The Alamut Ambush (17 page)

He spoke with a sudden passion which was not really out of character; some of the biggest comedians became like this the moment they stopped playing to the gallery, and there had never been any question that Shapiro was a hard man under his clowning.

What was out of character was not only that he was going out of his way to give Razzak an unsolicited testimonial, but that he now seemed inclined towards Audley’s contention that there could be any recognisable style in killing.

But Razzak’s self-sacrificial tactics in Sinai certainly didn’t prove that he was capable of removing opponents by any available means. It almost suggested the very opposite – that under the layers of fat lay an iron determination unshaken by odds, difficulty and danger.

‘Do you get my point?’ said Shapiro.

‘I’m not at all sure that I do, no,’ said Roskill slowly. Perhaps it was the opposite point the crafty sod intended – to damn the Egyptian with praise. ‘But I think your admiration for Colonel Razzak is – touching– to say the least.’

Shapiro grimaced. ‘Ah! The authentic supercilious voice of England – the lesser breeds shall not show unfitting qualities of sportsmanship towards each other! I do beg your pardon. Squadron Leader. But it isn’t simply admiration, I assure you. I know Razzak, that’s all I was attempting to show
in
my clumsy way. I don’t underrate him, but I know how his mind works. That was what you wanted to know, wasn’t it?’

‘You think we should look elsewhere?’

‘I’m quite sure you’d be wasting your time on Razzak.’ Shapiro gazed at Roskill quizzically. ‘Does it surprise you – my advice?’

Roskill nodded. ‘It does rather.’

‘I ought to be stirring things up, eh?’ Shapiro grinned, ‘If I thought he could be properly saddled with it I might be tempted. Then again, I might not – there’s no real percentage in playing “Wolf, Wolf”. It weaken’s one’s credibility.’

He leaned forward towards Roskill. ‘You’re wondering why I’m being so nice to old Razzak – and helpful to you. But to be honest I wouldn’t cross the road for either of you, any more than you’d cross it for me. But look at it from my point of view, friend – I know I didn’t do it and I don’t reckon Razzak did. But I know some dim-witted Arab did, and it’d suit me fine to see you nail him – and if it suits me I’ll see he gets plenty of publicity when the time comes.’

‘Not with a D Notice, you won’t.’

‘D Notice?’ Shapiro blew a derisive raspberry. ‘No D Notices in the States – or in Europe. They lap up D Notices, in fact – makes ‘em see the fire under the smoke. And with my contacts in the Commons I’ll make your D Notice look pretty sick, too. If you get your man I just can’t lose – that’s the way I see it.’

That was the way Roskill was seeing it too – and seeing it very clearly. The newspapers had got very fair mileage out of the bomb explosion at the Zim office in Regent Street and the Marks and Spencer’s fires the year before – and even from the crazy plan to kidnap Clore and Sieff. And the air liner bombs had been a far greater disaster for the Arab cause. But an act of terrorism directed against a foreign, non-Jewish Government official would unite official opinion against the Arab cause more surely than any of these crimes.

Except that the killers hadn’t been after Llewelyn at all; he kept almost forgetting what only he and Audley – and the killers – knew: that this was no deliberate act of misconceived policy, but something much simpler – the hurried elimination of a witness.

But a witness to what?

He met Shapiro’s eyes. The agonising thing was that even if the man didn’t know who the killers were, he might very well know why they had acted. And that was the one question that couldn’t yet be asked of him.

Shapiro evidently misunderstood his expression; he shook his head sadly.

‘I’m sorry you had to lose a good man to give me this on a plate, Roskill. It’s a bloody waste, that’s what it is – like this whole rotten situation we’re in. Nobody gains, not us and not the Egyptians, and not those poor devils in the camps across the Jordan.’

‘Only the Russians.’

‘Them?’ Shapiro waved a hand. ‘Not them either – you wait and see. The Arabs hate their guts.’

That was what Audley was always saying. In the long run meddlers in the Middle East only found trouble as the reward for their pains.

‘So Razzak says you’re innocent, and you say Razzak’s whiter than snow,’ said Roskill softly. ‘But if not either of you, then who?’

