by Wilbur Smith
He had seen that Steven had loaded with number four shot. At ten paces it would disembowel a man. The safety catch on the top of the pistol grip of the butt engaged automatically when the breech was opened and closed again, but the right thumb would instinctively slip the catch forward as the hand closed on the grip.
Steven took a silver cigarette case from the side pocket of his coat and tapped down a cigarette on the lid.
‘Damned shame about Magda Altmann,’ he said gruffly, not meeting Peter’s eyes.
‘Yes,’ Peter agreed softly
‘Glad they handled it in a civilized fashion. Could have made it awkward for you, you know.’
‘I suppose they could have,’ Peter agreed.
‘What about your job at Narmco?’
‘I don’t know yet. I will not know until I get back to Brussels.’
‘Well, my offer still stands, old boy. I could do with a bit of help. I really could. Somebody I could trust. You’d be doing me a favour.’
‘Damned decent of you, Steven.’
‘No, really, I mean it.’ Steven lit the cigarette with a gold Dunhill lighter and inhaled with evident pleasure, and after a moment Peter asked him:
‘I hope you were not in a heavy position in Altmann stock. I see it has taken an awful tumble.’
‘Strange that.’ Steven shook his head. ‘Pulled out of Altmann’s a few weeks ago, actually. Needed the money for San Istaban.’
‘Lucky,’ Peter murmured, or much more than luck. He wondered why Steven admitted the share transaction so readily. ‘Of course,’ he realized, ‘it would have been very substantial and therefore easily traced.’
He studied his brother now, staring at him with a slight scowl of concentration. Was it possible? he asked himself. Could Steven really have masterminded something so complex, where ideology and self-interest and delusions of omnipotence seemed so inextricably snarled and entwined.
‘What is it, old boy?’ Steven asked, frowning slightly in sympathy.
‘I was just thinking that the whole concept and execution has been incredible, Steven. I would never have suspected you were capable of it.’
‘I’m sorry, Peter. I don’t understand. What are you talking about?’
‘Caliph,’ Peter said softly.
It was there! Peter saw it instantly. The instant of utter stillness, like a startled jungle animal – but the flinch of the eyes, followed immediately by the effort of control.
The expression of Steven’s face had not altered, the little frown of polite inquiry held perfectly, then turning slowly, deeper into puzzlement.
‘I’m afraid you just lost me there, old chap.’
It was superbly done. Despite himself Peter was impressed. There were depths to his brother which he had never suspected – but that was his own omission. No matter which way you looked at it, it took an extraordinary ability to achieve what Steven had achieved in less than twenty years, against the most appalling odds. No matter how he had done it, it was the working of a particular type of genius.
He was capable of running Caliph, Peter accepted the fact at last – and immediately had a focal point for the corroding hatred he had carried within him for so long.
‘Your only mistake so far, Steven, was to let Aaron Altmann know your name,’ Peter went on quietly. ‘I suspect you did not then know that he was a Mossad agent, and that your name would go straight onto the Israeli intelligence computer. Nobody, nothing, can ever wipe it from the memory rolls, Steven. You are known.’
Steven’s eyes flickered down to the shotgun; it was instinctive, uncontrollable, the final confirmation if Peter needed one.
‘No, Steven. That’s not for you.’ Peter shook his head. ‘That’s my work. You’re fat and out of condition, and you have never had the training. You must stick to hiring others to do the actual killing. You wouldn’t even get a hand on it.’
Steven’s eyes darted back to his brother’s face. Still the expression of his face had not altered.
‘I think you’ve gone out of your head, old boy.’
Peter ignored it. ‘You of all people should know that I am capable of killing anybody. You have conditioned me to that.’
‘We are getting into an awful tangle now,’ Steven protested. ‘What on earth should you want to kill anybody for?’
‘Steven, you are insulting both of us. I know. There is no point in going on with the act. We have to work out between us what we are going to do about it.’
