Only a thin linen shirt – and it’s still unbearably hot
and sticky.
‘R’ is one of those career spooks who insists on having
his cake and eating it. He’s as Machiavellian as hell and you’re just supposed
to roll with it. Well I’ve had enough. Yes I’ve said it before, countless
times, but now I mean it.
Dmitri assured me that the visa would be no problem.
Normally getting into the Soviet Union at such short notice would be out of the
question.
Gazing out towards the Nile, I don’t want to move an inch
– except to retrieve my Martini glass. Valerie – can’t get her out of my mind.
Who is she? How is it that I can forgive her for the way she’s treated me?
Where is she now?
It’s far too hot to smoke I tell myself, lighting up yet
again, absent-mindedly turning the cigarette case over and over on the
table-top. This place has changed so much since I was last here. Well, after the
debacle of ‘56, that was inevitable.
When the man sits down on the seat at the other side of
the table, I think I’m hallucinating. He’s in the full glare of the burning sun,
but doesn’t seem to mind a bit. He never did.
“Jean Jacques! It’s
so good to see that you’re back from the dead.” He smiles, just like that first
time, in the foothills of Mt Toubkal, mounted on a camel, me below him in a
ramshackle jeep, my first dealings with the Legion. What a fool’s errand that turned
out to be. But meeting JJ was the real payback.
“It was the
usual thing with the Yank,” he tells me. “They never finish a job properly.” He
drains my glass, I give a slight indication to the waiter and within a minute
there are two full replacements in front of us. After some hesitation, I tell
him about Dmitri. I know I’ll need JJ’s help. He’s watching an approaching
motor cycle intently. His hand moves towards the pocket of his jacket but then,
suddenly, he relaxes. The rider comes to a halt and removes his sunglasses.
“Mr Alan. A
present from your Moscow friend.” The small package drops from his gloved hand
onto the table. He revs the engine and shoots off into the afternoon traffic.
“Care to join
me on the flight?” I ask JJ. He says he can think of nothing better, that the
paperwork will not be a problem.
+ +
+
It’s like the United Nations here. We’re in first class –
although of course they don’t call it that. JJ’s in the seat immediately behind
me – literally protecting my back. Vanderbilt is two rows ahead, to my right,
already on his second glass of Georgian champagne and my erstwhile clients, the
delightful Creightons, are talking animatedly to his left.
After JJ’s totally unexpected re-appearance, I’m not
prepared for what happens next. But there’s no doubt about it. Although she
looks very different, I can tell immediately by the way she moves, that the
hostess freshening my G and T is the same woman who removed the contents of my
shoe heel. There is not the slightest acknowledgement from either of us. My
Russian is rusty but I can tell from the way she addresses other passengers
that she is more than fluent.
Strangely there is no sign of Dmitri. I can’t work out
what his plan is, but he has a reputation for always being several steps ahead.
And the Yank? I suddenly remember Johnson. Has he not been invited?
We hit turbulence. It doesn’t seem to be severe but after
maybe fifteen minutes the Captain’s voice comes over a crackling speaker
informing us of an unscheduled stop in Istanbul.
Seat belts are unfastened, but we’re not allowed off the
plane. The two men seem to appear from nowhere. I should have expected Dmitri
to make such an entrance but what on earth is Johnson doing by his side. Has
the cold war suddenly gone cordial?
A divider is pulled across the cabin, sealing us off from
the rear section of the plane.
“Welcome
everyone. I hope you are not too uncomfortable,” Dmitri says in his almost
flawless English. “Can we now consider what the great English detective Mr
Holmes might have called ‘The Case of the Incomplete Plans’?”
He pulls a small piece of paper from his trouser pocket
and slowly unfolds it.
“Let me tell you what is written here in this
telegram.”
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