Game Without Rules (20 page)

Josef Bartz climbed in behind Mr. Calder. He had had an uneasy two hours’ sleep in a cell at the police station and the white glare off the snow accentuated the greyness of his face. Behind him came Mr. Behrens, who was carrying a bulging briefcase.

Christmas and the snow had combined to empty the air-strip and its approaches. Mr. Carter was glad to see this. It left room for manoeuvre, he thought.

Two open Volkswagens appeared from the crew quarters. They carried six passengers. Two were clearly the pilot and co-pilot. The other four were less easy to place. Their overalls suggested airline mechanics; their build, professional wrestlers; their faces, policemen.

“They’re doing us proud,” said Mr. Behrens. “I think I recognise that pilot. Isn’t it Merker?”

“The Luftwaffe ace?”

“I think so. His co-pilot looks like an ex-Luftwaffe man too. There’s something quite unmistakable about them, you know.”

“Agreed,” said Mr. Calder. “You can’t mistake them. Any more than you can mistake an English naval officer in plain clothes. Good morning, gentlemen.”

The cabin crew was climbing on board. Smiles and greetings were exchanged. The largest of the four large men introduced himself as Major Osler.

“We have had special instructions,” he said, “to see personally to the safety of you – and your cargo.”

He glanced round at Josef, who had sunk back into his seat and was staring glumly out at the empty, snow-covered expanse of the airfield.

“I’m only sorry,” said Mr. Calder, “that you should have been forced to work on Christmas Day.”

“In an affair of national importance,” said Major Osler, showing his strong teeth in a smile, “the loss of a Christmas holiday is a minor consideration.”

He closed the door and fastened the eccentric catches. The pilot had switched on now. They could hear the four motors starting up, one after the other, on their warming-up run. Josef was fiddling with his seat belt.

“No need to fasten yourself in yet,” said Major Osler.

He explained: “We have to taxi out to the far runway; it is the clearest of the four. We shall be ten minutes or more before—”

He stopped as the pilot shouted something, revved up his engines and then, unexpectedly, switched them all off.

The nose of an armoured car had appeared from behind the administration building. It drove deliberately out onto the runway. Behind it came three more. They fanned out, one coming to a halt immediately in front of the airplane, two of them flanking it and one behind it. Once in position they too switched off their engines.

Mr. Calder stood up. He ignored both the gun which had appeared in Major Osler’s hand and the ugly look on his face. In the silence which had fallen, his voice was loud enough for everyone in the airplane to hear.

“It’s no use, Major,” he said. “You’re outgunned.”

As if to underline his words, the turret of the nearest armoured car swung directly toward them and they looked into the barrels of the twin Vickers. “You can’t move the plane while those cars are there, and any one of them could blow your tail off with one burst. I suggest we relax.”

“In case,” added Mr. Behrens mildly, “you should think it worth some desperate move, do let me assure you that the property you were instructed to fly to Eastern Germany is
not
in this briefcase. It is in a safe in the airport, under armed guard. All I have here—” he opened the briefcase, “—is two bottles of schnapps and a Christmas present for my aunt.”

For a moment Mr. Calder thought that Major Osler was going to use his gun. Then the vicious light died in his eyes and his face resumed its look of stony indifference. The faint beginning of a smile lifted the corners of the thin mouth. The major said, in the tones of a fencer whose guard has been penetrated, “
In Ordnung, mein Herr.
”

“We had bad luck and good,” said Mr. Behrens to Mr. Fortescue. “Bad luck about Massey, and that ass Martin Seccombe. I hope something will be done about getting rid of him, by the way. But good luck over Franz Mulbach. And the best bit of luck right at the end. I was quite sure that if we appealed to the airline to help us they would seize the God-sent opportunity to hijack the three of us, and the coding-machine, and fly us straight across to the Eastern Zone.”

“It was a very feasible counter-stroke,” agreed Mr. Fortescue. “But how could you be sure?”

“The head of their organisation,” said Mr. Behrens, “whose name Mulbach gave us, happens to be chairman of the airline.”

Gough – who was eighteen and a half, weighed eleven stone and had dark red hair and a dark red temper – opened the door of his study and shouted “Fa-a-a-g” in a voice which would have done credit to a sergeant-major in the Brigade of Guards.

