Shah-Mak

by Alan Williams

  It was a twenty-minute drive to the city, through the scrambling rush hour traffic of American limousines and donkeys and bicycles, and occasionally the lurching shape of a camel.

  Apart from the seafront, which she had seen on a trip into town on her second day, it was an undistinguished city, remarkable only for the ugliness and speed with which it was being developed. She noticed a great many supermarkets, some only half built; shops packed with colour televisions, hi-fi equipment and cassette players; and numerous modern dress shops, several of them full of obscene life-size plastic models, naked and bald.

  And everywhere the Ruler’s eyes followed her from large coloured posters.

  The Embassy was in a quiet residential quarter on the other side of the city: a modest stone building behind a large garden. There were about two dozen guests in a brightly lit room with a chandelier and Annigoni’s portrait of the Queen. She knew at once that she was in for a heavy evening.

  An English footman, looking like an actor, offered her the choice of a sherry or gin and tonic. She asked if he had any vodka, and he said he would look.

  She was introduced to the Ambassador, a worried-looking man who seemed to be frowning even when he was smiling. He, in turn, introduced his wife, who was as tall as himself, and larger, with a lot of pale yellow hair and an unhealthy bluish complexion that might have been caused by drink, or just the climate.

  The footman had found Sarah a vodka, and the three of them talked about England, the English theatre, and the prospect of the National Theatre coming to Mamounia. It was all very smooth and leisurely and trite, and struck Sarah as being just the kind of conversation the British Ambassador and his wife were supposed to have with visiting compatriots. Only later did it occur to her that not once had either of them asked her a direct question about herself — about what she was doing in Mamounia, how long she was staying, or what she thought of the place.

  The Ambassador circulated, leaving Sarah to chat with his wife from whom she learned that their last post had been Buenos Aires — ‘which was heaven compared to this — the climate, anyway’ — this being the only opinion that Sarah heard the woman express. She managed to secure a second vodka and then broached the subject of the British doctor, but was dismayed to learn that there was none; the resident Embassy staff had the choice of a Swiss or an American — ‘both of them good,’ said the Ambassador’s wife, ‘but horribly expensive. It isn’t anything serious, I hope?’

  ‘Upset tummy, that’s all, Mrs Braintree.’ At this stage, she was not going to confide her other complaint to a stranger.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got just the thing!’ the woman cried, and hurried Sarah upstairs and led her through the connubial bedroom into a bathroom, where she closed the door and began sorting through bottles in a medicine chest. ‘All runny, are you? Or can’t keep anything down?’ She turned and was smiling down at Sarah with a square-toothed grin.

  Sarah, who had always been embarrassed about discussing such matters in front of anyone except her mother, her ex-nanny, or a recommended doctor, suddenly distrusted this big, bluff, toothy woman.

  ‘All right, I can see — you’re shy! Runny, are you?’ She patted Sarah on the arm and laughed. ‘Goodness, what a thing to be ashamed of! We all get it when we first come out here. Now, this’ll put you right.’ She handed Sarah two bottles — a small one with pills in it, and a larger one full of brown liquid. ‘Two pills now — two before you go to bed — two when you wake up — and two every four hours until it clears up. And take a big slug of the other now.’ She picked up the tooth glass from beside the basin, together with a decanter of mineral water. ‘This ought to seal you up for the next forty-eight hours. I know what these abominable loos are like. I’d be surprised if Shiva Steiner’s were any different.’

  Sarah gave a start at the mention of her host’s name, then remembered that the Ambassador’s wife must have known where she was staying to have sent the invitation. She swallowed two of the tablets, and drank an inch of the brown liquid which tasted of chocolate. Both bottles, she noticed suspiciously, had labels printed in Arabic script. She considered mentioning her rash, but before she had time to decide —

  ‘Sarah Laval-Smith!’ The woman was staring down at her, with no smile now, her face like a slab of pumice stone. ‘Listen, you bloody little fool.’

  Sarah felt herself stiffen with a rush of anger. ‘What on earth do you mean by speaking to me like that?’

