Lace Page 34

  “Certainly not the running costs.”

  “Then I’ll go to St. Austell tomorrow.”

  “Oh, all right then. But no telephone bills.”

  “No telephone, darling.”

  27

  BOTH MEN WERE sweating in the heat of the helicopter cabin. A thousand feet below, their own shadow bobbed ahead of them over the south Sydonian desert. Flying high over Sydon you could see to the north the narrow, green plain, split by the twisting silver ribbon of the river as it slithered west to the Red Sea from its source high in the magnificent mountain peaks of the eastern hills. Beyond the mountains, farther to the east, the implacable beige monotony of the desert was broken only by the roofs of Fenza.

  Abdullah took the helicopter up a bit higher. He always felt happy and unfettered in the air, free from fear in a way that he could never be on earth. Both he and Suliman had learned to fly while they were at Sandhurst, and Abdullah had later qualified as a helicopter pilot. A helicopter was the ideal means for moving around his country swiftly and in relative secrecy.

  They were flying south, away from Semira, his capital city. The old city stood on the north bank and upon its summit stood the Royal Palace, which overlooked closely packed, dazzling, white-domed rooftops, the narrow lanes between them and the small souk in the middle. All week there had been a sense of foreboding in the souk; the market had been unusually subdued, full of sullen, worried faces and the bark of sudden argument. Troublemakers were at work again, with all their usual slogans. Abdullah reflected that it was perhaps a mixed blessing to send young people abroad to be educated; they returned with impractical, radical ideas, loosely described as “progressive”, and talked of establishing a so-called people’s republic where no one would ever again fear or want or work.

  The previous evening the King had granted an urgently requested audience to the United States Ambassador. Together they had strolled under vine-covered trellises, along walks planted with low herbs, where no eavesdropping was possible.

  The Ambassador had warned the King that another attempt to kill him could be expected within two days and that the plot was apparently planned at a very high level. Neither man was surprised. During the previous year, the young ruler of Sydon had made it clear that he intended to make many changes, that he intended to root out the cynical corruption and lethargy with which his country was run. Unfortunately, the older politicians did not wish the old ways to be changed and the Western-educated students wanted radical changes that included ousting the King. Trouble was only to be expected.

  Ostensibly, the helicopter was flying south along the brilliant azure line of the sea, toward the southern border and royal seashore palace of Dinada, that beautiful steel-and-glass building designed by Philip Johnson for Abdullah’s father. But suddenly the helicopter dipped and turned seventy degrees off course to the east, heading inland over the desert that composed seventy percent of Sydon.

  Within ten minutes they spotted the low, black goathide tent and a small group of tethered camels. The helicopter landed a hundred yards away from the animals, in order to alarm them as little as possible.

  One young officer of the Desert Patrol and two officers of the First Armoured Regiment ran toward the helicopter and stood at the salute outside the circumference of the great blades. His gun drawn, Suliman waited until the blades were still and then jumped down.

  “Salam Alaikum.”

  “Alaikum a Salam.”

  After the traditional greeting, the men bowed to their king, who entered the low tent, quickly sat cross-legged and motioned to the others to do likewise. There was a pause, then the usual exchange of extravagant compliments and declarations of devotion. Suliman, who had grown up with two of the officers, nodded to them.

  “Your Majesty, it is said that the life of Your Sacred Majesty is in danger. We know, for one of us was approached by a senior officer and promised higher rank if total unquestioning obedience was promised for the next few days.”

  He paused and looked, as if for confirmation, to his two brother officers. “Fortunes are being offered in bribes to the army.” The other officers nodded, black eyes harsh above beak noses.

  “And we have been warned that the First Armoured Regiment will shortly be ordered to leave on a long march, a secret night exercise.” There was another pause, and again the speaker looked around, as if for support, before he continued. “Your Majesty, we suspect we shall be ordered to surround the capital and bar all exits.

  “If such a thing were allowed to happen, in the confusion either a civil war might start in Sydon or an outside power, such as the Saudi, might quickly gain control of Semira, then the TV and radio station and so the whole country.”

