Jack Higgins (10 page)

“We'll never know now, will we, Mrs. Kelso?”

“I suppose not.”

The door closed softly behind her and Ilana said, “We might as well leave him in peace. Shall we go to my room? I'd like to talk.”

She lived right next door which was only to be expected, and yet I was aware of that same irrational anger I'd noticed on other occasions. It was as irritating as it was inexplicable. She was a highly desirable piece of female flesh, but she was also Jack Desforge's woman even if I did find the idea vaguely unpleasant.

She sat on the window seat and when she crossed her legs the hem of that ridiculous dress rose halfway up her thighs. She asked me for a cigarette and when I struck the match for her, my hands were shaking.

“What's Mrs. Kelso doing here exactly?” she demanded.

It was as good a topic of conversation as any and I told her. She listened intently, a slight frown on her brow which was still there when I'd finished.

“Stratton seems to be very expert at taking care of himself for an insurance man,” she commented. “On the other hand, you didn't do too badly back there yourself.”

“I must have looked pretty crude by Stratton's standards.”

“But effective,” she said. “Brutally effective. Hardly the sort of thing you could have learned in the City. The trick with the bottle, for instance, wasn't exactly Queensberry Rules.”

“The world I inhabited where I learnt it had only one rule. Do the other bloke before he does you.”

“Will you tell me about it?” she said simply.

“Why not?” I shrugged. “It doesn't take very long. I told you I was a pilot in the Fleet Air Arm. That was back in 1951 and there was a war on of sorts.”

“Korea?”

I nodded. “Don't get me wrong. It wasn't exactly the Battle of Britain. We flew coastal patrols from a carrier and the North Korean pilots weren't all that hot. But landing on an aircraft carrier's a tricky business at the best of times—they lose planes and pilots regularly even in peacetime. Most of us got into the habit of priming ourselves up in the most obvious way.”

“Whisky?” she said.

“In my case, rum. But I was special—I turned out to be one of those odd birds you hear about who can't take
a drink. Alcoholism is a disease, you know. Something very few people seem to realise. God knows how I survived till my time was up, but I did. The trouble was that afterwards, I found I couldn't stop.”

“And that's what really broke up your marriage?”

“It certainly didn't help. I told you there was a day when I couldn't face the office any longer and simply walked out.”

“And took a conversion course to make you a commercial pilot.”

“I failed to mention the nine months in between. That's when I learned about broken bottles and the right place to sink a boot into a man and how to keep yourself warm and cosy on an Embankment bench with the
Evening Standard
stuffed down your shirt. I must have sampled every doss house in London by the time I was through.”

“What happened?”

“I wound up in a police cell after a punch-up in some dive or another and they got in touch with Amy. She'd been looking for me for months. I might also add that she'd had to do it twice before. She got me into a home or a clinic—call it what you like—where they were doing experimental work on alcoholics. For some strange reason she seemed to think she owed me something. The rest, as they say in the books, you know.”

She nodded. “But you survived, didn't you? That's the only really important thing.”

“Sometimes I have my doubts.”

I was standing very close to her, staring out of the window, and I looked down at those silken legs and the
deep valley between her breasts that was visible through the loose neck of her dress and somehow, my hand was on her shoulder. She was in my arms instantly and I kissed her hard and long so that when she finally broke away she was breathless.

“I was beginning to think I must be slipping.”

It was the sort of remark that was completely in character. I should have realised that, and yet it annoyed me and for some perverse reason of my own I wanted to hurt her.

“Are you sure Jack won't be demanding a command performance later on or don't you think he'll be up to it tonight?”

She took a very deliberate step back, but there was no sudden explosion, no slap in the face—nothing so dramatic. She simply shook her head and said calmly, “You really can be very stupid for such a bright boy. Wait here, I want to show you something.”

She was back in a couple of minutes holding the crocodile-skin wallet that Sarah Kelso had found at the Fredericsmut. She opened it and took out an envelope which she passed across.

“I'd like you to read that.”

It was the letter Desforge had been waiting for—the one from Milt Gold of Horizon. The contents were something of a bombshell. Not only was Gold not ready to proceed with the picture—he'd had to shelve the idea permanently because the backers simply wouldn't take Jack at any price. He was sorry, but the whole thing was out of his hands. He also threw in for good measure the news that all Desforge's California property had been
seized by the court order pending the hearing of an action brought by his creditors.

I stood frowning down at the letter and Ilana plucked it from my fingers, folded it neatly and replaced it in the envelope.

“But why did he lie to me?” I said.

She shrugged. “The Mr. Micawber syndrome, lover—the desperate hope that something might turn up.”

