by W E Johns
Ambrimos continued to stare at Biggles. He moistened his lips. “I do not need advice,” he said slowly.
“People who make statements like that usually end up where you’ll end up,” said Biggles. “No man is as smart as he thinks he is and you’re a long way short of it.”
“So that’s what you think?”
“It isn’t what I think, it’s what I know. Have it your own way. I have nothing more to say.”
Ambrimos clapped his hands for his manager, who had left the room. When the man came Ambrimos looked at Biggles and pointed to the door. “Think over my offer,” he invited. “Here we do nothing in a hurry. I’ll give you a little while to change your mind.” He made a signal of dismissal.
Biggles and Ginger were escorted from the room. The Sultan had not lied when he said that the men outside did not look upon Christians with favour. There was quite a crowd, every man armed, some with rifles of an obsolete pattern, some with spears. They were a barbaric-looking lot, evidently tribesmen from the interior. Biggles did not know enough about them to identify the types, but from what Zahar had told him he supposed some of them to be Danakils, and others, tribesmen from the Highlands of Abyssinia.
The appearance of the two white men was greeted with scowls, muttered vituperation, and a few shouts. There was some spitting. From this it was clear that only one word would have been necessary to cause murder to be done there and then. Ambrimos stood at his door, smiling, as the natives parted reluctantly to clear a path for the prisoners as they were taken to one of the several huts. At the entrance they were met by such a swarm of flies, and a stink so appalling that Ginger clapped a hand over his nose. Into the gloomy interior they were pushed, and two tall, scowling Danakils, took up positions at the entrance.
“Things may not look so bad to you, but they look pretty dim to me,” said Ginger, when he could speak.
“They might be worse,” replied Biggles evenly, as he lit another cigarette. “After all, we’re still alive.”
“How long is that pleasant state of affairs going to last?” enquired Ginger without enthusiasm.
“It’s hard to say,” returned Biggles calmly, blowing smoke into the swarming flies.
“At any moment we may be shot, speared or strangled.”
“That’s a possibility, I must admit,” agreed Biggles. “But it’s significant that the dirty work wasn’t put in hand right away. It might have been. Ambrimos has been to some pains to point out our weaknesses, but he can’t see his own. He hesitates.”
“That isn’t because he’s overcharged with the milk of human kindness.”
“True enough,” conceded Biggles. “If he’s overrcharged with anything it’s vanity. His real weakness is business—making easy money. It dominates his life. He wants a pilot, and he has the quaint idea that I’m the man. He’s had what he wants for so long that he doesn’t like taking no for an answer. It may be, of course, that he’s a bit scared of going too far with us. Murder might leak out. One of these natives might give him away. They are all open to bribery; that’s why they’re here. Ambrimos may forget that a man who can be bribed will usually go to the highest bidder, and when he changes his job he takes all he knows with him. But really, I think Ambrimos is still hoping that I’ll change my mind. I hope he goes on hoping. The longer he hopes the better chance we have of doing what we came to do. Now keep quiet for a bit. I want to do a spot of thinking.”
“Go ahead,” requested Ginger warmly. “Think hard and fast, while the going’s good.”
Chapter 13
Zahar Pays A Debt
BERTIE’S errand to Aden occupied about four hours. It was entirely successful and he returned with the three items which he had been asked to fetch. These were, to be specific: a certain bright-eyed member of the R.A.F. officially known as L.A.C. Blakey, classified in the trade of acetylene welder; a parcel of dynamite with detonators and fuses; and a spare Moth wheel that had come from no-one knew where, but had been on the charge of the Station for so long that the Stores Officer was delighted to be rid of it.
