Hyena Dawn (8 page)

‘
You’ll enjoy our beer.’

‘
I prefer tea.’

Why were these call-signs always so stupid? Rayne supposed it was because people figured that that way, no one could come up with the correct answer by accident.

‘
I’ve booked you a room at the Dorchester, Captain Gallagher. I thought we might eat first at my club. That is, if you’re not too tired?’

The car, a white Aston Martin DBS Vantage, moved effortlessly along the M4 motorway in the fading daylight. The brute power of the engine was just audible through the angry burble of the exhausts.

Rayne watched the Colonel as he drove. He was a big man with a wide craggy face topped by an unruly mane of dark hair. His mouth seemed bent in a perpetual sardonic smile, and the keen brown eyes gave the impression of missing nothing. His nose, slightly hooked at the tip, had the predatory air of a falcon. Colonel Strong, he thought, was a man he could get along with.

They dropped Rayne’s cases off at the Dorchester, and then dined excellently at the Colonel’s club. After that, Colonel Strong suggested entertainment. They walked down a narrow alley into a small square dominated by an elegant Georgian-style townhouse with an enormous black door. In front of the door stood a man who looked like a cross between a maitre d’hotel and a prize-fighter. He recognised the Colonel and swung open a wrought-iron gate to the left of the front door; Rayne looked down a line of steps that led to the basement.

‘
Evening, Colonel Strong, sir.’

‘
Good evening, Sylvester, how’s business?’

‘
Typical for a weekday. Couple of drunk public school chaps. Some rather dour-looking Saudis. And then there are the regulars like yourself, sir.’

‘
Let me introduce you to Captain Gallagher, Sylvester.’ ‘Always a pleasure to meet your friends, sir.’

They walked down the steps and through a narrow side-door. Inside the air was thick with tobacco smoke, and the sound of a jazz quartet energised the atmosphere. As they walked into the room Sylvester vanished and they were met by another man in evening dress - a thin, debauched face with an aristocratic line to it.

‘
Good to see you, Michael. Ah, you have company. Your favourite table is available. Let me get you a drink.’

‘
Thanks, Richard. This is Captain Gallagher.’

‘
My pleasure, Captain Gallagher. I’m sure that you’ll enjoy yourself. The Mandrake always endeavours to please.’

Rayne was impressed with the Colonel’s natural air of authority. Even the owner of the club was clearly intimidated by the big man. They were led to a table that was close enough to the jazz quartet for them to enjoy the music but not so close as to kill conversation. Their drinks arrived a few minutes later, a neat double Scotch for Rayne and a gin and tonic for the Colonel.

Rayne was surprised at how full the club was. There were some very attractive women in the room, obviously high society; and then there were others of more dubious background . . . Many of the men were clearly in business, but others looked like actors, musicians, sportsmen and soldiers. This was obviously a night club that didn’t care too much about the social standing of its members, more about their ability to pay their membership fees and enjoy themselves. No one had paid the slightest attention to the Colonel or himself. That was obviously part of the etiquette.

The quartet rounded off the number. The applause was muffled but appreciative. The Colonel had been in a meditative mood while the music was playing but now he became more expansive.

‘
You can really relax in this place. I’ve never been much of a man for words. Can’t stand heavy books. Poetry leaves me cold. But music, music I’ve always liked. Especially jazz.’ He took another sip at his drink and then continued, ‘Jazz is non-aggressive. I can imagine going into a fire fight listening to rock music. Mind you, I don’t think about music when I’m in action. All I think about is staying alive.

‘
Take a look at the lady who’s about to sing. I’ve been after her for the last six months. She’s still giving me a hard time.’

A very dark-skinned woman came up to the microphone and smiled at the tables. Rayne noticed that there was scarcely a man in the room who was not watching her. She waited for the quartet to settle down. The opening note came from the keyboard player and the other instruments moved in to create a driving rhythm.

She started to sing. Her voice was deep and sensual. Magical. Rayne was transfixed. She was not attractive in the conventional way, her figure was a little too full, her long legs a shade too muscular, and her face had a wanton look. But she radiated a magnetic sexuality that could not be ignored. Her hair was long, raven black with dark russet streaks.

As she sang, the content and words of the song became irrelevant. It was the emotion in her voice that mattered. No man in the room was left unmoved by it - a voice more attractive than the female body itself.

Then the number was over, and only when it was clear that she was not going to continue, was there appreciative applause.

She left the stage and walked over to their table. The long black dress clung to her body. A slit that rose almost above her thigh revealed her legs as she walked towards them. She pulled up her chair and stared at Rayne. Dark, sultry eyes that were without embarrassment. She knew what she wanted. He could smell her now, a warm musky scent that caused him to come erect.

‘
Well, Michael. Your manners are appalling. If you won’t introduce me then I’ll introduce myself.’ Her voice was not what he had expected. Deep, yes, but with a very English upper-class accent.

‘
Rayne.’

‘
An unusual name. I see you are surprised by my voice.’

