In the afternoons they close Ledra Street to all traffic except taxis and delivery vans, so I could just drift down the middle of the road with the easygoing crowd, mostly local and mostly in bright cheap clothes. Just a few uniforms and blue berets, a few old ladies wrapped in the traditional black. The sunlight was warm and soft, not the trip through the toaster that it would be in a month or so, but there were thunderheads stacking up on the mountains to the south-west, and an occasional distant grumble of thunder.
I drifted, stopped for a cup of gritty sweet Turkish coffee, bought a pair of sunglasses, bought myself a pair of nylon socks – and then, because that seemed mean, bought Ken a pair as well. It's funny how you never get time to buy ordinary things at home; I'm always getting my handkerchiefs in Frankfurt and my paperclips in Brussels.
So by then I was almost up to the permanent roadblock to the Turkish quarter. I could have gone through – they don't mind foreigners – but there didn't seem much point right then. So I turned left and drifted towards the Paphos Gate, and once I was there it wasn't more than five minutes to the Ledra Palace and goodbye to my resolution about spending Castle money only in Castle Hotels.
The little old barman was just setting up for the evening, filling bowls of nuts and crisps. He did a quick double-take and said gravely: 'It's been a long time, Captain.'
'Nearly two years.'
'Whisky and… soda, is it, sir?'
'And not too much ice.'
He put a bowl of overcooked peanuts in front of me and trotted off to organise the drink. It's a tall, dim room and the stone-tiled floor gives a slight echo that makes it seem even cooler than it is. Almost empty, now, but full enough at other times for them to have started punching out the arched french windows to make an extension into the garden. And then the old hands from all over the world will sit in there and complain that it just isn't the same any more, and they'll be right but they'll still be there.
He came back with the Scotch. 'And Captain Caviti – is he with you, sir?' He'd remembered Ken's name; not mine.
'He'll be around. Mind if I ring somebody in the hotel?'
He put the phone in front of me and went back to the nuts and crisps and ice. I asked for Mr Jehangir's room and got a polite voice that said it was jolly good of me to call and he'd be down as soon as he could get some togs on. Sergeant Papa must have quite an ear to spot the faint trace of accent; I wouldn't have got it if I hadn't been listening for it.
I sipped my Scotch and ate a peanut and waited and… and now what? Back to Britain in a few days – but what after that? Well, for the summer we might find some charter outfit that wanted a couple of extra bods; that would build up a bit of fat against the cold. But it wouldn't be heading us towards our own aeroplane again. For that, we needed capital – or a personal introduction to Father Christmas. And he'd have to be in a pretty good mood even for Father Christmas: Ken and I weren't bright young things with decades of earning power ahead. At forty, we'd only got about fifteen years before a medical downcheck put all the future behind us. By then, we had to be in a position to hire others to do the flying, or…
The woods are full of old pilots who just assumed they'd have it made before the doctor pulled the sky from under them. Or assumed they'd be dead, of course; plenty escape that way.
On that happy note, somebody leant over me and asked: 'Captain Case?'
'I'm Roy Case. And just Mister.'
'Oh splendid. Uthman Jehangir,' and he held out a long brown hand.
The rest of him was a lean, tanned fifty-year-old with crinkled grey hair, a square white smile with gold trimmings, a very formal blue suit and white shirt. Beirut, for sure; they all dress like bank managers over there. Of course, half of themare bank managers.
I asked: 'What are you drinking?'
'No, please, allow me.'
Any time. So I took another Scotch and he asked for a red Cinzano and soda. Then, as he moved and sat down on the next stool, I realised he was lame in his left leg. Or no: something about the businesslike way he arranged the knee with his hand, the shiny uncreased stiffness of the shoe… an artificial leg, from above the knee.
He lifted his glass: 'Cheers.' And we sipped. 'I rang your hotel…'
'I got the message. What can I do for you?'
'You fly the Castle International plane, don't you?'
It isn't a plane. 'I did last, I will next, but at the moment it's-'
'Oh yes, I know about Castle going into receivership.' He had the silly habit of flashing his white grin as a full stop at the end of each sentence, but his eyes were bright and watchful. 'I heard that you got stuck with a cargo of champagne?'
All the fire-warning lights in my head flashed on at once. 'Uh-huh.'
'D'you think the receivers could be persuaded to sell it?'
'Better ask them.' Oh no, don't for God's sake call London! 'I mean – ask their man here. Loukis Kapotas. He's at the Castle most of the day.'
He whipped out a little leather notebook with gold corners and wrote it down. Then looked up and grinned once more. 'What marque is it?'
'It says Kroeger Royale '66.'
'Splendid. Jolly good stuff. How many boxes?'
'Only a dozen.' I was beginning to feel a bit uneasy. I mean, the man might be honest or something. 'But why do you want it?'
'For resale, of course. I supply wines and spirits to… er… private houses in Beirut. And next week we have a rather sudden visit from some friends down in the Gulf. I expect you know these… er… gentlemen with their oil revenues? In their own countries they have to set a good example by being strictly Muslim, so when the weather starts boiling up and they escape to Beirut…' he spread his hands and grinned; '… naturally they want a rest from their devotions.'
I knew – no, I'd onlyheard about these private parties of oil sheikhs in the big houses of Beirut 's hillside suburbs. A lot of everything and everything of the best – at a price, of course. But when you've got oil derricks sprouting like weeds, what's a bottle of Kroeger Royale to help launch the latest Swedish virgin?
'But can't you pick it up around Beirut?"
'Oh, I just got caught short with the rush, and the St George and the Phoenicia won't sell me any…'
'And bankrupt stock comes cheap at any time.'
