakes.

All humming smoothly. He turned on the R/T, cleared the static and listened to the jabber of voices. Ryderbeit was saying to Grant, 'Keep it cool and steady, old soldier. You just follow me, keeping your wings level with mine.

Just do what I do, and you won't go wrong.'

Rawcliff slit open his envelope. The flight-plan curved out south-westwards across the Mediterranean, then settled down south-south-west to the Nile Delta: and from there due south between Cairo and Suez, bearing south-west over the Galala Plateau to join the gulf of Suez, and down now on an almost fixed south-by-south-east course following the length of the Red Sea, keeping well out of Saudi Arabian and Sudanese airs.p.a.ce.

Peters' leading Hercules was already warming up all four engines, and Serge had crept under the wings, ready to kick away the chocks. Rawcliff started his Number One outward port-engine, waited for it to fire, with a shudder and blast of black oily fumes, and heard, with the thrill increasing, the deep growling roar as he fed it more' throttle. He started Number Two engine and felt the whole aircraft vibrating and tugging forward against the chocks. He glanced quickly at the other doc.u.ments from the envelope.

The vaccination certificates had all been issued in Geneva during the last week. They looked uncannily genuine. He also noticed, with a quick sinking feeling, that the Red Cross doc.u.ments were filled in with his full name, together with his home address, place and date of birth.

He let all four Lockheed engines start in turn, slowly warming, feeding each just enough mixture so as not to overheat the weary old machinery - remembering that they might have sat idle for months, even years, on a damp airfield in Germany - soothing and caressing the four colossal turbo-props, while he looked through the rest of the flight-plan.

Nearly five hours' flying, with only Egyptian airs.p.a.ce to cross - and that had been fully cleared. The rest was down the centre of the Red Sea - far down to an area just north of Ma.s.sawa, on the Eritrean coast, where they were to veer due west. The drop-zone, a tiny place called Oudgan, lay a hundred miles, or twenty minutes' flying time, from the sea. No airstrip there. Any airfields in Eritrea had either been recaptured by Ethiopian Government forces, or ripped up by Soviet-built missiles. The Hercules were simply to go in low, at minimum speeds, then put their noses up and let the cargoes drop out of the rear loading-bays.

No heroics at the end of this trip - except, perhaps, the stray MiG or a bright-eyed boy watching his latest SAM-scanner. But it was a long chance. The odds were no worse than against a pile-up on take-off or a crash-landing, or against not even being paid at the end of it. Otherwise, with a freefall over the drop-zone, the mobile operating-theatres and most of the surgical equipment would be smashed, useless. But what the h.e.l.l? They were only intended as expensive props, in case the mission were intercepted en route.

Anyway, there'd still be the tents and bandages, and perhaps a few drums of heating-oil, and tins of powdered milk - enough to survive the drop and salve Rawcliff's mercenary conscience. Rawcliff watched Peters' aircraft begin the short run up to the first row of white oil-drums, then lumber slowly round, its high wide wings sagging above the hot concrete. Peters stayed several minutes at the holding-position, still warming his engines, while the air was now filled with the shattering roar of all twenty-four mighty turbo-props.

Peters now began his final run. The Hercules appeared to move very slowly, on its broad eight-wheeled undercarriage, and in the last split-second seemed to judder almost to a halt, before its nose-wheel lifted off the ground, with perhaps thirty feet to spare before the second row of drums.

Grant was the next to go. He took his time manoeuvring up to the end of the short strip, and an agonizingly long time turning the plane. Ryderbeit talked to him all the time, like a father coaxing his child on its first swimming lesson. Grant finally held steady and began the run-up to the take-off. He had all flaps hard down, and suddenly jerked them up and the plane rose with its black-painted blunt snout pointing into the sky. Ryderbeit was shouting over the R/T, 'Level her out! Get her nose down - less throttle, more flap! Holy Moses!'

Grant at last levelled out and fell into formation behind Peters. Rawcliff found that his hands were sweating, tingling with the vibration of the 'stick'.

Ryderbeit and Ritchie each made an almost perfect takeoff. Now, through the tinted perspex shield, Rawcliff saw Serge duck under his port-wing, to kick away the chocks. Rawcliffs mouth was dry with adrenalin, with the long pent-up exhilaration, as he felt the huge machine roll forward towards the strip.

'She was heavy - heavy as h.e.l.l. All aircraft handle differently, and a pilot must know how to adjust to each one, and this is often more a matter of touch, of pure instinct something he can't be taught, and can never even learn after however many thousands hours' flying. It makes the distinction between a good pilot and a brilliant one.

Rawcliff had always put himself somewhere in the middle, though now grown rusty at the edges. He was also handling a strange aircraft for the first time. He had swung round in front of the first row of oil-drums. The second row looked terrifyingly close, through the shimmering heat filtered by the perspex.

Besides his excitement and anxiety, he now experienced professional pride, wondered what his old BEA colleagues would have to say about it. Every commercial airline pilot has his least favourite airports - usually a too-steep approach between mountains, like Bogota or Hong Kong; or short runways built out to sea, like Corfu, and that b.l.o.o.d.y one at Gibraltar where he'd come unstuck. There were also runways that were too wide or too narrow to gauge safe visible height and distance on take-off and touch-down; together with poor air-control and scanty back-up facilities in case of an accident.