  He drew a final deep breath. “We suspect there are traitors at all points in the army. We even doubt the loyalty of those who command us, and we wish to receive our orders directly from Your Majesty.”

  Except for the harsh desert wind, there was silence as all four men waited for Abdullah to speak. Conscious of the dangers risked by these men in approaching Suliman to set up the meeting, Abdullah lifted his chin. Even when sitting cross-legged in olive fatigues, he had great presence and radiated tough energy. He said firmly, “Remember that I was appointed by Allah to lead you!” He lifted his left hand and slowly pointed at each man in turn. “All of you remember the personal oath you swore to me when I became your leader. Our entire nation will applaud your action when they hear of it.”

  Abdullah folded his arms across his chest and slightly raised his voice. “Now we will move swiftly without mercy to wipe this menace from our land!”

  There was a pause, then each man reaffirmed his loyalty, after which they discussed possible plots, suspected plotters and dates for their future execution.

  It was decided that all three officers would accept any offer made by the plotters and would then try to warn Suliman, by telephone or in person.

  The meeting took less than a quarter of an hour.

  In the darkness, small waves slapped against the hull of the sixty-foot cabin cruiser, hove-to three miles offshore and north of Semira harbour. Leaning over the bridge and straining his ears, the Greek captain could just hear the muffled oars of the two inflatable dinghies. Then he glimpsed the occasional phosphorescent flash, the occasional herring-silver glitter of their bubbling wake, as one by one the dinghies pulled away from the rope ladder that dangled from the main deck to the waterline. Even so far out, they dared not risk the noise of the outboard engines. There was no moon. Under cover of darkness, without being seen or heard, both of the dinghies should be able to make the harbour and nose in among the fishing boats lined up against the northern quay. They ought to be able to be there before dawn.

  The captain squinted through his night glasses at the town. It seemed quiet and peaceful. There were a few lights around the port, although not many at this late hour. The dinghies had taken enough stuff aboard to blow the whole harbour to bits. Thank God it was out of his hold at last. There didn’t seem to have been any new developments since yesterday afternoon when, at the seashore palace of Dinada, he had been ordered to cast off at twenty minutes’ notice. His Majesty had dashed aboard with his bodyguard and ordered him to set off at full speed on a northwesterly course—final destination Cairo.

  As soon as they were out of sight of shore and darkness had fallen, they had doused all lights, gone about and then, steering by compass, headed north through the night toward Semira.

  Eight of Abdullah’s armed guards were now in the lead boat. The best of the soldiers were with His Majesty in the second boat. Nobody knew who, how many, or whether in fact anyone awaited them at the harbour rendezvous.

  The previous afternoon, one of Suliman’s contact officers in the First Armoured Regiment had telephoned Suliman at Dinada Palace and suggested a hunting trip to shoot partridge in the desert; he had offered to set off immediately by car for Dinada with a few friends. Suliman had his answer ready. He would prefer to go fishing. He would meet
his friend just before dawn at Semira harbour, between the low customs shed and the harbourmaster’s office.

  “Impossible, I have already agreed to a hunting trip.”

  “Then arrange for other friends to meet my fishermen.”

  Suliman had then reported to Abdullah that it sounded as if a force of armoured cars was about to leave Semira barracks for the Dinada Palace, in order to kill him.

  Neither King Abdullah nor Suliman had any means of knowing whether the young officer would have had time to arrange the “fishing trip” and whether a party of loyalist fighters would await them at the harbour, but both men knew that after their flight from Dinada they would never again see the young officer responsible for it. His telephone call to the palace from the barracks would have been logged automatically and he would automatically be killed upon suspicion of being an informer.

  They were now close to the shoreline; there were only two hundred meters between the lead dinghy and the harbour mouth. Now they could smell the small port odours—diesel oil, rope, sailcloth, tar, rotting fish, urine, iodine.