The sound floated along the corridor, descended the stairs and penetrated the day-room in the far corner of which a thin boy of indeterminate age, with a serious, coffee-coloured face and wiry black hair, was sitting on the hot-water pipes reading, for the third time, an airmail letter with a foreign stamp on it.

He was so intent on what he was reading that the sound took a few fatal seconds to register. Then he stuffed the letter into his pocket and hurled himself out of the room.

“Last again, Thorn,” said Gough. “You’re a dozy kid. I want these boots buffed up for parade this afternoon. I want to be able to see my face in the toe caps. And you’ve only got half an hour to do it, so look slippy.”

The boy addressed as Thorn took the boots without comment and scuttled off. ‘Thorn’ was a serviceable approximation of his name. No one had been able to get his tongue round the double “a” and diphthong when he first arrived.

He didn’t mind cleaning boots. It was a job; a job of definite proportions. You could start it and finish it and contemplate the results with satisfaction. There were jobs which were not like that. His long, sensitive fingers touched the letter in his pocket. Instead of the usual three, it had taken five days to arrive. He wondered if the delay was entirely accidental.

He had started on the second boot when Hepplewhite put his sleek head round the door and said, “Hello, Nuri. I’ve been looking for you, Flathers wants you.”

“Flathers must wait,” said Nuri. “I have only got ten minutes to finish these for Gough.”

“He said he wanted you at once.”

“Gough will not like it if I do not finish these. I am in disfavour already.”

It was a delicate problem. The Reverend Dudley Fletcher (or “Flathers”) was a housemaster, and capable of being unpleasant if flouted. On the other hand, Gough was head of the house, and a beating from Gough was a thing to be avoided at all costs.

“Look here,” said Hepplewhite. “Suppose I finish that other boot. You go and see what Flathers wants.”

“Do it well,” said Nuri. “Gough desires to see his reflection in the toe cap.”

“If I had a face like Gough’s,” said Hepplewhite, “I wouldn’t be so keen to look at it, would you?”

His housemaster was not alone. A second man was seated on the other side of the fireplace. Nuri, who was a quick judge of character, put him down as a senior civil servant or a retired schoolmaster. Both men got up as Nuri came in. His housemaster said, “This is Mr. Behrens. He’s connected with the British Foreign Office. He has some news for you.”

There was no need for them to say any more. Nuri could read the news in their faces. He had read it unmistakably in the laboured cheerfulness of his father’s letter.

Twenty minutes later he faced a wrathful Gough.

“This boot’s all right – but this one’s a mess. And anyway, who the hell said you could hand the job over to Hepplewhite? I told you to do it yourself.”

“I am sorry, Gough,” said Nuri, seriously. “Had the interruption not been of a vital nature, I should certainly have concluded the task you gave me.”

“
What
interruption?’

“I have had news from home. My father died yesterday. I have to return at once.”

“I’m sorry,” said Gough. He added, being a perfect gentleman, “May I wish your Highness the best of luck.”

“That I may need,” said Nuri.

Mr. Behrens said the same thing to him in the car on the way to London Airport.

“You realise” he said, “that it’s not going to be plain sailing. It’s unfortunate that you were out of the country when your father died. Everyone thought he was getting over his stroke, and then he had this second one.”

“Was it a stroke?”

“Oh, I think so,” said Mr. Behrens. He looked at the young man beside him and wondered what was going on behind that solemn face. “Your father was well-liked, and well-guarded.”

“He had enemies, too.”

“Powerful enemies, bitter enemies,” agreed Mr. Behrens.

Two years before, when the King was on a state visit to London, Mr. Behrens and his old friend and colleague Mr. Calder had both been involved in the Security arrangements; arrangements which had culminated in a suitcase bomb exploding prematurely while the intended assassin was still carrying it, blowing him to bloodstained rags.

“They would give a good deal,” he said, “to delay or spoil your coronation.”

The fog rolled up to meet them as they crossed the new bridge at Staines. Mr. Behrens cursed, switched on his fog-lamp and joined the bumping, crawling line of traffic. It took them two hours to reach the airport.

In the VIP departure lounge, they found a reception committee assembled. Mr. Absalom, senior councillor from the embassy, stout and agreeable; Mr. Moustaq, his assistant, thin and silent; and a small, worried man called Forbes, who apparently represented the Ministry of Civil Aviation.

