Читать книгу The Savage Day - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 9

I first met Julius Meyer in one of the smaller of the Trucial Oman States in June, 1966. A place called Rubat, which boasted a sultan, one port town and around forty thousand square miles of very unattractive desert which was inhabited by what are usually referred to in military circles as dissident tribesmen.

The whole place had little to commend it except its oil, which did mean that besides the sultan’s three Rolls-Royces, two Mercedes and one Cadillac, our American friends not being so popular in the area that year, he could also afford a Chief of Police and I was glad of the work, however temporary the political situation made it look.

I was called up to the palace in a hurry one afternoon by the sultan’s chief minister, Hamal, who also happened to be his nephew. The whole thing was something of a surprise as it was the sort of place where nobody made a move during the heat of the day.

When I went into his office, I found him seated at his desk opposite Meyer. I never did know Meyer’s age for he was one of those men who looked a permanent sixty.

Hamal said, ‘Ah, Major Vaughan, this is Mr Julius Meyer.’

‘Mr Meyer,’ I said politely.

‘You will arrest him immediately and hold him in close confinement at central police headquarters until you hear from me.’

Meyer peered short-sightedly at me through steel-rimmed spectacles. With his shock of untidy grey hair, the fraying collar, the shabby linen suit, he looked more like an unsuccessful musician than anything else. It was much later when I discovered that all these things were supposed to make him look poor, which he certainly was not.

‘What’s the charge?’ I asked.

‘Import of arms without a licence. I’ll give you the details later. Now get him out of here. I’ve got work to do.’

On the way to town in the jeep, Meyer wiped sweat from his face ceaselessly. ‘A terrible, terrible thing all this deceit in life, my friend,’ he said at one point. ‘I mean, it’s really getting to the stage where one can’t trust anybody.’

‘Would you by any chance be referring to our respected Chief Minister?’ I asked him.

He became extremely agitated, flapping his arms up and down like some great shabby white bird. ‘I came in from Djibouti this morning with five thousand MI carbines, all in excellent condition, perfect goods. Fifty Bren guns, twenty thousand rounds of ammunition, all to his order.’

‘What happened?’

‘You know what happened. He refuses to pay, has me arrested.’ He glanced at me furtively, tried to smile and failed miserably. ‘This charge. What happens if he can make it stick? What’s the penalty?’

‘This was a British colony for years so they favour hanging. The Sultan likes to put on a public show in the main square, just to encourage the others.’

‘My God!’ He groaned in anguish. ‘From now on, I use an agent, I swear it.’

Which, in other circumstances, would have made me laugh out loud.

I had Meyer locked up, as per instructions, then went to my office and gave the whole business very careful thought which, knowing my Hamal, took all of five minutes.

Having reached the inescapable conclusion that there was something very rotten indeed in the state of Rubat, I left the office and drove down to the waterfront where I checked that our brand new fifty-foot diesel police launch was ready for sea, tanks full.

The bank, unfortunately, was closed, so I went immediately to my rather pleasant little house on the edge of town and recovered from the corner of the garden by the cistern, the steel cash box containing five thousand dollars mad money put by for a rainy day. As I started back to town, there was a rattle of machine-gun fire from the general direction of the palace, which was comforting, if only because it proved that my judgement was still unimpaired, Rubat, the heat and the atmosphere of general decay notwithstanding.

I called in at police headquarters on my way down to the harbour and discovered, without any particular sense of surprise, that there wasn’t a man left in the place except Meyer, whom I found standing at the window of his cell listening to the sound of small arms fire when I unlocked the door.

He turned immediately and there was a certain relief on his face when he saw who it was. ‘Hamal?’ he enquired.

‘He never was one to let the grass grow under his feet,’ I said. ‘Comes of having been a prefect at Winchester. You don’t look too good. I suggest a long sea voyage.’

He almost fell over himself in his eagerness to get past me through the door.

* * *

As we moved out of harbour, a column of black smoke ascended into the hot afternoon air from the palace. Standing beside me in the wheelhouse, Meyer shook his head and sighed.

‘We live in an uncertain world, my friend.’ And then, dismissing Rubat and its affairs completely, he went on, ‘How good is this boat? Can we reach Djibouti?’

‘Easily.’

‘Excellent. I have first class contacts there. We can even sell the boat. Some slight recompense for my loss and I’ve a little matter of business coming up in the Somali Republic that you might be able to help me with.’

‘What sort of business?’

‘The two thousand pounds a month kind,’ he replied calmly.

Which was enough to shut anyone up. He produced a small cassette tape-recorder from one of his pockets, put it on the chart table and turned it on.

The band which started playing had the unmistakably nostalgic sound of the ’thirties and so did the singer who joined in a few minutes later, assuring me that Every Day’s A Lucky Day. There was complete repose on Meyer’s face as he listened.

I said, ‘Who in the hell is that?’

‘Al Bowlly,’ he said simply. ‘The best there ever was.’

The start of a beautiful friendship in more ways than one.

