The Light of the Day - Eric Ambler [49]
I was looking forward to a sit-down by the Gate of the Fountain while they “did” the textiles exhibition, when she called me over.
“Arthur, how long will it take us to get to the airport from here?”
I was so surprised that I must have looked at her a bit blankly. “The airport?”
She put on a slight heaven-give-me-patience look. “Yes, Arthur, the airport. Where the planes arrive. How long from here?”
The guide, who hadn’t been asked, said: “Forty minutes, madame.”
“Better allow forty-five, Miss Lipp,” I said, ignoring him.
She looked at her watch. “The plane gets in at four,” she said. “I tell you what, Arthur. You go get yourself a sandwich or something. I’ll meet you where you parked the car in an hour. Right?”
“As you wish, Miss Lipp. Are we meeting someone at the airport?”
“If that’s all right with you.” Her tone was curt.
“I only meant that if I knew the line and flight number I could check if the plane is going to be on time.”
“So you could, Arthur. I didn’t think of that. It’s Air France from Geneva.”
I was in the sunshine of her smile again, the bitch.
There was a restaurant of sorts near the Blue Mosque, and when I had ordered some food I telephoned Tufan.
He listened to my report without comment until I had finished. “Very well,” he said then, “I will see that the passports of the Geneva passengers are particularly noted. Is that all?”
“No.” I started to tell him my theory about the drug operation and its necessary link with a raw-opium supplier, but almost at once he began interrupting.
“Have you new facts to support this?”
“It fits the information we have.”
“Any imbecile could think of ways of interpreting the information we have. It is the information we do not have that I am interested in. Your business is to get it, and that is all you should be thinking about.”
“Nevertheless …”
“You are wasting time. Report by telephone, or as otherwise arranged, and remember your listening times. Now, if that is all, I have arrangements to make.”
The military mind at work! Whether he was right or wrong (and, as it happens, he was both right and wrong) made no difference. It was the arrogance of the man I couldn’t stand.
I ate a disgusting meal of lukewarm mutton stew and went back to the car. I was angry with myself, too.
I have to admit it; what had really exasperated me was not so much Tufan’s anxiety-bred offensiveness as my own realization that the train of thought which had seemed so logical and reasonable the previous night, was not looking as logical and reasonable in the morning. My conception of the “student” Miss Lipp as a laboratory technician was troublesome enough; but speaking again with Tufan had reminded me that the villa, which I had so blithely endowed with a clandestine heroin-manufacturing plant, also housed a elderly married couple and a cook. So that, in addition to the time-factor improbability, I now had to accept another: either the plant was to be so small that the servants would not notice it or Harper counted on buying their discretion.
Then, in sheer desperation, I did something rather silly. I felt that I had to know if the grenades and pistols were still in the car. If they had been taken out, at least one bit of my theory was still just tenable. I could assume that they had been delivered or were in process of delivery to the person who wanted them.
I had about twenty minutes to spare before Miss Lipp came out of the Seraglio; but in case she was early I drove the car to the other end of the courtyard under some trees opposite the Church of St. Irene. Then I got the Phillips screwdriver out of my bag and went to work on the door by the driver’s seat.
I wasn’t worried about anyone seeing me. After all, I was only carrying out Tufan’s orders. The men in the Opel wouldn’t interfere; and if some cab driver became inquisitive, I could always pretend that I was having trouble with a door lock. All that mattered was the time, because I had to do it carefully to avoid making marks.
I loosened