Wild Justice

by Wilbur Smith

  Steven had an unusually clear path to the station, and found himself waiting outside the call box in the crowded entrance to the station while a young man in paint-speckled overalls, with long greasy blond hair, finished his conversation. Caliph’s system allowed for prior use of the chosen public telephone, and as soon as the scruffy youth finished his leisurely chat, Steven pushed into the booth and made a show of consulting the directory.

  The phone rang, and even though he was expecting it, Steven jumped with shock. He was perspiring now, with the walk and the tension, and his voice was ragged as he snatched the receiver.

  ‘Stride,’ he gulped.

  The coin dropped and Caliph’s impersonal tones chilled him again.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have a message.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is danger for Caliph.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A government intelligence agency has put an agent close to him, close enough to be extremely dangerous.’

  ‘Say the source of your information.’

  ‘My brother. General Peter Stride.’ Peter had instructed him to tell the truth, as much as was possible.

  ‘Say the government agency involved.’

  ‘Negative. The information is too sensitive. I must have assurance that Caliph receives it personally.’

  ‘Say the name or position of the enemy agent.’

  ‘Negative. For the same reasons.’

  Steven glanced at his gold Cartier tank watch with its black alligator strap. They had been speaking for fifteen seconds – he knew the contact would not last longer than thirty seconds. Caliph would not risk exposure beyond that time. He did not wait for the next question or instructions.

  ‘I will pass the information only to Caliph, and I must be certain it is him, not one of his agents, I request a personal meeting.’

  ‘That is not possible,’ droned the inhuman voice.

  ‘Then Caliph will be in great personal danger.’ Steven found courage to say it.

  ‘I repeat, say the name and position of enemy agent.’

  Twenty-five seconds had passed.

  ‘I say again, negative. You must arrange a face-to-face meeting for transfer of this information.’

  A single droplet of sweat broke from the hairline of Steven’s temple and ran down his cheek. He felt as though he were suffocating in the claustrophobic little telephone box.

  ‘You will be contacted,’ droned the voice and the line clicked dead.

  Steven took the white silk handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed at his face. Then he carefully rearranged the scrap of silk in his pocket, not folded into neat spikes but with a deliberately casual drape.

  He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin and left the booth. Now for the first time he felt like a brave man. It was a feeling he relished, and he stepped out boldly swinging the rolled umbrella with a small flourish at each pace.

  Peter had been within call of the telephone all that week, during the hours of involvement with the series of Narmco projects which he had put in train before his departure for Tahiti, and which all seemed to be maturing simultaneously. There were meetings that began in the morning and lasted until after dark, there were two separate day journeys, one to Oslo and another to Frankfurt, catching the early businessman’s plane and back in the Narmco office before evening. Always he was within reach of a telephone and Steven Stride knew the number, even when he was in the NATO Officers Club gymnasium, sharpening his body to peak physical condition, or practising until after midnight in the underground pistol range until the 9-mm Cobra was an extension of his hands – either hand, left or right, equally capable of grouping the X circle at fifty metres, from any position, standing, kneeling or prone, always he was within reach of the telephone.

  Peter felt like a prize fighter in training camp, concentrating all his attention on the preparations for the confrontation he knew lay ahead.

  At last the weekend loomed, with the prospect of being boring and frustrating. He refused invitations to visit the country home of one of his Narmco colleagues, another to fly down to Paris for the Saturday racing – and he stayed alone in the Hilton suite, waiting for the call from Steven.

  On Sunday morning he had all the papers sent up to his room, English and American and French – German which he could read better than he spoke, and even the Dutch and Italian papers which he could stumble through haltingly, missing every third word or so.

  He went through them carefully, trying to find a hint of Caliph’s activity. New abductions, hijackings or other acts which might give him a lead to some new Caliph-dominated pressures.

  Italy was in a political uproar. The confusion so great that he could only guess at how much of it was from the left and how much from the right. There had been an assassination in Naples of five known members of the Terrorist Red Brigade, all five taken out neatly with a single grenade. The grenade type had been determined as standard NATO issue, and the execution had been in the kitchen of a Red Brigade safe apartment in a slum area of the city. The police had no leads. It sounded like Caliph. There was no reason to believe that his ‘chain’ did not include prominent Italian businessmen. A millionaire Italian living in his own country had to be the earth’s most endangered species after the blue whale, Peter thought wryly, and they might have called on Caliph to go on the offensive.

  Peter finished the continental papers, and turned with relief to the English and American. It was a little before Sunday noon, and he wondered how he could live out the desolate hours until Monday morning. He was certain that there would be no reply to Steven’s request for a meeting before then.

  He started on the English-language newspapers, spinning them out to cover the blank time ahead.

  The British Leyland Motor Company strike was in its fifteenth week – with no prospect of settlement. Now there was a case for Caliph, Peter smiled wryly, remembering his discussion with Steven. Knock a few heads together for their own good.