  ‘If you were my daughter, young lady —’ the woman’s breath smelled of gin — ‘if you were my daughter, I’d give you a darn good hiding and send you to bed without your dinner. But unfortunately you’re not —’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Sarah said furiously, and was turning on her heel, dropping the bottles into her handbag, when the woman grabbed her arm.

  ‘No, but you are a British subject. And that makes you our responsibility.’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, thank you, Mrs Braintree.’ She moved towards the door, but the woman stepped round her and leaned her bulk against it.

  ‘I’ve got something else to give you, my girl. Good sound advice. And you’re going to stay here for as long as it takes me to give it. Get away from Mr Shiva Steiner. Get away as quickly as you bloody well can. Have you got an air ticket? Or did he fly you here in his jet, like he does most of his girls?’

  ‘In his jet.’

  Mrs Braintree shook her head melodramatically. ‘What on earth is a girl like you doing getting yourself mixed up with a man like that? Your father’s Henry Laval-Smith, of Laval-Smith’s Bank, isn’t he?’

  Sarah gaped at her; the sound of her father’s name coming from this grotesque woman, in this unlikely outpost of British territory, shocked her rigid. ‘How do you know?’ she asked, in a weak whisper.

  ‘Well, it’s hardly a common name, is it, dear? And we do keep a copy of Who’s Who in the Embassy.’

  ‘What are you warning me against, Mrs Braintree?’

  ‘Mr Steiner. Are you sleeping with him?’ she added casually.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  Mrs Braintree frowned. ‘That’s rather what I was afraid of. I’d be happier if you were.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Listen, you silly, spoilt, arrogant little bitch!’ She grabbed Sarah by both shoulders; her face was flushed dark, her eyes bloodshot. ‘You may think I’m just another toothy old hag who spends all her time organizing bridge and cocktail parties, and swapping catty stories with the other Embassy wives. But I also keep my eyes and ears open. The Argentine was good training, with all the kidnappings and terrorism. But let me tell you — even the Argentine had nothing on this place.’ She fixed Sarah with a fierce, sober stare. ‘I suppose, before Shiva Steiner got you out here — for whatever purpose that is — he told you about NAZAK?’

  Sarah gave a faint nod.

  ‘Well, they’re bloody terrifying. And they don’t need any proof against you — just a whiff of suspicion, and you’re likely to be picked up and taken to their headquarters where they go in for things like sticking broken bottles up middle-class girls. With a pretty upper-class girl like you they’d have even more fun.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Sarah replied, with blank innocence.

  ‘Well, that’s too bad,’ said Mrs Braintree, ‘because I certainly don’t understand. All I know is, a lot of strange rumours have been going around lately, and they all suggest that this country’s on the point of bloody turmoil. And a lot of these rumours concern your friendly host, Mr Shiva Steiner. And if you’re not sharing his bed out here, I’d just like to know what you are doing with him. I expect the two gentlemen in the car across the street would as well.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you leave, you’ll see what I mean. They’ll follow you. I’m surprised you didn’t notice them on your way here — or perhaps you weren’t given the right training? It’d be like Steiner to pick some pretty little innocent to do his dirty work.
Less chance of your being able to talk afterwards.’

  ‘Mrs Braintree, I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.’ Sarah spoke with a frightened dignity, ‘And I don’t wish to be rude to you in your own house, but I’m beginning to think you’ve had too much to drink.’

  The woman gave a hoarse laugh and took Sarah firmly by the arm. ‘All right, I can’t beat it out of you. And I can’t keep you locked up here, or have you deported. But don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.’

  She opened the door, led her back across the bedroom and out on to the staircase. Halfway down she stopped. ‘Sarah, for the last time, I don’t know what you’re doing out here with Steiner, but — get out while you’ve still got your skin!’ She took a deep breath. ‘And remember one thing. You can be sure that everything I’ve told you tonight — about you and Steiner — has already been noted by the authorities here. If you don’t believe me, take a look at the car when you go outside. It’s a grey Ford Falcon, with no number plates —’ she cackled — ‘which is supposed to make it inconspicuous, like wearing no trousers.’ And she marched on down the stairs.

