Eagle of Darkness

  As he swung the vehicle round in the sandy track he had to think for a moment, just to be absolutely sure. Up. He had definitely put the switch up. One night soon the electronic timer would trip, and in one blinding instant this area of Beni Mazar would become the focus of a nuclear nightmare.

  "God," he said to himself as he joined the main Cairo Aswan highway, "I could be about to start Armageddon!" He tried to laugh, but couldn't.

  *

  Cairo, Egypt

  IN THE early hours of the morning a police officer stopped to urinate in a deserted alley, and found a man's body smelling of beer behind a pile of rubbish near the central bus station, close to the el-Tahrir Bridge. His throat had been slit, and the blood on his clothing still felt warm. In the man's pocket the policeman found a creased scrap of paper. Up for on was all it said.

  Chapter 3

  Institute of Egyptologists, England

  SAM BOLT drove a hundred yards past the gates of the Institute of Egyptologists and stopped under the trees. Two cars swept along the street in swift succession but they didn't slow down. He started to feel uneasy. To approach the house through the main gates he would have to be in the open, but it seemed a better option than climbing the high wall and using the shrubbery.

  He sprinted softly across the driveway and sank back into a dense hawthorn, pulling himself free of its painful spikes. The recent rain on the branches soaked his jacket, and the chill November air made him shiver. He stopped to get his breath back and take in his surroundings. Bill Tolley had been nothing but a menace, and now the reporter's stupid theories had got him into this absurd situation. If Tolley thought Sally was dead, why did he suggest she could be here at the Institute? He'd let Tolley wind him up too much.

  The large house had lights on in several upstairs rooms, showing patchily through closed curtains. On the south side of the house a dazzling red light sparkled on the glass of a downstairs window. What was this, a palace of fun? Had Sally been working here giving massages?

  He noticed that security lights and sensors had been mounted high on the front wall of the house, and the first one came on with a blaze that made him jump. No one seemed to be taking any notice. A person would have to be out here in the grounds to see him now.

  He looked up and decided it would be best to approach the window from the side, through the shrubbery. He stayed still and waited for the light to go off on its timer. Hopefully from this close to the house he wouldn't trigger any more lights. He moved sideways cautiously until he came to the lighted window. The security light stayed off. Good, its sensor didn't pick up moving bodies this close to the walls.

  Looking into the room he could see a huge mural in gold and orange that made the place look like the inside of an Egyptian temple, under a sky of brilliant stars that were projected onto the ceiling. Maybe the window could be opened from the outside.

  A woman's voice spoke without warning from the darkness behind him. "What are you doing here?"

  He jumped up and caught his head sharply on a branch on one of the shrubs. "I may have the wrong address."

  "Does Dr. Wynne know you're here?" The woman sounded American, and seemed irritated. She must have been following him closely, for the security light had not been triggered again. It wasn't going to be easy to talk his way out of this one.

  "Dr. Wynne? Good, that means I've got the right place."

  "It all seems very questionable. I'm going to get help."

  Sam thought fast. "Is Dr. Wynne your father?"

  "Of course he's not."

  "I only came to ... check that this is the Institute of Egyptologists."

  "It is. Where's your car?"

  He decided to go on the attack. "I'm Sam Bolt. Are you Mrs. Wynne?"

  "I'm Mrs. Pulaski. Panya Pulaski."

  "And I suppose Mr. Pulaski is about to come along and throw me out. Well, I can save him the bother. I'm going."

  The woman hesitated. "There is no Mr. Pulaski." A car passed on the street, its headlights flashing on the bare branches of the woodland.

  "I'll be back in the morning, and I hope Dr. Wynne will be polite enough to make me welcome."

  "I guess you're not a burglar."

  "Not tonight," he said. "My partner mentioned there was an American housekeeper working here. Is that you?"

  She seemed relieved. "You know Dr. Wynne?"

  "My partner Sally used to work for him. In the office."

  There was a long pause. Then, "I think I owe you an apology."

  "Not really. I shouldn't have come at night."

  Panya Pulaski stepped back onto the path and the security light came on. She looked round the open space in front of the house. "Did you walk?"

