by Fred Hoyle
But he found the clumsiness of the 6 ft. waiter who served their excellent dinner amusing. There was something about a policeman which could never be disguised, not even when he was a member of the Special Branch.
Otherwise they were left to themselves in the days that followed. They could walk as much as they liked around the vast parkland. Fleming noticed that Andre seemed to be growing increasingly vacant and that she stumbled quite often even on the smooth grass. He also noted that the chain link fence was the usual Government type, precisely like that round Thorness. The old gatehouse at the entrance to the main drive had been visibly transformed into a guard room.
The guard carried an automatic rifle.
One afternoon Andre was taken away. Geers had arrived and wanted to talk with her. She spent many hours of the ensuing day with the scientist. He did his work well. Andre emerged thoughtful though still curiously unmoved. She told Fleming that she accepted that all Geers had said was true, but it was like the life outline of some other person. It struck no strong chord in her own memory, although she realised that she had been involved in the destruction of the computer.
'What will they do to us?' she asked when they sat in the lounge, idly watching some inanity on T.V. late that evening.
Fleming was quiet for a time, marvelling that the moronic woman simpering at the camera had just won a spin dryer for confirming that the Amazon was a large river. 'I imagine they'll wait until poor old Osborne joins us here,' he said eventually. 'Then they'll have a trial in camera. He and I will be beheaded at the Tower, Osborne a perfect gentleman to the very end. As for you' - he found he could not go on, and they sat without speaking for a long while in the flickering half-light of the telly.
Suddenly there were footsteps outside, heavy ones, on the parquet flooring.
'Who's that?' Andre asked. Both had grown accustomed to the flannel-footed silence of the minions who watched over them.
'Could be Osborne,' Fleming suggested. 'It's about time he joined the party. Nice if they let us all spend our last days together.
But it wasn't Osborne. It was Kaufman. He was dressed in an over-long black overcoat. In one hand he held a black homburg, in the other a briefcase. He was momentarily taken aback at the sight of Fleming and Andre.
'Excuse please,' he murmured, shutting the door quietly. 'I had expected to meet Mr Osborne .... ' He nervously licked his lips and then put on a big smile. 'I was informed he was due here this evening. Instead I have the honour of greeting Dr Fleming.' He advanced, podgy hand outstretched.
'Mein freund Kaufman,' mimicked Fleming, ignoring the handshake. 'How did you flannel your way into this place?'
Kaufman drew himself up. 'I am representing Mr.Osborne's lawyer. It is all so difficult, this matter. But now I have the good luck. I meet you.'
He peered myopically through his spectacles at Andre, still sitting in her easy chair. 'And this is the famous young lady!'
He crossed to her, bowed, and took her hand, brushing the back of it with his lips.
'You see, my dear, how charming these Viennese are,' said Fleming.
Kaufman scowled. 'I do not come from Vienna, but from Dusseldorf, mein liebe Doktor!'
'It's not so long since you were taking pot shots at your liebe doctor,' Fleming pointed out. 'Not you, of course. You get other people to pull triggers and make uncomfortable trips to small private islands.'
Kaufman seemed genuinely embarrassed. 'I am not a free agent,' he said. 'I do not act as I would wish.'
'Only as your bosses in Intel wish.'
There was something unexpectedly sad and bitter in Kaufman's answer. 'Some of us are not lucky enough to do the things we would choose.'
Fleming nodded. 'Why did they send you after us?'
'You have something my directors want.' Kaufman was restless. He tip-toed to the window and pulled aside the heavy chintz curtains. Momentarily light swept over his face from moving lamps. At the same time there was the quiet throb of an idling engine and the faint swish of wheels braking on gravel.
'Your client, Mr Osborne, maybe,' suggested Fleming.
Kaufman shook his head. No, Dr Fleming, this is a van. It will stop round the back, in the stable yard.' His voice grew clipped and stern. 'Now, please, you will both come with me.'
He partially drew the curtains and pushed open the long, low window.