This do-it-yourself strip at Larnaca incorporated all these faults, with a vengeance.

He made a last check of temperature and revs, adjusted the mixture to the engines, saw the small figure of Serge far below give him the thumbs-up sign, and began to move forward.

For perhaps three seconds the row of white oil-drums ahead seemed to remain static, a watery indeterminate barrier - the limit between safety and a horrible death. Then they were racing towards him, and he was easing back the throttle, no flaps now, more mixture, finer pitch - and still the heavydrumming vibration through the floor. Come on you old b.i.t.c.h! Get up - get your snout up! Get that front wheel off the ground! Less than three hundred feet to go. Oh Christ. More throttle. The sudden lift, the vibration ceased, the white drums disappearing below.

He heard the clonk of the undercarriage folding into the belly of the aircraft and felt the extra surge of speed. And as he veered south, closing into tight formation behind Ryderbeit, with Thurgood now rising at his rear, he heard Peters' prim voice over the R/T, instructing them to climb to 12,500 feet.

The sea levelled out, grey-green and marbled with shallows, reaching away now into the deep blue calm of the horizon. Behind them the huddle of the airfield was growing tiny next to the pale Salt Lake; and in the smoky distance he could just see the smudge of Larnaca.

Dry Run.

One.

On that Wednesday morning, Judith Rawcliff arrived early at the office-block behind Park Lane, in time to make her call so AREX Surveys, and to catch her boss, Cy Reynolds, before he became locked in the ritual round of conferences and meetings. For she realized now that random telephone calls, except to insiders like Matlock, would be unlikely to elicit any useful information, certainly of a confidential nature. To achieve any results would require bringing the full weight of her company's name to bear. Discretion had to be measured against the time-limit: and time was running out.

If her husband were mixed up in some dirty business, she would just have to hope that Cy would never hear about it; and if he did, all he could do was fire her, which he wouldn't. She got through to AREX Surveys, and was put on to a man called Sampson, who was in charge of aerial cartography. She had a.s.sumed her most authoritative voice, with an edge of beguiling solicitude.

After identifying herself and the company - careful to use her maiden name - she said, 'We understand, Mr Sampson, that last summer - I think in June - you were asked to supply survey data for a large computerized job covering an area of the Middle East?' When the man made no comment, she launched into her practised monologue about not wanting to breach any confidentiality, and that anything Mr Sampson said would be strictly off-the-record, etc, but that it would be saving a lot of time and expense if he could supply her - again in the most absolute confidence, of course - with the name of the client who had originally commissioned the material.

There was a pause. The voice the other end was soft, cagey, 'Who did you say you were again?' She repeated her credentials, patiently. Another pause; then, 'All business we do for private firms is of a private nature, unless our client instructs us otherwise. I am sorry, I cannot help you.' He hung up.

Five minutes later she was up in the handsome office on the top floor, watching Cy Reynolds pacing the carpet in front of the double-glazed windows which insulated him from the roar of Piccadilly.

'A Tetra-Lipp Retropilot Mark 100/4?' He stopped short and slowly removed his spectacles. 'That's in the semi-cla.s.sified area, honey. Getting pretty close to the Pentagon - only the Tetra-Lipp's a French design. This companybusiness?'

'No. It's personal, Cy. A very old friend of mine, a journalist, is working on a story involving one of these things. He's asked if I can get him a lead from the computer end - something that would indicate either the source material or the final print-out.-It's somewhere in the Middle East,' she added.

Cy Reynolds had paused, engrossed in the 'Newton's Cradle' on the corner of his vast leather-topped desk. He looked at his watch. 'Look, honey, I gotta run - I got a meeting. But try Laraby, fourth floor - he deals with all aerial survey work. Only make sure that whatever this newspaper friend of yours writes, he keeps the company's name out of it!'

Don Laraby was a greying man with a smooth face and gold-rimmed gla.s.ses; he looked like a college-boy grown prematurely old, surrounded by a ma.s.s of gadgetry: machines whirred and chattered and clicked, telephones tinkled, lights winked. He wore armbands round his shirtsleeves and suspenders on his socks.

She repeated to him what she had just told Reynolds, but giving a more detailed and technical version of what her husband had told her yesterday afternoon from somewhere in Cyprus.

Laraby listened, frowning, fidgeting, making little notes with a gold pencil.

'The Tetra-Lipp?' - he shook his head -'that's a d.a.m.n tricky one, Mrs Rawcliff. Hey, wait a minute!' - he sat up, his eyes searching the ceiling as though for some magic inspiration - 'yeah, I think I might know who can help.'

He snapped his fingers twice. 'People called Metternich, Dettweiler - they're a small Swiss outfit in Conduit Street. Their head office's in Geneva and they deal with a lot of this kinda stuff.'

'And they might know about the source material? Or perhaps put me on to the machine that processed it?'