  There was only one other item of interest in his morning’s reading. The President of the United States had appointed a special negotiator in another attempt to find a solution to the Israeli occupation of the disputed territories in the Middle East. The man he had chosen was Dr Kingston Parker, who was described as a personal friend of the President and one of the senior members of his inner circle of advisors, a man well thought of by all parties in the dispute, and an ideal choice for the difficult job Again Peter found himself in agreement. Kingston Parker’s energies and resources seemed bottomless.

  Peter dropped the last paper and found himself facing a void of boredom that would extend through until the following day. There were three books he should read beside his bed, and the Hermes crocodile case was half-filled with Narmco material, yet he knew that he would not be able to concentrate – not with the prospect of the confrontation with Caliph over-shadowing all else.

  He went through into the mirrored bathroom of the suite, and found the package that he had purchased the previous day in the cosmetic section of Galéries Anspach, one of the city’s largest departmental stores.

  The wig was of good-quality human hair, not the obviously shiny nylon substitute. It was in his own natural colour, but much longer than Peter wore his hair. He arranged it carefully along his own hairline, and then set to work with a pair of scissors, trimming and tidying it. When he had it as close to his liking as possible, he began to tint the temples with ‘Italian Boy’ hair silvering.

  It took him most of the afternoon, for he was in no hurry, and he was critical of his own work. Every few minutes he consulted the snapshot which Melissa-Jane had taken with her new Polaroid camera, Peter’s Christmas present to her, at Abbots Yew on New Year’s Day. It was a good likeness of both the Stride brothers, Peter and Steven, standing full face and smiling indulgently at Melissa-Jane’s command to do so.

  It highlighted the resemblances of the two brothers, and also pointed out their physical differences. The natural hair colouring
was identical but Steven’s was fashionably longer, curling on his collar at the back, and appreciably greyer at the temples and streaked at the front.

  Steven’s face was heavier, with the first trace of jowls, and his colour was higher, perhaps the first ruddy warnings of heart malfunction or merely the banner of good living in his cheeks. Yet with the wig on his head, Peter’s own face seemed much fuller.

  Next Peter shaped the moustache, trimming it down into the infantry officer model that Steven favoured. There had been a good selection of artificial moustaches to choose from in the cosmetic section, amongst a display of artificial eyelashes and eyebrows, but none had been exactly right. Peter had to work on it carefully with the scissors, and then tint it with a little silver.

  When he fastened it in place with the special adhesive gum, the result was quite startling. The moustache filled out his face even further, and of course the eyes of the twins were almost exactly the same shape and colour. Their noses were both straight and bony. Peter’s mouth was a little more generous, and did not have the same hard relentless line of lip – but the moustache concealed much of that.

  Peter stood back and examined himself in the full-length mirror. He and Steven were within a quarter of an inch in height, they had the same breadth of shoulder. Steven was heavier in the gut, and his neck was thickening, giving him a thrusting bull-like set to his head and shoulders. Peter altered his stance slightly. It worked. He doubted that anybody who did not know both of them intimately would be able to detect the substitution. There was no reason to believe that Caliph or any of his closest lieutenants would have seen either Steven or Peter in the flesh.

  He spent an hour practising Steven’s gait, watching himself in the mirror, trying to capture the buoyant cockiness of Steven’s movements, searching for little personal mannerisms, the way Steven stood with both hands clasped under the skirts of his jacket; the way he brushed his moustache with one finger, from the parting under his nose – left and right.

  Clothing was not a serious problem. Both brothers had used the same tailor since Sandhurst days, and Steven’s dress habits were invariable and inviolable. Peter’s knew exactly what he would wear in any given situation.

  Peter stripped off wig and moustache and repacked them carefully in their Galéries Anspach plastic packets, then buttoned them into one of the interior divisions of the Hermes case.

  Next he removed the Cobra parabellum from another division. It was still in the chamois leather holster, and he bounced the familiar weight of the weapon in the palm of his hand. Reluctantly he decided he could not take it with him. The meeting would almost certainly be in England. The contact that Steven had had on Thursday had clearly originated in London. He had to believe the next contact would be in that same city. He could not take the chance of walking through British customs with a deadly weapon on his person. If he was stopped, there would be publicity. It would instantly alert Caliph. He would be able to get another weapon from Thor Command once he was in England Colin Noble would supply him, just as soon as Peter explained the need, he was certain of that.

  Peter went down and checked the Cobra pistol into the safe deposit box of the hotel reception office, and returned to his room to face the wearying and indefinite wait. It was one of a soldier’s duties to which he had never entirely accustomed himself – he always hated the waiting

  However, he settled down to read Robert Asprey’s War in the Shadows, that definitive tome on the history and practice of guerrilla warfare down the ages. He managed to lose himself sufficiently to be mildly surprised when he glanced at his watch and saw it was after eight o’clock. He ordered an omelette to be sent up by room service, and ten seconds after he replaced the receiver, the telephone rang He thought it might be a query from the kitchen about his dinner order

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ he demanded irritably.

  ‘Peter?’

  ‘Steven?’

  ‘He has agreed to a meeting.’

  Peter felt his heart lunge wildly.

  ‘When? Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have to fly to Orly tomorrow. There will be instructions for me at the airport.’