  "I parked in the main road." That thought was unlikely to console this jumpy woman in a dark jacket done up to the neck. Under the bright overhead light he noticed her dark skin, and her long black hair pulled back and tied in a pony tail. She was probably Middle Eastern, even though she spoke with an American accent. But the name Pulaski sounded more East European than Arabic.

  "I heard about your ... partner," she said. "She went off, didn't she?"

  He was about to explain, but decided that explanations could wait. He clearly wasn't going to get a look inside the big house tonight. "Do you live here?"

  The American shook her head. "I've got a couple of rooms in the Lodge. It's all right there, but it's quiet."

  "Quiet?" Something important had been omitted. "There's a problem?"

  Panya Pulaski gave him an old fashioned glare. "I'm not discussing my life with strangers, Sam. Especially not with friends of Dr. Wynne."

  Surely this thin woman in black skin-tight leggings hadn't thought he was coming on. "I'm going home now," he said curtly. "I'll be back tomorrow -- to see Dr. Wynne."

  "You've cut your head," she said suddenly, her voice thawing a little.

  "Don't worry about it. I caught it on that branch."

  "It's just that ... I don't like to see you going home bleeding."

  "Look the other way. I'll be fine."

  "You could come back to the Lodge with me and have some coffee," she said slowly. "Let me put something on that cut while I dry your coat."

  "I wouldn't dream of it." For some unaccountable reason he found himself playing hard to get.

  "Please." Panya studied him carefully. "I'd appreciate a bit of normal company for a change."

  *

  The Lodge, Institute of Egyptologists, England

  "TELL ME, SAM, do you have a problem with all women, or is it just with me?"

  Sam took a CD from the rack. He'd been patched up, given hot coffee, and a lukewarm welcome. But he found it hard to relax. "I've got family problems. I shouldn't have brought them with me. I'm sorry."

  "We all have problems, Sam. I'm sure you're a nice enough guy, but you've got one awfully tough shell."

  "It's the way life's treated me."

  "Sally and the children? Maybe you've got a problem with the way you're treating yourself."

  He felt angry. "Look, if you had two children..."

  "I don't have any children. I never will."

  "Yes, okay, you're right, we've all got problems. I'm just not very good at handling mine." He wasn't going to grovel. It wasn't as though he'd invited himself here. He examined the CD label. Max Bruch. "I approve of your taste in music" He tried to sound more sociable than he felt.

  Panya smiled for the first time. "I'm a fan of Bruch. I once tried playing his First Violin Concerto, and realized how talented he was."

  "You play the violin?"

  She shook her head. "Not since school."

  "You should take it up again. It will help pass the quiet nights." He slipped the CD of the Second Violin Concerto in D minor into the player and turned the volume low so they could talk. "It's good, but I like my classical music to be more exciting."

  "I've been meaning to get some more CDs that are lively," said Panya, "but there's no decent music shop round here."
r />   Sam sat down. He'd come for information, not chit-chat. "Sally didn't like working at the big house. She found the atmosphere weird."

  Panya nodded in understanding. Her large eyes were partly concealed by small glasses with thin wire frames of a deep purple color. She had an open honesty. An innocence. He'd never spent an evening alone with a woman like this. The female cabin crew were ... well, poles apart. And some were a lot more fun.

  She said. "If your partner worked for Dr. Wynne, you probably know much more about the place than I do. I've only been here four months."

  "But is it weird?"

  "The two men in charge give me the creeps." Panya's awkward laugh turned into an embarrassed giggle. "Gresley Wynne and Denby Rawlins. They're like two dirty old men in the park. They keep staring at my body and breathing hard."

  Sam nodded. He couldn't see Panya's body as being especially desirable, but perhaps some men fancied her. Her black leggings emphasized her thin legs, while the navy sweatshirt hung loosely over her body. The woman looked to be in serious need of a decent meal. "Are your parents American?"

  She touched her face. "You're wondering how I got my Mediterranean skin?"

  "Well, you don't look Scandinavian."

