"Yes. Come in, Gregory, would you," replied a stony Abraham Johnson. Crossing the threshold, Gregory Cornell entered his Acting Director- General's office, nervously patting down his thinning blond hair, ever conscious of his receding hairline. He straightened a poorly-cut grey jacket and dated paisley tie, patting his pockets for the cigarette he knew he could not smoke.
Moving out from behind his desk, Johnson made a sweeping gesture and introduced the men who stood forebodingly in the centre of the room. "This is Chief Superintendent Hargreaves of Scotland Yard, and Mr. Blades of MIS. Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Mr. Gregory Cornell. Gregory's area is responsible for Africa and our economic interests there. Been with us - must be, what, twelve years now, Gregory?" Johnson feigned interest, but in doing so, only highlighted his disdain.
"22, actually," Cornell corrected. He swallowed loudly, and hoped that nobody had noticed.
Hargreaves and Blades both offered firm, formal handshakes to Cornell's wet fish, as Johnson made the introductions. There were no smiles or pleasantries. The air in the room was decidedly grim. Standing facing them, Cornell felt his heart race, and beads of sweat formed on his brow. Scotland Yard? MIS ? Had he been discovered?
"Gregory, these gentlemen are here to discuss security arrangements for the visit by the Malfajirian President, Dr. Namakobo."
"I see. I wasn't aware that Dr. Namakobo's visit had been confirmed, Mr. Johnson." Cornell could scarcely conceal his annoyance. But still, he was wary. His guard was up. He needed to be on the offensive, but mostly, he needed information from these glorified plods. Cornell's division should have had primacy over the visit. He should have been consulted. "Can I expect to be privy to the details now? An arrival time perhaps? A schedule?" he said pointedly.
"Well, that's what we're here to discuss, Mr. Cornell," said Blades. 'I'm afraid that the security precautions surrounding this particular visit have required that confirmation of the schedule and agenda be kept under wraps, until the last possible moment. Other than Mr. Johnson, it was not possible for us to discuss the matter any further. Even within the Foreign Office."
"Of course," answered Cornell coldly.
"And so here we are," added Johnson, back at his desk, eager to proceed. "Gentlemen, if you'd like to be seated. As we have only a matter of hours before Dr. Namakobo arrives here in London, perhaps one of you would be good enough to bring Mr. Co::nell up to speed?"
"Thank you, Sir," Blades replied. The three men sat opposite Johnson. "Dr. Namakobo will arrive at Heathrow in three hours, at approximately 2100 hours. He will be met on the tarmac by the Foreign Secretary, the Minister for Africa and, of course, the Malfajiri Ambassador."
As Blades continued with the briefing, Cornell felt as though a knife was being slowly thrust into his heart. He swallowed, and his eyes darted nervously between Johnson and the other two men. How could anything possibly be arranged in time, he thought furiously.
Then again, with Lundt involved, Cornell felt certain that Dr Namakobo would not leave the United Kingdom alive.
CHAPTER 12
The howl of the four mighty Rolls-Royce T-56 turboprop engines heralded the passage of an unyielding juggernaut. The incessant roar of the C-130 Hercules intensified its menace as it sliced through the night sky. High above, the anxious gaze of a full moon cast a ghostly aura upon the flying giant's back. And deep inside her ample belly, the paratroopers waited in silence.
For the last time, Morgan pulled his chinstrap tabs down tight, and immediately felt the comforting pressure of his para-helmet close firmly around his head, the padded chin piece biting into the flesh of his jaw. He started working through the mental checklist of his equipment: chin strap, cape wells, chest strap, reserve hooks, reserve handle, belly band, suspension hooks, lowering device, jettison device - mirroring his thoughts by physically checking each item, the routine inspection procedure carrying him down the length and breadth of his body to the dozens of separate pieces of kit that had to be checked prior to any military parachute descent. The gear was uncomfortable, heavy, cumbersome. His 40 kilogram pack, suspended from the 'D' rings at his chest beneath the reserve chute, felt like a bank vault hanging across his aching thighs, and grew heavier as the minutes wore on. Gripped to his back, the ballast effect of the main chute was as if he was shouldering a ship's anchor, only mildly counterbalanced by the reserve on his chest. In most cases, paratroopers would leap from an aircraft carrying more weight in parachutes, equipment and weaponry, than they weighed themselves. Morgan felt weary, and was sure that, if forced to linger just another minute, his knees would finally disintegrate and he would collapse under the burden of his load. Somewhere amidst the chaos of equipment, weapons, ammunition and the harness strapping that cocooned him, a water bottle had twisted and was burying itself painfully into his flank like a football-sized tick.