Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers

  And then directly opposite, in the'minus'column: If Magda is Caliph, then "Cactus Flower" does not exist.

  It was an invention for some undisclosed reason.

  This was the item that pricked him like a burr in a woollen sock.

  He kept coming back to it; there was a link missing from the logic of it and he tried to tease it loose. It was there just below the surface of his mind, and he knew instinctively that if he missed it the consequences would be dire.

  The driver kept chatting, turning to glance back at him every few minutes with a cheerful demand for recognition.

  "That's right, isn't it?" Peter grunted. The man was irritating him the missing item was there, just beginning to surface. He could see the shape of it. Why had the smell of orange blossom worried him?

  The smell of flowers? Cactus flower? There was something there, something missing from the list.

  If Magda is not Caliph then- Was that it? He was not certain. " Will that be all right, then?" The driver was insisting again.

  "I'm sorry what was that?"

  "I said, I had to drop a parcel off at my mother-in-law," the driver explained again. "It's from my wife."

  "Can't you do that on your way back?"

  "I'm not going back tonight-" The driver grinned winningly over his shoulder.

  right on our way. It won't take five minutes. I promised my wife I'd get it to her mother today."

  "Oh, very well then," Peter snapped.

  There was something about the man he did not like, and he had lost track of the item that had been worrying him.

  He felt as though he was in a chess game with a vastly superior opponent, and he had overlooked a castle on an open file, or a knight in a position to fork simultaneous check on his king and queen.

  "We turn off here," the driver explained, and swung off into a section of new apartment blocks, all of them built of the custard-yellow Jerusalem stone, row upon row Of them, Israel's desperate attempt to house its new citizens. At this time of evening the streets were deserted, as families gathered for the evening meal.

  The driver jinked through the maze of identical-seeming streets with garrulous confidence and then braked and parked in front of one of the square, boxlike, yellow buildings.

  "Two minutes," he promised, and jumped out of the Mercedes, scampered around to the rear and opened the boot. There was a scratching sound, a small bump and then the lid of the boot slammed and the driver came back into Peter's line of vision carrying a brown paper parcel.

  He grinned at Peter, with the ridiculous cap pushed onto the back of his head, mouthed another assurance through the closed window: "Two minutes " and went into the main door of the apartment.

  Peter hoped he might be longer. The silence was precious. He closed his eyes, and concentrated.

  If Magda is not Caliph then then- There was the ticking sound of the engine cooling, or was it the dashboard clock? Peter thrust the sound to the back of his mind.

  then then Cactus Flower exists. Yes, that was it!

  My mother-in-law lives Cactus Flower exists, and if he exists he is close enough to Caliph to know of Sir Steven Stride's threat to expose him. Peter sat upright, rigid in his seat. He had believed. that Steven Stride would be perfectly safe until after the meeting with Caliph. "That was the terrible mistake. Cactus Flower must stop Steven Stride reaching Caliph! Yes, of course. Christ, how had he not seen it before. Cactus Flower was Mossad, and Peter was sitting in a street of Jerusalem Mossad's front yard dressed as Steven Stride.

  Christ! He felt the certainty of mortal danger. Cactus Flower probably made the arrangements himself. If Magda Altmann is not Caliph, then I am walking right into Cactus Flower's sucker punch I The -racking damned clock kept ticking, a sound as nerve as a leaky faucet.

  I am in Cactus Flower's city in Cactus Flower's limo The ticking.

  Oh God! It was not coming from the dashboard. Peter turned his head.

  It was coming from behind him; from the boot. the driver had opened and in which he had moved something. Something that was now ticking away quietly.

  Peter wrenched the door handle and hit the door with his shoulder, instinctively grabbing the Hermes case with his other hand.

  They would have stripped out the metal partition between the boot and the back seat to allow the blast to cut through. There was probably only the leather upholstery between him and whatever was ticking. That was why he had heard it so clearly.