He had phrased it carefully, offering the chance of compromise. He saw the waver of doubt in Steven’s eyes, the slight twist of his mouth, as he struggled to reach a decision.
‘– But please do not underestimate the danger you are in, Steven.’ As he spoke Peter produced an old worn pair of dark leather gloves from his pocket and began to pull them on. There was something infinitely menacing in that simple act, and again Steven’s eyes were drawn irresistibly.
‘Why are you doing that?’ For the first time Steven’s voice croaked slightly.
‘I haven’t yet touched the gun,’ Peter explained reasonably. ‘It has only your prints upon it.’
‘Christ, you’d never get away with it, Peter.’
‘Why, Steven? It is always dangerous to carry a loaded shotgun over muddy and uneven ground.’
‘You couldn’t do it, not in cold blood.’ The edge of terror was in Steven’s voice.
‘Why not? You had no such qualms with Prince Hassied Abdel Hayek.’
‘I am your brother – he was only a bloody wog—’ Steven choked it off, staring now at Peter with stricken eyes, the expression of his face beginning at last to crack and crumble as he realized that he had made the fateful admission.
Peter reached for the shotgun without taking his eyes from his brother’s.
‘Wait!’ Steven cried. ‘Wait, Peter!’
‘For what?’
‘You’ve got to let me explain.’
‘All right, go ahead.’
‘You can’t just say go ahead, like that. It’s so complicated’
‘All right, Steven. Let’s start at the beginning – with Flight 070. Tell me why?’
‘We had to do it, Peter. Don’t you see? There is over four billions of British investment in that country, another three billions of American money. It’s the major world producer of gold and uranium, chrome and a dozen other strategic minerals. My God, Peter. Those ham-handed oafs in control now are on a suicide course. We had to take it away from them, and put in a controllable government. If we don’t do that the Reds will have it all within ten years – probably much less.’
‘You had an alternative government chosen?’
‘Of course,’ Steven told him urgently, persuasively, watching the shotgun that Peter still held low across his hips. ‘It was planned in every detail. It took two years.’
‘All right.’ Peter nodded. ‘Tell me about the murder of Prince Hassied.’
‘It wasn’t murder, for God’s sake, man, it was absolutely essential. It was a matter of survival. They were destroying Western civilization with their childlike irresponsibility. Drunk with power, they were no longer amenable to reason, like spoiled children in a sweet shop – we had to put a stop to it, or face a breakdown of the capitalist system. They have probably done irreparable damage to the prestige of the dollar, they have taken sterling hostage and hold it in daily jeopardy with the threat of withdrawing those astronomic balances from London. We had to bring them to their senses, and look how small a price. We can reduce the price of crude oil gradually to its 1970 level. We can restore sanity to the currencies of the Western world and secure real growth and prosperity for hundreds of millions of peoples – all at the cost of a single life.’
‘And anyway, he was only a bloody wog. Wasn’t he?’ Peter agreed reasonably.
‘Look here, Peter. I said that but I didn’t mean it. You are being unreasonable.’
‘I will try not to be,’ Peter assured him mildly. ‘Tell me where it goes from here. Who
do you bring under control next – the British Trade Union movement, perhaps?’
And Steven stared at him wordlessly for a moment.
‘Damn it, Peter. That was a hell of a guess. But could you imagine if we had a five-year wage freeze, and no industrial action during that time. It’s them or us, Peter. We could get back to being one of the major industrial powers of the Western world. Great Britain! We could be that again.’
‘You are very convincing, Steven,’ Peter acknowledged. ‘There are only a few details that worry me a little.’
‘What are they, Peter?’
‘Why was it necessary to arrange the murder of Kingston Parker and Magda Altmann—’
Steven stared at him, his jaw unhinging slightly and the hard line of his mouth going slack with astonishment. ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘That’s not so.’
‘– and why was it necessary to kill Baron Altmann, and torture him to death?’