  A low whistle through the darkness and their oars were raised. Under their own momentum the boats slid into the treacle-black harbour, turned to port and nosed quietly in among the fishing boats. As they docked, a barefoot sailor from each dinghy heaved himself up onto the stone quay and lashed the painter to a metal bollard. Another low whistle and the sailors helped the soldiers to scramble up, then the men and their burdens became part of the black night.

  Behind the dark bulk of the customs shed stood two armoured cars, each containing a driver and an officer. Silently the soldiers crammed into the two vehicles, leaving one on guard with the extra guns and ammunition for which there was not enough space in the cars. “To the barracks,” Abdullah commanded.

  Tense and silent, safety catches released, the grim band drove slowly away from the harbour and threaded its way through the winding, unlit streets that led to the northern gates; massive, iron-studded, ten-foot-high wood slabs, they were set into the six-foot-thick stone walls that surrounded the old town. As usual at night, a sentry stood on duty, and as they approached he lifted his gun and challenged them.

  The officer leaned out. “We wish you to open the gates and stand aside for His Majesty King Abdullah.”

  “Tonight we have orders not to open the gates,” said the sentry, uncertain.

  “Soldier,” Abdullah commanded. “It is I, your King. Advance so you may see that it is indeed your King who wishes to pass.”

  Slowly the sentry moved forward, still uncertain, and peered into the car. He immediately stiffened to the salute upon recognizing Abdullah’s impassive face, the dark eyes staring through him, then he ran to unbar the gates, shouting to the sentry on the other side to do likewise.

  After they had pushed the heavy gates back against the walls and secured them, two of Abdullah’s men jumped out to replace the sentries, who were silently motioned into the second car. Both vehicles shot forward toward the Semira barracks.

  Light was just dawning as the two vehicles sped toward the main entrance of the low, brick-built barracks. Already trucks were lumbering slowly from the huge inner barrack square, out through the three arched exits. Abdullah’s two vehicles jerked to a stop outside the first gate. All doors were thrown open and all occupants of the cars, except Abdullah and one driver, sprang to the ground, their guns at the ready. The two officers marched briskly up to the surprised sentries and halted the stream of trucks to allow Abdullah’s car to drive into the courtyard.

  The car stopped against the inner wall and Abdullah’s escort immediately surrounded the car, while their King leaped onto the roof of the vehicle. Wearing the impressive scarlet kaffiyeh of the Palace Guard, he looked a brave and fierce figure as he announced that he, their rightful King, had come to lead his men against all traitors.

  There was a burst of cheering as swarthy soldiers ran to his car and surrounded it. Fierce, black-bearded, hawk-nosed faces were upturned to his: delighted shouts rang out: scimitars were flourished. It was at least five minutes before Abdullah could quell the roars of delight and continue with his speech.

  “All army personnel are to obey my orders only, issued from my mouth alone and not passed through officers or NCOs,” he shouted. “No one is to leave the barracks until disloyal officers have been arrested! I now declare a state of emergency, during which my army—led by me—will assume sole control of the country.”

  After further shouts of support, Abdullah continued, “Parliament will be dissolved and the Constitution suspended until order prevails in our land! All political meetings are banned and from tonight there will be a dawn-to-dusk curfew throughout the land. Until further notice, no political speakers will be allowed on the radio.” More cries of approval, and then Abdullah roared, “Any rioting crowds will be immediately dispersed by mounted troops with tear gas, and anyone who erects barricades or tries to stone my troops from rooftops will be shot on sight!”

  Half an hour after entering the barracks, Abdullah held a staff conference, after which he ordered his entire army to remain in barracks or camp and expect a visit from the King.

  Nearly all the plotters turned out to be senior officers; very few NCOs and no rank and file seemed to have been involved. To Abdullah’s lasting bitterness, the chief plotters were the commander-in-chief of the army, two other generals and also three members of his Inner Council of Five, including the new prime minister. This was a greater blow than he had expected.

