‘Then why not challenge him?’
‘Zorlan is against it. He says if we were wrong it could start a fuss which might end with us being told to go home. He could be right. He’s a queer type, too — but I’ll tell you more about that later.’
‘So you’re expecting trouble?’
‘I detect an atmosphere which has nothing to do with the weather.’
No more was said. Everyone took his place in the aircraft. The engines were started. Biggles gave them a minute or two, and with his eyes on the instrument panel ran them up. Satisfied, he taxied out, and receiving permission from the control officer, took off.
CHAPTER 3
THE RUINS OF QUARDA
AT a height of six thousand feet the Merlin bored along its calculated course, thrusting the overheated air behind it at a speed of a little under 400 m.p.h. A higher altitude would have been more comfortable, for the air, lashed by the tireless sun, was turbulent, and the aircraft for all its speed sometimes rose and fell on an invisible swell; but more height would have made it difficult to pick out the meagre landmarks Biggles had noted on the map.
The sky was not the rich cornflower blue of the humid tropics but a dome that had the hard brightness of burnished steel. Under it the foreground shimmered. The horizon, marked by a ragged line of mountains, was blurred by heat-haze. Conspicuous far away to the north-east rose the 16,000 foot peak of Mount Ararat, the traditional resting-place of Noah’s Ark. The River Halys, the ancient dividing line between East and West, had already drifted away astern.
Ahead, the hinterland of Eastern Anatolia turned an ugly face to the pitiless heavens, reflecting a glare which worried the eyes and distorted such features of the landscape as were presented to it.
For the most part the earth was the colour of putty. It looked tired, worn out, its surface cracked by innumerable quakes and tremors, wrinkled and dotted with excrescences like the skin of an old toad. Hills, like warts, rose starkly from the plain, sometimes isolated, sometimes in groups. Nowhere was there rest for the eyes, no colour to break the monotony; nor would there be until the spring rains came to refresh for a little while the parched and arid soil. Across the wilderness gaunt grey hills and rock formations cast patterns of blue-black shadows. There was still an occasional village, whitened by distance and looking like a handful of toy bricks dropped by a careless child, linked by a network of wandering trails. Of human activity there was no sign. Animals were represented by small herds of what were probably sheep or goats, usually not far away from a group of palms that may have clustered round a water-hole. For the rest, there were merely areas of that hardy plant of desert countries, the camel-thorn. Everywhere lay boulders exposed by erosion.
Bertie, looking down on this inhospitable scene through his side window, found it hard to believe that this was where civilization began; where civilizations had come, had had their day and vanished long before such words as Rome and Europe had been coined; the land that had seen and made more history than any other in the world. Here had been fought the terrible prehistoric wars of extermination described in the Old Testament of the Bible. Here had flourished the great Hittite Empire. The dreaded Assyrians. The Sumerians had dominated it for fifteen hundred years, during which period they had invented the first known system of writing. Here had marched the hosts of the Medes and Persians; Alexander the Great and his conquering Greeks, Xenophon and his gallant Ten Thousand, Roman Legions... all had come and gone long before Christ was born, leaving little to mark their passage through Time. No wonder this part of the earth’s surface was called The Old World.
Biggles had told Bertie of his conversation with Professor Zorlan about Colonel Alfondari. ‘We’d better be prepared for trouble,’ he said gloomily. ‘Actually, I don’t see why there should be any as long as Alfondari will stay with the machine and not try to poke his nose into the ruins while Zorlan is there. If that should happen it will be Zorlan we shall have to keep under control. I can’t make him out, and that’s a fact. He looks all right and I feel he must be all right, but the way he talked calmly of bumping off Alfondari if he gets in the way made me go cold. I can tell you this: he’s not made of ordinary flesh and blood. He’s got acid in his veins and a lump of granite where his heart should be. He’s ruthless, a bit too ruthless for my liking, and so determined to let nothing stand in his way that I begin to wonder what he’s getting out of it.’
‘Maybe that’s why he was chosen for the job.’
