Holy of Holies: A classic aviation thriller (Charles Pol Espionage Thrillers Book 6), page 1
HOLY OF HOLIES
Charles Pol Espionage Thrillers
Book Six
Alan Williams
Table of Contents
PART 1: THE TOUCH
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
PART 2: THE RUN-UP
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
PART 3: DRY RUN
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
PART 4: TARGET
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
ALSO BY ALAN WILLIAMS
PART 1: THE TOUCH
CHAPTER 1
It began on that day in November when Charles Rawcliff’s wife, Judith, put their telephone number in the local newsagent’s window in Battersea, advertising for a babysitter. Among the first to call that evening was a man who gave his name as Mason. After Judith had confirmed that he was ringing the right number, she asked to speak to Mrs Mason. The man apologized and explained that he was the applicant, and added that he was a bomber-pilot, stationed at RAF Benson, Oxfordshire, and was up in London on a six weeks’ training course. He didn’t know anyone in town and thought he might fill the odd evening by getting out of his digs to do some homework and make a bit of tax-free pocket-money on the side. He gave his full name as Flight-Lieutenant Terence Mason; he was married and had three children of his own.
Judith was amused by the idea: after all, what was wrong with a grown-up man looking after her two-year-old son, even if he was training to drop bombs on people? He had sounded pleasant and sensible, and she agreed to see him at seven the next evening. But first, without consulting her husband, she got the number of RAF Benson and checked with the Duty Officer. Yes, they had a Flight-Lieutenant Mason, but he was away from camp at the moment. Yes, he was in London for a course on Aerial Control. If it was a personal matter, he would have to refer her to Mason’s Commanding Officer. She thanked him and hung up.
The candidate arrived punctually at seven. Charles Rawcliff had just arrived back from the office and had poured his first cautious whisky, while Judith was upstairs putting their son, Tom, to bed.
The man in the doorway was stocky, clean-shaven, with short hair and a healthy complexion. He looked as though he took care of himself. He was wearing a black leather ‘bum-freezer’ and carried a rolled umbrella. His shoes were cheap and highly polished.
‘Good evening. I’m Terry Mason. I talked to Mrs Rawcliff yesterday — about a baby-sitting job.’ His manner was awkward, deferential.
‘Come in. Charles Rawcliff. Drink?’
Flight-Lieutenant Mason followed him down the hall and hooked his umbrella over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. ‘I won’t, thank you. But tea or coffee would be fine.’
‘Sit down, please. My wife said you’re with the RAF. What do you fly?’
‘Oh, anything they give us — which isn’t much these days. Occasionally one gets a crack at a Phantom, even a Harrier — but usually it’s just Buccaneers.’
‘Dear God, you’re not still flying those things? They won’t stop the Russians for long!’
‘I know, it is rather scandalous. But that’s strictly off the record. It’s still a free country, except for us blokes in uniform.’ Mason grinned, gaining self-confidence. ‘We’re only allowed to have opinions at election time.’
Rawcliff stood waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘I used to fly myself. Civil. Nothing flashy. In fact, distinctly downmarket. Mostly package-tours for the Great Unwashed Masses down to the polluted Mediterranean.’ He was about to add that he’d been trained himself in the RAF — what seemed a long time ago now — and that he’d become something rather more special than a salaried pilot flying routine missions for NATO. But it would involve too many explanations, many of which were best avoided, especially in front of a total stranger.
Rawcliff poured the young man a mug of Nescafé, and stiffened his own whisky. ‘I’ve gone respectable now,’ he added, without irony. ‘Got a wine merchants’ place across the river. We like to pretend it’s Chelsea, but it’s really Fulham.’
‘Very nice,’ Mason said, ‘being your own master, with your own business, I mean.’
‘Don’t you believe it! I’d swap with you, any day of the week. Nice secure job, all found — no worries with VAT and bum creditors and staff who fiddle the books, and trying to unload a case of over-priced Beaujolais on some innocent fool by pretending that it hasn’t been pumped through the pipe-line from Algeria. Besides, you can still fly.’
‘Can’t you? I mean, haven’t you still got your licence?’
‘Oh yes. I even renew it every year. But it costs money to fly for pleasure.’
They both looked up as Rawcliff’s wife came in, carrying Tom. The child’s small, semi-continent body was trussed and zipped up in his scarlet jump-suit, ready for bed. At the sight of Rawcliff he let out a shriek of pleasure, followed by a wild babble while his mother had to duck back to avoid his tiny flailing fists, as he struggled to reach out and grab Rawcliff’s hair.
He was their only child so far, after they had married late, both for the first time — Judith Rawcliff being nearly ten years younger than her husband. She was a tall, fine-boned girl, dark, with beautiful wrists and ankles, and a clear-skinned, calm-eyed purity about her. A quiet face which seemed to reject her obvious sexuality, to chasten it with a wilful, even stubborn authority. But it was her wrists, and her long slim ankles which Rawcliff remembered noticing first when she’d come into his shop — nearly three years ago now — and asked him for some table wine. She’d wanted something good but cheap; and he’d known at once that he wouldn’t be able to fob her off with any rubbish. It was therefore no surprise when he learnt that she was a professional working girl — a fully-fledged executive with one of the big multinational computer corporations.