For the first item the accommodating Station Commander had been responsible. He had called for a volunteer and Blakey had stepped forward. As he told Bertie confidingly when he stepped into the machine, he was willing to go anywhere and do anything to escape even for a short while from the blistering ash-bin named Aden. As Aden lies in the crater of an extinct volcano, this description of it was fully justified. The explosive had proved rather more difficult, as the purpose for which it was required did not, to the Engineer Officer, make sense. There was, he asserted, no water in the desert; alternatively, if there was, why spill it? However, Bertie pleaded urgency, and in the end the production of his police badge got him what he needed. L.A.C. Blakey’s enthusiasm for the flight was somewhat damped when, asked to carry the parcel on his lap, he was told what it contained.
“Whatever you do laddie, don’t drop it on the floor,” requested Bertie with unusual earnestness.
“If I drop it anywhere,” answered Blakey emphatically, “it will be overboard.”
“Quite right—absolutely,” agreed Bertie. “Let’s tootle along.”
The flight back to aerodrome 137 was made without incident. Bertie, bearing in mind what he carried made a careful landing, to find Zahar squatting alone on a mass of fabric which he had removed from the metal members of the old hangar.
“By Jove! You’ve certainly been busy with the jolly old bodkin,” observed Bertie. “Where’s the big white chief?”
Bertie’s exuberance at the success of his mission suffered a set-back when Zahar explained what had happened. He scratched an ear. “How deuced awkward,” he muttered. “What do we do next?”
“The last message of Biggles Sahib was this,” answered the Arab without emotion. “The wall that holds the water must be destroyed. If I return not, the task must be done. Biggles Sahib has not returned. I fear his head has been struck off by the Kafirs.”
“Do I understand that these toughs didn’t know you were here?” questioned Bertie.
“That is the truth, Sahib. God willed otherwise.”
“Lucky for you, if you see what I mean. And they didn’t see the aeroplane under the canvas?”
“No Sahib. The canvas had not then been removed. We were at work inside when these sons of dogs arrived. It happened that Biggles Sahib had gone outside to breathe, and thus it was that he was seen. He called to me to remain hidden so that I could give you tidings when you came.”
Bertie sought inspiration in his eye-glass as he considered the matter. “We shall have to do something about this,” he told Blakey at last. “What I mean is I shall have to do something. What I want you to do is stay here and clear the gubbins away from that aircraft so that we can get it airborne.”
“What about the Moth?” enquired Blakey.
“Yes, by Gad. I’d forgotten that. I’ll give you a hand to get the new wheel on. The fellow who owns it may come back for it, so we’ll push it out of the way somewhere. He’s a nasty piece of work. Quite likely to shoot you. Must be an absolute bounder. He had a crack at me for nothing—nothing at all. By the way, can you fly an aircraft?”
Blakey started. “What, me? No.”
“Never mind. Let’s fix the wheel. I thought if you could fly you might navigate the Moth back to Aden instead of hanging about here after you’ve done your job. It doesn’t matter. I’m afraid you’ll find it a bit warmish here. As soon as we’ve got the new wheel on the Moth you can make a start on the hangar. When you’ve finished, if I’m not here, cover the machine with some of this old canvas in case those wogs come back. Cover yourself up too, if they do, because if they catch you, you’ve had it.”
“What about your machine?” asked Blakey. “Sitting out there in the sun won’t do it no good.”
“Quite right. I’ll trundle it into this other hangar before I go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“Between you and me I don’t know yet,” admitted Bertie. “It
doesn’t really matter which way I go. This bally wilderness is all alike. But I shall have to try and find my chief.”
“You mean—you’re going to start walking about the desert?” Blakey looked horrified.
“Walking? No fear. Not when I can ride. I might as well whisper round in the Moth. Let’s get cracking on the undercart. Come on, Zahar, old coffee-berry, you can help.”
It did not take the three of them very long to get the damaged wheel off the Moth, and the new one on. After it had been tested, Bertie set Blakey on the real task for which he had been brought out, and then made preparations for departure.
“I don’t know how long I shall be away,” he told Blakey. “Expect me when you see me—that’s the best thing. If you don’t see me, don’t expect me—if you get what I mean. If those beastly aboriginals happen to totter this way, get out of sight or they may snatch your scalp.”