‘Does old Razzak say that? That’s white of him!’ Shapiro brushed his moustache thoughtfully. ‘Well, I would say the only good reason for knocking off Llewelyn would be if he was the kingpin of the cease-fire negotiations – which he most certainly isn’t. But of course he may
think
he is, in which case someone may believe him … so we want someone dotty enough to believe it and fanatic enough to kill…’

‘With T.P.D.X.’

‘Indeed?’ Shapiro raised his eyebrows. ‘Then we want someone who knows his way round explosives too.’

‘It’s as tricky as that, is it?’

‘Not tricky – just powerful. If you only lost one man, then they only used a very little of it. A beginner would have used too much and blown up the whole block.’ He began to count off his fingers. ‘Not official Fatah – they’re down on foreign jobs after the last mess-up. Not Saiqa – their London man’s hot on good public relations at the moment.’ He stopped, frowning. ‘Of course they could have hired some freelance white talent – there’s enough money floating around to tempt some of the bad hats. They wouldn’t like doing it, any of the groups. It would make ‘em feel reactionary and inadequate. But for a once-only job they might stretch a point…’ He stopped again, gazing into space. ‘On the whole I don’t think so, though. If it ever leaked out there’d be tremendous loss of face. Besides, with all the training Moscow’s been giving, there must be plenty of them around who know how to handle the stuff … So where does that get us?’

He looked at Roskill. ‘There’s the Chinese-orientated wing of the P.F.L.P. that’s never been brought into the fold. But they wouldn’t know about Llewelyn, and if they did they probably wouldn’t be interested in him. So not them either, I reckon.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t rush me, though. We’ll get ourselves a short list in the end, never fear.’

If he was going to work his way painstakingly through the possibilities it might be hours before he reached the vital one, and he might never reach it at all. There was no real point in prolonging this process of elimination, anyway.

How about Hassan?’

Shapiro looked at him quickly, like a teacher faced, with a suspiciously sharp question.

Then he nodded to himself slowly — the teacher smugly satisfied that he had seen right through the question and the questioner to the instigators.

‘So that’s what it’s all about, then!’ he murmured, still more to himself than to Roskill. ‘Hassan’s really got off the ground at last!’ He whistled softly. ‘That’s a thought to conjure with, and no mistake. We shall all have to fasten our safety belts now, shan’t we?’

‘You know about Hassan?’

‘Know about him? My friend, until you just mentioned him I hoped he was only a nasty rumour. But if you British are worried about him, then I’m worried about him too!’

‘What
do
you know about him?’

‘Very little. I tell you, I thought he was only a crazy rumour,’ Shapiro spread his hands.

‘We don’t think he is.’

‘Indeed?’ The Israeli looked directly into Roskill’s eyes. ‘Well, in that case I should move very carefully, Squadron Leader. Very carefully and slowly. What did Razzak have to say about him?’

‘He said very much the same thing, Colonel Shapiro.’

‘Then for once I agree with him. He’s giving you good advice.’

One thing was certain now: neither Razzak nor Shapiro wanted trouble. And as the threat of trouble had moved the Egyptian to offer a deal, it might serve equally well to get something out of the Israeli…

‘That’s one thing we can’t do, I’m afraid. This time we’re not going to take things lying down.’ Roskill fumbled for the right formula. ‘Llewelyn may not be as important as he thinks he is, but he still pulls a lot of weight. So if you can’t give me a line on Hassan, we’re going to have to take this city apart hunting for him.’

He carefully kept his voice casual. Even as it was it sounded bloody thin – all Shapiro had to do was to tell him to go ahead and do his worst. The Israelis had nothing to lose – and the proof of that sat across the table: while Razzak had been seeking him out, Shapiro had been boozing contentedly!

The Israeli sat silent for a moment, doodling with a fingernail on the tablecloth. Finally he looked up again at Roskill, a conspiratorial glint in his eye.

‘Very well… then if you want to play it the hard way I’ll tell you what I’d do if I were you’ – the finger wagged at Roskill – ‘I’d have a word with David Audley, that’s what I’d do.’

‘
David
!’ Roskill had no need to feign surprise. ‘But David isn’t even in the Middle East section now.’

‘You don’t need to tell
me
that!’ Shapiro gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘But in or out, he’s still the best man you’ve got – and you’re a friend of his. He’s not in quarantine, is he?’

Roskill frowned. The best man – maybe; but this hadn’t been in the best man’s calculations!