‘Could be. But I’d rather work with somebody human.’
‘You can bet Alfondari will want to see what’s going on,’ asserted Bertie. ‘I wonder if he carries a gun and if he’d dare to use it if it came to a show-down.’
‘Zorlan thinks he’s certain to have a gun in his pocket, taking the view that he’d be no use as an escort without a weapon. We couldn’t very well ask him. No doubt we shall know about that soon enough. To be on the safe side we might as well have ours on us. There’s no longer any risk of them being found. You know where they are. Get them out while I have a look behind.’
While Bertie was collecting the automatics Biggles snatched a glance through the glass panel in the bulkhead door. Zorlan was reading. Alfondari was looking down from one window and Ginger from another. No one was talking.
Bertie, having got the pistols, took a look. ‘A nice cheerful party I must say,’ he observed. ‘Anyone would think we were on our way to a funeral.’
‘We might be. The thing is to take care it isn’t ours,’ returned Biggles dryly.
‘You’re a nice cheerful Jonah,’ growled Bertie.
‘I only hope Zorlan doesn’t include air pilotage with his other accomplishments.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Zorlan has no more love for us than he has for Alfondari. We’re nothing to him. He doesn’t even know us. Why should he care two hoots about what happens to us? If he’s prepared to come back without Alfondari he might be equally prepared to come back without us — that is, if he can manage the aircraft. Maybe I’m wrong. I may be doing him an injustice. I doubt if we’d ever get to know him, but of this I am sure. He’s a man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. I’m not squeamish, but as I said just now, the way he talked of getting rid of Alfondari, if he got in the way, shook me. When a man can talk casually of killing another, no matter who he may be, he’s capable of anything.’
‘He might have been talking big — bluffing. We’ve met people like that.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘He’s no bluffer. Anyway, I hope I shall never have to put it to the test.’
‘You don’t trust him?’
‘I’d prefer to reserve my opinion until we’ve seen more of him.’
‘I wonder who he really is and what he hopes to get out of this.’
‘There wouldn’t be any point in asking him. It would be easier to open an oyster with a toothpick than get to the inside of him. Still, there may be reasons for that. Our trouble is we don’t really know what we’re doing.’
‘Zorlan knows what he’s doing.’
‘I don’t doubt that. The Air Commodore may have known more than he told me. If so he must have been sworn to silence or he wouldn’t have let us fly blind into this sort of country. I fancy he had a feeling that we might run into trouble, but he may not have known where it would come from. But why talk about it? We’re in it up to the neck. The thing will have to work itself out and that shouldn’t take long now.’ Biggles looked at the watch on the instrument panel. ‘According to my E.T.A. we must be getting close.’
Shortly after this, gazing ahead, he altered course slightly. ‘I can see what could be the twin peaks of Kaelbeg Dagh,’ he observed. ‘I can also see a hump that might be our objective.’
‘Shall I tell Zorlan?’
‘Not yet. He won’t be able to see from where he’s sitting. I’ll drop off a little height as we get closer. The three columns should tell us if we’re right. If we are it will be time enough to let the others kno
w.’
‘I think you’re right,’ said Bertie, frowning into the glare. ‘I can’t see any sign of a lake, though.’
‘It will probably lie in a hollow. Or, of course, it may be dry.’
‘What about the countries ahead of us, the mountains along the horizon?’
‘According to my reckoning they should be Russian Armenia, and a bit more to starboard, Kurdistan. I imagine we wouldn’t be welcome in either.’
The aircraft, losing height, was now fast approaching an extensive mound of wind-blown sand, nearly two hundred yards in diameter, which many centuries of time had heaped over what, from the projecting ruins, had in the antediluvian period been a town. It rose like a boil on the flat face of the plain, a grim reminder of the end that awaits the works of men when the builders have had their day and gone. A few bedraggled palms, some leaning awry as if from utter weariness, their sun-dried fronds hanging uselessly like broken arms in the motionless air, clustered in groups or formed a frieze against the skyline.