“And you knew about this?”

“That's right.”

“But if there was nothing in it for you, why did you come?”

“Because I chose to—because he needed a friend, something you wouldn't understand.” She stood there, one hand on her hip, very small, very defiant. “I just wanted to make it clear that I don't give command performances for anybody. Sure, I've slept with Jack Desforge on occasion, but because I felt like it and for no other reason. Now kindly get to hell out of here.”

I didn't argue because something told me that we were at the stage where an attempt at an apology would be about the worst thing I could do, so I did as I was told and left.

 

When I went into the bar Arnie was sitting on a stool beside Olaf Simonsen. He got to his feet as I approached. “I was just leaving. Where's Ilana?”

“In her room, but I'd take it easy if I were you. She's in a mood to crack heads.”

“Live dangerously, that's my motto,” he said and went out.

I asked for a tomato juice and took the stool next to Simonsen. “When do you put the cuffs on me, officer?”

He took it half-seriously. “I don't think there'll be any need for that. How is Mr. Desforge?”

“Sleeping it off. I'll be surprised if he remembers much in the morning. What about the Portuguese?”

“They kept one of them in hospital for the night with a broken arm. Da Gama and the others are back on board their schooner with orders to stay there until it sails again which unfortunately isn't till the day after tomorrow. Still, he's finished on this coast from now on, I'll see to that.” He drank some of his lager and added dryly, “On the other hand, I'm glad I arrived when I did. A killing is a killing, whoever the victim might be.”

“I know,” I said, “and I'm grateful.”

He patted me on the shoulder and stood up. “What you need is a good night's sleep. I'll see you at the slipway in the morning.”

After he'd gone I sat there thinking about a lot of things, but Ilana kept breaking through to the surface and after a while I got up and went back upstairs. It was quiet in the corridor outside my room and I paused at the door, wondering rather bitterly how Arnie was doing. And then I heard her voice raised, sharp and clear and very angry.

I went down the corridor fast and flung open the door of her room. She was half across the bed, Arnie sprawled on top of her, laughing as he pinned her arms. I took him by the collar and yanked him away so hard that he staggered across the room against the wall, almost losing his balance. Ilana sat up, smoothing her skirt and I smiled gently.

“Anything more I can do?”

“Yes, you can bloody well get out of here and take junior with you.”

There were tears in her eyes, humiliation at the thought that it had to be me of all people as much as anything else, I suspected, but as far as I was concerned she'd had enough and I turned to Arnie.

“Let's go, Arnie.”

He glared from Ilana to me furiously. “So that's the way, is it? I move on and good old Joe here takes over.”

The way he put it made me sound like some sort of faithful hound and I burst out laughing. “Don't be a clod. Come on, let's get out of here.”

I'd never seen him so angry. “You've just made the biggest mistake of your life,” he snarled at Ilana. “Here, I'll leave you something to remember me by. Stick that in your stocking-top and remember Arnie Fassberg.”

He tossed something onto the bed and went out, slamming the door behind him. Whatever it was, it rolled on to the floor and Ilana got down on her hands and knees and looked under the bed. As she stood up, I thought it was just some sort of rough pebble she was holding and then the light caught it and for a moment it glowed with green fire. Her eyes widened and I reached out quickly.

“Here, give it to me.”

I held it up to the light, my throat going dry and Ilana said, “Is it worth anything?”

I dropped it into the palm of her hand. “A thousand, maybe two. It would take an expert to be sure.” The expression on her face was something to be seen. “It's an emerald,” I said gently. “That's what they look like
before the jewellers get to work on them.”

She looked completely bewildered. “I didn't know there were any emeralds in Greenland.”

“Neither did I, Ilana,” I said thoughtfully. “Neither did I.”

I
t was almost six-thirty as I walked across to the airstrip on the following morning to get a met report. Not that I needed one—it was going to be a fine day, I could tell. Something to do with the way the ragged tracers of mist lifted off the calm water and the bold clear lines of the mountains against the sky—the sort of feeling, in fact, which can only be the product of experience. But then I was something of an old Greenland hand now which certainly gave me a sense of belonging in a way that I hadn't experienced in a very long time.

On my walk back from the tower I took a short cut past the two concrete hangars the Americans had put up in the war. A jeep stood outside the one Arnie used and as I approached the small judas gate that was set in the great sliding doors opened and the chief mechanic, a Canadian called Miller, came out with Arnie. They spoke
together for a moment, then Miller got into the jeep and drove away.

