The Light of the Day - Eric Ambler [95]
“Without a consular stamp?”
She thought for a moment. “There’s a Swiss airmail stamp in my purse, I think. We could use that. Ten to one they won’t look at it closely if there is writing across it. Anyway, I’ll keep them talking.”
“What about where we land?” asked Miller. “Supposing they catch it there?”
“That’s his worry,” Harper said.
“Not if they send him back here.”
“They wouldn’t trouble to do that. It’s not that serious. The airport police would hold him until the airline could get the Egyptian consul to come out and fix the renewal.”
“He has been nothing but a nuisance from the beginning.” This was Fischer, of course.
“He was useful enough last night,” remarked Miss Lipp. “By the way, that renewal had better be in his handwriting. Would it be in Arabic?”
“French and Arabic, both.” Harper stuck the stamp on the renewal space. “Okay, Arthur. Here you are. Write across the center of the stamp. ‘Bon jusqu’au,’ let’s see—make it April ten of next year. Then do it in Arabic. You can, I suppose?”
I did as I was told—as ever—and handed the passport back to him.
I didn’t know where I stood now. If the plane went to Athens I might be able to get away with it; I still had my Greek permis de séjour to fall back on. But if I went to Vienna, or Frankfurt, or Rome, or (hideous thought) Cairo, then I’d be completely up the creek. I would have to wait until I knew whether they were going to Athens or not, before I decided whether I would go along or try to stay. If I wanted to stay, though, it would be more difficult now. With Harper and Fischer keeping their eyes on me, and no official to single me out because of my invalid passport, yelling for help wouldn’t do much good. A quick clip on the jaw from Harper and some fast talking—“So sorry. Our friend tripped and hit his head on a suitcase. He’ll be all right in a moment. We’ll take care of him”—would be the end of that. I would have to rely upon the surveillance cars. The only trouble was that before they regained direct contact with Tufan, we would be at the airport. I would have to give the men in the cars time to draw the right conclusions and issue the necessary orders.
I could only think of one way of causing a delay. When I had finished putting back the door panel, I had slipped the screwdriver into my pocket. There wasn’t another one in the car, I knew.
While we were going through Mimarsinan, fifteen minutes or so away from the airport, I managed to ease the screwdriver from my pocket and let it slide back on the seat until I was sitting on it. A minute or two later, I pretended to stretch my legs and stuffed it deep down behind the seat cushion and below the back of the seat. If I wanted to go, I could “find” it; if I wanted to delay, I could look for it in vain on the floor. That way, I thought, I would at least have some sort of control over the situation.
And then Miss Lipp began to worry again about the Peugeot and the Opel.
“They’re still tailing us,” she said. “I don’t get it. Franz must have guessed where we’re heading for by now. What does he think he’s going to do?”
“Supposing it isn’t Franz?” Miller said suddenly.
“If it isn’t Franz, who is it?” Fischer demanded irritably. “They can’t be police or they would have stopped us. Could it be Giulio?”
“That is an imbecile suggestion,” Miller retorted. “Giulio is of our company. You are not. If you were, you would not say such a stupid thing.”
I have a unique capacity for self-destruction. I said, helpfully: “Perhaps it is Franz. Perhaps he thinks that we are going back to the villa. If we were, we would still be on this road.”
Harper looked back. “When will he know better, Arthur?”
“Not until we turn right for the airport.”
“How far is the turn-off?”
“About six miles.”
“How far then?