Here and there a block of stone or the end of a broken column protruded from the tortured earth like tombs in an abandoned churchyard. Some trenches connecting three or four square-cut holes were obviously the work of recent excavators. But perhaps most important of all from the point of view of recognition, three Ionic columns, one still wearing its capital, stood erect as if to point accusing fingers at the heedless dome of heaven.
‘This must be the place,’ said Biggles to Bertie as, continuing to lose height, he began a circuit, the aircraft rocking in the turbulent thermals. ‘Zorlan having been here before should recognize the place. When I’ve finished a circuit, so that we’ve had a clear view from all angles, you might ask him to confirm it.’
From a height of less than a hundred feet Biggles completed his inspection. There was not much to see. The general outlines of the buildings could be traced, the old walls in one or two places rising several feet above the sand. They appeared not to have been shaken down by earthquakes, or deliberately broken down by conquering invaders, but had simply been silted up by sand carried on the prevailing wind. This was typical of many old towns and villages in the Middle East. That is to say, they were not built on a mound in the first place. The mound was formed and steadily grew higher partly from drifting sand and partly from household rubbish being dumped over the encircling wall built for defence.
‘Have a word with Zorlan,’ said Biggles. ‘You can tell him there’s nobody here. Had there been we would have seen horses or camels. At least, I can’t imagine anyone walking here.’
Bertie went aft. ‘This is it,’ he confirmed on his return. ‘Zorlan says it doesn’t matter much where you land but get in as close as possible. By gosh! Someone, Alfondari I imagine, has filled the cabin with a nice old-fashioned oriental aroma.’
‘Of what?’
‘Garlic. The place stinks. Alfondari must chew the stuff raw.’
‘Why not? It’s said to be good for the stomach, and that isn’t a modern idea.’ Biggles smiled faintly. ‘You may have forgotten that the children of Israel, on their march to the Promised Land, ratted on Moses when they ran out of onions and garlic.’
‘Ha! Then I’m not surprised it took ‘em forty years to get there.’
The subject was not pursued.
Said Biggles: ‘I’ll pull in under that group of palms on the fringe of the hump. They should give us a little shade. This sun would blister the hide of a rhino, never mind an aircraft.’ With that he brought the machine round and put the wheels down gently on the hard-packed sabkha, running on a little until he was within the trellis-like shade pattern of the palms with the nose of the aircraft pointing towards the open wilderness.
Everyone stepped out.
‘Did you have to do all that manoeuvring after we were on the ground?’ inquired Zorlan irritably.
‘I always like to park facing the way I’m going in case I find it necessary to leave in a hurry,’ returned Biggles evenly.
Ginger explained later. It appeared that when the aircraft had run to its first stop Alfondari had stood up preparatory to getting out. When it had gone on again, turning in a tight circle to bring it into the position Biggles wanted, he had lost his balance and fallen on the Professor, much to his annoyance.
However, nothing more was said. The objective was regarded in silence. It was as if everyone was waiting for somebody to say something, or do something. Ginger was conscious of a curious musty smell, as of things long dead and forgotten. It was probably imagination, but it seemed to carry with it a vague menace.
Biggles looked at Zorlan. ‘Well, here we are,’ he said abruptly, as if he found the silence embarrassing. ‘What about it? What do you want us to do?’
For several long seconds Zorlan did not answer. Looking somewhat incongruous with a portfolio in his hand in such a place, he stood gazing at the mound as if turning over a problem in his mind.
Ginger, too, had his first close look at the mound. From ground level it was a good deal more broken than it had appeared from the air. Great blocks of stone lay about at all angles. Between them wind or storm-water had cut narrow gullies. Camel-thorn, sprouting like a grey beard that had never known a razor, flourished in patches. There was no sign of life, animal or insect. The only sound was the occasional harsh scrape of a bone-dry palm frond, as if someone was using a piece of sandpaper. There was one spot of colour. Bright red it hung on the topmost branch of a straggling bush. He recognized it as a ripe pomegranate.
