Two

THE WOMAN ON THE BALCONY

IAs Bob Rawlinson walked along the echoing marble corridors of the Palace, he had never felt sounhappy in his life. The knowledge that he was carrying three-quarters of a million pounds in histrousers pocket caused him acute misery. He felt as though every Palace official he encounteredmust know the fact. He felt even that the knowledge of his precious burden must show in his face.

He would have been relieved to learn that his freckled countenance bore exactly its usualexpression of cheerful good nature.

The sentries outside presented arms with a clash. Bob walked down the main crowded street ofRamat, his mind still dazed. Where was he going? What was he planning to do? He had no idea.

And time was short.

The main street was like most main streets in the Middle East. It was a mixture of squalor andmagnificence. Banks reared their vast newly built magnificence. Innumerable small shopspresented a collection of cheap plastic goods. Babies’ bootees and cheap cigarette lighters weredisplayed in unlikely juxtaposition. There were sewing machines, and spare parts for cars.

Pharmacies displayed flyblown proprietary medicines, and large notices of penicillin in every formand antibiotics galore. In very few of the shops was there anything that you could normally wantto buy, except possibly the latest Swiss watches, hundreds of which were displayed crowded into atiny window. The assortment was so great that even there one would have shrunk from purchase,dazzled by sheer mass.

Bob, still walking in a kind of stupor, jostled by figures in native or European dress, pulledhimself together and asked himself again where the hell he was going?

He turned into a native café and ordered lemon tea. As he sipped it, he began, slowly, to cometo. The atmosphere of the café was soothing. At a table opposite him an elderly Arab waspeacefully clicking through a string of amber beads. Behind him two men played tric trac. It was agood place to sit and think.

And he’d got to think. Jewels worth three-quarters of a million had been handed to him, and itwas up to him to devise some plan of getting them out of the country. No time to lose either. Atany minute the balloon might go up….

Ali was crazy, of course. Tossing three-quarters of a million lightheartedly to a friend in thatway. And then sitting back quietly himself and leaving everything to Allah. Bob had not got thatrecourse. Bob’s God expected his servants to decide on and perform their own actions to the bestof the ability their God had given them.

What the hell was he going to do with those damned stones?

He thought of the Embassy. No, he couldn’t involve the Embassy. The Embassy would almostcertainly refuse to be involved.

What he needed was some person, some perfectly ordinary person who was leaving the countryin some perfectly ordinary way. A business man, or a tourist would be best. Someone with nopolitical connections whose baggage would, at most, be subjected to a superficial search or moreprobably no search at all. There was, of course, the other end to be considered … Sensation atLondon Airport. Attempt to smuggle in jewels worth three-quarters of a million. And so on and soon. One would have to risk that—

Somebody ordinary—a bona fide traveller. And suddenly Bob kicked himself for a fool. Joan,of course. His sister Joan Sutcliffe. Joan had been out here for two months with her daughterJennifer who after a bad bout of pneumonia had been ordered sunshine and a dry climate. Theywere going back by “long sea” in four or five days’ time.

Joan was the ideal person. What was it Ali had said about women and jewels? Bob smiled tohimself. Good old Joan! She wouldn’t lose her head over jewels. Trust her to keep her feet on theearth. Yes—he could trust Joan.

Wait a minute, though … could he trust Joan? Her honesty, yes. But her discretion? RegretfullyBob shook his head. Joan would talk, would not be able to help talking. Even worse. She wouldhint. “I’m taking home something very important, I mustn’t say a word to anyone. It’s really ratherexciting….”

Joan had never been able to keep a thing to herself though she was always very incensed if onetold her so. Joan, then, mustn’t know what she was taking. It would be safer for her that way. He’dmake the stones up into a parcel, an innocent-looking parcel. Tell her some story. A present forsomeone? A commission? He’d think of something….

Bob glanced at his watch and rose to his feet. Time was getting on.

He strode along the street oblivious of the midday heat. Everything seemed so normal. Therewas nothing to show on the surface. Only in the Palace was one conscious of the banked-downfires, of the spying, the whispers. The Army—it all depended on the Army. Who was loyal? Whowas disloyal? A coup d’état would certainly be attempted. Would it succeed or fail?

Bob frowned as he turned into Ramat’s leading hotel. It was modestly called the Ritz Savoy andhad a grand modernistic fa?ade. It had opened with a flourish three years ago with a Swissmanager, a Viennese chef, and an Italian M?itre d’h?tel. Everything had been wonderful. TheViennese chef had gone first, then the Swiss manager. Now the Italian head waiter had gone too.

The food was still ambitious, but bad, the service abominable, and a good deal of the expensiveplumbing had gone wrong.

