Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers (211 page)

He was still talking quickly and persuasively as they left the woods and began to cross the open fields towards the ruins of the Roman camp on the crest of the low hills.

These people have still to be told what to do, you know. Those damned shop stewards up in Westminster may have thrown the Empire away,
but we still have our responsibilities." Steven changed the Purdey shotgun from one arm to the other, carrying it in the crook of the arm, the gun broken open and the shining brass caps of the cartridges showing in the breeches. Government only by those fit to govern." Steven enlarged on that for a few minutes.

Then suddenly Steven fell silent, almost as though he had suddenly decided that he had spoken too much, even to somebody as trusted as his own younger twin. Peter was silent also, trudging up the curve of the hill with his boots squelching in the soft damp earth. There was something completely unreal about the moment, walking over well remembered ground in the beautiful mellow sunlight of an
English spring afternoon with a man he had known from the day of his birth and yet perhaps had never known at all.

It was not the first time he had heard Steven talk like this, and yet perhaps it was the first time he had ever listened. He shivered and Steven glanced at him.

"Cold?" A "Goose walked over my grave," Peter explained, and
Steven nodded as they clambered up the shallow earth bank that marked the perimeter of the Roman camp.

They stood on the lip under the branches of a lovely copper beech,
resplendent in its new spring growth of russet.

Steven was breathing hard from the pull up the hill, that extra weight was already beginning to tell. There was a spot of high unhealthy colour in each cheek, and little blisters of sweat speckled his chin.

He closed the breech of the shotgun with a metallic clash, and leaned the weapon against the trunk of the copper beech as he struggled to regain his breath.

Peter moved across casually and propped his shoulder against the copper beech, but his thumbs were hooked into the lapels of the duffle coat, not thrust into pockets, and he was still in balance, weight slightly forward on the balls of his feet. Although he seemed to be entirely relaxed and at rest he was in fact coiled like a spring,
poised on the brink of violent action and the shotgun was within easy reach of his right hand.

He had seen that Steven had loaded with number four shot. At ten paces it would disembowel a man. The safety catch on the top of the pistol grip of the butt engaged automatically when the breech was opened and closed again, but the right thumb would instinctively slip the catch forward as the hand closed on the grip.

Steven took a silver cigarette case from the side pocket of his coat and tapped down a cigarette on the lid.

"Damned shame about Magda Altmann," he said gruffly, not meeting
Peter's eyes.

"Yes, Peter agreed softly.

"Glad they handled it in a civilized fashion. Could have made it awkward for you, you know."

"I suppose they could have," Peter agreed.

"What about your job at Narmco?"

"I don't know yet. I will not know until I get back to Brussels."

"Well, my offer still stands, old boy. I could do with a bit of help. I really could. Somebody I could trust. You'd be doing me a favour."

"Damned decent of you, Steven."

"No, really, I mean it." Steven lit the cigarette with a gold Dunhill lighter and inhaled with evident pleasure, and after a moment Peter asked him: "I hope you were not in a heavy position in Altmann stock.

I see it has taken an awful tumble." It's strange that," Steven shook his head. "Pulled out of Altmann's a few weeks ago, actually. Needed the money for San Istaban."

"Lucky," Peter murmured, or much more than luck. He wondered why Steven admitted the share transaction so readily. Of course" he realized, "it would have been very substantial and therefore easily traced." He studied his brother now, staring at him with a slight scowl of concentration. Was it possible? he asked himself.

Could Steven really have masterminded something so complex, where ideology and self-interest and delusions of omnipotence seemed so inextricably snarled and entwined.

"What is it, old boy?" Steven asked, frowning slightly in sympathy.

"I was just thinking that the whole concept and execution has been incredible, Steven. I would never have suspected you were capable of it."

"I'm sorry, Peter. I don't understand. What are you talking about?"

"Caliph," Peter said softly.

It was there! Peter saw it instantly. The instant of utter stillness, like a startled jungle animal but the flinch of the eyes,
followed immediately by the effort of control.

