Red Crystal (55 page)

‘I understand.’ There wasn’t much else he could say.

‘Everything’s my fault—’

‘You must stop thinking about it. You must think about helping the lads when they get through to you.’

‘Yes. So sorry.
Of course
.’ She added, ‘I’m glad you’re here. You – make me feel it’s all going to be all right. You’ll be staying, won’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He hated himself for being so definite; it was a promise he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep.

‘I – I feel – you’ll think this is silly’ – she gave a nervous high-pitched laugh – ‘but I feel that you really
understand
.’

He thought: Better than you’ll ever know. He said, ruefully, ‘Yes. I – got involved with people like this myself once. Without realizing it. So – I know how easy it is.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded surprised. Then, taking comfort from what he had said, she added, ‘Thank you for telling me. Thank you.’ Then, a tinge of worry returning to her voice: ‘Are they coming soon?’

The army team were even then unrolling cable and preparing cutting tools.

‘Any moment.’

She sighed softly.

Nick had a sudden thought. ‘Victoria, we have met before, so don’t be surprised when you see me.’

‘We have?’

‘Yes … Off the Holloway Road, at the VUF offices. I came in one day to ask for information.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded bewildered.

‘It was in the line of duty,’ he added apologetically.

‘D’you know, I had the feeling I knew you. Isn’t that odd?’

They made him move away then, out into the drive. He went to join Kershaw by the cars.

Suddenly there was a shout from inside the house. He spun round. He’d thought he was the last of the team to leave, but he could see Conway in the hall, talking urgently with Major Phipps. The next moment Conway hurried out into the yard, his face very grave. He was holding a piece of crumpled paper in his hand.

Nick took it from him and read the faintly written message.

KEEP AWAY. FROM BOTH DOOR AND GIRL. THE SLIGHTEST VIBRATION AND BANG! THE CRYSTAL FACTION.

A bewildered Archie Pinker confirmed he had found the paper in front of the cellar door and thrown it away. Which meant that the message was intended to be found straight away. It could be a bluff, of course. Everyone realized that.

Major Phipps questioned the girl again, to ask if she had seen anything attached to the door. She didn’t remember. And she couldn’t see very well without moving …

Then she did remember something. There had been a string … something the woman had led under the door.

Major Phipps withdrew his team from the door. The string might mean nothing. On the other hand it might have been used to arm an initiator attached to the door itself. It was too risky to go in that way. For the moment at least. They would have to try something else.

And someone would have to tell the people in the cellar.

It was ten forty-five.

Gabriele stared at the telephone, hating the very sight of it.

She’d called Paris again, half an hour before, but the impersonal voice had reported that there was no news. They had not yet called back.

Now she couldn’t delay any longer. If all the arrangements were to be made by noon, she must communicate them to the pigs.

She pulled
The Times
towards her and prepared to dial the number in the ad. She imagined a circle of men, sitting by a telephone somewhere in Whitehall, waiting for her to call. They must be in a sweat. Running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Perhaps the whole British government was waiting for her call. It was an intoxicating thought.

She dialled the number and aware of her thumping heart, picked up the piece of paper on which she had prepared her message.

The number connected and began to ring. It was answered immediately.

‘Hello?’ A clipped male voice.

She began to read: ‘A plane is to be prepared at Heathrow airport for immediate departure. It is to have maximum fuel and a full flight-deck crew. Wheatfield, Reardon, Kitson and the Italian known as Giorgio are to be taken to the airport straight away and put on the aircraft. If these terms are not met, you know the consequences. You are to have a radio link set up between the plane and this number so that we can speak to our comrades.’

‘But how do we know—’ the voice began to protest.

She quickly broke the connection. She knew their tricks. Trying to get you to talk so they could trace the call. Well, they wouldn’t catch her that way.

She went into the kitchen and made herself another coffee. She’d already drunk several cups. Her hands were shaking and she was as jumpy as a cat. She should go out and get something to eat, but she wasn’t hungry any more.

She went to the window and stared down into the street. She wondered if they really did have Giorgio. Well, if so, she’d get him on to the plane with the others, and Nick Riley and his friends wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.

But her optimism was shaky and she didn’t dare examine it too closely. Somewhere in the depths of her mind there was a nagging sense of abandonment. She had the feeling she would never see Giorgio again; already she was distancing herself from the memory of him.

Ever restless, she picked up the Kalashnikov and, unclipping the magazine, checked the mechanism.

Nick tried to make light of it. ‘They just think it would be safer to go through the ceiling, that’s all.’

‘But it’s so thick. It’ll take hours.’ Her voice was high and fearful.

‘Well, they’re going to
try
. They just think it would be safer,’ he repeated.

‘But – I don’t understand. It would have been so
easy
.’

‘I know. But, give them a while. If it doesn’t work, they’ll come back and try the door again. Okay?’

There was silence. After a while he realized she was not going to reply. He said, ‘Chin up, there’s a brave girl,’ and then wished he’d kept quiet. He felt, instinctively, that it had been the wrong thing to say.

He stood up, heavy-hearted, and watched the army moving equipment into the dining-room which was situated above the cellar.

Conway appeared in the front doorway and beckoned him over.

‘I’ve got an idea about those numbers, the ones our Eyetie had on him.’

They went and sat in the back of a car. Conway indicated the fourth number. ‘See this one? It’s got all the same numbers as the Danby girl’s phone number. They’re just in a slightly different order, right?’ He pointed at a combination he had written alongside and Nick saw that the numbers were the same, but with the first four in reverse order.

‘Now the third one has the same numbers as the service flat in Weymouth Street, but again in a different order. The
same
different order, if you see what I mean.’