“But half a mo’,” requested Blakey. “If you don’t come back, how am I to get home?”
“Yes, by Jove, I never thought of that,” murmured Bertie. “You’ll have to pray that I’ll come back. If I don’t you’ll have to hoof it. Keep travelling east and you’re bound to come to the sea sooner or later.”
“And then what?”
“Get someone with a ship to give you a lift,” suggested Bertie. He turned to Zahar. “What about you, old chocolate-drop? Are you gomg to stay here or are you coming with me?”
Zahar regarded Bertie dubiously. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to pull the plug out of the Sultan’s reservoir and then look for my friends.”
“But where are they?”
“How do I know until I’ve looked?” inquired Bertie plaintively. “They can’t be far away. But we’ll talk about that when we’ve let loose the dirty water at El Moab. You can show me the way there for a start.” As he spoke, Bertie threw the sack of hashish out of the back seat of the Moth.
“No use humping that stuff around,” he observed.
“At El Moab we shall be deprived of our lives,” predicted Zahar, with fatalistic calm.
“And who will deprive us?” inquired Bertie.
“The men of Ambrimos. They are worse than the beasts of the desert. They sell their children. This is true, for my eyes have witnessed it—may God forgive them!”
Bertie polished his monocle. “What nasty fellows. Well, we’ll blow up their beastly dam and see how they like that. Which reminds me. I mustn’t forget the jolly old squibs.” He went over to collect the dynamite from where it had been put in a safe place. He picked it up and handed it to Zahar. “Hold that, and hold it tight,” he warned. “That is if you’ve decided to come with me.”
“I will come, seeking Abu bin Hamud, who left me to perish in the desert,” declared Zahar. “The blood of Kuatim, who was my friend, calls for vengeance.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Bertie. “Get aboard, then, and we’ll waffle along while there’s a drop or two of daylight.”
Actually, Bertie knew quite well what he was going to do. In his last message Biggles had ordered the destruction of the dam and it did not occur to him to do anything else. He had a pretty good idea of the locality of, and the distance to, El Moab, for Biggles had told him. He was anxious to get the job done as quickly as possible because, as Biggles had not returned, he felt that he ought to try to find him. So rather than undertake a long march that would occupy hours of time, he thought he might as well, the Moth being available, fly most of the way.
He would have hesitated to use his own machine for the purpose. The risk of damaging it by landing on unknown ground, as he intended, was too great. This scruple did not arise in the case of the Moth. In view of the behaviour of its pilot he didn’t care what happened to it. He felt justified in regarding it as the spoils of war.
With Zahar in the back seat, the dynamite on his lap, he took off and holding the machine low headed straight for his objective. He knew that the higher he flew the greater was the chance of his being seen; apart from that, he had only a comparatively short distance to cover, so he maintained his ‘contour chasing’ flight until he judged that he must be within a mile or two of El Moab. Then, choosing a level piece of ground, he cut his engine, flattened out and landed. It was a bumpy affair because the ground was littered with stones, some of them large ones; but the machine finished on even keel.
“God is great,” came the voice of Zahar fervently, from the rear seat.
Bertie stood up and looked around. The sun was now nearing the horizon, turning the sky turquoise, and the sandy wilderness to streaming gold. The only landmark was a wadi on his left, now a big pool of purple shadows.
“How far are we from the beastly place, old chestnut?” he asked Zahar.
“The distance is small,” was the reply. “By walking on our feet, we could reach it by the setting of the sun.”
“Good enough,” returned Bertie. “Sit still and hang on to your parcel.”
He taxied the machine on a little way into a fold in the ground, where he thought there was less chance of it being seen. He then switched off, climbed down, and took the dynamite from Zahar while the Arab got out.
“Can you find your way to this wall that holds back the water?” he asked.
“Without difficulty,” was the comforting reply.
“Then lead on, Macduff, and let us get the business over,” said Bertie.