  Several more guests had arrived, including a number of sleek-haired locals whose fishy eyes darted at once in Sarah’s direction. She evaded them skilfully, and left unnoticed.

  Outside, the wind had dropped and the air was full of the scream of cicadas. Steiner’s car — one of the big Fleetwood sedans — was parked where she had left it at the gates, with the chauffeur asleep at the wheel.

  About fifty yards down the street, on the opposite side, a low dark coupé stood facing them, without lights or number plates. Sarah could just make out the shape of two men inside. She shivered as she climbed into the air-conditioned chill of the Fleetwood. The chauffeur had woken as though by instinct; seen her in, closed the door, and started the engine. As they slid away, the coupé’s side lights came on and began to follow them.

  The traffic had cleared and the chauffeur kept up a steady speed which the coupé had no difficulty in matching. A couple of miles from Steiner’s house, the lights behind suddenly swerved round and vanished. Sarah and the chauffeur were alone on the straight desolate coast road.

  CHAPTER 32

  Owen Packer was shaving, after a late Continental breakfast, when there was a loud knock on his door. He went through and opened it, with the foam still clinging to his neck and cheek.

  Three men stood outside. Two were household goons who might have been twins — oblong bodies, blue jaws, and black square crewcuts. Packer thought for a moment that he recognized the driver who had brought him up from the airport, but he could not be sure. He was not interested, anyway; he was looking at the man in the middle. Like the other two, he was very tall, but much thinner, and hung between them, his head lolling forward under a wide bush hat, his legs dragging behind, like a broken scarecrow.

  One of the goons growled, and the three of them entered, the middle one scraping his boots across the cedarwood floor. Packer backed away in front of them, and stood aside as they hauled the man on to the bed and rolled him over on to his back. The bush hat rolled free, and a yellow eye stared dully at the ceiling. Its companion opened slowly, squinted round, fixed on Packer, blinked, and lit up with a dry glitter. ‘Oh shit. Sh-sheeeeit!’ The goons withdrew.

  Packer stood by the bed and scratched his cheek where the shaving foam had already dried into sticky flakes. ‘What did they do to you, Sammy?’

  Ryderbeit twisted his head round and made a vague effort to lift, himself, then sank back with a groan. His face showed no visible injuries, but had lost all its tan, and again had that sunken greenish pallor which was as smooth as old ivory.

  ‘Pissed,’ he said at last. ‘Pissed as a snake. Footless! Been footless now for nine days. Three days in a wop can — that makes twelve. Right? Twelve fucking days since I saw you, soldier, and I can’t remember a fucking thing about any of them!’ This time he managed to get himself up on to his elbow, but it didn’t seem to make him feel any better.

  ‘I’m going to finish shaving,’ said Packer. ‘You stay here.’ He paused. ‘What are you doing here, by the way?’ he added.

  ‘I drive planes, remember?’ Ryderbeit replied weakly.

  Packer nodded, went back into the bathroom, shaved, put on a clean shirt, and poured the last of the tepid black coffee into a cup; but when he brought it to the bed, Ryderbeit was asleep.

  There was another knock and Pol came in, jauntily dressed in a floral beach shirt, white flannel trousers and embroidered slip-on shoes. ‘Ah, so the great warrior sleeps like a child!’

  ‘He’s been on a bender for a week. Where the hell did you find him?’

  ‘The Italian police found him for me. He was enjoying himself in Genoa, when he was seduced from the charms of the fallen ladies of the port district by his old friend, the grappa bottle. If he hadn’t made a nuisance of himself, which necessitated the intervention of the carabinieri, it would indeed have been very difficult to find him. Fortunately, Sammy has remarkable powers of recovery.’

  ‘I hope so, if he’s going to fly,’ said Packer. ‘He’s only got one eye, even when he’s sober.’

  Pol nodded. ‘We will leave him to sleep a little, then after lunch, perhaps, he will be ready to join us in conversation.’

  ‘Are you leaving him in here? What’s wrong with Sarah’s old room?’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Pol paused, sucking the heel of his thumb. ‘Tonight we are rather crowded, mon cher.’