  Time seemed to have slowed, so he was free to think it out as the seconds dropped as lingeringly as spilled honey.

  Infernal machine, he thought. Why that ridiculously nineteenth-century term should occur to him now, he could not guess, a relic from the childhood days when he read Boy's Own Paper, perhaps.

  He was out of the Mercedes now, almost losing his balance as his feet hit the unsurfaced and broken sidewalk.

  It is probably plastic explosive with a clockwork timer on the detonator, he thought, as he started to run. What delay would they use? Thirty seconds? No, the driver had to get well away. He had said two minutes, said it twice The thoughts raced through his mind, but his legs seemed to be shackled, dragging against an enormous weight. Like trying to run waist deep in the sucking surf of a sandy beach.

  It will be two minutes, and he has been gone that long. Ten paces ahead of him there was a low wall that had been built as a flower box around the apartment block. It was knee high, a double brick wall with the cavity filled with dry yellow earth and precariously sustaining the life of a few wizened oleander bushes.

  Peter dived head first over the wall, breaking his fall with shoulder and forearm, and rolling back hard under the protection of the low wall.

  Above his head were the large windows of the ground floor apartments. Lying on his side, peering up at them, Peter saw the reflection of the parked Mercedes as though in a mirror.

  He covered his ears with the palms of both hands. The Mercedes was only fifty feet away. He watched it in the glass, his body braced, his mouth wide open to absorb blast shock in his sinuses.

  The Mercedes erupted. It seemed to open quite sedately, like one of those time-elapse movies of a rose blooming.

  The shining metal spread and distorted like grotesque black petals, and bright white flame shot through it that was all Peter saw, for the row of apartment windows disappeared, blown away in a million glittering shards by the blast wave, leaving the windows gaping like the toothless mouths of old decrepit men, and at the same moment the blast smashed into Peter.

  Even though it was muted by the thick wall of the flower box, it crushed him, seemed to drive in his ribs, and the air whooshed from his lungs. The fearsome din of the explosion clamoured in his head, filling his skull with little bright chips of rainbow light.

  He thought he must have lost consciousness for a moment, then there was the patter of falling debris raining down around him and something struck him a painful blow in the small of his back. It spurred him.

  He dragged himself to his feet, struggling to refill his empty lungs. He knew he had to get away before the security forces arrived, or he could expect intensive interrogation which would certainly disclose the fact that he was not Sir Steven.

  He started to run. The street was still deserted, although he could hear the beginning of the uproar which must follow. The cries of anguish and of fear.

  He reached the corner and stopped running. He walked quickly to the next alley behind an apartment block. There were no street lights and he paused in the shadows. By now a dozen figures shouting questions and conjecture were hurrying towards the smoke and dust of the explosion.

  Peter recovered his breath and dusted down his blazer and slacks, waiting until the confusion and shouting were at their peak. Then he walked quietly away.

  On the main road he joined a short queue at the bus stop. The bus dropped him off in the Jaffa Road.

  He found a cafe opposite the bus stop and went through into the men's room. He was unmarked, but pale and strained; hi
s hands still shook from the shock of the blast as he combed his hair.

  He went back into the cafe, found a corner seat and ordered falafel and pitta bread with coffee.

  He sat there for half an hour, considering his next move, If Magda Altmann is not Caliph- he repeated the conundrum which he had solved just in time to save his life.

  Magda Altmann is not Caliph! He knew it then with utter certainty. Cactus Flower had tried to stop Sir Steven Stride reaching Caliph with his denunciation. Therefore Magda had told him the truth.

  His relief flooded his body with a great warm glow and his first instinct was to telephone her at the Mossad number she had given him.

  Then he saw the danger. Cactus Flower was Mossad. He dared not go near her not yet.

  What must he do then? And he knew the answer without having to search for it. He must do what he had come to do. He must find Caliph, and the only fragile thread he had to follow was the trail that Caliph had laid for him.