The clerk behind the desk knew Bob well and beamed at him.

“Good morning, Squadron Leader. You want your sister? She has gone on a picnic with thelittle girl—”

“A picnic?” Bob was taken aback—of all the silly times to go for a picnic.

“With Mr. and Mrs. Hurst from the Oil Company,” said the clerk informatively. Everyonealways knew everything. “They have gone to the Kalat Diwa dam.”

Bob swore under his breath. Joan wouldn’t be home for hours.

“I’ll go up to her room,” he said and held out his hand for the key which the clerk gave him.

He unlocked the door and went in. The room, a large double-bedded one, was in its usualconfusion. Joan Sutcliffe was not a tidy woman. Golf clubs lay across a chair, tennis racquets hadbeen flung on the bed. Clothing lay about, the table was littered with rolls of film, postcards,paperbacked books and an assortment of native curios from the South, mostly made inBirmingham and Japan.

Bob looked round him, at the suitcases and the zip bags. He was faced with a problem. Hewouldn’t be able to see Joan before flying Ali out. There wouldn’t be time to get to the dam andback. He could parcel up the stuff and leave it with a note—but almost immediately he shook hishead. He knew quite well that he was nearly always followed. He’d probably been followed fromthe Palace to the café and from the café here. He hadn’t spotted anyone—but he knew that theywere good at the job. There was nothing suspicious in his coming to the hotel to see his sister—butif he left a parcel and a note, the note would be read and the parcel opened.

Time … time … He’d no time….

Three-quarters of a million in precious stones in his trousers pocket.

He looked round the room….

Then, with a grin, he fished out from his pocket the little tool kit he always carried. His nieceJennifer had some plasticine, he noted, that would help.

He worked quickly and skilfully. Once he looked up, suspicious, his eyes going to the openwindow. No, there was no balcony outside this room. It was just his nerves that made him feel thatsomeone was watching him.

He finished his task and nodded in approval. Nobody would notice what he had done—he feltsure of that. Neither Joan nor anyone else. Certainly not Jennifer, a self-centred child, who neversaw or noticed anything outside herself.

He swept up all evidences of his toil and put them into his pocket … Then he hesitated, lookinground.

He drew Mrs. Sutcliffe’s writing pad towards him and sat frowning—He must leave a note for Joan—

But what could he say? It must be something that Joan would understand—but which wouldmean nothing to anyone who read the note.

And really that was impossible! In the kind of thriller that Bob liked reading to fill up his sparemoments, you left a kind of cryptogram which was always successfully puzzled out by someone.

But he couldn’t even begin to think of a cryptogram—and in any case Joan was the sort ofcommonsense person who would need the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed before she noticedanything at all—

Then his brow cleared. There was another way of doing it—divert attention away from Joan—leave an ordinary everyday note. Then leave a message with someone else to be given to Joan inEngland. He wrote rapidly—

Dear Joan—Dropped in to ask if you’d care to play a round of golf this eveningbut if you’ve been up at the dam, you’ll probably be dead to the world. Whatabout tomorrow? Five o’clock at the Club.

Yours, Bob.

A casual sort of a message to leave for a sister that he might never see again—but in some waysthe more casual the better. Joan mustn’t be involved in any funny business, mustn’t even knowthat there was any funny business. Joan could not dissimulate. Her protection would be the factthat she clearly knew nothing.

And the note would accomplish a dual purpose. It would seem that he, Bob, had no plan fordeparture himself.

He thought for a minute or two, then he crossed to the telephone and gave the number of theBritish Embassy. Presently he was connected with Edmundson, the third secretary, a friend of his.

“John? Bob Rawlinson here. Can you meet me somewhere when you get off? … Make it a bitearlier than that? … You’ve got to, old boy. It’s important. Well, actually, it’s a girl … ” He gavean embarrassed cough. “She’s wonderful, quite wonderful. Out of this world. Only it’s a bittricky.”

Edmundson’s voice, sounding slightly stuffed shirt and disapproving, said, “Really, Bob, youand your girls. All right, 2 o’clock do you?” and rang off. Bob heard the little echoing click aswhoever had been listening in, replaced the receiver.

Good old Edmundson. Since all the telephones in Ramat had been tapped, Bob and JohnEdmundson had worked out a little code of their own. A wonderful girl who was “out of thisworld” meant something urgent and important.

Edmundson would pick him up in his car outside the new Merchants Bank at 2 o’clock and he’dtell Edmundson of the hiding place. Tell him that Joan didn’t know about it but that, if anythinghappened to him, it was important. Going by the long sea route Joan and Jennifer wouldn’t beback in England for six weeks. By that time the revolution would almost certainly have happenedand either been successful or have been put down. Ali Yusuf might be in Europe, or he and Bobmight both be dead. He would tell Edmundson enough, but not too much.

