A. maddening pause. 'Rings a teeny bell. Yes, South Yemen - I think we're running something on it this evening. I'd better call you back.' She started to hang up. 'No chance of telling me what this is all about?' he added.

'Sorry, Frank.' She slumped down into a chair and finished her whisky. Later she went upstairs to Tom's bedroom, to check that he was well-covered, and on the way down again she thought her legs were going to give way.

At 10.30 she again rang the international operator. Had her call from Cyprus come through while she'd been talking to Fleet Street? The operator said they usually cut in with long-distance, if the line was engaged for more than a few minutes.

Smollett rang back just after eleven o'clock. He sounded a little tight now.

'What are you playing at behind our backs, Judith old darling? We don't like outside compet.i.tion!'

'What have you got?' 'Strong rumours of a Soviet plutonium plant being built at this place you mentioned - Sa'al, in the deserted interior of South Yemen. Big flap. Talk of the second Cuba crisis. It's against all the Treaties.'

'Thanks, Frank.' He started to add something, but she hung up, and only just made it to the sink before she was sick.

So her beloved Charles, the father of her son, had thrown up everything and gone off to bomb the Russians. People like him never grew up. They were also born too late. He'd have had a lovely time in the war and been killed having it.

Her limbs felt heavy and her throat harsh with bile. She'd just have to start getting used to being a widow.

Seven.

Rawcliff was alone in a very small room with a high window, ; well air-conditioned, furnished with a table, chair, and a

bench with a single blanket and no pillow.

The man who came in was short and stocky, dressed in khaki, with what looked like a dish-cloth round his head. He had a short black beard, and the rest of his face, which was of i the texture of stale bread, had not been shaved for several

days.

He questioned Rawcliff at length, about his professional I background as a pilot, how he had been employed, how long he had known the other crew-members, what his connections * were with the International Red Cross.

Rawcliff answered with careful innocence. Wherever possible he answered honestly, or nearly honestly: he was an ' ex-airline pilot and had been recruited on a short-term contract which he was undertaking for humanitarian reasons. Apart from his employer in London - a Mr Newby - he had never met any of the mission's organizers, nor had he met any of his present colleagues until a few days ago.

The Arab watched him intently while he spoke. He took no notes and listened without interrupting; then finally got up, as though bored, and left without a word.

The view from the window was of a hot white wall that gradually turned to the colour of a blood-orange, sliced with deep blue shadows as Rawcliff's watch crept on. The door was unlocked and a smiling little man draped in whitebrought him dinner - a plate of mezze, a hunk of hamburger like a burnt cowpat, an envelope of pitta filled with houmus, and a Swiss-wrapped cheese - all on a plastic tray with a plastic bottle of mineral water.

The representative from HM's Consulate in Jeddah arrived at the airport just after ten pm that Wednesday evening. His name was Hicks, a sandy-haired man with sun-parched cheeks and a whisky-nose. He had a shy, awkward manner that might have been mistaken for shiftiness, and which he tried to conceal by fiddling with a small black pipe.

'Apart from everything else, your colleague's got some funny skin complaint.

I've had our own medic called in, and he says it's a simple infection that can be treated with antibiotics. But the local chaps won't buy it. They're windy as h.e.l.l - particularly at this time of the year. With the Had]. the place is riddled with every kind of disease. I don't honestly blame them for being strict.

'But then again, this chap of yours - Thurgood -apparently did some dangerous low-flying over the pilgrims. He's put up a black mark there, I can tell you.

I wouldn't be in his shoes for anything. Not on your life, I wouldn't!'

'What does that mean?' Rawcliff said idly. Thurgood's imminent fate concerned him only insofar as it delayed their departure: for Rawcliff was far more anxious about being able to make his phone-call that evening to Judith, to catch her at eight, London time. He now had barely an hour left.

'He might get off with a public flogging,' Hicks was saying, 'plus a stiff fine. Or he could spend ten years in jail -and that's something I wouldn't wish on any white man Twenty men to a cell, and only one window, in this stinking heat, with just a hole in the ground for sanitation.'