‘Look, Roskill’ – the finger pointed at him like a pistol – ‘you don’t want to go at this half-arsed. You need someone who can calculate the angles. You go to David, and tell him I sent you. Tell him about Hassan – and Llewelyn. And tell him that what’s scaring the pants off everyone is the Alamut List.’

‘The Alamut List?’

Shapiro nodded. ‘Alamut. He’ll know exactly what it means when he hears it – in fact, he’ll probably know better than any of us!’

EAST FIRLE WAS
its eternal, unquestioning self, tucked comfortably in the shadow of Beacon Hill.

As Roskill steered the hired MG carefully round its blind corner he felt unreality pressing in on him. It was impossible to relate feuding Arabs and Jews to privet hedges and japonica; outside the pub only four years since – a lifetime’s four years – he had sat with Harry and an old man who had spent his working life making waggon wheels. They had talked for an hour about the war, and it had been fifteen minutes before he had realised that the war the wheelwright was remembering was the Kaiser’s, not Hitler’s.

It might just as well have been Napoleon’s, when the old chap’s grandfather had probably done his duty with the other beacon watchers on the hill, serving his turn beside the great pile of furze and pitch and damp hay, waiting for the French as other lads had once waited for the Spaniards and the Normans and God knows how many other invaders down the ages. The past still ran deep and strong in East Firle; it was the present that was blurred.

Unchanged, it was all unchanged. Even the immense wooden gates were still immovably open for him at the bottom of the Old Vicarage drive, decrepit, but too expensive to replace four years ago and now far beyond a widow’s pension. The tattered white paint had flaked a bit more perhaps, and the straggling lilac thicket behind had grown wilder. But it was the same old place exactly, run down yet welcoming.

The neat electric button on the front door buzzed confidently, though. That would be some of Alan’s work; in the old days the house had always been full of his electrical enthusiasm, from shaving points in unlikely places to a complete internal telephone system, all beautifully installed – to the chagrin of visiting electricity board experts.

‘Who is it?’

The disembodied voice caught him by surprise, coming from just above his head.

‘Speak into the mike above you,’ said the voice – a young female voice, apparently rather weary of explaining to idiot callers how they could communicate with her.

Roskill stared up at the apparatus. More of Alan’s work. It was skilfully done, too. Made to last – and it would probably outlive the family’s tenure of the house, to become a curiosity for future occupants: Alan’s memorial.

‘Speak into the mike over your head,’ the young voice commanded him sharply. ‘Who is it, please?’

‘It’s Hugh Roskill,’ he projected upwards.

‘Hugh Roskill,’ repeated the voice, perplexed. ‘Hugh Rosk –
Uncle Hugh
! Good Lord – come on in, Hugh! The door’s open and I’m coming down.’

‘Uncle Hugh’ could only mean that it was the baby of the family, the unprogrammed late addition that had always mooned around in the background, clad in the hideous uniform of the English schoolgirl and hero-worshipping the godlike Harry from afar. Poor kid, the last four years had taken Harry and her father from her, and now Alan too.

He pushed open the door and walked hesitantly into the hall. It was bigger and barer than he had remembered, with no clutter of shoes and gumboots on the red polished tiles, carelessly hung coats and school scarves on the row of wooden pegs.

That was only to be expected, though: there were fewer wearers now, and those who were left were older and tidier. Only to be expected, but saddening. It was as though the house was dying round its occupants, and he, the killer, was returning to the scene of his crime.

‘Hugh? It
is
Hugh, isn’t it! I hardly recognised you in that beard – I didn’t know the R.A.F. allowed that sort of thing.’

Gone the school uniform and the pony tail; instead a shockingly disreputable shirt and trousers and the long straight hair. Harry’s little sister had become indistinguishable from the millions of nubile teenagers who had sprung up like buttercups and daisies in the last decade.

‘I don’t fly these days, so they don’t really mind. Sorry to disappoint you, Penelope.’

‘But it doesn’t – it doesn’t at all! I think it looks madly
cinquecento
and sexy.’

The beard, thought Roskill grimly, would have to come off, and the sooner, the better. It had never occurred to him that little girls would find it sexy.

Penelope looked at him. ‘I suppose you’ve come down about Alan,’ she said. There was neither grief nor curiosity in her tone. It was a simple statement of fact.