The expression of Steven's face had not altered, the little frown of polite inquiry held perfectly, then turning slowly, deeper into puzzlement.

"I'm afraid you just lost me there, old chap." It was superbly done. Despite himself Peter was impressed. There were depths to his brother which he had never suspected but that was his own omission.

No matter which way you looked at it, it took an extraordinary ability to achieve what Steven had achieved in less than twenty years, against the most appalling odds. No matter how he had done it, it was the working of a particular type of genius.

He was capable of running Caliph, Peter accepted the fact at last and immediately had a focal point for the corroding hatred he had carried within him for so long.

"Your only mistake so far, Steven, was to let Aaron Altmann know your name," Peter went on quietly. "I suspect you did not then know that he was a Mossad agent, and that your name would go straight onto the Israeli intelligence computer. Nobody, nothing, can ever wipe it from the memory rolls, Steven. You are known." Steven's eyes flickered down to the shotgun; it was instinctive, uncontrollable, the final confirmation if Peter needed one.

"No, Steven. That's not for you." Peter shook his head.

"That's my work. You're fat and out of condition, and you have never had the training. You must stick to hiring others to do the actual killing. You wouldn't even get a hand on it." Steven's eyes darted back to his brother's face. Still the expression of his face had not altered.

"I think you've gone out of your head, old boy." Peter ignored it.

"You of all people should know that I am capable of killing anybody.

You have conditioned me to that."

"We are getting into an awful tangle now," Steven protested. "What on earth should you want to kill anybody for?"

"Steven, you are insulting both of us. I know. There is no point in going on with the act. We have to work out between us what we are going to do about it." He had phrased it carefully, offering the chance of compromise. He saw the waver of doubt in Steven's eyes, the slight twist of his mouth, as he struggled to reach a decision.

But please do not underestimate the danger you are in, Steven." As he spoke Peter produced an old worn pair of dark leather gloves from his pocket and began to pull them on. There was something infinitely menacing in that simple act, and again Steven's eyes were drawn irresistibly.

"Why are you doing that?" For the first time Steven's voice croaked slightly.

"I haven't yet touched the gun," Peter explained reasonably. "It has only your prints upon it."

"Christ, you'd never get away with it,
Peter."

"Why, Steven? It is always dangerous to carry a loaded shotgun over muddy and uneven ground."

"You couldn't do it, not in cold blood. "The edge of terror was in Steven's voice.

"Why not? You had no such qualms with Prince Hassled Abdel
Hayek."

"I am your brother he was only a bloody wag-- Steven choked it off, staring now at Peter with stricken eyes, the expression of his face beginning at last to crack and crumb leas he realized that he had made the fateful admission.

Peter reached for the shotgun without taking his eyes from his brother's.

"Wait!" Steven cried. "Wait, Peter!"

"For what?"

"You've got to let me explain."

"All right, go ahead."

"You can't just say go ahead,

like that. It's so complicated."

"All right, Steven. Let's start at the beginning with Flight 070. Tell me why?"

"We had to do it,
Peter. Don't you see? There is over four billions of British investment in that country, another three billions of American money.

It's the major world producer of gold and uranium, chrome and a dozen other strategic minerals. My God, Peter. Those ham-handed oafs in control now are on a suicide course. We had to take it away from them,
and put in a controllable government. If we don't do that the Reds will have it all within ten years probably much less."

"You had an alternative government chosen?"

"Of course," Steven told him urgently,

persuasively, watching the shotgun that Peter still held low across his hips. "It was planned in every detail. It took two years."

"All right." Peter nodded. "Tell me about the murder of Prince Hassled."

"It wasn't murder, for God's sake, man, it was absolutely essential.

It was a matter of survival. They were destroying Western civilization with their childlike irresponsibility.