“I will take you a way by which we can reach it without being seen—if that is the will of Allah,” promised Zahar. “It is but a short distance farther, and less will be the chance of our being slain by the men of Ambrimos. Afterwards I will seek Hamud, and make a hole in him with my dagger through which his life will pass. Thus will he be held to the reckoning.”
“Here, I say, where did you learn these nasty habits?” enquired Bertie disapprovingly.
“It is the custom of Arabs,” answered Zahar. “A life for a life. Thus was it written.”
“You mind he doesn’t make a hole in you, old coffee-drop,” warned Bertie. “Push along. I’ll follow.”
Zahar started off like a man who is at home in his surroundings. A walk of some twenty minutes followed, and ended behind a ridge of rock and gravel beyond which Bertie could not see. Zahar turned and held a brown hand over his mouth. “This is the place,” he whispered. He pointed half left. “That way, in the wadi, is El Moab.” He pointed ahead. “Before us is the wall that holds the water.”
“Jolly good work, Sambo,” complimented Bertie. “You’d better sit here while I let the water out of the basin.”
“This will be a thing to remember,” swore Zahar.
“You keep your head down, or a chunk of rock may lull you into forgetfulness,” warned Bertie.
Dropping on all fours he crawled to the ridge and looked over. Zahar had been right. There, immediately below him, spanning the wadi, was the primitive reservoir, tapering to a point at the lower end where the dam had been built. He moved his position a trifle to the left so that he could get a clear view of what he intended to destroy, and was pleased to observe that it was not built on very substantial lines. This was only to be expected, considering the nature of the workmen and the simplicity of their tools. Indeed, Bertie marvelled that the wall stood up at all with such a weight of water behind it. It was fairly clear that it must have been begun during the dry season, and heightened by the addition of more rocks and stones as the water accumulated behind it. The labour involved in carrying the stones to the spot, and then squaring them roughly by hand, must have been immense. Water was trickling through in several places, as was inevitable considering the quality of the work, but it showed no signs of breaking down.
Beyond the dam the gorge continued, a gloomy cleft in the bed-rock through which the storm-water of untold ages had cut its way. The sides were not precipitous, but steep, and perhaps a hundred feet apart. This continued on below the dam for forty or fifty yards when the gorge made a sharp turn, cutting off the view of what lay beyond. Bertie could only
see as far as the turn. He imagined that from this point the gorge began to widen out to form the more shallow wadi, in which, as he understood it, was El Moab, with the desert headquarters of Ambrimos, and the plantations of narcotic plants which it was the work of the occupants to maintain. He did not trouble to confirm it as his business was confined to the dam. Still, it did occur to him that anyone who happened to be in the bottom of the wadi was likely to have a shock when the pent-up waters were let loose, although to what extent he did not then realise. Once he listened as he thought he heard the sound of voices; but he was not sure about it as all distant sounds were drowned by the nearer one of water splashing on rock as it trickled through the dam. He hoped that Zahar, in his determination to be revenged on the man who had tried to kill him, had not been so foolish as to show himself.
Rising to his knees he looked around. Not a soul was in sight. The job, after all, looked like being, in R.A.F. slang, a slice of cake.
Not for a moment did it occur to him that Biggles and Ginger might be in El Moab. He was not to know that they were prisoners. There was nothing in Zahar’s story to suggest such a thing. Zahar had described precisely what had happened at aerodrome 137; how some natives, apparently friendly, had arrived, saying that they had found a white man, and how Biggles had gone off with them willingly. He was, of course, rather worried about Biggles’ failure to return, but he was certainly not seriously alarmed. He imagined him to be in some native camp, doctoring Ginger, who was as yet unfit to travel. Indeed, on this account, he was more worried about Ginger than Biggles. Had he known the truth, that both of them were at that moment within a hundred yards of him, his behaviour would doubtless have been very different from what it was. But he did not know. He was not even thinking of Biggles except in a vague sort of way.