'On what charge?'

'Sacrilege. These Saudis are funny chaps.' He gave Rawcliff a doleful smile.

'They're a law unto themselves. They call it the Koranic Law, but they rather make it fit the occasion. You know how it is - they're all so d.a.m.ned Westernized, with half the ruling families putting in part-time at the Hilton and the London Clinic - while basically they're all still living in their tents in the oasis. He sucked noisily at his pipe. 'No, your chap Thurgood's really put the lid on it - for the rest of you, that is.'

'What are you getting at?'

Hicks began tamping down his pipe. 'The authorities here are suspicious. Don't like the smell of your outfit.' He paused to light a match. 'You might as well come clean, old chap - anything I should know that isn't quite according to the book? I'm only here to help,' he added hastily.

'Our papers are all in order. And they must have searched all the aircraft by now. What the h.e.l.l do they suspect?'

Hicks had another match going, glancing at Rawcliff through the jumping flame. 'You're dealing with the desert Arab, remember. Tricky chap, as I said.

No good quoting Judges' Rules at him, or applying for Habeas Corpus.' He stared at the diminishing patch of sunlight on the wall outside. 'G.o.d, this is a b.l.o.o.d.y awful place. Before this I was in Rio. That was okay, except for the kidnappings. You could spread your wings there.' He turned slowly back towards Rawcliff. 'Are you still telling me that this is just a Red Cross mission down to Eritrea?' 'Whose side are you on, Mr Hicks? You've seen our papers - you've talked to the others. Go and look at the cargoes.'

'Yes, I've talked to the others.' Hicks smiled shyly through a puff of dense smoke. 'Funny bunch. That chap Ritchie's all right. But Grant - says he's an old Army bloke. Something a bit fishy there, I thought. And I didn't much care for your boss, Peters. His pa.s.sport's a bit dodgy. It's genuine all right, but our people have a way of marking these things - something the Saudis won't have spotted.'

'Is that some kind of hint?'

Hicks stared out of the window, like a bank manager considering a difficult loan. 'Just that our Immigration chaps like to keep tabs on people they don't like. Seems they don't Like Mr Peters much. Nothing to pull him in on, of course no grounds for taking away his pa.s.sport.' He paused again, knocking his pipe against the side of the table. 'I said this was an awful place, didn't I?

Well, I must say, chaps like you make a difference. Most of our lot out here are oil engineers or fellows in shipping - not to mention the secretaries.

They all keep to their compounds, with their own supermarkets, tennis clubs, swimming-pools, even their own bits of beach where they can wear bikinis. The girls are the worst,' he added quickly. 'They come out because of the high salaries, all hoping it's going to be like Kismet, with a hundred Ronald Colmans thrown in - and all they get is the boy next-door, hemmed in by a wire fence, and c.o.c.ktail parties that are rather like drinks in the dorm.

'Only last week I had to deal with the case of a girl who was sacked after three years' service with one of the oil companies. And you know what for? She was found alone in the same room with her boss! I protested, but nothing doing. She had to pack her bags and go.' He looked up, tugging again at his pipe. 'To people who've just arrived here I always say the same thing - tread carefully, because you're treading on broken gla.s.s.'

'I've already told you,' Rawcliff said patiently, 'We didn't choose to come here - we were escorted in by two of their fighters. I can't speak for that nutter, Thurgood, but the rest of us were going about our lawful business.'

Hicks nodded energetically. He had got out another match, but did not light it this time. 'I understand that Customs have found an impressive amount of medical supplies. They're searching those planes pretty thoroughly, I can tell you.'

'I should think some of the stuff - plasma, for instance -will have to be refrigerated, if we're going to be held much longer.'