  He left the cafe and found a taxi at the rank on the corner, "David Hotel, "Peter said, and sank back in the seat.

  At least I know the danger of Cactus Flower now, he thought grimly. I won't walk into the next one blind.

  Peter took one glance around the room that had been reserved for him. It was in the back of the hotel and across the road the tall bell tower of the YMCA.

  made a fine stance from which a sniper could command the two windows.

  "I ordered a suite," Peter snapped at the reception clerk who had led him up.

  "I'm sorry, Sir Steven." The man was immediately flustered.

  "There must have been a mistake." Another glance around the room and Peter had noted half a dozen sites at which Cactus Flower might have laid another explosive charge to back up the one that had failed in the back of the Mercedes. He would prefer to spend a night in a pit full of cobras rather than accept the quarters that Cactus Flower had prepared for him.

  Peter stepped back into the passage and fixed the clerk with his most imperious gaze. The man scampered and returned within five minutes looking mightily relieved.

  "We have one of our best suites for you." Number 122 commanded a magnificent view across the valley to the Jaffa Gate in the wall of the Old City, and in the centre of this vista towered the Church of the Last Supper.

  The gardens of the hotel were lush with lawns and tall graceful palms, children shrieked gleefully around the swimming pool while a cool light breeze broke the heat.

  The suite abutted onto the long open terrace, and the moment he was alone, Peter lowered the heavy roller shutters across the terrace door. Cactus Flower could too easily send a man in that way. Then Peter stepped out onto the private balcony.

  On the tall stone battlements of the French Consulate adjoining the gardens they were lowering the Tricolour against the flaming backdrop of the sunset. Peter watched it for a moment then concentrated again on the security of the suite.

  There was possible access from the room next door, an easy step across from window to balcony. Peter hesitated then decided to leave the balcony unshuttered. He could not bring himself to accept the claustrophobic effect of a completely shuttered room.

  Instead he drew the curtains and ordered a large whisky and soda from room service. He needed it. It had been a long hard day.

  Then he stripped off tie and shirt, wig and mustache and washed away some of the tensions. He was to welling himself when there was a tap on the door.

  "Damned quick service," he muttered, and clapped the wig on his head and stepped into the lounge, just as a key rattled in the lock and the door swung open. Peter lifted the towel and pretended to be still drying his face to cover the lack of mustache on his lip.

  "Come in," he gruffed through the towel, and then froze in the doorway, and a vice seemed to close around his heart and restrict his breathing.

  She wore a man's open-neck shirt, with patch pockets on the breasts, and khaki combat breeches hugged her narrow hips. The long legs were thrust into soft-soled canvas boots. Yet she carried herself with the same unforced chic as if she had been dressed in the height of Parisian fashion.

  "Sir Steven." She closed the door swiftly behind her, and Peter saw her palm the slim metal pick with which she had turned the lock.

  "I'm Magda Altmann, we have met before.

  I have come to warn you that you are in very grave danger." The abundant short curls formed a dark halo around her head, and her eyes were huge and green with concern.

  "You must immediately leave this country. I have my private executive jet aircraft at an airfield near here-" Peter lowered the towel enough to allow himself to speak.

  "Why are you telling me this?" he interrupted her brusquely. "And why should I believe you?" He saw the quick roses of anger bloom in her cheeks.

  "You are dabbling in things you do not understand."

  "Why should you want to warn me?" Peter insisted.

  "Because-" she hesitated and then went on sharply, because you are Peter Stride's brother. For that reason and no other I would not want you killed." Peter tossed the towel back into the bathroom and with the same movement pulled off the wig and dropped it onto the chair beside him.

  "Peter!" Astonishment riveted her and she stared at him, the colour that anger had painted in her cheeks fled and her eyes turned a deep luminous green. He had forgotten once again how beautiful she was.

  "Well, don't just stand there," he said, and she ran to him on those long, graceful legs and flung her arms around his neck.

  They strained together silently, neither of them found words necessary for many minutes. Then she broke away.