'Don't take any notice of what he says,' Fleming muttered quietly to Andre. 'Just go on sitting there.'
'Please,' beseeched Kaufman. 'Last week I have a young man shot dead. A nice young man. I did not even know him.
I do not like such things.'
There was some noise outside and a trench-coated figure sprang lightly over the sill. He was a thin, sallow-faced youngster hardly out of his teens. His narrowed eyes darted round the room. The gun in his hand was held rock-steady.
'Come on,' he ordered in a small morose voice, 'it's bloody cold and wet hanging around out there. Let's get going.'
Kaufman moved behind the gunman. 'We wish to have you alive, Herr Doktor,' he said, 'but we should be prepared to stretch a point with the young lady.' The man in the trench coat pointed the revolver towards Andre. There was a studied movement of his thumb as he spun the bullet chamber.
Fleming knew it was a crude theatrical gesture, but a purposeful one. He beckoned to Andre. With her hand in his they crossed to the window.
Kaufman climbed through the window first, turning to help Andre. The gunman brought up the rear, his pistol close to Fleming's back, but suddenly whirled round as he heard the door into the lounge opening. The others were already on the terrace. Fleming stopped dead and looked back.
Osborne was standing in the doorway, gaping at the gunman. Just behind him was a soldier, wearing the scarlet armband of the Military Police.
'What the dickens, who the devil...?' Osborne managed to say as the soldier pushed him roughly out of the way. But it was too late. The gunman fired - once. Osborne crashed back against the door from the impact of the bullet. The gunman leaped to the window and fired again wildly as he clambered through. The bullet missed the soldier, who had started to rush forward, but sent him sprawling for cover.
From where he lay he blew his whistle for aid, while Osborne collapsed slowly to the ground with his left hand clasped to his right shoulder and a frozen look of surprise on his face.
'What a damned ridiculous thing to happen,' he said slowly and distinctly, and then slumped forward.
Outside, in the darkness and the gusty rain, unseen hands grabbed Fleming and Andre. They were picked up bodily and pushed into the back of a van. The rear doors were slammed shut, and the engine started. Then with a scream of protesting tyres the van shot away, rocking so violently that it was impossible for Fleming to get to his feet. The vehicle gathered more speed on the long straight drive to the gates.
Fleming heard confused shouts as they roared past the guard room and on to the highway. Time after time they almost overturned as the driver took sharp turns at full speed, the sideways skids forcing Andre and Fleming to lie flat, bracing their feet against the steel sides.
After a while they settled down to a fast, steady speed.
Fleming guessed that they were on a motorway. He cursed the fact that he had no watch, But he estimated that this stretch lasted for half an hour - say forty miles since they had started.
The van slowed, swerved to the right and again there came bursts of speed alternating with abrupt turns. The bumpiness suggested a badly made road or lane.
Gingerly he stood up and with the aid of the futile flame from his cigarette lighter looked quickly round the van. He knew it was just a gesture. The interior was solid metal. The door was secured by the usual lock bars from the outside.
There was no aperture beyond a small wire-meshed peep hole at the front near the driver. This was covered.
The van slowed down to a crawl, cruising slowly over uneven ground. It began to bump badly and the tyres made no more noise. They were obvious
ly on grass. Then the van stopped.
There was a pause before the rear doors were opened.
Rain was pouring down. Kaufman stood there smiling in the glimmer of a shaded flash light held by someone to the rear.
Beside Kaufman stood the gunman.
'Well, Doctor,' said Kaufman, 'will you be so good as to get out; the young lady as well ?'
Taking his time, Fleming jumped down. He lifted Andre out. 'Your friend has rubbed out the perfectly harmless Osborne,' he told Kaufman. 'I wouldn't say that we're harmless, so what's your programme in our case? And where are we?
'On a disused airfield of our great American allies,' Kaufman said. 'The runways are enormous and still excellent. We are saving you the unpleasantness of a trial and imprisonment for sabotage. I am sure your Government consider you a traitor.' He removed his glasses and cleaned off the globules of rain. 'No more time for talking.' He seemed almost regretful.