  Caliph covering and backtracking. Peter should have expected it. Desperately he cast his mind back to the layout of Orly Airport. He had to find a private place to meet Steven and make the change-over. He discarded swiftly the idea of meeting in one of the lounges or washrooms. That left one other location.

  ‘What time will you be there?’ Peter demanded.

  ‘Cooks have got me onto the early flight. I’ll be there at eleven fifteen.’

  ‘I’ll be there before you,’ Peter told him. He knew the Sabena timetable by heart and all senior Narmco executives had special VIP cards which assured a seat on any flight.

  ‘I will book a room at the Air Hotel on the fourth floor of Orly South terminal in your name,’ he told Steven now. ‘I’ll wait in the lobby. Go directly to the reception desk and ask for your key. I will check behind you to make certain you are not followed. Do not acknowledge me in any way. Have you got that, Steven?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

  Peter broke the connection, and went through into the bathroom He studied his own face in the mirror.

  ‘Well, that takes care of getting a weapon from Thor.’ Caliph had not set the meeting in England. It was clear now that Paris was only a staging point, and that in his usual careful fashion Caliph would move the subject on from there – perhaps through one or more staging points, to the final rendezvous.

  The subject would go in unarmed, and unsupported – and Peter was certain that afterwards Caliph would take his usual pains to ensure that the subject would be unable to carry back a report of the meeting.

  I am drawing two cards inside for a straight flush, and Caliph is the dealer from a pack that he has had plenty of time to prepare, Peter thought coldly, but at least the waiting was over. He began to pack his toilet articles into the waterproof Gucci bag.

  Sir Steven Stride marched into the lobby of Orly South Air Hotel at five minutes past noon, and Peter smiled to himself in self-congratulation. Steven was wearing a blue double-breasted blazer, white shirt and cricket-club tie, above grey woollen slacks and black English handmade shoes – none of your fancy Italian footwear for Steven.

  It was Steven’s standard informal dress, and Peter had only been wrong about the tie – he had guessed that it would be an I Zingari pattern. Peter himself wore a double breaster and grey slacks under his trench coat and his shoes were black Barkers.

  Steven’s eyes flickered around the lobby, passing over Peter sitting in a far corner with a copy of Le Monde, then Steven moved authoritively to the reception desk.

  ‘My name is Stride, do you have a reservation for me?’ Steven spoke slowly, in rich plummy tones, for very few of these damned people spoke English. The clerk checked swiftly, nodded, murmured a welcome and gave Steven the form and the key.

  ‘Four One Six.’ Steven checked the number loudly enough for Peter to hear. Peter had been watching the entrance carefully; fortunately there had been very few guests entering the lobby during the few minutes since Steven’s arrival, and none of those could possibly have been Caliph surveillance. Of course, if this was a staging point, as Peter was certain it was, then Caliph would have no reason to put surveillance on Steven – not until he got much closer to the ultimate destination.

  Steven moved to the elevator with a porter carrying his single small valise, and Peter drifted across and joined the small cluster of guests waiting at the elevators.

  He rode up shoulder to shoulder with Steven in the crowded elevator, neither of them acknowledging the other’s existence, and when Steven and the porter left at the fourth stage Peter rode on up three floors, walked the length of the corridor and back, then took the descending elevator to Steven’s floor.

  Steven had left the door to 416 off the catch, and Peter pushed it open and slipped in without knocking.

 
; ‘My dear boy.’ Steven was in his shirt sleeves. He had switched on the television, but now he turned down the sound volume and hurried to greet him with both affection and vast relief.

  ‘No problems?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Like clockwork,’ Steven told him. ‘Would you like a drink? I got a bottle in the duty-free.’

  While he hunted for glasses in the bathroom, Peter checked the room swiftly. A view down towards the square functional buildings of the market that had replaced the picturesque Les Halles in central Paris, matching curtains and covers on the twin beds, television and radio sets, between the beds, modern soulless furniture – it was a room, that was the most and the least that could be said for it

  Steven carried in the glasses and handed one to Peter.

  ‘Cheers!’

  Peter tasted his whisky. It was too strong and the Parisian tap water tasted of chlorine. He put it aside.

  ‘How is Caliph going to get instructions to you?’

  ‘Got them already.’ Steven went to his blazer, hanging over the back of the chair, and found a long white envelope in the inside pocket. ‘This was left at the Air France Information Desk.’

  Peter took the envelope and as he split the flap he sank onto one of the armchairs. There were three items in the envelope.

  A first-class Air France airline ticket, a voucher for a chauffeur-driven limousine and a hotel reservation voucher.

  The air ticket could have been purchased for cash at any Air France outlet or agency, the limousine and hotel bookings could have been made equally anonymously. There was no possibility of a trace back from any of these documents.

  Peter opened the Air France ticket and read the destination. Something began to crawl against his skin, like the loathsome touch of body vermin. He closed the ticket and checked the two vouchers; now the sick feeling of betrayal and evil spread through his entire body, numbing his fingertips and coating the back of his tongue with a bitter metallic taste like copper salts.