'That is the least of your problems.' Hicks took his time playing with his pipe and contemplating the bleak decor. 'I've never been much of a betting man,' he added, 'But I can say that I know my way around this country better than most of our chaps. I have a couple of good friends in the Saudi Government. Two brothers. Government's all very much a family concern out here. I mentioned it to Mr Peters, since he claims to be in charge. I was able to persuade him it was your only possible way out - unless you wish to spend weeks, even months, sitting around in Jeddah while they decide what to do with Thurgood. Justice here is either very swift, or very, very slow.'

Rawcliff waited, infuriated by Hicks' manner, which was becoming increasingly leisurely and oblique.

'The normal fine, I estimate, would be around 60,000 Riyals. That's just over 10,000. Fortunately, Jeddah is a first-cla.s.s banking centre, with excellentcommunications. Mr Peters has agreed to cable the appropriate authorities in Geneva and to request that the money is deposited at once with the Central Bank here.'

'And if that satisfies the Saudis, will it satisfy you, Hicks?'

The man sat clicking the stem of his pipe against his upper teeth. 'Hardly for me to judge. I'm just a mediator - my job's to get you chaps out of trouble.

But I still can't say I'm too happy about the whole business. We'd heard nothing about your flight. It certainly wasn't cleared through the normal channels. And this is a sensitive area - you must realize that? Embarra.s.sing, when a flight of former US aircraft with Red Cross insignia come flying down the Red Sea unannounced.'

Rawcliff's impatience was turning to mild anger. Hicks knew a lot more than he was letting on; and he was trying to find out just how much Rawcliff knew, or suspected. Rawcliff let his anger break: 'Well check with Geneva, for Christ's sake! Check with Cyprus. And Egypt had us cleared. As for the Saudis, it's got nothing to do with them. As you know, we were well outside their airs.p.a.ce.'

'Yes, you were.' Hicks looked up, with his tired smile. "Very well, Mr Rawcliff, I'll try to do my best. Thurgood's skin trouble doesn't help, but I think in the end the Saudis can be persuaded that the best way to deal with it is to throw the man out. Now, if there is anything else you wish -'

'There is. I promised to ring my wife in London at eight, London time. She'll be as worried as h.e.l.l if I don't get through.'

'That may be a little tricky. Officially you're being held incommunicado, except with our own people. I'm afraid that when the Saudis get suspicious, they tend to get suspicious of everyone.'

'Perhaps you could make the call for me?'

'I'm afraid that might be even more difficult. I'd require higher authority from our own people - and the First Secretary's on leave, and the Head of Chancery's in Riyadh.' The excuse sounded palpably false, and Hicks seemed to know it.

'What about your b.l.o.o.d.y Amba.s.sador, then? Doesn't he take any decisions at all?'

'Matter of protocol, I'm afraid. Very strict, we are here.'

I bet you are! Rawcliff thought. You wouldn't get His Excellency dirtying his hands with a lot of seedy hush-hush men in MI6. Much better that HM Amba.s.sador knows nothing about it - especially if Hicks' superiors were anxious that the flight should get on its way, all pa.s.sports and papers examined, cargoes checked - the whole operation signed and sealed, .with no snags, except for a psychopath called Thurgood who was going to cost someone 10,000.

'You see, it's also a matter of priorities,' Hicks was explaining: 'Either we raise the fine and spring you, or I try to get a call through to your wife, while you stay locked up. We just don't have time for everything, I'm afraid.

But I promise I'll see what I can do.' He gave a timid smile and let himself out.

This time the door was left unlocked, although Rawcliff was aware of the two policemen standing outside. At 5.15 am, Thursday morning, Rawcliff was woken by a police officer, already in dark gla.s.ses, with a wicked-looking cane under his arm. The man led him down the air-conditioned corridor, into a larger room with Arabic inscriptions on the walls. Through the windows, under the pink dawn, the crowds of waiting pilgrims were still gathered along the edges of the runways like rows of white flamingoes. All through the night Rawcliff's heavy, overdue sleep had been punctuated by the regular roar of aircraft bringing in more pilgrims, then taking off again, empty.