'The plane must leave immediately. Come!'
The gunman moved behind Fleming, and Kaufman led the way. Soon Fleming could see the wet, shining surface of an aircraft fuselage.
'Welcome aboard madame - and you, sir,' said a woman's voice.
Fleming laughed at the madness of it. The girl at the top of the aircraft's steps was neatly dressed in a dark blue uniform. She was the usual type of air stewardess, trim, neat, and pretty. In the glowing red of the night emergency lights in the cabin Fleming saw that she was oriental. Swiftly she directed her guests to a couple of seats forward, helping them to fasten their safety belts. She completely ignored the man with the gun, who went to the seat across the gangway and sat there, half turned towards them, the gun still in his hands.
Kaufman disappeared through the crew door. The starter motor whirred. First one engine whined, then a second.
'Jets!' muttered Fleming to himself. 'Trust Intel to do things properly. No expense spared.'
There was no run-up of power. The jets were given full throttle with the brakes on; they sighed down from their crescendo, and then began to whine once more. The aircraft moved smoothly down the runway.
As soon as they were airborne they climbed steeply. The pilot obviously intended to get well clear of the commercial air lanes with their inquisitive radar controls. Soon they were through the clouds and bathed in cold moonlight. Fleming estimated from the stars he could identify that they were heading in a southerly direction.
When Kaufman emerged from the cabin he confirmed this. 'We have just crossed the English coast,' he beamed.
'We are now over international waters. All is well. I suggest you try to get some sleep after the hostess has served refreshments.
We shall be landing in about four hours in North Africa.'
'Whereabouts in North Africa?' Fleming enquired.
'Of no importance,' said the German. 'Just for refuelling.
The major part of the journey follows. To Azaran.'
CHAPTER FIVE
SUNNY AND WARM
DAYLIGHT came long before the aircraft slowly lost height and crossed the Azaran frontier. Fleming, gloomily looking through the aircraft window, found nothing to arouse his interest. The brown-grey land, flat and interminably dreary, stretched towards the horizon where low hills drew an uneven contour. Now and then he saw a blur of dust where a camel train moved along the dark threads which marked the age-old desert tracks. Apart from a few ragged shaped blobs of lighter contours, the pattern of a few miserable houses round a water hole, the place seemed lifeless.
The jet's whine sunk to a hum and the port wing dipped.
Below, Fleming saw the discs of the top of oil tanks, and not far from them the tracery of derricks. The ground slid closer and a town came into focus, its white buildings brilliant in the morning sun. The aircraft swung the other way, and the horizon dropped past Fleming's window. When the machine levelled off he just had time to note a long grey building, flat roofed and modern. It stood isolated some five miles from the town.
The jet engines picked up power, eased, and faded. They were landing.
A soft heat struck their faces like a muffled blow when they emerged from the cabin. Arab soldiers, in battledress and American-style steel helmets, lounged around with sten guns at the ready. An ancient British limousine, the camouflage paint peeling from its body, drew up beside the aircraft.
Kaufman, sweating profusely, hustled Fleming and Andre into the rear seat. He himself sat beside the army driver.
A good concrete road led straight into the town. As soon as they reached the slummy outskirts, where huts roofed with battered corrugated iron clashed obscenely with decrepit but still lovely houses of traditional Arabic architecture the road widened into a badly maintained highway, packed with people. Women, veiled and graceful, led donkeys half hidden under huge panniers. Some men were in Arab costume, but most wore cheap, shabby Western clothes.
The Azaran flag hung from every building. Here and there loud speakers blared Oriental music, the discord heightened by distortion. The driver went full tilt into the mob, his hand continually on the horn ring. Past the huge market place, where hundreds were standing around, aimless yet animated, the car swung through the narrow entrance to a large house.
Two sentries looked poker faced at the car's passengers as the driver carefully steered the car into the cool, shady courtyard round which the house was built.