I was reminded of that first meeting when I went down to Meyer’s Wapping warehouse on the morning following my arrival back in England from Greece, courtesy of Ferguson and RAF Transport Command, and for the most obvious of reasons. When I opened the little judas gate in the main entrance and stepped inside, Al Bowlly’s voice drifted like some ghostly echo out of the half-darkness to tell me that Everything I Have Is Yours.

It was strangely appropriate, considering the setting, for in that one warehouse Meyer really did have just about every possible thing you could think of in the arms line. In fact, it had always been a source of mystery to me how he managed to cope with the fire department inspectors, for on occasion he had enough explosives in there to blow up a sizeable part of London.

‘Meyer, are you there?’ I called, puzzled by the lack of staff.

I moved through the gloom between two rows of shelving crammed with boxes of.303 ammunition and rifle grenades. There was a flight of steel steps leading up to a landing above, more shelves, rows and rows of old Enfields.

Al Bowlly faded and Meyer appeared at the rail. ‘Who is it?’

He had that usual rather hunted look about him as if he expected the Gestapo to descend at any moment, which at one time in his youth had been a distinct possibility. He wore the same steel-rimmed spectacles he’d had on at our first meeting and the crumpled blue suit was well up to his usual standard of shabbiness.

‘Simon?’ he said. ‘Is that you?’

He started down the steps. I said, ‘Where is everyone?’

‘I gave them the day off. Thought it best when Ferguson telephoned. Where is he, by the way?’

‘He’ll be along.’

He took off his glasses, polished them, put them back on and inspected me thoroughly. ‘They didn’t lean on you too hard in that place?’

‘Skarthos?’ I shook my head. ‘Just being there was enough. How’s business?’

He spread his hands in an inimitable gesture and led the way towards his office at the other end of the warehouse. ‘How can I complain? The world gets more violent day by day.’

We went into the tiny cluttered office and he produced a bottle of the cheapest possible British sherry and poured the ritual couple of drinks. It tasted like sweet varnish, but I got it down manfully.

‘This man Ferguson,’ he said as he finished. ‘A devil. A cold-blooded, calculating devil.’

‘He certainly knows what he wants.’

‘He blackmailed me, Simon. Me, a citizen all these years. I pay my taxes, don’t I? I behave myself. When these Irish nutcases approach me to do a deal, I go to the authorities straightaway.’

‘Highly commendable,’ I said and poured myself another glass of that dreadful sherry.

‘And what thanks do I get? This Ferguson walks in here and gives me the business. Either I play the game the way he wants it or I lose my licence to trade. Is that fair? Is that British justice?’

‘Sounds like a pretty recognizable facsimile of it to me,’ I told him.

He was almost angry, but not quite. ‘Why is everything such a big joke to you, Simon? Is our present situation funny? Is death funny?’

‘The sensible man’s way of staying sane in a world gone mad,’ I said.

He considered the point and managed one of those funny little smiles of his. ‘Maybe you’ve got something there. I’ll try it – I’ll definitely try it, but what about Ferguson?’

‘He’ll be along. You’ll know the worst soon enough.’ I sat on the edge of his desk and helped myself to one of the Turkish cigarettes he kept in a sandalwood box for special customers. ‘What have you got that works with a silencer? Really works.’

He was all business now. ‘Handgun or what?’

‘And sub-machine-gun.’

‘We’ll go downstairs,’ he said. ‘I think I can fix you up.’

The Mk IIS Sten sub-machine-gun was especially developed during the war for use with commando units and resistance groups. It was also used with considerable success by British troops on night patrol work during the Korean war.

It was, indeed still is, a remarkable weapon, its silencing unit absorbing the noise of the bullet explosions to an amazing degree. The only sound when firing is the clicking of the bolt as it goes backwards and forwards and this can seldom be heard beyond a range of twenty yards or so.

Many more were manufactured than is generally realized and as they were quite unique in their field, the reason for the lack of production over the years has always been something of a mystery to me.

The one I held in my hands in Meyer’s basement firing range was a mint specimen. There was a row of targets at the far end, life-size replicas of charging soldiers of indeterminate nationality, all wearing camouflaged uniforms. I emptied a thirty-two round magazine into the first five, working from left to right. It was an uncomfortably eerie experience to see the bullets shredding the target and to hear only the clicking of the bolt.

Meyer said, ‘Remember, full automatic only in a real emergency. They tend to overheat otherwise.’

A superfluous piece of information as I’d used the things in action in Korea, but I contented myself with laying the Sten down and saying mildly, ‘What about a handgun?’

I thought he looked pleased with himself and I saw why a moment later when he produced a tin box, opened it and took out what appeared to be a normal automatic pistol, except that the barrel was of a rather strange design.

‘I could get a packet from any collector for this little item,’ he said. ‘Chinese Communist silenced pistol. 7.65 mm.’

It was certainly new to me. ‘How does it work?’

It was ingenious enough. Used as a semiautomatic, there was only the sound of the slide reciprocating and the cartridge cases ejecting, but it could also be used to fire a single shot with complete silence.

I tried a couple of rounds. Meyer said, ‘You like it?’