The other six were brought in at almost the same time -Jo in the charge of a black-veiled lady wearing severe spectacles. Thurgood looked distant, inert, no longer twitching or scratching, apparently impervious to any sense of guilt or fear over what had happened.

'This has cost you 10,000, Flight-Lieutenant,' Peters said, looking sallow in the early light. 'I was up half the night fixing it, so we could fly out.'

Thurgood did not even appear to have heard.

'So Swiss banks work through the night, do they, Peters?' Ryderbeit leered and tapped out a cigar. 'Or maybe you just * knew the right big boy to telex, who only had to whisper in the Saudis' ear, and hey-presto! we're sprung?'

Peters sat angry and silent. Ryderbeit lit his cigar and leant across to Grant, blowing smoke in his face. 'Don't worry, old soldier, we'll soon be out o' here, then you'll be able to have a nice big drinky! Or maybe you'd prefer we were made to stay, and have the aircraft impounded, so that someone else has to fly you out?'

Grant pressed his hands together and said nothing.

Rawcliff did not like the look of him: he was flushed, sweaty, and his hands were shaking. He looked hardly in a fit state to drive a car, let alone take over once again, single-handed, the controls of a Hercules.

A policeman threw open the door and the first black-bearded Arab, in the white robes, came in. He bowed graciously to each of them, with the pointed exception of Jo, and placed their pile of pa.s.sports and papers on a table, arranging them in an apparently casual but elegant, fan-shaped pattern.

Then he turned to the six men and bowed again.

'I am pleased to be able to report that our examination of your aircraft and their cargoes has been completed and has been officially "okayed".' The colloquialism jarred comically with his imposing demeanour. 'The incident concerning Mr Thurgood' - he paused, and his eyes stared past them at the black wall - 'has been satisfactorily terminated, with the proviso that he does not again enter the territory of our Kingdom.'

No mention, Rawcliff noticed, of any fat overnight transaction from Switzerland into the Central Bank of Saudi Arabia. After all, the man looked the type who would guard his dignity above all else.

The Arab concluded by telling them that their aircraft were ready and cleared for take-off. 'A fighter-bomber of the Saudi Arabian Air Force will escort you out of our airs.p.a.ce.' He bowed yet again, lower this time, with the murmur, 'Allah akbar!'

As they walked into the dry warm air, Ryderbeit slapped Guy Grant painfully between the shoulders. 'You could do with Allah riding as co-pilot, couldn't you, Granty? As a flier, you're as much use as a one-legged man at ana.r.s.e-kicking contest!'

During their enforced stop-over, on that Wednesday night one detail had been overlooked: to have a mechanic check Grant's flaps. But they were all in too much of a hurry to get clear of Jeddah for anyone to start worrying about that now.

Their F-5 escort was already taxiing into position. They waited while two PIA charter-flights landed, packed with pilgrims; then, at 06.02 hours, the control-tower gave them clearance to take off.

They left in the same formation - Peters rising into the lingering exhaust from the F-5's after-burner. Grant followed, taking most of the runway to get off the ground, while the others watched keenly over their controls. His plane shuddered a little as he gave it full throttle; the wheels slowly lifted, then bounced twice before he finally left the ground, again climbing too steeply; and again Ryderbeit was coaxing him, cutting in above the jabber of Arabic from the control-tower, urging rum not to give her too much throttle and keep her nose down; then joined him a moment later, after a swift taut take-off, flying almost wing-to-wing with Grant, making a wide circle against the mountains and the desert beyond, still climbing into the path of the F-5.

Rawcliff was also relieved to see Thurgood fall into position at the rear of the formation, having executed an exemplary take-off.

The sea was now like beaten copper, the sun a huge melting orange, and for a few minutes the air in the cabin, despite the oily metallic smell and ear-pounding roar, had a sweet freshness that was both exhilarating and relaxing.

Their escort led them due west towards the rocky Nubian Desert on the far sh.o.r.e of the Red Sea: then it tipped its wings in salute and veered off back towards Jeddah, while Peters dutifully resumed their south-south-westerly course according to the flight-plan, down the 400-odd remaining miles to the northern borders of Eritrea.