‘Judith, love — meet Flight-Lieutenant Terence Mason —’ and he caught her cold glance at his diminishing glass of whisky, before she turned on Mason her wide-eyed smile. ‘My wife, Judith, and our son, Tom,’ Rawcliff concluded, while Mason repeated that he had three children of his own, and was sure he could handle even a little rascal like this.
Rawcliff had stood back, the proud father. It was an overwhelming, almost unnerving pride — a feeling which, like the whisky in his hand, seemed sometimes to hold a special threat: a reminder, perhaps, that both wife and child were too good for him — that he would never be able to live up to them, and had never deserved them in the first place.
Tom was shouting for a kiss from his father, and Rawcliff had to perform the ritual pantomime of swooping, growling bear-hug, ending with a smacking kiss on his son’s wet little lips. God, how he loved that child. It seemed almost indecent, in a man of his age — pulling forty, as he preferred to think of himself — which is a good age, providing one was on top of things.
Tom was finally carried off to bed, protesting, clutching his nearly bald, one-eyed teddy; and soon after, Rawcliff and his wife left Flight-Lieutenant Mason alone in charge of the house, with the promise that they’d be back by 11.30, at the latest.
Out in the car Judith said, ‘I think he’s rather sweet.’
‘Probably good enough at his job. And useful if the house caught fire, or somebody tried to break in.’
‘I heard you tell him that you’ve still got your licence.’ She took her hand off the gear-shift and squeezed his arm. ‘Don’t worry about the business, Charles. Something’ll turn up.’
Over the next month, Flight-Lieutenant Terence Mason baby-sat for them about twice a week. He was the easiest, the most accommodating of men: it didn’t matter at what hour they returned, the scene was always the same. Mason would be sitting in the study, working at his figures, with the hi-fi playing soft classical music. He always wiped the records before and after playing them and washed up the cups he used. He never accepted a drink.
Occasionally he reported that little Tom had woken up, but he had always known exactly how to get the baby off to sleep again. Once he had bought him a rubber turtle which rolled over on its back and wiggled its legs in the bath; but this was his only gesture of intimacy. He had few resources in the way of conversation, which made it all the more surprising when, one evening on which he was not scheduled to ‘sit’, he called Rawcliff from a pay-phone and asked if he could come round and ‘talk something over in private’. He sounded as sober as ever, and very serious.
Rawcliff agreed, with a mixture of misgiving and curiosity. His first thought was that
Before he was due to arrive, Rawcliff said to his wife, ‘Give me half an hour alone with him, to find out what he’s on about. If it starts getting embarrassing — woman or wife trouble, for instance — I may call you in to draw on your wisdom.’
Mason arrived, as always, on the dot. The only difference was that he was carrying a bag which turned out to contain a bottle of whisky. ‘I’m awfully sorry, am I butting in?’
‘Not at all Terry — I wouldn’t have asked you round if you were.’ He led the way into the study. ‘What’s the meaning of the bottle?’
‘I’m afraid it’s rather by way of a farewell present.’ Mason blushed under his ruddy tan. ‘You wouldn’t mind, would you, as I’m strictly not on duty tonight, if I joined you in a glass?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Terry, it’s your booze, not mine!’ Rawcliff fetched two tumblers and a jug of water from the kitchen. Mason took his drink thin, and sipped it like a liqueur.
Rawcliff had already found that the pilot’s presence in the house had a combined disadvantage. The young man not only made him feel his age — he also reminded Rawcliff of what he was missing. For Mason would soon be returning to base, to the pressurized Perspex cocoon of a Fighter-bomber. Nothing particularly dramatic or hazardous, perhaps — they no longer flew by the book these days, they flew by computers, which was Judith’s territory, Rawcliff recalled sourly — but during a few wonderful hours Mason would be up there in the icy blue-black emptiness, streaking along at Mach Two, a tiny disciplined god above the clouds. Free.
Rawcliff had been like that once. Better, he’d been his own man — taken out of uniform and trained almost to breaking point, then let loose as a licensed trouble-shooter, to enjoy all the bogus virility symbols that such a role seemed to demand: a convivial drinker who made free with his loins, while remaining strictly short on emotional commitment. But all that had been in the past — well before Judith and Tom.
He looked across at Mason, sitting tense and alert in front of him, gripping his pale whisky. Flight-Lieutenant Mason was a sensible chap — wary of the demon drink. He also looked trim and fit. And while Rawcliff himself was still a powerful, well-built man, he was made aware that his good looks had sagged, that there were loops under his eyes and a thickening round his waist — all the marks of late-found domesticity and the daunting burden of parenthood.
Mason was moving his glass round between his fingers, clearly nervous. Rawcliff said, ‘You told me you had something you wanted to talk about in private. Well, is this private enough?’