Before we could take it any further, there was a foot on the stairs and Ferguson moved out of the darkness. He was wearing a dark grey double-breasted suit, Academy tie, bowler hat and carried a briefcase.

‘So there you are,’ he said. ‘What’s all this?’

He came forward and put his briefcase down on the table, then he took the pistol from me, sighted casually and fired. The result was as I might have expected. No fancy shooting through the shoulder or hand. Just a bullet dead centre in the belly, painful but certain.

He put the gun down on the table and glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got exactly ten minutes, then I must be on my way to the War House so let’s get down to business. Meyer, have you filled him in on your end yet?’

‘You told me to wait.’

‘I’m here now.’

‘Okay.’ Meyer shrugged and turned to me. ‘I had a final meeting with the London agent for these people yesterday. I’ve told him it would be possible to run the stuff over from Oban.’

‘Possible?’ I said. ‘That must be the understatement of this or any other year.’

Meyer carried straight on as if I hadn’t interrupted. ‘I’ve arranged for you to act as my agent in the matter. There’s to be a preliminary meeting in Belfast on Monday night. They’re expecting both of us.’

‘Who are?’

‘I’m not certain. Possibly this official IRA leader himself, Michael Cork.’

I glanced at the Brigadier. ‘Your Small Man?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but we don’t really know. All we can say for certain is that you should get some sort of direct lead to him, whatever happens.’

‘And what do I do between now and Monday?’

‘Go to Oban and get hold of the right kind of boat.’ He opened the briefcase and took out an envelope which he pushed across the table. ‘You’ll find a thousand pounds in there. Let’s call it working capital.’ He turned to Meyer. ‘I’m aware that such an amount is small beer to a man of your assets, Mr Meyer, but we wanted to be fair.’

Meyer’s hand fastened on the envelope. ‘Money is important, Brigadier, let nobody fool you. I never turned down a grand in my life.’

Ferguson turned back to me. ‘It seemed to me that the most obvious place for your landing when you make the run will be the north Antrim coast, so Meyer will rent a house in the area. He’ll act as a link man between us once you’ve arrived and are in the thick of it.’

‘You intend to be there yourself?’

‘Somewhere at hand, just in case I’m needed, but one thing must be stressed. On no account are you to approach the military or police authorities in the area.’

‘No matter what happens?’

‘You’re on your own, Simon,’ he said. ‘Better get used to the idea. I’ll help all I can at the right moment, but until then …’

‘I think I get the drift,’ I said. ‘This is one of those jolly little operations that will have everybody from cabinet level down clapping their hands with glee if it works.’

‘And howling for your blood if it doesn’t,’ he said and patted me on the shoulder. ‘But I have every confidence in you, Simon. It’s going to work, you’ll see.’

‘At the moment, I can’t think of a single reason why it should, but thanks for the vote of confidence.’

He closed his briefcase and picked it up. ‘Just remember one thing. Michael Cork may be what some people would term an old-fashioned revolutionary and I think they’re probably right. In other words, he and his kind don’t approve of the indiscriminate slaughter of the innocent for political ends.’

‘But he’ll kill me if he has to, is that what you’re trying to say?’

‘Without a second’s hesitation.’ He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Must rush now, but do promise me one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Get yourself a decent gun.’ He picked up the silenced pistol, weighed it in his hand and dropped it on the table. ‘Load of Hong Kong rubbish.’

‘This one is by way of Peking,’ I told him.

‘All the bloody same,’ he said cheerfully and faded into the darkness. We heard him on the stair for a moment and then he was gone.

Meyer walked up and down, flapping his arms again, extremely agitated. ‘He makes me feel so uncomfortable. Why does he make me feel this way?’

‘He went to what some people would term the right school. You didn’t.’

‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘You went to the right schools and with you I feel fine.’

‘My mother was Irish,’ I said. ‘You’re forgetting. My one saving grace.’ I tried another couple of shots with the Chinese pistol and shook my head. ‘Ferguson is right. Put this back in the Christmas cracker where you found it and get me a real gun.’

‘Such as?’

‘What about a Mauser 7.63 mm Model 1932 with the bulbous silencer? The kind they manufactured for German counter-intelligence during the second war. There must still be one or two around?’

‘Why not ask me for the gold from my teeth while you’re about it? It’s impossible. Where will I find such a thing these days?’

‘Oh, you’ll manage,’ I said. ‘You always do.’ I held out my hand. ‘If you’ll give me my share of the loot I’ll be on my way. Oban is not just another station on the Brighton line, you know. It’s on the north-west coast of Scotland.’

‘Do I need a geography lesson?’

He counted out five hundred pounds, grumbling, sweat on his face as there always was when he handled money. I stowed it away in my inside breast pocket.

‘When will you be back?’ he asked.

‘I’ll try for the day after tomorrow.’

He followed me up the stairs and we paused at the door of his office. He said awkwardly, ‘Look after yourself, then.’

It was as near as he could get to any demonstration of affection. I said, ‘Don’t I always?’

As I walked away, he went into his office and a moment later Al Bowlly was giving me a musical farewell all the way to the door.