  That afternoon, at the Royal Palace of Semira, the King summoned a meeting of the remaining two members of the Inner Council as well as all army officers above the rank of major. The murmur of voices in the great cool hall was hushed as the throb, throb, throb of the drums was heard outside.

  Suddenly, King Abdullah appeared in the arched doorway. This was a very different figure from the fierce, scarlet-cloaked soldier-leader who had stood on the roof of the car that morning, legs astride, brandishing a scimitar that flashed in the rays of the rising sun. Wearing an immaculate white ceremonial uniform with gold epaulettes, Abdullah moved slowly forward, a ruler rather than a leader.

  Two men stood silent on the topmost terrace of the palace, looking down over the white rooftops of Sydon. The sun, an orange orb, was sinking below the horizon; above the dark sea, the sky was streaked with orange and yellow. Suliman risked a respectful grin. “That went well, Sire.”

  “Yes. Please arrange to have the former prime minister executed in three days’ time, and also any of the other political plotters who haven’t already fled to Syria, where they will no doubt continue to conspire against me.”

  “It is wise to take all possible precautions, Sire.”

  Abdullah watched the sun disappear and the sky fade. He reached a decision. “That reminds me, will you please invite El Gawali here as fast as possible. To arrange the marriage. I can’t put it off any longer. I need sons.”

  28

  CHRIST, WHAT A noise! She wouldn’t answer the door! . . .

  Pagan decided to ignore the door knocker and then whoever it was would go away. She was about to put her head under the pillow when she heard a female voice singing, “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” The knocker was being thumped in rhythm with the song. Christ, her head . . . surely . . . Could that be Kate’s voice?

  Pagan opened her eyes, sat up, shut her eyes again, staggered out of bed, opened her eyes, picked her dressing gown off the floor, tried to put it on, couldn’t find the sleeves, threw it down, pulled the bed quilt around her, then carefully felt her way down the stairs and opened the door. Above a sheaf of sunny daffodils, she saw Kate’s smiling face.

  Kate stopped smiling when she saw Pagan’s red-rimmed eyes, her puffy face and shaggy hair. She stepped forward and hugged Pagan as hard as she could. God, the smell of her breath. . . .

  “Come inside quickly, it’s cold. Why were you singing?”

  “Because it’s almost your birthday.”


  “Is it?” said Pagan indifferently. “When is the twenty-seventh? Good God, I’ll be thirty. . . . I think it’s thirty; if this is 1962 I’ll be thirty.” She led Kate down the stone-flagged passage into the sitting room. “That means I’ve been living down here for over eight years. Seems only yesterday I moved in. . . . Thank you, I’ll stick them in a vase. . . . How did you know I was here?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to see Kate, now removing the smart, khaki tweed jacket of her Mary Quant trouser suit.

  Kate glanced at the sofa covered with dog hair then sat on a wooden Windsor chair. “I met that woman Phillippa last week. You remember, the big, bossy one with the fuzzy red hair that we used to play bridge with in Cairo? She told me about your divorce so I phoned your mother straightaway.”

  For years Kate had blamed Pagan for stealing her fiancé. But Phillippa had told Kate the gossip that most of Cairo society had known for years and thought Kate knew—the Byzantine subterfuge by which Robert had parted the two friends. It was Robert who had been traitorous, not Pagan. Now that Kate was happily married, she had immediately responded with remorse and guilt to the fact that she had been tricked into losing her childhood friend.

  “I saw Phillippa about a week ago and I came as soon as I could, darling. I thought I’d surprise you. You were quite right to divorce Robert. He was my idea of a prize shit.”

  “You might have told me.”

  There was an uneasy pause and then Kate burst into tears. “I can’t bear to see you like this.”

  “Don’t you start,” said Pagan. “I’m perfectly happy . . . I don’t spray tears all over the place like you and Maxine . . . d’you remember, it was always either giggles or sobs? Can’t think why women cry so much . . . I’ll see if there’s any tea.”

  She went to the kitchen, had a quick nip from the vodka bottle and eventually produced a tray of ill-assorted china with some old ginger biscuits and marmalade.