Kaufman alighted and spoke some words to an Arab in a neat Western-style suit. Then he disappeared through a doorless entrance. The Arab came across to the car and in careful English ordered Andre and Fleming to follow him.
He took them across the courtyard, up some stone steps and through a beautifully ornamented door.
'Wait here, please,' he said. He closed the door behind him.
Fleming strolled round the room. It was small but high ceilinged. A series of narrow slits, fitted with modern glass, allowed panels of sunlight to pattern the stone floor. Persian carpets hung on the walls. There were comfortable modern chairs as well as fragile little oriental tables. On one of the latter stood a brass tray with a silver jug and tiny cups. Fleming picked up the jug. It was hot; the aroma of coffee smelt good. He poured some of the thick, syrupy liquid into the cups and handed one to Andre.
'What is this place?' she asked as she sipped the coffee.
Fleming took off his sports jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. 'A very hot country,' he grinned. 'A place called Azaran which seems to be small but likely to be notorious.
This is doubtless some pasha's desirable residence. Unless it's Kaufman's.'
'He is not a bad man,' said Andre.
Fleming glanced at her with surprise. 'You sense that? Basically you're right, I'm sure. The trouble is the hard veneer stuck on that lovely, harmless soul of his.'
But Andre's attention had drifted away again.
There was a rustle of the hangings in the far corner of the room. Janine Gamboul came towards them. She was wearing a silk sheath dress and managed to look both cool and eye-catching.
'Doctor Fleming?' she murmured, pausing in front of him, unsmiling.
'Who are you?' Fleming asked ruddy.
'My name is Gamboul,' she answered, turning from him and studying Andre.
'The lady of the house?' he asked.
She did not take her eyes off Andre. 'This is the home of Colonel Salim, a member of the Azaran Government. He could not come himself. He is extremely busy. Today is the anniversary of Azaran's independence, and this year the celebrations have a special meaning because the Government has terminated the oil agreements. In case of interference the frontier has been closed.'
'A great day, as you say,' Fleming said. 'And this Salim had us brought here?'
She turned then and looked him over slowly. 'I - that is to say, we - had you brought.'
'I see. And you - singular or plural - are the flowers-by-wire service, the great Intel?'
'I represent Intel,' she said coldly. She looked once more at Andre. 'And you are - ?'
'A colleague
,' Fleming said quickly.
Janine Gamboul let the ghost of a smile play round her sensuous lips. 'You are - ?' She asked Andre again.
'We are what is popularly known as "just friends", in the rather old fashioned and more exact sense of the term Fleming said. 'Her name is Andre. Just Andre.'
'Please sit down, ma petite,' she said pleasantly to Andre.
'I hope you're not too tired from your journey; that you were well treated.'
'Not particularly,' Fleming answered for her.
'I'm sorry,' she said formally. 'We brought you here because we think we can help each other. You're on the run from the British Government. They won't get you here, this is a closed country. No extradition.'
'That's your version of helping us. Now suppose you explain how we're to be forced to help you?'
She was saved from losing her temper by the arrival of Salim.
The late ex-Ambassador was in a perfectly tailored uniform, with two rows of medals on his breast. He clearly found life very good indeed.
'Ah, Dr Fleming,' he exclaimed, flashing his white teeth and extending his hand. Fleming turned his back on him. Not put out at all, Salim went to Andre. 'And you are Miss - '
'Andre,' Janine said.
'Just- ?'
Gamboul shrugged. 'Si. So the loquacious Dr Fleming says.'
Salim took Andre's hand in both of his. 'I'm charmed,' he murmured admiringly.
Andre smiled a little. 'How do you do,' she said politely.
Salim released her hands and threw himself in a chair, stretching his long legs in their immaculately polished boots.
'Well, to explanations. Dr Fleming, we are now a new country. Except for our oil we are under-developed. Not since two thousand years ago, when we were a province with our own rights under the old Persian Empire of Xerxes, have we been anything but a slave state of other people. We need help now we are independent.'
'You go about hiring help in a curious way,' said Fleming.
