‘They buzzed one of my helicopters.’
‘It was part of the training.’
‘Well, no one told me about it.’
‘There has to be an element of surprise in everything we do, Elliot.’
Ulm didn’t doubt it. ‘Do you believe all that talk about sabotage?’
‘No, Elliot. It’s just the mood of the men. Tempers are strained. They want to get on with it.’
‘So do we. What’s the word from Moscow?’
‘Provided the dress-rehearsal goes well tomorrow morning we go any time after that.’
‘The dummy camp, it’s ready?’
‘Yes. Have you ever seen a caravanserai, Elliot?’
‘I can’t say I have.’
‘It is a place of beauty, strangely enough. You will see pictures of it at the briefing tonight. We gather the men at twenty-two hundred hours.’
Shabanov left Ulm to stare at the shattered carcass of the Hind.
An hour after Girling and Abdullah left the alluvial plain behind the lush richness of its crops and vegetation still shimmered across the desert like a mirage. They headed due north, the bedouin’s camel maintaining a dead-straight course, without encouragement or correction. Girling’s, on the other hand, seeming to sense the discomfort of its rider, kept wandering off-track. Only through sharp tugs of the rough hemp reins would it maintain direction.
Girling’s jellaba and headdress, purchased in the market, made him indistinguishable from the bedouin of the region. Abdullah had assured him that the meagre defences of the base would enable them to slip unnoticed onto the site. He raised his eyes to the horizon and announced that they would be at the outer perimeter in an hour.
The sun was directly over their heads, its heat pulsing down in waves. It seemed as if it had been hanging in the same position for all of the five hours they had been on the move. Girling glanced across to Abdullah, ten yards to his right, and wondered how the man could maintain an expression of complete uninterest when his brains were being fried through the flimsy cloth of his hat. Girling took his cue resolutely from the bedouin, stopping when he stopped, drinking when he drank. If he couldn’t buy his respect, he knew he’d have to earn it. He needed Abdullah on his side, especially if things got rough.
Suddenly, Abdullah gave a whoop of satisfaction. Bobbing on the undulating waves of the heat haze, the perimeter fence of Wadi Qena air base stretched across the desert as far as the eye could see.
Sharifa had finished bundling some things into an overnight bag and was taking a last look around her apartment when the phone rang. It had gone several times during the morning, but each time she had ignored it, suspecting it was Kelso or Carey wanting to know where the hell Girling was. The truth was she no longer knew what to tell them. She paused by the door, glancing from the scrap of paper with Lazan’s address on it to the telephone, and back again.
A sudden thought that it might be Girling made her pick up the phone.
‘Miss Fateem?’
She did not recognize the voice. It sounded hesitant, almost nervous. ‘Yes.’
‘Is Mr Girling there, please?’
‘No. Who is this?’
A long pause.
‘I said-’
‘My name is Uthman. Dr Uthman. Mr Girling and I have a mutual friend in Mansour, the old man at Kareem’s coffee house. Mansour gave me this number. I am sorry, but I have only just received his message.’ Dr Uthman spoke in English, his accent precise.
‘Dr Uthman,’ she stammered. ‘I’m so sorry. For a moment, I didn’t-’ She composed herself. ‘Tom Girling isn’t here, Doctor. Perhaps I can help.’
‘Well, I don’t know. You see, it is a somewhat delicate matter.’
Sharifa bit her lip. ‘You said ‘delicate’, Dr Uthman.’
‘There is the small matter of payment.’
Sharifa thought fast. ‘Whatever Tom Girling promised, I’ll see that you get it. I presume the transaction is to be made through Mansour.’
‘Precisely. Thank you, Miss Fateem.’
‘Please continue, Doctor.’
‘Mr Girling was interested in some files relating to the death of his friend, the British journalist Stansell.’
‘That’s right. We both are.’
‘The fact is, Miss Fateem, there aren’t any.’
‘I’m sorry, Doctor?’
‘The files, there aren’t any. Oh, there were some. I know there were. You see, I wrote them. I carried out the autopsy.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say — ’
‘I don’t suppose a certain Captain Al-Qadi had anything to do with their disappearance,’ she said.
Uthman coughed. ‘Really. I wouldn’t like to say.’
‘How was Stansell killed, Doctor?’
‘He was shot. Twice. Tom Girling knows this. I understand he was shown the body.’
She mused aloud. ‘Then, why would…? Was there anything particularly unusual about the case, Doctor?’
‘There were indications that he had been held in two different locations before he was killed and his body thrown in the river.’
‘Do you know their identity?’
‘We know one of them. The City of the Dead. It has a particularly distinctive type of soil.’
The mere thought of the necropolis chilled her.
‘I still don’t understand why anybody should want to lose that file, Doctor-’
Sharifa stopped. She smelled it distinctly. There was something alien in her apartment, something that had no place there at all.
‘Miss Fateem?’
‘I’m sorry, Doctor. I have to go.’
She replaced the receiver with a dreadful sense of foreboding. The smoke was being carried to her by a light, warm draught from the sitting-room. She thought about trying to escape out of the back, but the only way was through the bathroom window. And from there it was more than thirty feet to the ground.
She looked around for something, anything, with which to protect herself. All she could find was a small ivory paper-knife. She slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans and went into the next room.
The curtains were drawn to keep the apartment cool, so the room was dark but for a thin rectangle of light where the drapes met. All the same, Sharifa could see Al-Qadi by the whites of his eyes and the soft glow of his cigarette. She reached for the switch and flicked on the lights. He was lolling in an arm-chair in the middle of the room. A button had popped on his shirt, exposing his belly. For a moment, the thought of him alone amongst her things made her feel more angry than frightened.
She managed to keep her voice even. ‘How did you get in?’
Al-Qadi made an exaggerated show of studying his surroundings. ‘These old apartments are not particularly secure. I thought I’d come and look you up, Sharifa, see how you are. I was in the neighbourhood, feeling particularly good today and
I thought — ’ He paused. ‘But enough of this. Uthman I can deal with any time.’ He smiled. ‘I have something to tell you.’
Sharifa remained by the door. Oh God, he wanted to talk about Girling. He wanted so badly to tell her he was dead. She could see it in his eyes.
‘Tell me?’ She was afraid beyond reason her reactions would give Girling away.
Al-Qadi studied her slowly. He let the smoke from his Nefertiti curl from his mouth into his nostrils. ‘Yes.’
He prised himself from the chair and moved towards her.
‘Where’s Girling?’
‘How should I know? I only work with him.’
Al-Qadi crept closer. ‘Work and pleasure, pleasure and work. How many times has he had you, you bitch?’