The Persian Price by Evelyn Anthony Page A

had left England. He looked every year of his age. Janet saw this too. She came and embraced him from behind, leaning against his shoulder. It was a moment of rare tenderness between them.
    â€˜I’m going to have a lot of children with you,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and run your bath now.’
    Apsley Field was normally used by racegoers. It was a small, privately owned airstrip within five miles of Newmarket and during the morning a dozen light aircraft had taken off with passengers for York, where a major race meeting was being held that afternoon. The pilot of the chartered Piper Aztec was not one of the charter firm’s own men; he had motored down at nine o’clock, checked in with the office and satisfied them of his flying credentials. He was waiting in the small outer office, drinking coffee and chatting to the girl typist who sat outside. The director of the charter firm hadn’t been pleased to see him. He objected to an outside pilot being brought in, but the fee for hiring the plane had been increased by a third on condition that it was flown by a pilot known to the passengers. Times were getting tighter in the charter business; the number of owners and trainers rich enough to fly themselves round England to the races was decreasing.
    The pilot explained that he always flew his clients. The wife was shit-scared of flying, as he put it, and she wouldn’t go up with anyone else. They were rich enough to pay him whatever he asked and he flew them and their friends to racecourses all over England and France.
    â€˜Why don’t they have their own bloody plane, then?’ the director said.
    The young man shrugged.
    â€˜They have but it’s in the middle of its bloody C of A. I’ll just check the ship and see if she’s ready, then I’ll hang around. They didn’t give me an exact time. Just told me to be ready. Typical.’
    He settled into the outer office with the typist and passed the time smoking and making a series of easy-going passes at her. He seemed a nice, relaxed type; couldn’t care less about anything. She was beginning to fancy him, when one of the ground staff came up and called him.
    â€˜Your load has turned up.’
    â€˜Right. ’Bye sweetheart. Next time I’m round this way I’ll buy you dinner. Okay?’
    â€˜You’ve missed most of this afternoon’s meeting,’ she said.
    â€˜They’re staying overnight. Their nag’s running there tomorrow. ’Bye!’
    â€˜Take these,’ Peters said to Eileen. ‘Just walk alongside me and don’t do anything to attract attention. We’re going on a trip. So watch yourself.’
    He hung a pair of binoculars on her shoulder. She stared at him, holding on to the leather straps with hands that shook.
    â€˜Where are you taking me – what are these for?’
    â€˜Never mind.’ He had hold of her arm and he was walking her briskly across the airfield. A small Cessna took off a hundred yards away from them and buzzed into the sky like a red bee. He saw their pilot coming towards them; the man waved.
    â€˜Mr Harris? She’s over here, sir. We’re all ready.’
    Resnais was behind them; she heard him whistling. During the journey from London she hadn’t heard him speak once. Peters knew the pilot. He was a freelance and the organization had used him several times to ferry people and guns. He didn’t belong to any political party. His only concern was money, and provided he was paid enough he would undertake anything. The original passenger schedule was for two men, one woman and a child. Now the child was missing. He looked briefly at the woman. She looked grey with fear. The reason didn’t concern him. He spoke quietly to Peters.
    â€˜You’re one less.’
    Peters didn’t answer and the pilot shrugged. He led them to the small six-seater plane; an airport mechanic was waiting for them. Eileen saw him