Laraby's jaw muscles were working as though trying to dislodge some piece of food. 'It's possible - if they're willing to talk.' He shifted some papers on his desk, shifted them back, leaned forward and pressed his thumbs against the edge of the desk. 'You're looking for something pretty special - a machine that's been programmed over years to handle a data-bank of A-S maps. What's the OZ, by the way?'

'I'm sorry?'

'Operational Zone. The area you want. For the AFP -Aerial Flight Pattern.'

She hesitated only a moment. 'The Middle East. Round '.he Red Sea: Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Israel. Possibly the Yemen.'

He gave a hooting noise, as though he were about to sneeze, 'That's a d.a.m.n wide area! You're talking about millions of square miles - hundreds of thousands of grid references.' He sat up and snapped his fingers again. 'Wait a minute, I got it - Skate, William Skate, Inst.i.tute of Contemporary Middle East Affairs.'

He flicked the switch on the desk. 'Sally, get me Skate at the ICMEA.' He sat back and smiled enthusiastically. 'Skate's what they call an "Arab watcher".

One of their best, so I hear. If there's anything we want to know about the Middle East, he's your man.' He grabbed up the phone, muttered something,.

then began talking very fast and quietly, the receiver tucked against his shoulder, his hands "weaving patterns, as though he were conducting a piece offrenetic music.

A long pause followed, while he sat crouched forward listening, occasionally nodding and staring owlishly at Judith across the desk. He had mentioned the company's name and had twice emphasized that it was a confidential matter - just a favour between buddies, so to speak.

He finally hung up, exhausted. 'Yeah, I was right. Metternich, Dettweiler - they're your people. Skate didn't sound too happy about it all, so I think you'd better keep his name out of this. But he did say he'd heard that this Swiss outfit commissioned a big run some months ago, covering the Red Sea down to the Horn of Africa. He couldn't be more precise than that.'

She had stood up. 'You've been very helpful, Mr Laraby.'

He raised both hands. 'Any time. Only one thing, Mrs Rawcliff - I got the impression from friend Skate that this business may be a little dodgy. I'd appreciate it if you kept my name out of it, too.'

She left him smiling nervously after her.

Back in her office, her secretary mentioned to her that the switchboard had called, to check on the extension for a Miss Jenkinson - Judith's maiden name.

Of course, she should have warned them both first! The caller had not said who he was, but her secretary admitted that she had told him that there must have been a mistake and that this was a Mrs Rawcliffs extension.

Judith felt the first rush of panic. With some impatience she told her secretary to take a coffee-break. Her hands were shaking as she looked up Metternich, Dettweiler, of Conduit Street, and rang them on an outside line.

Twice she got a wrong number. Finally she spoke to a prissy emasculated voice, with a slight accent. He did not give his name, merely said he was the firm's chief London representative.

Judith began her spiel all over again, but this time with her confidence blunted by weariness and anxiety. 'Yes, of course, yes, I quite understand your position - quite appreciate' - she was groping guiltily for her sixth cigarette -'appreciate the need for confidentiality in this matter, but as I said, since our company also happens to be interested in commissioning a similar survey of the Red Sea area, I thought that it might be in all parties'

interests if we could reach some agreement with your clients?'

She swallowed a lungful of smoke. The voice said, 'What your extension, please, Miss Jenkinson?'

She felt another twinge of panic, as she repeated the number into the phone.

It was one of more than a thousand such extensions and, besides, she had a whole ma.s.sive multi-national to protect her - not to mention Cy's own erratic but influential friendship.

The man said he would call her back. He did so, twenty minutes later, speaking now with a certain cloying intimacy, Yes, Miss Jenkinson, I find that you are quite right -' Messrs Metternich, Dettweiler were commissioned to do survey-run of the area you mentioned. As it so happens, one :i the partners, Mr Dettweiler himself, is in London at the moment. He suggests that you might talk to him personally, in order to explain your company's requirements inmore detail. He is lunching at the Carlton Tower Hotel today, but he can meet you for fifteen minutes in the bar downstairs. At 12.45. Will that be convenient?'

'Fine. Many thanks.'

'Not at all, Miss Jenkinson.'

It was only 11.30. Judith was in no mood to get on with Cy's sugar forecasts, and it was only ten minutes' brisk walk to the hotel. She'd use the time to ring Computers Weekly and try and get a further line on AREX Surveys, and on Metternich, Dettweiler in particular, as well as anyone else who might have run off an extensive job, probably using a PDF 11/35 machine.

She found him at once, half concealed behind a pillar in the bar overlooking the Rib Room. A pencil-thin man with a sallow grainy complexion, his black hair combed across the scalp to hide his baldness.

He seemed to recognize her instantly, from behind his copy that day's Neue Zurcher Zeitung. He folded the paper under his chair and began to rise, 'Miss Jenkinson? I am enchanted!' - his hand was hard and bony - 'please, will you sit down. I am Klaus Dettweiler. So, what will you drink?' She had come to the hotel already braced by a Scotch. 'I'll have a Manhattan, thank you.' She took out a cigarette and the man snapped at it with a black lighter edged with gold, 'Permit me, please!'