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ Mason began, ‘but I shan’t be able to come to you after this week. I’ve been called back to base.’
‘We shall be sorry too. But that’s not what you came to talk about, surely?’
‘No. Charles, I came to ask your advice. I’ve just had rather a funny experience and I don’t know quite what to make of it. You see, we Service chaps lead rather a cloistered life — we don’t get around like you London fellows.’
Rawcliff stood up. ‘Let me freshen your drink, then you can tell me all about it. Judith’ll rustle up something for us to eat. Right — fire away.’
‘Well, as I told you, I don’t know London, and a few evenings ago I found myself at a bit of a loose end. I went to a pub in Knightsbridge where I’d heard that some of the chaps from base go when they’re up in town. I’m not much of a drinking man, but I thought I’d go on the off-chance I might bump into somebody I knew.
‘As it happened, I was in for a bit of a surprise. I’d hardly been in there for a few minutes when I caught sight of an all-too-familiar face — and one I hadn’t expected to see in a hurry. Belonged to a chap called Thurgood. Ex-Flight Lieutenant Oswald Thurgood — with the emphasis on the Ex. You know how it is in the Services — everyone conforming, not much room for individuality — so when someone does step out of line, he does it in a big way. Thurgood was one of those. As mad as a hatter. Really bonkers — almost certifiable. For periods he just used to lie on his bunk staring at the ceiling. Sometimes he got these headaches which would keep him off-duty for days at a time. That was usually the signal for him to reappear and do something crazy.
‘I hadn’t seen him for over eighteen months — since the Christmas before last, to be exact, when he finally went over the top. It was Christmas Eve and most of us family chaps were out of camp, in married quarters. Thurgood wasn’t married — still isn’t, as far as I know. Anyway, he suddenly grabbed an old Hunter — strictly a training job — and took her up and did a couple of loops over Benson, then buzzed several villages round Wallingford, and finished up clearing the Officers’ Mess with about ten feet to spare. He was a damned good pilot. But, as I said, not quite right in the head. His secondary job was radios — bloody mad about them, he was. Built all his own equipment, and used to spend hours picking up places like Albania and Chad.
‘Well, after that last escapade, there was a Camp Inquiry, and as a result Thurgood was given the order of the boot. After that he just disappeared — until I bumped into him the other evening. I’d rather expected him to be in jail or an asylum by now. Well, he did look pretty odd in that pub. It was real November weather, if you remember — yet there was Oswald Thurgood, looking like he was dressed for Wimbledon or the Henley Regatta. White ducks, blue blazer, clipped moustache — the works! Very smart and prosperous, too, he looked. It was only his eyes that gave him away — sort of black and staring; I’ve never seen eyes like them before.
‘Well, he remembered me, and we had a couple of beers together. He was on his own, and told me that he had a hi-fi and audio shop in the West End. Said he was making a packet.’ Mason leaned forward and sipped his drink. ‘I don’t know quite how to explain this, but he’d put on the most extraordinary Oxford accent. You know, plum in the mouth, all that. And very loud. I found it quite embarrassing. I was really glad when he suggested we left the pub and went on to eat.
‘He had a big flashy Range-Rover outside, which he said he’d bought through a friend on the fiddle. We went to one of those Chinese places up in Soho. I’m not very keen on Oriental food, but the stuff there was pretty good. Fortunately it was mostly full of Chinese, who didn’t seem to notice Thurgood’s accent. He ordered wine, and I must admit I got a bit tiddly. I tried to ask him what he’d been doing with himself, but he was very cagey. Then he started asking me a lot of questions — general stuff, about my work at the base and the planes I flew and which I preferred. He also started getting a bit personal — asked me if I was happy in the Service, or wanted to get out and try my hand at something more exciting.
‘Suddenly I knew he was fishing. He started mentioning money — saying that a pilot’s life is like a boxer’s or a racing-driver’s. It takes a lot of knocks, and it doesn’t go on forever. You have to grab the big opportunity, he said.
‘Well, I’d drunk a bit of wine and I rather went along with him. Before I knew what I was doing, I was telling him that I was sick of the camp in Oxfordshire, and the married quarters, and I wanted to get out into the world and see a bit of life before it was too late, and earn some decent money. He managed to get me quite excited. Suddenly he went off to make a telephone call. He was away about ten minutes, and when he came back he had that funny staring look, although he didn’t seem at all drunk. And when he started talking again, I realized that he’d dropped the Oxford accent. He asked me what I was doing next evening — yesterday. I told him I didn’t know. I was thinking perhaps you might need me, although I didn’t let on about my job with you.
‘Well, the outcome was that I arranged to meet him again next evening — same pub, same time. As it was, you didn’t need me to baby-sit, and I had nothing else to do. I suppose, to be honest, I was a bit curious. I was sure by now that Thurgood was after something. I was also on my guard — I had to remember, after all, that I was — and still am — a serving Officer in Her Majesty’s Forces, which hardly makes me a free agent. Still, there’s no rule against having a drink with a former colleague, even if the fellow had been cashiered for being cuckoo.