Arnie turned and saw me. Something was wrong, I could tell that by merely looking at him for, as with most extroverts, ill-luck, when it came, seemed to have a physical effect on him.

“What's up?” I demanded as I approached.

He didn't bother to reply, simply opened the judas gate and went inside the hangar and I followed. The Aermacchi crouched there in the half-light, partially on its belly, partially tilted over on one wing. Both skis were splintered and the undercarriage had been badly damaged. The villain of the piece was still on the scene, an old three-ton Bedford truck kept on the airstrip for general purposes which had obviously been backed into the Aermacchi.

“What happened?” I said.

“I haven't the slightest idea. Found her like this when I came in this morning. You know they don't have anyone down here at night. Miller thinks some drunks have probably been fooling around. Got into the truck for a lark and ended up doing this.”

“Pigs could also fly,” I said.

There was a long pregnant silence in which we simply stared at each other and then a moment when I suddenly felt that he was going to tell me all about it—whatever it was—but it passed.

“Miller's arranged to have the big hoist brought in. We'll soon have her up.”

“What about repairs?”

“He thinks they should be able to manage here. A couple of days, that's all.”

“A hell of a lot can happen in two days, Arnie,” I said.

He laughed happily. “I wish I knew what you were talking about, Joe.”

“So do I,” I said. “Anyway, I'll have to be off.” I paused as I opened the judas gate and turned. “If you find any more pebbles on the beach like the one you gave Ilana last night, save them for me will you? It's time I started thinking about my old age.”

But that sort of sword-play wasn't going to get me anywhere and I left him there in the half-light, a smile on his face and fear in his eyes, and went back to the harbour.

 

Simonsen and Vogel and his party were at the slipway when I arrived and Stratton and the big policeman were already loading the skis and other items of equipment.

“What's the weather look like?” Simonsen demanded.

“Clear for most of the day. Could be some mist tonight, but if we push hard we should be in and out before it starts.”

He nodded. “Let's get moving then. I've been in touch with the factor at Sandvig. He'll have a light sledge waiting for us when we touch down.”

There was the sudden roar of an engine on the road behind us and the hotel Land-Rover approached at speed, braking to a halt a few yards away. Ilana was the first out looking like a St. Moritz tourist in her sheepskin coat, ski pants and sunglasses. The hotel porter slid from
behind the wheel and started to unload the baggage as Desforge came round from the other side looking remarkably fit considering the events of the previous night.

“Top of the morning,” he said cheerfully. “Almost didn't make it.”

Simonsen turned to me, his eyebrows raised. “Mr. Desforge is coming with us?”

“Only as far as Sandvig,” I explained. “He and Miss Eytan are going to spend a few days down there looking for reindeer.”

Simonsen seemed dubious. “Something of a tight squeeze I should have thought.”

He had spoken in Danish, but Desforge seemed to get the picture and said quickly, “Look, if I'm putting you out at all, let's forget about it. Maybe I can persuade Arnie to take us after all.”

“You'd have a job,” I said. “He's had a slight accident with the Aermacchi. I'd be surprised to see it flying in less than three days and that's looking on the bright side.”

Simonsen asked me what had happened and I explained briefly. Vogel and Stratton seemed only mildly interested, but Sarah Kelso took in every word, a bright spot of colour glowing in each cheek although the dark eyes gave nothing away. Certainly there seemed no suspicion in Simonsen's mind that the whole thing was anything more than what Miller had suggested and he nodded gravely.

“Poor Arnie—at the height of the season, too.” He turned to Desforge. “If Joe thinks he can take all of us then I have certainly no objections, Mr. Desforge, but we
must leave at once. We have a heavy day in front of us and I don't want to spend a night up there on the icecap if it can be avoided.”

“That suits me fine,” Desforge said and he paid off the driver of the Land-Rover and Stratton and Simonsen started to put his baggage on board.

For the briefest of moments I had a chance to speak to Ilana and moved in close, offering her a cigarette. She took it, bent her head to the match that flared in my cupped hands.

“About last night,” I said quietly. “I'd be obliged if you'd keep quiet about Arnie's little present for the time being.”

She seemed to gaze through me, curiously remote behind the dark glasses. “All right—but next time I see you I'll expect some light on the situation.”

It was a statement of fact requiring no answer and I didn't attempt to give one. In any case I'd other things to think about. I climbed into the cabin to check on the baggage, but Stratton obviously knew his business for it had been stacked in the best possible position relative to the passenger load.

I packed them in one-by-one, gave the floats a last careful check, then got in myself, ran her down into the water and took off without any further delay.

