The Khufra Run. Jack Higgins
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JACK HIGGINS
The Khufra Run
In memory of George Robert Limón
Contents
The Khufra Run
Chapter 6 - The Children of Light
Chapter 10 - The Wild Horsemen
Chapter 12 - A Sound of Thunder
About the Author
Also by Jack Higgins
Jack Higgins lived in Belfast till the age of twelve. Leaving school at fifteen, he spent three years with the Royal Horse Guards, serving on the East German border during the Cold War. His subsequent employment included occupations as diverse as circus roustabout, truck driver, clerk and, after taking an honours degree in sociology and social psychology, teacher and university lecturer.
The Eagle Has Landed turned him into an international bestselling author, and his novels have since sold over 250 million copies and have been translated into fifty-five languages. Many of them have also been made into successful films. His recent bestselling novels include, Bad Company, A Fine Night for Dying, Dark Justice, Toll for the Brave, Without Mercy and The Valhalla Exchange.
In 1995 Jack Higgins was awarded an honorary doctorate by Leeds Metropolitan University. He is a fellow of the Royal Society of Arts and an expert scuba diver and marksman. He lives on Jersey.
It was late evening when they brought the coffin down to the lower quay in Cartagena’s outer harbour. There were no family mourners as far as I could see, just four men from the undertakers in the hearse, a customs officer in a Land-Rover bringing up the rear.
One useful extra that comes with an Otter Amphibian is the fact that you can drop wheels beneath the floats and taxi out of the water on to dry land if it suits your purpose. This was exactly what I’d done now, running up on to the concrete slipway at the bottom of the steps which would certainly make loading the coffin easier.
Two or three seamen leaned against the sea wall watching, attracted by the novelty of the floatplane as much as anything else, an exotic enough item to find down there among the fishing boats and yachts.
The hearse braked to a halt, three of the men inside got out and went round to the rear to deal with the coffin. The fourth moved to join me.
Undertakers are the same the world over and Jiminez was no exception, a tall, cadaverous creature in a double-breasted black overcoat who seemed to exist in a permanent state of mourning. He raised his Homburg briefly and held out two fingers for the good and sufficient reason that this was all he had left on his right hand. ‘Ah, Senor Nelson, we meet again. A melancholy business.’
He produced a small silver box, inhaled a pinch of snuff vigorously then shook his head, an expression of settled gloom on his face so that one might have been excused for imagining the deceased to have been a very old and dear friend.
‘I know,’ I said, ‘but the rest of us just have to keep on going somehow.’
‘True,’ he said, ‘very true,’ and he took a sheaf of documents from his inside breast pocket as the customs officer got out of his Land-Rover and joined us.
‘Senor Nelson.’ He held out his hand with the usual Spanish courtesy. ‘At your orders.’
‘At yours, Senor,’ I replied.
‘And how is Ibiza these days?’
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘or otherwise, depending on how the charters go.’
He examined the papers briefly. ‘Juan Pasco, aged eighteen. So young?’
He glanced at Jiminez who shrugged. ‘Killed in a car crash. A university student. You know how it is. The parents wish him to be laid to rest in the family vault back home in Ibiza.’
‘Naturally’ The customs man nodded. The other three men shuffled by with the coffin on a trestle and he held out a hand to arrest them. ‘Gentlemen, it pains me to have to ask, but I must look inside, simply to see that all is as it should be. I have my orders, you understand?’
It was a ritual we had gone through on the four previous occasions I’d been engaged in the same line of work, and to be expected. Coffins had, after all, been known to contain other things than bodies and with Ibiza a part of metropolitan Spain, the flight from Cartagena counted as an internal one with no customs inspection at the other end.
‘But of course, Senor,’ Jiminez told him gravely. ‘You must do your duty’
He waved a hand, the coffin was set down, the gilt handles unscrewed quickly, the lid removed.
Some people appear to shrink in death. Certainly the boy in the coffin seemed no more than thirteen, although the face had been so heavily made up with cosmetics that he resembled a waxworks dummy. Nothing human about him at all. I presumed that most of the damage was covered by the stiff blue suit.
Jiminez took another pinch of snuff. ‘The skull was crushed and the flesh completely removed from the left cheek by the impact. One would never guess now, of course.’
The customs officer crossed himself. ‘Amazing. You are a true artist, Senor Jiminez, nothing less.’
‘One must think of the parents,’ Jiminez nodded to his underlings who replaced the lid, raised the coffin once more on the trestle and took