Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers (199 page)

"Nobody can predict that," Parker murmered, and they both turned their heads to look at Peter Stride.

He seemed to have aged twenty years. The lines at the corners of his mouth were cut in deeply like the erosion of weathered granite.

Only his eyes were blue and alive and fierce as those of a bird of prey.

"I want you to believe what I am going to say now, Peter.

I have not told you all this to put pressure on you, Parker assured him quietly. "I have told you only what I believe is necessary for you to know to protect yourself if you should elect to return to the lion's den. I am not ordering you to do so. The risks involved cannot be overestimated. With a lesser man I would term it suicidal.

However, now that you are forewarned, I believe you are the one man who could take Caliph on her own ground. Please do not misunderstand what I mean by that. I am not for a moment suggesting assassination.

In fact I expressly forbid you to even think in that direction. I
would not allow it, and if you acted independently, I would do my utmost to see that you were brought to justice. No, all I ask is that you keep close to Caliph and try to outguess her. Try to expose her so we can lawfully act to take her out of action. I want you to put out of your mind the emotional issues those hostages at Johannesburg,

your own daughter try to forget them, Peter. Remember we are neither judge nor executioner-" Parker went on speaking quietly and insistently, and Peter watched his lips with narrowed eyes, hardly listening to the words, trying to think clearly and see his course ahead but his thoughts were a children's carousel, going around and around with fuss and fury but returning with every revolution to the one central conclusion.

There was only one way to stop Caliph. The thought of attempting to bring someone like Baroness Magda Altmann to justice in a French court was laughable. Peter tried to force himself to believe that vengeance had no part in his decisions, but he had lived too long with himself to be able to pull off such a deceit. Yes, vengeance was part of it and he trembled with the rage of remembrance, but it was not all of it. He had executed the German girl Ingrid, and Gilly
O'Shaughnessy and had not regretted the decision to do so. If it was necessary for them to die then surely Caliph deserved to die a thousand times more.

And there is only one person who can do it, he realized.

Her voice was quick and light and warm, with just that fascinating trace of accent; he remembered it so well, but had forgotten the effect it could have upon him. His heart pounded as though he had run a long way.

"Oh, Peter. It's so good to hear your voice. I have been so worried. Did you get my cable?"

"No, which cable?"

"When I heard that you had freed Melissa-Jane. I sent you a cable from Rome."

"I didn't get it but it doesn't matter."

"I sent it to you via Narmco in

Brussels."

"It's probably waiting for me there. I haven't been in touch."

"How is she, Peter?"

"She is fine now-" He found it strangely difficult to use her name, or any form of endearment. He hoped that the strain would not sound in his voice. "But we went through a hell of a time."

"I know. I understand. I felt so helpless. I tried so hard, that's why I was out of contact, Peter but day after day there was no news."

"It's all over now," Peter said gruffly.

don't think SO" she said swiftly. "Where are you calling from?"

"London."

"When will you come back?"

"I telephoned Brussels an hour ago. Narmco wants me back urgently. I am taking a flight this afternoon."

"Peter, I have to see you. I've been too long without you but, (Mon Dieu, I have to be in Vienna tonight. Wait, let me see,
if I sent the Lear to fetch you now we could meet, even for an hour.

You could take the late flight from Orly to Brussels and I could go on to Vienna with the Lear please, Peter. I missed you so. We could have an hour together." the sub managers -of the airport met Peter as he disembarked from the Lear and led him to one of the VIP lounges above the main concourse.

Magda Altmann came swiftly to meet him as he stepped into the lounge and he had forgotten how her presence could fill a room with light.

She wore a tailored jacket over a matching skirt, severe gun-metal grey and tremendously effective. She moved like a dancer on long graceful legs which seemed to articulate from the narrow waist and

Peter felt awkward and heavy footed for the awareness that he was in the presence of evil sat heavily upon him, weighting him down.