  "My father was American. A merchant seaman from Philadelphia. He had a woman in every port, and my mother was the one in Cairo. So I guess I'm half Egyptian."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

  Panya laughed. "There's nothing to be sorry about. My father married my mother, took her back to Philadelphia, and gave up sailing. They're still happily married. And you look ever so embarrassed."

  He knew he'd gone red. "Are you over here on a work visa?" he asked, changing the subject a little too quickly.

  "I travel around a lot."

  That was all. Sam felt he'd pushed his nose in far enough and found himself wondering why he was even interested in Panya's life story. "Tell me about the dirty old men. Sally never mentioned them. She never talked about her work."

  "Denby Rawlins is the worst. He's got permanently red eyes. Probably from staring at me for so long. I'm expecting him to unzip his pants at any moment."

  Sam felt compelled to glance down at his zipper, just in case. "They say it makes you blind."

  But Panya looked serious. "It's not funny, not when you're here on your own. I've heard noises in the ceiling over the bathroom, and I'm sure someone's been through my dressing table drawers."

  "You need a man to keep an eye on you." He swallowed. He'd not meant it to sound like an offer.

  "I had a man once." Panya gave a rather forced laugh, sounding as embarrassed as Sam felt.

  He tried to make light of things. "And I had a partner. But it's probably not worth looking for another one. The end of the world is coming soon."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "That's what this place is all about, isn't it? The large bird from Mitzrayim will destroy the chicks of the people on the holy mountain. Something about the start of Armageddon. I read about it in the paper. Not that it made any sense. What on earth is Mitzrayim?"

  "Mitzrayim is the Old Testament name for Egypt. The prediction implied the airliner would be Israeli, and leaving Egypt."

  "You can't expect me to swallow all this claptrap."

  "They had the exact date."

  "But still..."

  Panya sounded serious. "There's talk of more war in the Middle East. The Institute's prophecy says it's going to be nuclear and involve Israel. We'd love to know who's behind it all."

  A loud knock at the door made them both jump. Panya signaled to Sam to stay where he was as she went to answer it. From his armchair he could hear a man's voice.

  Panya returned with an elderly man in a tight fitting suit. "This is Dr. Gresley Wynne who owns the Institute." she said. "And this is Sam..." She looked at Sam to introduce him to the visitor, obviously not remembering his surname.

  "Sam Bolt," he said, thinking that Dr. Wynne looked a rather sad figure. Not the wild-eyed fanatic Tolley had led him to expect.

  "I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Miss Pulaski," he said. "I thought I heard a prowler outside the Institute."

  "I was showing Sam around the grounds," Panya Pulaski said disarmingly. "His partner Sally worked for you."

  Sam hadn't anticipated confronting Dr. Wynne, but he might as well be direct. "When did you last see Sally?"

  "Your partner?" Gresley Wynne looked surprised. "She must have left ... two, three months ago. She left so suddenly. I believe she won a considerable sum of money."

  "Has she been in contact with you since she left?"

  The elderly man hesitated. "Has ... she been in contact?"

  "I'm asking."

  "Are you the airline pilot?" Gresley Wynne seemed to be recalling something from the past.

  "I was."

  "I remember it all now. The police thought you'd murdered Sally. They put her two small children into care for safety."

  "They're my children as well," said Sam.

  "Your partner sometimes boasted about the places you flew to, and how you could speak to all the locals."

  "I speak a few languages passably."

  "German?"

  "Fairly well. And I can still fly planes. Are you offering me a job?"

  Gresley Wynne looked interested. "Employment, yes, but not flying. Do you know, I believe Aten has arranged this meeting."

  Sam looked at Panya for help, but she stared blankly. "So what's the job?" he asked.

  "I have a problem in Germany that needs sorting out as a matter of great urgency. Can you keep a confidence?"

  "I'd need to know more." Sam realized this could give him the foot in the Institute door he needed. Not for Tolley, for himself. If he could prove Sally was still alive, the Social Services would have to give his children back.

  "I do not wish to discuss it here," said Gresley Wynne.

  It seemed a reasonable response. Sam had no idea where Panya Pulaski fitted into the picture. "I can call round to the Institute tomorrow."