Nick felt a shiver of excitement.

‘And the others? What about the mews house?’ he asked.

‘I was going to ask you for the number. To save me getting it from London.’

Nick reached into his pocket and pulled out his address book. Looking under ‘C’ for Carelli, he read it out.

‘Bingo,’ said Conway quietly. ‘It’s the first number.’

Nick grasped Conway by the shoulder and gave him a rough shake of delight. ‘You clever sod!’ he exclaimed.

‘Now, now, don’t say things you might regret later,’ said Conway. ‘Right, let’s get a make on this second number then, shall we? Must be a London number like the rest. Seven digits. But this last number – somehow I doubt we’ll get much on that. Eight digits. An odd number of numbers, if you see what I mean.’ Conway got out and, climbing into the front seat, called up Wilts HQ on the radio.

Nick went in search of Kershaw and found him talking rapidly to some of his men. Kershaw caught sight of him. Even before he spoke, Nick knew that something was up. ‘Ah, Ryder, there you are. The terrorists have made contact. And a decision has been taken.’ He sighed. ‘They’re to be allowed to leave. Unimpeded. From Heathrow, I want you to come with me in the airport party. We leave in five minutes.’

Nick stared in dismay. The government seemed to be caving in without a fight. And without a single guarantee for the safety of the two in the cellar. What a fiasco.

A minute later Conway had an address for the second phone number: a flat in Chelsea Manor Street. Kershaw hurried off to the phone to organize an immediate raid.

Nick waited for Kershaw to finish. Before leaving for the airport he must call Desport back. And the office. And then – then he would have to have one last talk with the girl, to tell her that, despite his promise, he couldn’t stay after all.

I
T WAS FIVE
to eleven. Gabriele began to get ready. She put the Kalashnikov, the ammunition clips and a few personal items into the large holdall along with fifty pounds of the money. She placed the holdall by the door. She washed briefly, splashing water over her face, then brushed her hair. It was important to look good. She eyed herself critically in the mirror. She changed her clothes and jammed the Makarov into her jacket pocket. The rest of the cash and the precious Argentinian passport also went into the jacket, in an inner zip-up pocket.

That left the Skorpion. She wanted to keep it handy. In the past she’d always carried it in the tote bag, but another bag would be cumbersome. Best to abandon the tote bag altogether. She put the Skorpion in the top of the holdall, where she could grab it easily.

But she wasn’t sure if she had done the right thing. It was the nervousness. She must calm down. And make some more decisions.

Eleven. The airport was half an hour away. She would leave at quarter past eleven and arrive just before noon. Whether or not Raymond phoned. It was impossible to leave it any longer.

Somewhere near the airport she would stop and phone and talk to Max on the radio link to make sure everything was going all right.

Once at the airport she would take a hostage and walk on to the plane. For perhaps the twentieth time that morning she conjured up the scene in her mind: the plane waiting on the tarmac, the others already inside, the pig-police watching but helpless to do anything about it. Then she imagined herself, walking out on to the tarmac, a slim dramatic figure holding the Kalash-nikov at someone’s back.

She had a sudden doubt. Would it be wise to do it that way?

There might be marksmen on the rooftops. They might pick her off.

And yet – they wouldn’t dare, would they? She would still hold the trump card: the attorney-man, and where he was, and how to de-rig him. They daren’t touch her until she’d given them the information.

In her imagination she resumed the scenario on the airport tarmac. She would walk slowly, confidently … All those watching would notice her poise, her command of the situation. Perhaps there would be TV cameras and pressmen. Yes: there were bound to be. They would record the whole thing. Perhaps she would turn at the top of the steps, so they could get a good view of her. They would love that. They would call her the beautiful gunwoman, or something similar – they always called a woman beautiful if she was half decent-looking and if it would add to the drama of the story. Her picture would be on the front page of every newspaper in the world. The headlines would express outrage at this unthinkable event: blatant terrorism in Western Europe, the stronghold of law and order. And, most galling of all for them, they would have to report that one person – and a woman at that – had outmanoeuvred the entire British police force (not difficult, admittedly) and the might of the British government.

A real coup.

She reminded herself: When it happened.

If only Raymond would phone. She loathed hanging around.

She attempted to read
The Times
, but her eyes skimmed the words without taking anything in. There was, of course, nothing about the disappearance of the Attorney-General. She wasn’t surprised: they were bound to hush it up if only to save face. But they wouldn’t be able to hush it up much longer.

She walked to the window. The street scene was becoming irritatingly familiar.

The silence was split by the jangling of the telephone.

She jumped violently, and stared at it as if it had struck her. Tentatively she walked over and picked it up.

‘Yes?’

‘This is Raymond.’

She felt a surge of relief. ‘
Oh
, Thank God—’

‘That special friend of yours,’ he interrupted, ‘the one you’re hoping to see. He’s in Damascus. I’m sure he’ll be very happy to see you there. But why don’t you surprise him? Don’t tell anyone you’re going – just drop in. Do you understand what I mean?’

Gabriele thought rapidly. She must get this right.

‘Yes. You mean – make it a total surprise.’

‘Absolutely. In fact, if he knew you were coming he might put you off – you know how it is. So many commitments and pressures. But if you just arrive, I’m fairly sure he won’t turn you away. So my friends tell me.’

‘I understand.’

‘Goodbye then.’

She put down the phone, elated. She’d known he would fix something. She’d known that he would move heaven and earth. There was a bond of commitment and loyalty between them: a bond that was strong and pure and enduring; something the money-grabbing materialists could never understand.