"Oh, Peter. What have they done to you?" she asked with quick concern flaring in those huge compassionate eyes.

She reached up to touch his cheek.

The strain and horror of the last days had drawn him out to the edge of physical endurance. His skin had a greyish, sickly tone against which the dark new beard darkening his jaws contrasted strongly. There were more fine silver threads at his temples, gull's wings against the thicker darker waves of his hair, and his eyes were haunted. They had sunk deeply into their sockets.

"Oh, darling, darling," she whispered, low enough so that the others in the room could not hear her, and she reached up with her mouth for his.

Peter had carefully schooled himself for this meeting. He knew how important it was that he should not in any way betray the knowledge he had. Magda must never guess that he had found her out. That would be deadly dangerous. He must act completely naturally. It was absolutely vital, but there was just that instant's remembrance of his daughter's pale wasted fever-racked features, and then he stooped and took Magda's mouth.

He forced his mouth to soften, as hers was soft and warm and moist, tasting of ripe woman and crushed petals. He made his body welcoming as hers was melting and trusting against his and he thought he had succeeded completely until she broke from his embrace and leaned back, keeping those slim strong hips still pressed against his. She studied his face again, a swift probing, questioning gaze, and he saw it change deep in her eyes. The flame going out of them leaving only a cold merciless green light, like the beautiful spark in the depths of a great emerald.

She had seen something; no there had been nothing to see. She had sensed something in him, the new Awareness.

Of course, she would have been searching for it. She needed only the barest confirmation the quirk of expression on his mouth, the new wariness in his eyes, the slight stiffness and reserve in his body all of which he thought he had been able to control perfectly.

"Oh, I am glad you are wearing blue now." She touched the lapel of his casual cashmere jacket. "It does suit you so well, my dear." He had ordered the jacket with her in mind, that was true but now there was something brittle in her manner.

It was as though she had withdrawn her true self, bringing down an invisible barrier between them.

"Come." She turned away, leading him to the deep leather couch below the picture windows. Some airport official had been able to find flowers, yellow tulips, the first blooms of spring, and there was a bar and coffee machine.

She sat beside him on the couch, but not touching him, and with a nod dismissed her secretary. He moved across the room to join the two bodyguards, her grey wolves, and the three of them remained out of earshot, murmuring quietly amongst themselves.

"Tell me, please, Peter." She was still watching him, but the cold green light in her eyes had been extinguished she was friendly and concerned, listening with complete attention as he went step by step over every detail of Melissa-Jane's kidnapping.

It was an old rule of his to tell the complete truth when it would serve and it served now, for Magda would know every detail. He told her of Caliph's demand for Kingston Parker's life, and his own response.

"I would have done it," he told her frankly, and she hugged her own arms and shuddered once briefly.

"God, such evil can corrupt even the strongest and the best-" and now there was understanding softening her lips.

Peter went on to tell her of the lucky tip-off and the recovery of
Melissa-Jane. He went into details of the manner in which she had been abused, of her terror and the psychological damage she had suffered and he watched Magda's eyes carefully. He saw something there,
emphasized by the tiny frown that framed them. He knew that he could not expect feelings of guilt. Caliph would be far beyond such mundane emotion but there was something there, not just stagey compassion.

"I had to stay with her. I think she needed those few days with me, he explained.

"Yes. I am glad you did that, Peter." She nodded, and glanced at her wristwatch. "Oh, we have so little time left," she lamented.

"Let's have a glass of champagne. We have a little to celebrate. At least Melissa-Jane is alive, and she is young and resilient enough to recover completely." Peter eased the cork and when it popped he poured creaming pate yellow Dam Perignon into the flutes, and smiled at her over the glass as they saluted each other.

"It's so good to see you, Peter." She was truly a superb actress;
she said it with such innocent spontaneity that he felt a surge of admiration for her despite himself. He crushed it down and thought that he could kill her now and here.