That was not my doing – all right, it was done. And I knew it was done – but I had nothing to do with it, Peter. Not the murder at least. Oh God, all right I knew it had to be done, but—’ His voice tailed off, and he stared helplessly at Peter.
‘From the beginning again, Steven. Let’s hear it all—’ Peter spoke almost gently.
‘I cannot, Peter. You don’t understand what might happen, what will happen if I tell you—’
Peter slid the safety catch off the Purdey shotgun. The click of the mechanism was unnaturally loud in the silence, and Steven Stride started and stepped back a pace, blinking at his brother, fastening all his attention on Peter’s eyes.
‘God,’ he whispered. ‘You would do it too.’
‘Tell me about Aaron Altmann.’
‘Can I have another cigarette?’
Peter nodded and Steven lit it with hands that trembled very slightly.
‘You have to understand how it worked, before I can explain.’
‘Tell me how it worked,’ Peter invited.
‘I was recruited—’
‘Steven, don’t lie to me – you are Caliph.’
‘No, God, no, Peter. You have it all wrong,’ Steven cried. ‘It’s a chain. I am only a link in Caliph’s chain. I am not Caliph.’
‘You are a part of Caliph, then?’
‘Only a link in the chain,’ Steven repeated vehemently.
‘Tell me,’ Peter invited with a small movement of the shotgun barrel that drew Steven’s eyes immediately.
‘There is a man I have known a long time. We have worked together before. A man with greater wealth and influence than I have. It was not an immediate thing. It grew out of many discussions and conversations over a long time, years, in which we both voiced our concern with the way that power had shifted to blocks of persons unfit to wield it—’
‘All right,’ Peter nodded grimly. ‘I understand your political and ideological sentiments. Leave them out of the account.’
‘Very well,’ Steven agreed. ‘– Well, finally this man asked me if I would be prepared to join an association of Western world political and industrial leaders dedicated to restoring power to the hands of those fitted by training and upbringing to govern.’
‘Who was this man?’
‘Peter, I cannot tell you.’
‘You have no choice,’ Peter told him, and there was a long moment as they locked eyes and wills; then Steven sighed in capitulation.
‘It was—’ The name was that of a mining magnate who controlled most of the free world supply of nuclear fuel and gold and precious stones.
‘So he is the one who would have been in control of the new South African government with which you intended replacing the present regime in that country, if the taking of 070 had succeeded?’ Peter demanded, and Steven nodded wordlessly.
‘All right,’ Peter nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘He had been recruited as I was,’ Steven explained. ‘But I was never to know by whom. In my turn I was to recruit another desirable member – but I would be the only one who knew who that was. It was how the security of the chain was to be maintained. Each link would know only the one above and below him, the man who had recruited him and the one who he recruited in his turn—’
‘Caliph?’ Peter demanded. ‘What about Caliph?’
‘Nobody knows who he is.’
‘Yet he must know who you are.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then there must be some way for you to get a message to Caliph,’ Peter insisted. ‘For instance, when you recruit a new member, you must be able to pass on the information? When he wants something from you, he must be able to contact you.’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Christ, Peter. It’s more than my life is worth.’
‘We’ll come back to it,’ said Peter impatiently. ‘Go on, tell me about Aaron Altmann.’
‘That was a disaster. I chose Aaron as the man I would recruit. He seemed exactly the kind of man we needed. I had known him for years. I knew he could be very tough when it was necessary. So I approached him. He seemed very eager at first, leading me on. Getting me to explain the way Caliph would work. I was delighted to have recruited such an important man. He intimated that he would contribute twenty-five million dollars to the funds of the association, so I passed a message to Caliph. I told him than I had almost succeeded in recruiting Baron Altmann—’
Steven stopped nervously, and dropped the stub of his cigarette onto the damp turf, grinding it out under his heel.
‘What happened then?’ Peter demanded.
