He glanced at his watch. It was early, just after 6.30. He switched on his short-wave radio, tuned to the B.B.C. Middle East service. He wondered how long they'd be left with even this one-way link with anywhere else.
The static was bad, the voice from London fading and distorted so that it was sometimes inaudible.
' . . . No further news has come in about the situation in Azaran. The frontiers remain closed, and during the night the government station at Baleb has merely continued to retransmit the President's announcement that a military junta has been set up... '
The spluttering drowned the bulletin for a few minutes.
When it eased the newsreader was saying ' . . . similar conditions are reported from all over Western Europe and from countries bordering the Mediterranean. Gales of unusual force are being recorded as far afield as the East coast of Africa, in the vicinity of Aden, and from weather stations in Iceland and Newfoundland.'
Fleming switched off the set. He found it almost natural that the world's weather should have gone mad at a time when the world itself was moving irrevocably to a crisis.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FORECAST
ON the following day Janine Gamboul summoned Kaufman to her office. Instead of one of her usual chic frocks she was wearing a plain tailored suit, but he noticed at once that there was something else different about her; she had a dedicated and, at the same time, unnaturally exalted air.
She did not look up from her desk when Kaufman entered, and he stood stiffly at attention a little distance away from her.
When she had finished writing, she glanced up at him coldly, not inviting him to sit down.
'The situation is perfectly quiet,' she said in decisive tones.
'I suggest you inform your department of this fact, together with a report of what happened. Explain that we are in control and will remain so.'
'And Colonel Salim,' he asked diffidently, 'what shall I say about him? He was well regarded by the Vienna office.'
She shrugged. 'Tell them the facts. That I - that he was shot because he was in the way. He was a petty nationalist and if he had got power he would have used the computer for his own stupid little ends. You can explain that?'
She dismissed the matter and picked up the sheet of paper on which she had been writing. 'This morning the President is giving audience to his Council. Poor little man. He's very bewildered, and frightened. But he realises that he must cooperate.
He is perfectly amenable, particularly since Salim was dealt with. He will ensure the loyalty of all these old men of the government. You will attend the meeting to represent Intel. I have outlined proposals so far as we are involved.'
She handed him a document.
Kaufman took it and read it slowly. Occasionally he nodded, as if pleased. 'I have always done my best,' he murmured. 'You may rely on me in the future.'
'Good,' she said, with a gesture of dismissal. 'Now go to the palace and instruct the President's secretary.'
The councillors were seated around the Presidential dais: a dozen proud, elderly Arabs in traditional dress. True to their race they concealed whatever emotions they felt as the President, with a kind of tired dignity, gave them a carefully doctored version of what had happened and told them that he himself was taking personal control. The traitor Salim, the way of his death unexplained, was to be buried without military honours; all officers who had taken part in the revolt were already suspended and would be court-martialled. The troops and all civil branches of the Government would be answerable only to the President's personal edict. In due course there would be elections, but in the meantime the existing Parliament would not be called into session.
At a nod from the President these edicts were translated by his secretary into English, out of courtesy to Kaufman.
One Councillor half rose to his feet. 'And who will the President be responsible to?' he demanded, deliberately speaking in English and glaring at Kaufman.
'To himself,' Kaufman answered sharply.
The President remained impassive, and the Councillor sat down, muttering into his beard.
'Gentlemen,' said Kaufman, rising proudly to his feet. 'The President, and therefore the country, can rely on a continuance of help on an increasing scale by the mercantile consortium, Intel, which I represent. To further the welfare of Azaran without interference, it is the wish of my superiors that the country should not renew diplomatic relations with other nations.'
The words were translated and caused a low hubbub of conversation.
'You should say more about the kind of help you are to give,' said the President uneasily.
Kaufman beamed. 'The Consortium is producing new instruments of defence and technical value. It will shortly be making available a new process, perfected in our laboratories here, to turn the desert into fertile agricultural land.'
He waited while the secretary translated, and a wizened old Arab whispered urgently to the secretary.
'The Sheik Azi ben Ardu wishes to know what the process consists of.'
'It is a spray,' said Kaufman shortly. 'In a short while it will be demonstrated.'
The Councillor who had asked the question about Presidential responsibility glowered at Kaufman. 'And the wind that has come out of season and blows our soil away, what can your laboratories do for that?'
Kaufman had no prepared answer. He looked to the President for help.
'What can they do?' the President replied mildly. 'The wind is the servant of Allah. We must not question it.'
Fleming had never been under any illusion about his situation.
He knew that he was virtually a prisoner, but only on this first morning of the new regime did he feel the reality of it. There was no work he wanted to do, or could be persuaded to do, knowing what it would be. There was no one to talk to; even Abu had disappeared into the executive building, in answer to a summons from Gamboul. Guards were patrolling everywhere. Before breakfast they had forbidden Fleming to approach the sick quarters where Andre lay. The best he had managed was to insist on seeing the nurse who had come out and reported that her patient was a little worse, but was sleeping.
He sat a long time over a late breakfast, ignoring the coarse brown bread, fruit and olives they always served, and drinking cup after cup of sweet, thick coffee.
Then he strolled across to Dawnay's laboratory. The guards eyed him suspiciously but did not prevent him from entering the building.
Dawnay was busy at a laboratory bench. She greeted him absent-mindedly and did not react very much to his worried talk about Andre.
'There's nothing we can do for her,' she muttered. She paused and then picked up one of a row of large test tubes.
'I'd like you to look at these, John,' she said.
He glanced at the one in her hand. It was full of a semitransparent, greyish fluid which clung to the glass when she shook it. The other tubes seemed to be identical.
'What are they?' he asked.
'Sea water samples they got for me.' She gave a short laugh. 'I must admit that Intel are efficient. They wouldn't let me go and take my own specimens, but they did much more than I asked. Not only are these from the Persian Gulf, which I wanted, but they've had samples flown in from the Mediterranean and Indian Ocean and even the Western Atlantic. So that there should be samples from other areas for comparison, I suppose.'
'And is there anything to compare?' he asked.
She shook the tube vigorously. The fluid inside went completely opaque.
'See?' she said. 'Now, normal sea water should be like this one. You'll see it's clear.' She handed him another test tube.
Fleming picked up some of the other tubes. They all went opaque when he shook them. 'Sure Kaufman didn't fool you and get them all from the same place?' he grinned.