It once again became bitterly cold", as they reached their agreed height of 12,500 feet: and again, looking sideways at the plane to starboard, Rawcliff wondered what kind of anodyne report Ritchie and Jo would be concocting for their disparate Intelligence agencies, and whether this interlude at Jeddah had in any way upset their plans, or whether it had merely reinforced their purpose?

They began their descent seventy minutes later - a steep drop for the final fifty miles of low flying which had to take into account the possibility of the odd Ethiopian MiG. Rawcliff had heard that they used Soviet and East German pilots, and wondered if these would have the nerve to shoot on Red Cross planes? It seemed more likely that they would try to force them south, over Government-held territory, and make them land at Addis Ababa.

But before any such contingency arose, Grant began to have trouble again. This time it seemed to be with both flaps, his plane dropping in steady jolts - about fifty feet at a time, like a lift going down. And he was losing power rapidly. Ryderbeit went down to join him - several hundred feet now below the others, - 2,800 feet showing on the altimetre, as they all continued their descent to 200 feet, as prescribed on the flight-plan.

Ryderbeit's voice over the R/T was growing more impatient, and Grant's replies more muddled. Peters did not help by breaking in and telling the man to 'pull himself together!' Grant's voice was peevish and panic-stricken in turn: theaircraft was too heavy, the controls weren't responding, he needed a co-pilot - it was crazy to try and fly one of these juggernauts with just one man! He couldn't keep the nose up, couldn't keep control of the descent, his revs were going, flaps all crazy, stuck down, couldn't get them to budge! He wanted to make for land.

'You keep over the sea, Granty!' Ryderbeit called.

'I can't swim,' Grant replied desperately.

'Nor can a Hercules. But you can stay afloat long enough to get your life-raft out!'

'If you go into the sea,' said Peters, 'you're on your own.'

'I'm making for f.u.c.king land!' yelled Grant. 'I'm making for a beach! There must be a sandy beach down there somewhere. Desert country - must be sand.'

His voice had a horrible cracked sound over the intercom.

He had now dropped well below 500 feet, and seemed barely in control of the plane. Its downward flight had become erratic, its high tail drifting, yawing dangerously; then his outer port engine completely lost power, its lifeless propeller setting up a drag that pulled the aircraft down even faster.

'Cut your outboard Number Four engine!' Ryderbeit yelled. 'Full throttle on your two inners, and pull your flaps up! Haven't you got any muscles left? And use your rudder to correct that b.l.o.o.d.y yaw!'

This time there came no answer. Grant's limping, lurching Hercules was sliding and sinking away from the main formation - westwards towards the jagged rim of the coast. The sky now was like burning steel, the sun behind them throwing their fat rippling black shadows on to the burnished waters below. Peters called, 'Ryderbeit, head him off!'

Ryderbeit dipped and swooped down over Grant, falling in just in front of him, then throttling back so hard that their great wings were almost touching. 'I need help,' Ryderbeit called. 'Ritchie, get down here - let's see just how good you are!'

Ritchie's voice came back smooth and deadpan, 'Sorry, old sport, aerobatics in this baby isn't in my contract.'

Rawcliff strained forward,' watching through the side-windows in stupefied fascination. He didn't know whether to be sorry for Grant, or enraged by him.

At the same time he kept anxiously staring ahead into the glare, scarcely dimmed by the tinted gla.s.s, for a glimpse of those tell-tale dots that would mean Soviet fighters coming up from Ethiopia to intercept them.

Grant was just holding enough height to reach the Eritrean coast at a spot mid-way between the towns of Mersa Teklay and Gulbub - seventy miles due north of Asmara, and only a few minutes' flying time now from the drop-zone.

'Ritchie, you're a b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' Ryderbeit had brought his starboard wing up underneath Grant's port, with its inert outer engine; with extraordinary'

power and skill he somehow managed, for several seconds, to steady Grant's downward course.