Drunk with power, they were no longer amenable to reason, like spoiled children in a sweet shop we had to put a stop to it, or face a breakdown of the capitalist system. They have probably done irreparable damage to the prestige of the dollar, they have taken sterling hostage and hold it in daily jeopardy with the threat of withdrawing those astronomic balances from London. We had to bring them to their senses, and look how small a price. We can reduce the price of crude oil gradually to its 1970 level. We can restore sanity to the currencies of the Western world and secure real growth and prosperity for hundreds of millions of peoples all at the cost of a single life."

"And anyway, he was only a bloody wag. Wasn't he?"

Peter agreed reasonably.

"Look here, Peter. I said that but I didn't mean it. You are being unreasonable."

"I will try not to be," Peter assured him mildly.

"Tell me where it goes from here. Who do you bring under control next the British Trade Union movement, perhaps?" And Steven stared at him wordlessly for a moment.

"Damn it, Peter. That was a hell of a guess. But could you imagine if we had a five-year wage freeze, and no industrial action during that time. It's them or us, Peter.

We could get back to being one of the major industrial powers of the Western world. Great Britain! We could be that again."

"You are very convincing, Steven," Peter acknowledged.

"There are only a few details that worry me a little."

"What are they, Peter?"

"Why was it necessary to arrange the murder of Kingston

Parker and Magda Altmann-" Steven stared at him, his jaw unhinging slightly and the hard line of his mouth going slack with astonishment.

"No," he shook his head. "That's not so." and why was it necessary to kill Baron Altmann, and torture him to death?"

"That was not my doing all right, it was done. And I knew it was done but I had nothing to do with it, Peter.

Not the murder at least. Oh God, all right I knew it had to be done, but-His voice tailed off, and he stared helplessly at Peter.

"From the beginning again, Steven. Let's hear it all-" Peter spoke almost gently.

"I cannot, Peter. You don't understand what might happen, what will happen if I tell you-" Peter slid the safety catch off the Purdey shotgun. The click of the mechanism was unnaturally loud in the silence, and Steven Stride started and stepped back a pace, blinking at his brother, fastening all his attention on Peter's eyes.

"God,"he whispered. "You would do it too."

"Tell me about Aaron

Altmann."

"Can I have another cigarette?" Peter nodded and Steven lit it with hands that trembled very slightly.

"You have to understand how it worked, before I can explain."

"Tell me how it worked," Peter invited.

"I was recruited-"

"Steven, don't lie to me you are Caliph."

"No, God, no, Peter. You have it all wrong," Steven cried. "It's a chain. I am only a link in Caliph's chain. I am not Caliph."

"You are a part of Caliph, then?"

"Only a link in the chain," Steven repeated vehemently.

"Tell me, Peter invited with a small movement of the shotgun barrel that drew Steven's eyes immediately.

"There is a man I have known a long time. We have worked together before. A man with greater wealth and influence than I have. It was not an immediate thing. It grew out of many discussions and conversations over a long time, years, in which we both voiced our concern with the way that power had shifted to blocks of persons unfit to wield it-"

"All right," Peter nodded grimly. "I understand your political and ideological sentiments. Leave them out of the account."

"Very well," Steven agreed. Well, finally this man asked me if I would be prepared to join an association of Western world political and industrial leaders dedicated to restoring power to the hands of those fitted by training and upbringing to govern."

"Who was this man?"

"Peter, I cannot tell you."

"You have no choice," Peter told him, and there was a long moment as they locked eyes and wills; then Steven sighed in capitulation.

"It was-" The name was that of a mining magnate who controlled most of the free world supply of nuclear fuel and gold and precious stones.

"So he is the one who would have been in control of the new South
African government with which you intended replacing the present regime in that country, if the taking of 070 had succeeded?" Peter demanded,
and Steven nodded wordlessly.

"All right," Peter nodded. "Go on."

"He had been recruited as I
was," Steven explained. "But I was never to know by whom. In my turn
I was to recruit another desirable member but I would be the only one who knew who that was. It was how the security of the chain was to be maintained. Each link would know only the one above and below him, the man who had recruited him and the one who he recruited in his turn-"