The Spoilers / Juggernaut. Desmond Bagley

tape’s fairly whipping through,’ commented Follet. ‘How long can you record?’

      ‘An hour.’

      ‘Hell, that’s plenty.’ He regarded the television screen for a while, then said, ‘Okay, let’s have a repeat.’

      Tozier ran the tape back and switched the television set to a previously selected unused channel. He stopped the recorder and set it to playback, then snapped the starting switch. On the television screen appeared the street scene they had just witnessed, together with the voice of the announcer.

      Follet bent forward with a critical eye on the screen. ‘Hey, this quality’s fine. It’s just about as good as the original, like you said. This is going to work.’

      He straightened. ‘Now, look, the action starts on Saturday and you’ve got to get it right. Not only have you got to get every word right, but the way you say the word. No false notes.’ He looked at them appraisingly. ‘You’re amateurs at this game, so we’ll have some rehearsals. Imagine we’re putting on a play and I’m the producer. You only have to play to an audience of one.’

      ‘I can’t act,’ said Bryan. ‘I never could.’

      ‘That’s okay – you can work this television gadget. As for the rest of us – I’ll play the easy guy, Andy does the hard-nosed stuff, and Warren can be the boss.’ Follet grinned as he saw the expression on Warren’s face. ‘You don’t say much and you say it quietly. The way I figure it the less acting you do the better. An ordinary conversational tone can sound real menacing in some situations.’

      He looked about the room. ‘Now, where do we put Ben and the videotape?’

      Tozier went to the window, opened it and looked out. ‘I think I can run a line into your room, Johnny. We can settle Ben in there.’

      ‘Good enough,’ said Follet. He slapped his hands together, ‘Okay, first rehearsal – beginners, please.’

      III

      At twelve-thirty on Saturday they waited in a lounge just off the foyer of the hotel, not exactly in hiding but certainly concealed from casual inspection. Follet nudged Warren. ‘There he is – I told him to wait for me in the bar. You go in first; Andy will give you time to settle, and I’ll be in right after. Get going.’

      As Warren left, he said a little worriedly to Tozier, ‘I hope Ben doesn’t ball up his bit with the television.’

      Warren crossed the foyer and entered the bar where he ordered a drink. Javid Raqi was seated at a table and appeared to be somewhat nervous, although probably not as nervous as Warren as he steeled himself to play his part in the charade. Raqi was a young man of about twenty-five, smartly dressed in European fashion from top to toe. He was darkly handsome if you like Valentino looks, and probably had a great future. Warren felt sorry for him.

      Tozier appeared at the door, his jacket draped carelessly over his arm. He walked forward, past Raqi, and something apparently dropped from a pocket to plop right at Raqi’s feet. It was a fat wallet of brown leather. Raqi looked down and stooped, then straightened with the wallet in his hand. He looked towards Tozier who had walked on without missing a pace, then followed him to the bar.

      Warren heard the murmur of voices and then the louder tones of Tozier. ‘Well, thank you. That was very careless of me. Allow me to buy you a drink.’

      Johnny Follet was now in the room, on Raqi’s heels. ‘Hi, Javid; I didn’t know you two knew each other.’ There was surprise in his voice.

      ‘We don’t, Mr Follet,’ said Raqi.

      ‘Oh!’ said Tozier. ‘So this is who you were talking about, Johnny. Mr Raqi – that’s the name, isn’t it? – just rescued my wallet.’ He opened it to display a thick wad of notes. ‘He could have taken the lot without winning it.’

      Follet chuckled. ‘He’ll probably take it anyway. He’s a right sharp poker-player.’ He looked around. ‘There’s Nick. It’ll be a foursome, Javid; does that suit you?’

      Raqi said a little shyly, ‘That’s all right, Mr Follet.’

      ‘The hell with Mr Follet. We’re all friends here. I’m Johnny and this is Andy Tozier – and coming over is Nick Warren. Gentlemen, Javid Raqi, the best poker-player I’ve come across in Tehran – and I’m not kidding.’

      Warren smiled stiffly at Raqi and murmured something conventional. Follet said, ‘Don’t buy a drink, Andy; let’s go where the action is. I have everything laid on – booze and food both.’

      They all went up to Tozier’s room, where the television set had been moved over to the window. Follet had laid on quite a spread; there was cold chicken, sausages of various sorts and salads, together with some unopened bottles of whisky. Everything was set for a long session. Unobtrusively, Warren looked at his watch – it read just after twelve – exactly half an hour slow. He wondered how Follet would doctor the expensive-looking watch he saw on Raqi’s slim brown wrist without Raqi knowing it had been done.

      Follet opened a drawer and tossed a sealed pack of cards on to the table. ‘There you are, Javid; you have first deal. Stranger’s privilege – but you won’t be a stranger long. Go easy on the water in mine, Nick.’

      Warren poured four drinks and brought them to the table. Raqi was shuffling the cards. He seemed to do it expertly enough, although Warren was no judge of that. He was not as good as Follet, of that he was sure.

      Follet looked about the table. ‘We’ll be confining ourselves to draw poker, gentlemen – there’ll be none of your fancy wild hands here; this is a serious game for serious gamblers. Let’s play poker.’

      Raqi dealt the cards, five to each, and said in a quiet voice, ‘Jacks or better open.’

      Warren looked at his cards. He was not a good poker-player, although he knew the rules. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ Follet had said. ‘You don’t want to win, anyway.’ But he had schooled Warren in a couple of intensive lessons all the same.

      At the end of the first hour he was losing – about four thousand rials to the bad – say twenty-two pounds. Tozier had lost a little, too, but not nearly as much. Follet had won a little and Raqi was on top, winning about five thousand rials.

      Follet riffled the cards. ‘What did I tell you? This boy can play poker,’ he said jovially. ‘Say, that’s a nice watch you have there, Javid. Mind if I have a look at it?’

      Raqi was flushed with success and was not nearly as shy and nervous as he had been at first. ‘Of course,’ he said easily, and slipped it from his wrist.

      As Follet took it, Warren said, ‘You speak very good English, Javid. Where did you learn it?’

      ‘I studied at school, Nick; then I went to night classes.’ He smiled. ‘This is where I practise it – at the poker table.’

      ‘You’re doing very well.’

      Tozier counted his money. ‘Play poker,’ he said. ‘I’m losing.’

      Follet grinned. ‘I warned you Javid would take your wad.’ He held out the watch on his forefinger, but somehow it seemed to slip and it dropped to the floor. Follet pushed back his chair and there was a crunch. ‘Oh, hell!’ he exclaimed in disgust, and picked up the watch. ‘I’ve bust the dial.’ He held it to his ear. ‘It’s still going, though.’

      Raqi held out his hand, ‘It does not matter, Johnny.’

      ‘It matters to me,’ said Follet. ‘I’ll have it fixed for you.’ He dropped it into his shirt pocket. ‘No, I insist,’ he said over Raqi’s expostulations. ‘I did the damage – I’ll pay for the fixing. Whose deal is it?’ Raqi subsided.

      They continued to play and Raqi continued to win. As far as Warren