  Gresley Wynne shook his head. "You misunderstand me, young man. I do not wish to discuss this matter anywhere at the Institute. It is something ... something that only I know about."

  "You could come round to my house tomorrow afternoon." Sam wondered whether to have Bill Tolley listening in the next room, but decided to do this one on his own. He didn't owe Tolley anything.

  On his way home Sam slammed the brakes on, bringing his car to a sliding halt as he thought back to what Panya Pulaski had said just before Dr. Wynne called. The prophecy says it's going to be nuclear. We'd love to know who's behind it all.

  Who did Panya mean by "we"?

  Chapter 4

  INTERNATIONAL NEWS BUREAU

  The Israeli prime minister is demanding a public apology from Egypt for the loss of the Israeli airliner and passengers in Egyptian airspace, for which he holds Egypt responsible. Israeli intelligence agency Mossad is investigating several leads in the search for the guilty, the prime minister said, adding that the crime would not go unpunished. But he strongly denied that Israel would deploy nuclear arms, unless attacked with nuclear arms first. Representatives of the United Nations will this week be visiting several Arab countries in the Middle East in an attempt to cool the potentially explosive situation. The Jordanian prime minister last night flew to Cairo to assure Egypt of his full support in the crisis. Meanwhile, the United States is reported to be moving the 5th Fleet into the Mediterranean for routine naval exercises.

  Chapter 5

  Virginia, U.S.A.

  SO ISRAEL was prepared to use nuclear arms. Only rumors of course. Langley would know their true intentions, but no one in the CIA was telling him anything. Even Kramer had given him the cold shoulder when he'd phoned his old colleague at Langley, hoping for a few crumbs. Being retired from the White House press office was full of drawbacks. As an operations officer on the Middle East desk, Kramer must know everything.

  Grant Spaxley itched for news.
This life didn't suit him, especially since Pauline had managed to die of a bowel disease within eighteen months of him clearing his press desk in Washington. He'd worked for the CIA during the fiasco in the Bay of Pigs, ending his service in the Office of the Press Secretary at the White House five years ago. Over the years he'd come to be known as Admiral. The handle suited him. Some of the junior White House staff even believed it was his rank. Admiral Grant Spaxley. He'd only been a young lieutenant during the Cuba crisis, mentally and physically prepared for the invasion, though unprepared for the burden of failure. An active man, he'd come to relish the exercise of authority on the press: even the exercise of his power on American presidents.

  But since retirement he'd come to miss the constant updating of information on demand, the cut and thrust of briefings with the media. Using his contacts at Langley he'd been able to find out anything. Information had been an essential part of his duties, before telling the press only what they needed to know.

  The times at the CIA and the White House had generally been good, in spite of incompetent presidents clipping his wings. He'd never been able to come to terms with weakness in the presidential post. Nixon was seen by many as the moment when the rot set in, for that was when the press had started to speak without fear of reprisal, surprised by their own daring. Of course, the Company had always known about corruption in the White House, but Langley turned a blind eye, and the presidents had done the same in return. It had been a workable routine, allowing both sides to pursue their separate ways. Until Nixon. Thanks to the outspoken press, the CIA was gutless. Since 1982 it had operated with its balls cut off. Effeminate. A tool of the people, of administrators.

  Kramer's invitation had come as a complete surprise last night. There had to be more to it than a day's fishing. Whatever the future held, Spaxley knew he had balls for it, even if the CIA had lost its manhood. Did Kramer need him back working for Langley? A freelancer? It was how some of the best field agents passed their retirement. Maybe it was how he could give the American people the benefit of his expertise.

  *

  Beni Mazar, Egypt

  CALEB FLUNG a small stone at the Coca Cola sign. The Alexandria Packing Company paid him a pittance for such a responsible job. Not that they checked on him often. The site was almost unused nowadays, but suddenly he had been ordered to stay around, just to make sure the wooden packing case was safe in the warehouse. He'd been quick to get inside the store as soon as the man with the Mitsubishi had gone. On a previous occasion there had been some cases of engine oil left on a pallet. A few of the cans had helped make up for the poor pay.