He did not really need a weapon. He could use his hands if he had to, but the Cobra parabellum was in the soft chamois leather holster under his left armpit. He could kill her, and the two bodyguards across the room would gun him down instantly. He might take one of them, but the other one would get him. They were top men. He had picked them himself. They would get him.

"I'm sorry we will not be together for very long," he countered,
still smiling at her.

"Oh, cheri. I know, so am I." She touched his forearm, the first touch since the greeting embrace. "I wish it were different. There are so many things that we have to do, you and I, and we must forgive each other for them." Perhaps the words were meant to have a special significance; there was a momentary flash of the warm green fire in her eyes, and something else perhaps a deep and unfathomable regret.

Then she sipped the wine, and lowered the long curled lashes across her eyes, shielding them from his scrutiny.

"I hope we will never have anything terrible to forgive. For the first time he faced the act of killing her. Before it had been something clinical and academic, and he had avoided considering the deed itself. But now he imagined the impact of an explosive Velex bullet into that smooth sweet flesh. His guts lurched, and for the first time he doubted if he were capable of it.

"Oh, Peter, I hope so. More than anything in life, I hope that."

She lifted her lashes for a moment, and her eyes seemed to cling to his for an instant, pleading for something forgiveness, perhaps. If he did not use the gun, then how would he do it, he wondered. Could he stand the feeling of cartilage and bone snapping and crackling under his fingers, could he hold the blade of knife into her flat hard belly and feel her fight it like a marlin fights the gleaming curved hook of the gaff?

The telephone on the bar buzzed, and the secretary picked it up on the second ring. He murmured into it.

"Oui, oui. D'accord." And hung up. "Madam Baronne, the aircraft is refuelled and ready to depart."

"We will leave immediately, she told him, and then to Peter, "I am sorry."

"When will I see you?" he asked.

She shrugged, and a little shadow passed over her eyes.

"It is difficult. I am not sure I will telephone you. But now
I must go Peter. Adieu, my darling." When she had gone, Peter stood at the windows overlooking the airfield. It was a glorious spring afternoon, the early marguerites were blooming wild along the grassy verges of the main runways, like scattered gold sovereigns, and a flock of black birds hopped amongst them, probing and picking for insects,
completely undisturbed by the jet shriek of a departing Swissair flight.

Peter ran his mind swiftly over the meeting. Carefully identifying and isolating the exact moment when she had changed. When she had ceased to be Magda Altmann and become Caliph.

There was no doubt left now. Had there ever been, he wondered, or had it merely been his wish to find doubt?

Now he must harden himself to the act. It would be difficult,
much more difficult than he had believed possible.

Not once had they been alone, he realized then always the two grey wolves had hovered around them. It was just another sign of her new wariness. He wondered if they would ever be alone together again now that she was alerted.

Then abruptly he realized that she had not said "Au revoir, my darling" but instead she had said "Adieu, MY darling'.

Was there a warning in that? A subtle hint of death for if Caliph suspected him, he knew what her immediate reaction must be. Was she threatening, or had she merely discarded him, as Kingston Parker had warned that she would?

He could not understand the desolate feeling that swamped him at the thought that he might never see her again except through the gunsight.

He stood staring out of the window, wondering how his career and his life had begun to disintegrate about him since first he had heard the name Caliph.

A polite voice at his shoulder startled him and he turned to the airport sub-manager. "They are calling the KLM flight to Brussels now, General Stride." Peter roused himself with a sigh and picked up his overcoat and the crocodile skin Hermes briefcase that had been a gift from the woman he must kill.

here was such a volume of correspondence and urgent business piling the long desk in his new office that Peter had an excuse to put aside the planning of the preemptive strike against Caliph.

To his mild surprise he found himself enjoying the jostle and haggle, the driving pace and the challenge of the market place. He enjoyd pitting wits and judgement against other sharp and pointed minds, he enjoyed the human interaction and for the first time understood the fascination which this type of life had exerted over his brother Steven.