  ‘You mean, I’m going to have to share a bed with Ryderbeit?’ Packer cried, genuinely appalled.

  ‘No —’ Pol giggled — ‘no, mon cher. Tonight Sammy will be flying you to Mamounia.’

  ‘How the hell did you get in?’ said Packer. ‘This is the one part of the world where that virgin Israeli passport of yours is about as popular as the proverbial pork chop in a synagogue.’

  ‘Yeah —’ Ryderbeit drew on a twisted black cigar whose smoke hung heavy and foul, even in the clear mountain air. ‘Well, I’m no longer officially one of the Chosen Race. Danny Spice-Handler’s been left in the cat houses of Genoa, and Samuel D. Ryderbeit is back in business, complete with his Rhodesian rebel passport.’

  ‘What about your visa?’

  ‘Twenty-four-hour transit. We’re not going to need longer — and if we do, we’re going to have more to worry about than a few wog Immigration officers.’

  Packer nodded thoughtfully. His own visa had been extended for a month, after Pol had taken his passport away for a few hours on the second day of his visit. Next evening he and Pol had each received telegrams from the Volkskantonale Bank, Aalau, confirming the further payment of £500,000 sterling into their joint numbered account; and four days ago — the day after Sarah had left with Steiner — Pol had handed him an express airmail letter, also from Aalau.

  It contained photostated documents relating to the payment, together with a letter reminding him, as a new client, that the money could be drawn only against both account-holders’ signatures, and that in the event of the decease of one or the other, the entire funds reverted to the bank. Packer had accepted — with contradictory emotions — the fact that he was now finally and irrevocably committed: the departure of Sarah had already decided him emotionally, and the money was merely a further practical inducement.

  They were sitting on the open terrace beyond the swimming pool. Pol, who had said little so far, was sweating, although the heat was not oppressive. He poured some arak into Ryderbeit’s cup of black coffee and opened a folder on the table in front of them. ‘Let us attend to details. First, the aircraft.’ He turned to Ryderbeit. ‘Fortunately, here in the Lebanon there are gentlemen who, for a consideration, will supply almost every modern instrument of war, short of nuclear weapons — and those, perhaps, are only a matter of time. Antiques, however, are more difficult. But there again, the Lebanon is a country rich in both the old and the new. An advertisement in one of the local papers put us in touch with the owner of a private museum for veteran e
quipment from the last two World Wars. The price he asked was abominably high, but I was forced to agree.’

  ‘Come on — details,’ Ryderbeit said impatiently.

  Pol bent over the sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Fieseler Storch, Luftwaffe, North African Campaign,’ he read slowly, moving his finger under each word, as though unfamiliar with his own handwriting.

  ‘A Storch, eh?’ Ryderbeit shrugged. ‘Not bad, though I’d have preferred a Lysander, mostly because they were on the winning side and didn’t get mauled around so badly. Date?’ he added.

  ‘1941.’

  ‘Holy Moses!’ He gulped his coffee and arak. ‘That’s a real old-age pensioner! If she survived that long, either they dug her up out of a graveyard and stuck her together again, or she was bloody lucky.’

  ‘Do you mind telling me what you’re talking about?’ said Packer.

  ‘Getaway plane,’ said Ryderbeit. ‘We’re going to need something with a long range, that flies low, handles like a kite, and can put down and take off in sand. And the Storch fits the bill beautifully. These modern tricycle jobs are useless. You touch the nosewheel down and hit just one bump or patch of soft sand, and go arse over tip and usually land upside down with a broken back. But those old World War Two babies were tough. They didn’t look it, but they were. Tied together with string — sometimes literally — and no fancy problems like stress. The Fieseler Storch was a reconnaissance plane, used for tank spotting in the desert, and could cruise at around 150 knots for up to six hours — which, with modifications, gave it well over a 500-mile range. And that’s just about what we need.

  ‘They have other advantages too. You can shoot them full of holes, and unless you hit the tank or the prop-shaft, they stay flying. They’re also tree-hopping jobs, and with no trees we can come in and get out well under any radar system.’