‘
You haven’t told me your name.’

‘
Priscilla. Priscilla St John.’

‘
Priscilla, you sing very beautifully.’

‘
Thank you. You are very flattering for a military man.’

‘
How do you know I’m a soldier?’

‘
Michael only mixes with fighting men.’ She stared at Colonel Strong provocatively. ‘Are you on holiday, Rayne?’

‘
Yes. I’m staying at the Dorchester. Just here to see London.’ ‘Oh, all Michael’s foreign friends come here on holiday, don’t they, Michael. . .’

At forty-seven, Michael Strong was wealthy and his business was successful, but he was a soldier at heart and longed for action. At first when he’d met Gallagher he’d summed him up as just another tough boy heading for an early death, but as the evening progressed he’d become aware of a sensitivity and a keen intelligence beneath the hardness. He found himself intrigued, too, by the operation - about which Gallagher refused to divulge details. It sounded dangerous but possible. He loved danger; without it he went into decline.

Michael Strong parked the Aston Martin in the garage of his South Kensington mews house and let himself in. Upstairs in the lounge he poured himself a last tot of Scotch and gazed round him at the pictures, medals and campaign memorabilia that decorated the walls. The men in most of the photographs had been friends. Very few of them were still alive. He himself had been lucky, or perhaps intelligent. It crossed his mind to offer Gallagher some friendly advice - but he was sure it would be construed as weakness.

He went up to sleep an hour later, alone, thinking of Priscilla.

Rayne woke up sweating. He had dreamed he was in Mozambique, in a clearing, alone, when he heard the sound of a rifle being loaded ... He stared into the darkness of the London hotel room, wondering if he had really recovered from his ordeal a month before.

Then the door handle turned and the door opened very slowly. Someone moved into the darkness, came close. He grabbed an arm and twisted it up sharply. There was a high-pitched scream. He turned on the light and found himself looking at Priscilla St John.

‘
You’re quite a man, Captain Gallagher.’

He had let her go and she was staring at his naked body.

‘
Didn’t your mother tell you it was dangerous trying to get into men’s bedrooms?’

‘
Yes. But I’ve never had much difficulty. I got your room number and a key from reception.’

‘
So much for the discretion of the Dorchester.’

‘
I told a lie. I said I was your wife.’

‘
Would you like a drink, Mrs Gallagher?’

‘
Later . . .’

He pulled her towards him and she did not resist. Her mouth locked over his and he felt himself swimming in her sensuality. She pulled him down on the bed and her hands began to work on him. He unfastened her dress and eased it off her body. Underneath she wore nothing but stockings and suspender belt.

She straddled him and lowered herself onto him. Beads of sweat broke out across her forehead and her nipples were hard with excitement. She stared into his eyes as he pushed himself up inside her and felt her body convulse as the orgasms began.

‘
Don’t stop. Oh, don’t stop.’

He pushed her over, sinking his face into her, and she screamed out with pleasure. He felt her lips teasing him, her hands fondling him, taking him to ever higher planes of excitement.

The alarm clock screamed in his ear and he buried it under the pillow. His whole body was still aching.

She was gone. But there was a message written with lipstick on the mirror above the dressing-table. ‘Next time, you pay me a surprise visit. Love Priscilla.’ Her phone number was underneath.

He smiled and went into the shower, turning the water on cold. Later he went across the road into Hyde Park and did a couple of quick circuits, sprinting hard. Then he jogged back to the hotel, ready to face what the day had to offer.

Again the room was plunged into darkness. Another face flashed before his eyes - one of the world’s finest mercenary soldiers, another man from the exclusive files of Colonel Strong, ex SAS, known for his ability to supply quality.

Many of the men Rayne did not like the look of at all. Others he was indifferent to. He needed only four - but he wanted loyalty, intelligence and leadership ability, plus a highly specialised knowledge of explosives.

As the Colonel switched on the lights of the small viewing theatre, Rayne’s mind was working in overdrive. These men were good, but were they what he wanted?

‘
It’s not easy, Rayne, I know. No one can guarantee results. But these men are the best. Every one of them has been thoroughly checked out. They’re hard, and you’ve got to be tough to command them.’

Strong looked at him with that predatory air of his, and Rayne wondered what was going through his mind. For him, this was a matter of life and death; for Strong, perhaps only another day’s work.

‘
And the ones I want. When would I be able to get them to my take-off point?’

‘
All the men you’ve seen are immediately available. They all have valid passports.’

‘
Do you have any personal recommendations?’

‘
The magic question. I’d take the first three I showed you. As for the
rest.
. . your guess would be as good as mine.’

‘
Why the first three?’

He had to be sure. What if Strong was merely trying to get things in order as quickly as he could?

‘
Dammit, Rayne. You think I’m a bloody horse-trader!’

Rayne stared at him enigmatically. ‘If they fail I die; you still make your commission.’

‘
You bastard!’

Strong picked up the file in front of him and closed it with an air of finality. Rayne remained seated. He had played his card, now he waited for the reaction.