The grin flashed on-off. 'And that, of course. If you could persuade your Mr… er, Kapotas to sell at a reasonable figure, I'm sure you'd find your time hadn't been wasted.' So I could take a cut as the middleman – and he'd assume I was taking a commission from Kapotas for finding a buyer. Jehangir would normally do business that way… And why not, come to think of it?
'And,' he added, 'the matter of getting it on to Beirut: how much would it cost for you to fly it there?'
About 140 nautical miles, say fifty gallons there and back plus landing fees… andmy fees, this time… 'Call it a realistic sixty quid sterling.'
He twitched his elegant shoulders.ÍSplendid. If you have a word with Mr Kapotas first, I can call him tomorrow.' And if he could get it at four quid a bottle and resell at a minimum of ten, then he'd clear an easy £750 after all overheads… Hell, maybe the man-was honest, if you see what I mean.
'Fine,' I said slowly. 'I'll do that right now. I wanted to be back before dinner anyway.'
'Is the food any good, there?' he asked, genuinely interested.
'Last night it was terrible, but they've got rid of that chef already.'
It was just on dusk when I got back to the Castle, the eastern sky turning a dark velvet blue and the first stars coming on with that odd abruptness that must be something to do with the eye of the beholder. Sergeant Papa came to attention in a slow-motion parody of his army days. 'Good evening, Captain.'
'Sergeant.' I stayed out there on the step with him, filling a pipe and watching Regina Street switch on around us. 'Any more news?'
'Mr Kapotas talked to London again but he told us nothing. And somebody called again for the Professor. Again, I said we did not know.'
'Popular, isn't he? Seen anything of my friend Ken?'
'He has not been out.'
I nodded and lit my pipe. The first srnoke puffs just hung there, dissolving before they could drift away. It was the moment of stillness between the day wind and the night wind. Then two young ladies who wouldn't have known a day wind if it had jumped into bed with them click-clacked past on their high heels, on their way to work. Sergeant Papa bowed solemnly.
Thave been thinking about your problem,' he said when they'd passed. 'I think you should go to the Atlantis Bar-' he nodded down the street, and about fifty yards off I could see the red neon sign; '-and I will send somebody to meet you there. It would be… safer. And I will make sure you are not treated as tourists.'
'Thanks. That sounds fine.' It didn't; I wasn't looking forward to this evening much, but I didn't want to let Ken out on his own, either…
I said: 'Fine,' again and went inside to look for Ken or Kapotas.
I found Kapotas first, sitting in the little office behind the front desk eating a plate of something and sorting through a small black cashbox. He didn't seem to be finding tidings of great joy in either.
'Have you been taking stamps out of here and not paying?' he demanded. The box had only a handful of coins, a couple of scruffy 250-mil. notes and about half a dozen stamps in it.
I sat on the edge of the desk. 'No, I've done all my Christmas thank you letters. Is that the dinner? '
'Yes.' He stared at the end of his fork. 'I can think of no bit of a sheep shaped like that.'
'I can. Any news from London yet?'
He pushed the plate away and shut up the box. 'They say thereis a finance house with a first charge on the plane. Now Harborne, Gough have to decide whether to default on the payments, whether to pay up and sell the plane themselves, o to keep on operating it.'
'Any and either way, it's got to get back to Britain; any new on that?'
'No.'
'Well, any news on my pay?'
He didn't look at me. 'You should have got payment in advance."
'Now, I agree with you. But is that all the bloody help you're going to be?' He didn't say anything. So I said: 'Oh – by the way, I've found you a buyer for the champagne.'
'Oh God.' He leant his head on his hand and shuddered. 'What can I do?'
'I've heard suicide highly recommended, though never by anybody with practical-'
'This is serious! '
'So'smy pay."
He stood up shakily. 'I need a drink."
So we went through to the bar and sat at a table out of earshot of Apostólos and two other couples who were anaesthetising themselves to face the dinner.
Kapotas asked: 'Who is this man?'
'A Beiruti, Uthman Jehangir. Sajss he wants to sell it to visiting oil sheikhs.'
'Is he… genuine?'
'He's got a poncey English accent and a nice blue pinstripe, but underneath I'd say he was just a simple old tiger-shark.'
He suddenly remembered something. 'Did you tell him we'd opened one box?'
'Of course not. If heis after guns, that'd tell him we knew.'
'Yes, of course. I'm sorry.' He stared into his whisky. 'But… which is he mostly likely to be after? '
'Champagne or sub-machine guns? In Beirut it's a fifty-fifty chance, isn't it?'
'I suppose so,' he said miserably.
'But if you know anybody in Beirut you could ring up and try to get the word on him. It's a small town in that sense."
He cheered up a bit. 'Yes, I can do that tomorrow.'
'And sooner or later you're going to have to tell London we can't sell this cargo. Only don't put the real reason in a cable or telex.'
'I'm not stupid.'
'No, but you're drinking whisky after dinner again.'
'Oh God, so I am.' He shook his head sadly and then drank some more anyway. 'But why should anybody send you on a flight like this?'
'There's an obvious profit in it – probably paid for in advance and certainly not going through the company's books. If Kingsley saw the crunch coming he might want to squeeze the last drop of blood out of the firm while he still had it.'
'A man like Mr Kingsley?'
'A man exactly like Mr Kingsley.' A charming, handsome, well-dressed polite man with the morality of dry rot. Who'd come as near parking me up the creek as I'd been for ten years. So why wasn't I more resentful? Probably because I was too busy being annoyed at myself to be surprised at him. I'd been concentrating on getting a paid ride down here instead of looking for snags. And the bastard hadn't even made the mistake of overpaying me for an apparently simple job. In fact, he hadn't made the mistake of paying me at all.
Oh well. With Ken back, things might be different.
I asked: 'I don't suppose there's any news of Kingsley himself, yet?'
'Nothing.'
'I see why, now. For all he knows, there's a gun-running warrant out for him.'