  "Peter, darling I cannot stay long. I took a terrible chance coming here at all. They are watching the hotel and the girls on the switchboard are Mossad. That is why I could not telephone-"

  "Tell me everything you can," he ordered.

  "All right, but hold me, Cheri. I do not wish to waste a minute of this little time we have together." She hid in the bathroom when the waiter brought the whisky, then joined Peter on the couch.

  "Cactus Flower reported to control that Steven had requested a meeting with Caliph, and that he intended to denounce him. That was all I knew until yesterday but I could build on that. First of all I

  was amazed that Steven was the subject of the first Cactus Flower report and not you, Peter-" She caressed the smooth hard brown muscle of his chest as she spoke.." It had never occured to me, even when we discussed the fact that the report mentioned no Christian name."

  "It didn't occur to me either, not until I'd already left Les Neuf Poissons."

  "Then, of course, I guessed that you had taxed Steven with it, and told him the source of your information. It would have been a crazy thing to do not your usual style, at all. But I thought that being your brother-" She trailed off.

  "That is exactly what I did-" Peter, we could still talk if we were on the bed," she murmured. "I have been without you for so long."

  Her bare skin felt like hot satin, and they lay entwined with the hard smooth plain of her belly pressed to his. Her mouth was against his ear.

  Steven's request for a meeting went directly to Caliph through a channel other than Cactus Flower. He had no chance to head it off-"

  "Who is Cactus Flower, have you found that out?"

  "No." She shook her head. "I still do not know." And she raked her long fingernails lightly down across his belly.

  "If you do that I cannot think clearly," he protested.

  "I am sorry." She brought her hand up to his cheek.

  "Anyway, Caliph instructed Cactus Flower to arrange the meeting with Steven. I did not know what arrangements were being made until I saw Sir Steven's name on the immigration lists this evening. I was not particularly looking for his name, but as soon as I saw it I guessed what was happening. I guessed that Cactus Flower had enticed him here to make his interception easier. It took me three hours to find where Sir Steven would be staying." They were both silent now, and she lowered her face and pr
essed it into the soft of his neck, sighing with happiness.

  oh God, Peter. How I missed you."

  "Listen, my darling. You must tell me everything else you have." Peter lifted her chin tenderly so he could see her face and her eyes came back into focus.

  "Did you know that there was to be an assassination attempt on Steven?"

  "No but it was the logical step for Mossad to protect Cactus Flower."

  "What else?"

  "Nothing." You don't know if actual arrangements have been made for a meeting between Caliph and Steven?" if "No, I don't know, "she admitted.

  "You still have no indication at all of Caliph's identity?"

  "No, none at all." They were silent again, but now she propped herself on one elbow and watched his face as he spoke.

  Cactus Flower would have to make the arrangements for the" meeting as Caliph instructed. He would not be able to take the chance of faking it not with Caliph." Magda nodded in silent agreement.

  "Therefore we have to believe that at this moment Caliph is close, very close."

  "Yes. "She nodded again, but reluctantly.

  "That means that I have to go on impersonating Steven."

  "Peter, no. They will kill you."

  "They have already tried-" Peter told her grimly, and quietly outlined the destruction of the Mercedes. She touched the bruise in the small of his back where he had been struck by flying debris from the explosion.

  "They won't let you get close to Caliph."

  "They may have no choice," Peter told her. "Caliph is so concerned for his own safety he is going to insist on the meeting."

  "They will try and kill you again, "she implored him.

  "Perhaps, but I'm betting the meeting with Caliph is arranged to take place very soon. They won't have much opportunity to set up another elaborate trap like the Mercedes, and I'll be expecting it I've got to go ahead with it, Magda."

  "Oh, Peter-" But he touched her lips, silencing the protest, and he was thinking aloud again.

  "Let's suppose Mossad knew that I was not Steven Stride, that my real purpose was not to denounce Cactus Flower?