Bob took a last look around the room. It looked exactly the same, peaceful, untidy, domestic.

The only thing added was his harmless note to Joan. He propped it up on the table and went out.

There was no one in the long corridor.

II

The woman in the room next to that occupied by Joan Sutcliffe stepped back from the balcony.

There was a mirror in her hand.

She had gone out on the balcony originally to examine more closely a single hair that had hadthe audacity to spring up on her chin. She dealt with it with tweezers, then subjected her face to aminute scrutiny in the clear sunlight.

It was then, as she relaxed, that she saw something else. The angle at which she was holding hermirror was such that it reflected the mirror of the hanging wardrobe in the room next to hers and inthat mirror she saw a man doing something very curious.

So curious and unexpected that she stood there motionless, watching. He could not see her fromwhere he sat at the table, and she could only see him by means of the double reflection.

If he had turned his head behind him, he might have caught sight of her mirror in the wardrobemirror, but he was too absorbed in what he was doing to look behind him….

Once, it was true, he did look up suddenly towards the window, but since there was nothing tosee there, he lowered his head again.

The woman watched him while he finished what he was doing. After a moment’s pause hewrote a note which he propped up on the table. Then he moved out of her line of vision but shecould just hear enough to realize that he was making a telephone call. She couldn’t catch what wassaid, but it sounded lighthearted—casual. Then she heard the door close.

The woman waited a few minutes. Then she opened her door. At the far end of the passage anArab was flicking idly with a feather duster. He turned the corner out of sight.

The woman slipped quickly to the door of the next room. It was locked, but she had expectedthat. The hairpin she had with her and the blade of a small knife did the job quickly and expertly.

She went in, pushing the door to behind her. She picked up the note. The flap had only beenstuck down lightly and opened easily. She read the note, frowning. There was no explanationthere.

She sealed it up, put it back, and walked across the room.

There, with her hand outstretched, she was disturbed by voices through the window from theterrace below.

One was a voice that she knew to be the occupier of the room in which she was standing. Adecided didactic voice, fully assured of itself.

She darted to the window.

Below on the terrace, Joan Sutcliffe, accompanied by her daughter Jennifer, a pale solid child offifteen, was telling the world and a tall unhappy looking Englishman from the British Consulatejust what she thought of the arrangements he had come to make.

“But it’s absurd! I never heard such nonsense. Everything’s perfectly quiet here and everyonequite pleasant. I think it’s all a lot of panicky fuss.”

“We hope so, Mrs. Sutcliffe, we certainly hope so. But H.E. feels that the responsibility is such—”

Mrs. Sutcliffe cut him short. She did not propose to consider the responsibility of ambassadors.

“We’ve a lot of baggage, you know. We were going home by long sea—next Wednesday. Thesea voyage will be good for Jennifer. The doctor said so. I really must absolutely decline to alterall my arrangements and be flown to England in this silly flurry.”

The unhappy looking man said encouragingly that Mrs. Sutcliffe and her daughter could beflown, not to England, but to Aden and catch their boat there.

“With our baggage?”

“Yes, yes, that can be arranged. I’ve got a car waiting — a station wagon. We can loadeverything right away.”

“Oh well.” Mrs. Sutcliffe capitulated. “I suppose we’d better pack.”

“At once, if you don’t mind.”

The woman in the bedroom drew back hurriedly. She took a quick glance at the address on aluggage label on one of the suitcases. Then she slipped quickly out of the room and back into herown just as Mrs. Sutcliffe turned the corner of the corridor.

The clerk from the office was running after her.

“Your brother, the Squadron Leader, has been here, Mrs. Sutcliffe. He went up to your room.

But I think that he has left again. You must just have missed him.”

“How tiresome,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “Thank you,” she said to the clerk and went on to Jennifer,“I suppose Bob’s fussing too. I can’t see any sign of disturbance myself in the streets. This door’sunlocked. How careless these people are.”

“Perhaps it was Uncle Bob,” said Jennifer.

“I wish I hadn’t missed him … Oh, there’s a note.” She tore it open.

“At any rate Bob isn’t fussing,” she said triumphantly. “He obviously doesn’t know a thingabout all this. Diplomatic windup, that’s all it is. How I hate trying to pack in the heat of the day.

This room’s like an oven. Come on, Jennifer, get your things out of the chest of drawers and thewardrobe. We must just shove everything in anyhow. We can repack later.”

“I’ve never been in a revolution,” said Jennifer thoughtfully.

“I don’t expect you’ll be in one this time,” said her mother sharply. “It will be just as I say.

Nothing will happen.”

Jennifer looked disappointed.