Mr. Absalom and Mr. Moustaq kissed Nuri formally, on both cheeks, and Forbes shook his hand and said, “I’m afraid, your Majesty, that there is no possibility of a flight before tomorrow morning. Gatwick is worse than we are, and conditions at Manchester are almost as bad. We have arranged accommodation at the airport hotel.”

As he said this, he looked at Mr. Absalom. Mr. Behrens guessed that there had been a difference of opinion about this.

Mr. Absalom said, showing his teeth in a smile as he did so, “It seemed to us that if there was an entire evening to be passed, it could be passed more pleasantly in London than in the lounge of an airport hotel.”

Everyone looked at Nuri.

He said, “We will go to London.” It was his first pronouncement as ruler, and deeply though he disapproved of the decision, Mr. Behrens could not help admiring the manner in which it had been promulgated.

He said to Forbes, “I shall have to advise our people about this change of plan. Can I use the telephone in your office?”

And to the others, “I strongly suggest that we leave our cars here, and use official transport. The drivers here will be much quicker and safer in the fog than we should be. I expect Mr. Forbes can arrange it for us.”

Mr. Forbes said he would be glad to do so. The thought of getting rid of the whole party had cheered him up considerably.

It was an evening to remember. One of the things about it had been the speed with which Nuri had grown up, a process which normally takes two or three years, compressed into hours.

They had gone first to the embassy, where clothes more suitable than the regulation school uniform had been found. The suit was dark, a little modern in its cut for Mr. Behrens’ taste, but inoffensive.

“You will need money,” said Mr. Absalom. He produced a wallet. “Some cigarettes—” this was a thin, but expensive-looking case of silver with black filigree work, “—and a lighter.”

Nuri seemed more pleased with the cigarettes than with the money. He offered them round and lit one himself. “It was the thing I missed most when I went to that school.”

“When did you start smoking?” asked Mr. Behrens.

“Not until I was ten,” said Nuri. “It is considered wrong in our country for young children to smoke.”

He exhaled luxuriantly, and slipped the cigarette case into the side pocket of his jacket, running his fingers over its smooth surface and machine-turned corners. “Where shall we eat?”

They ate at the Savoy Grill. Nuri’s sophistication did not, Mr. Behrens was glad to see, go as far as drinking alcohol in public, but he made a very good meal. When the last flakes of a second helping of a sticky confection had disappeared, he summoned the head waiter with a gesture which brought that dignitary scurrying across the room, and said, “Please congratulate the chef for me. It was an excellent meal,” And to Mr. Absalom, “What shall we do next?”

“We have a long and tiring day tomorrow,” said Mr. Behrens.

“I had reserved a table at a night club,” said Mr. Absalom. “There is a first class cabaret.”

“Splendid,” said Nuri. He added, “If you feel tired, Mr. Behrens, there would be no need for you to accompany us.”

“I am not in the least tired,” said Mr. Behrens, tartly. “I was thinking of your Highness.”

He was scribbling a note on a piece of paper, and as they went out he handed it to the restaurant manager who accepted it without comment.

The Krokodil was not quite the sort of place that Mr. Behrens had anticipated. The large embassy car, complete with chauffeur and assistant chauffeur, after threading its way with difficulty through Old Compton Street and Frith Street, had finally forced itself into a crowded cul-de-sac, from the dark end of which a green crocodile winked a red eye at them and thrashed its neon tail.

“It is not pretentious,” agreed Mr. Absalom. “But they have a good band, and the girls are discreet.”

With this last statement Mr. Behrens had so far found no reason to disagree. Angie, Eed, and May had attached themselves to the party as soon as they reached the table. Angie had unbelievably blonde shoulder-length hair, and was now dancing with Nuri. There was not much scope for finesse on the tiny crowded floor, but both danced well, touching, parting, approaching and recoiling in the stylised modern fashion. May, who had red hair, was engaged in a thoughtful flirtation with Mr. Absalom. Eed had given up trying to fathom Mr. Behrens, and was drinking her fourth glass of champagne. She had black hair and a sulky but intelligent face. Mr. Behrens thought that in a more promising milieu, Eed might have demonstrated quite an attractive personality.