‘Caliph responded immediately. I was ordered to break off all contact with Aaron Altmann at once. I realized I must have chosen a potentially dangerous person. You tell me now he was Mossad. I did not know that – but Caliph must have known it. I did as I was told and dropped Aaron like a hot chestnut – and four days later he was abducted. I had nothing to do with it, Peter. I swear to you. I liked the man immensely. I admired him—’
‘Yet he was abducted and horribly tortured. You must have known that Caliph had done it, and that you were responsible?’
‘Yes.’ Steven said the word flatly, without evasion. Peter felt a small stir of admiration for that.
‘They tortured him to find out if he had passed the information you had given him about Caliph to Mossad,’ Peter insisted.
‘Yes. I expect so. I do not know.’
‘If the picture I have of Aaron Altmann was correct they received no information from him.’
‘No. He was like that. They must have lost patience with him in the end – to do what they did to him. It was my first moment of disillusionment with Caliph,’ Steven muttered sombrely.
They were both silent now, until Peter burst out angrily. ‘My God, Steven, can’t you see what a disgusting business you are mixed up in?’ And Steven was mute. ‘Couldn’t you see it?’ Peter insisted, the anger raw in his voice. ‘Couldn’t you realize it from the beginning?’
‘Not at the beginning.’ Steven shook his head miserably. ‘It seemed a brilliant solution for all the diseases of the Western world – and then once I began it was like being on board a speeding express train. It was just impossible to get off again.’
‘All right. So then you tried to have me assassinated on the Rambouillet road?
‘Good God, no.’ Steven was truly appalled. ‘You’re my brother, good God—’
‘Caliph did it to stop me getting close to Aaron’s widow who was out to avenge him.’
‘I didn’t know a thing about it, I swear to you. If Caliph did it, he knew better than to let me in on it.’ Steven was pleading now. ‘You must believe that.’
Peter felt a softening of his resolve, but forced back the knowledge that this man was his brother, someone who had been very dear over a lifetime.
‘What was your next operation for Caliph then?’ He asked without allowing the softness to reach his voice.
‘There wasn’t—’
‘Damn you, Steven, don’t lie to me.’ Peter’s
voice cracked like a whiplash. ‘You knew about Prince Hassied Abdel Hayek!’
‘All right. I arranged that. Caliph told me what to do and I did it.’
‘Then you kidnapped Melissa-Jane and had her mutilated—’
‘Oh God! No!’ Steven’s voice was a sob.
‘– To force me to assassinate Kingston Parker—’
‘No, Peter. No!’
‘– And then to kill Magda Altmann—’
‘Peter, I swear to you. Not Melissa-Jane. I love her like one of my own daughters. You must know that. I had no idea it was Caliph.’
Steven was pleading wildly now.
‘– You have to believe me. I would never have allowed that to happen. That is too horrible.’
Peter watched him with a steely merciless glint of blue in his eyes, cold and cutting as the edge of the executioner’s blade.
‘I will do anything to prove to you I had nothing to do with Melissa-Jane. Anything you say, Peter. I’ll take any chance to prove it to you. I swear it to you.’
Steven Stride’s dismay and sincerity were beyond question. His face was drained of all colour and his lips were marble white and trembling with the strength of his denial.
Peter handed the shotgun to his brother without a word. Startled, Steven held it for a moment at arm’s length.
‘You are in bad trouble, Steven,’ Peter said quietly. He knew that from now on he needed Steven’s unreserved and whole-hearted commitment. He could not be forced to do what he must do at the point of a shotgun.
Steven recognized the gesture, and slowly lowered the gun. With his thumb he pushed across the breech-locking mechanism, and the weapon hinged open. He pulled the cartridges from the double eyes of the breeches and dropped them into the pocket of his shooting jacket.
‘Let’s get down to the house,’ Steven said, his voice still unsteady with the trauma of the last minutes. ‘I need a stiff whisky—’