 

Sandvig was fifty miles inland from the sea and protected by a maze of minor islands and fjords that cut deeply into the rocky coast. It was typical of many of the small fishing villages found in the southwest, constructed on the site of one of the old Norse settlements on a narrow
shelf at the foot of the mountains, a position which gave it an unrivalled view across the sound. We touched down exactly forty minutes after leaving Frederiksborg and I took the Otter up on to a small beach.

It wasn't much of a place—there were the usual dozen or so painted houses, a small Moravian chapel and a store owned by the Trading Company which bought all the sealskins and shark liver brought in and sold in return everything the inhabitants needed.

Most of the population had already crowded down on to the narrow beach to watch with interest as Desforge and Ilana landed and we passed down the baggage. They were mostly pure Eskimo from the look of them although they all preferred to be called Greenlanders—short, sturdy figures with Mongolian features, brown cheeks touched with crimson and it was interesting to note that although some of them were in store-bought clothes, they all wore sealskin boots.

The factor from the store appeared, two men behind him carrying the light sledge Simonsen had asked for. He spoke no English so I explained briefly about Desforge and Ilana while the sledge was being loaded.

“Everything okay?” Desforge asked.

I nodded. “I've asked him to run you up to Olaf Rasmussen's place in his jeep.”

“I hope the old guy speaks some English.”

“Better than you do. He'll see you all right.”

“What about the return trip?”

I shrugged. “You can always get in touch with the airstrip at Frederiksborg on the radio. I'll come in for
you whenever you want, always assuming I'm available.”

I looked beyond him to Ilana. I wanted to say goodbye and a little more than that, but I couldn't think of the right way to put it. I believe she knew because she smiled and nodded slightly and I felt unaccountably cheerful as I climbed back into the cabin and started the engine.

It could be pretty tricky taking off from Sandvig when the wind was in the wrong direction because the far side of the fjord consisted of a thousand feet of rock wall that fell straight into green water. That morning we were lucky, lifting as effortlessly as a bird into the sky, banking across the meadows above the village as I set course and flew on between the great stone walls of the fjord towards the glacier.

 

It poured over the edge of the ice-cap, white lava spilling outwards like a great fan as it fell into the waters of the fjord. On either side the slopes of the mountains were carpeted by Alder scrub that was nowhere more than three feet in height, but about as impenetrable as an undergrowth of rusting barbed wire. Higher up there was a clearly defined edge where the stuff stopped growing and beyond that, nothing but jagged peaks of razor-edged hogs' backs topped by snow and ice.

We slid over the crest of the glacier and drifted across a sea of ice. At this point it was under tremendous pressure. Checked by the coastal mountains, it lifted in a series of great hummocks, spilling into a thousand crevasses. It was the sort of country that was so difficult that on foot a good day's march might get you six or seven
miles. I thought about the Oxford expedition and others before it, inching their way across that barren wilderness and offered up a prayer of thanks to the Wright brothers.

 

We reached Sule in forty minutes. There wasn't a trace of mist anywhere and I went in low and skimmed across the surface of the blue water. There was plenty of ice about, but mostly thin surface sheets like broken glass.

“What do you think?” Simonsen asked as I took the Otter up.

“Looks fine to me, but let's see if we can find that plane before we land. It could save us some time.”

The ten miles took no more than three or four minutes of flying time, but there was no immediate sign of the Heron. I throttled back, the noise of the engine dying away to a murmur and spoke to them all over my shoulder.

“The plane should be around here somewhere so keep your eyes open. According to Arnie Fassberg it's lying in the bottom of a gully.”

I banked in a wide circle and went down low and Stratton saw it almost at once, crying out excitedly, “Over there! To the left! To the left!”

I banked steeply and went down again and this time we all saw it lying there at the bottom of a deep gully just as Arnie had described, the silver and blue of the fuselage vigid against the white carpet.

I took the Otter up again and turned back to Sule, my throat dry, a coldness in the pit of my stomach that was compounded half of fear, half of excitement.

Vogel leaned forward. “How long to get there?”

“That depends on you,” I said, “Or on how good you are on skis. With luck, two or three hours.”

“So barring accidents we should have ample time to get there and back and return to Frederiksborg tonight?”

“If the weather holds,” I said, and circled the lake and landed.

It was really something of an anticlimax. The actual touchdown was no trouble at all and the only ice with which we came into contact was the thin crust that lined the shore. It cracked and splintered like treacle toffee as I ran the Otter in to the beach and cut the engine.

The silence was utter and complete and they all felt it. I turned and smiled bravely. “Let's hope the next leg goes as smoothly. All out.”

I opened the door and dropped to the beach.