Zorlan turned slowly, and beckoning to Biggles took him a little way on one side. ‘Be very careful of this man Alfondari,’ he said softly.
‘You don’t trust him?’
‘I do not think he is Turkish. He speaks Turkish, but his accent is more that of a Turkoman from the Caspian coast. Do not lose sight of him.’
Biggles nodded.
‘I shall take a walk into the ruins,’ went on Zorlan. ‘It is unlikely that I shall be away long.’
‘Would you care to have something to eat, and a drink, before you go?’
‘Not now. Later perhaps. I shall get a wider view from the top of the hill.’
Biggles shrugged. ‘As you wish.’
Zorlan turned away and started off up the mound, picking his route with care.
Biggles returned to the others to find that Alfondari had fetched his suitcase from the cabin. ‘What are you going to do with that?’ he asked, in genuine surprise.
‘I may need it.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘If, as I suppose, we are to be here all night, I would rather sleep in the open than in the plane.’
‘Nobody has said anything about staying here all night,’ reminded Biggles.
‘Very well. I will leave it here.’ Alfondari stood the case at the base of a palm and started walking up the hill.
‘Where are you going?’ demanded Biggles sharply.
‘To see the ruins. I have never seen them.’
‘Stay here.’
Colonel Alfondari appeared not to have heard.
‘Come back,’ ordered Biggles, with iron in his voice.
Still Alfondari took no notice.
With his lips pressed in a hard line Biggles strode after him, put a hand on his shoulder and swung him round. ‘You heard me,’ he snapped. ‘I said stay here.’
Alfondari shook off the restraining hand. ‘You presume to give me orders?’ he said haughtily.
‘I do.’
‘I am a Turkish officer.’
‘You can be a Field Marshal for all I care. You’re not in Turkey now.’
‘What do you mean? I have my authority.’
‘You have no authority here. This is Zarat. You know that as well as I do, so don’t let’s argue about it.’
Alfondari’s dark eyes glowered. ‘This will mean explanations when you return to Ankara.’
‘You mean if we return to Ankara. Why are you so anxious to follow Professor Zorlan?’
‘It is necessary to protect h
im.’
‘From what? Against whom?’
‘In country like this there is always danger. Raiders from Kurdistan may come, or Arabs.’
‘You can leave me to deal with them. I am the captain of this aeroplane and I accept responsibility. Now come back and sit down, and let us have no more trouble.’
For some seconds Alfondari looked hard at Biggles’ face. Then his manner suddenly changed. Once more he became the suave oriental. ‘Very well. It shall be as you wish,’ he said affably, with his slow smile.
Turning, he made his way back to the aircraft, collecting his suitcase on the way. From the door of the cabin he called: ‘Do you mind if I give myself a drink?’
‘Not at all. But don’t take more than is necessary.’
Alfondari disappeared inside, taking his case with him. Biggles joined Bertie and Ginger who were sitting in the shade of a wing.
‘What do you make of that?’ asked Ginger.
‘I don’t know. Maybe he was only trying to throw his weight about. But now he’s realized that doesn’t cut any ice with me, we may not have any more bother with him. That doesn’t mean I’d trust him farther than I could see him. Zorlan tells me he thinks he isn’t a Turk.’
‘Not a Turk!’
‘He says he has the accent of a Turkoman from the Caspian.’
‘And just what would that make him?’
‘Probably a Caucasian from Georgia, which is behind the Iron Curtain. He could be a Persian.’
‘That’s a nice thought to go to bed with, I must say,’ muttered Bertie. ‘We should look a bunch of twits if it turned out we’d brought a Russian spy along with us.’
Biggles did not answer. He lit a cigarette and pushed the dead match viciously into the sand.
‘He’d certainly made up his mind to follow Zorlan,’ went on Bertie, breathing on his eyeglass and polishing it with his handkerchief.
‘What puzzles me is why he was humping that suitcase up the hill with him,’ said Ginger. ‘Is there something in it he doesn’t want us to see?’
Biggles' Special Case Page 3