‘As you predicted, his papers appear to be in order,’ he said. ‘But that means nothing. It was lucky you found him using the radio when you did. Had he concealed the instrument, and himself, in the ruins, no doubt he would have spoken to the pilot of that plane. As things are, if the pilot didn’t see us, he may have decided we were not here.’
‘The immediate question is this: it will be dark in a few minutes. Assuming you intend to stay here, what are we going to do with Alfondari during the hours of darkness?’
‘Can he do any more harm?’
‘He might. He could slip away and hide in the ruins, pending the arrival of some of his friends. He might even try sniping at us if we went to look for him. He might damage the aircraft with the object of grounding us here.’
‘Then he will have to be watched. For my part I must stay here for some days if necessary. This operation has taken a long time to arrange and it would be a pity to ruin it by impatience.’
For a few seconds the sun appeared to remain poised on the distant peaks, flooding the world with streaming crimson and extending the shadows of the palms far out across the wilderness, where the fronds, intertwining, created fantastic patterns; then it sank into the earth and night, sullen and menacing, took possession of the land.
‘It’s not going to be easy to watch Alfondari in this darkness,’ stated Biggles uncomfortably.
‘You’ll hear him if he moves. The moon will rise presently. That should make the task easier.’
‘My chief concern is the aircraft,’ returned Biggles. He touched Ginger on the knee. ‘Go and sit in the doorway of the cabin. You won’t be able to see much until the moon comes up, but you should hear Alfondari if he comes near. Bertie can relieve you later.’
‘Right.’ Ginger moved off.
Some time passed in a silence that was profound, a hush so intense that all life on earth might have died. Then, to Biggles’ relief, the silver orb of the moon floated up like a great shining bubble rising from a sea of black water. Its light, falling on a million pebbles lying on the face of the desert, set them glistening like gems. Alfondari was revealed still squatting hunched like a toad with his head sunk into arms folded across his knees. Zorlan lay stretched out, apparently asleep, or trying to sleep. Ginger sat on the cabin step facing Alfondari. Bertie sat beside Biggles, eyes brooding on the scene.
Time, regardless of the affairs of men, moved on. The moon soared majestically across its allotted course through a sky now ablaze with stars, each constellation playing the part assigned to it in a mighty scheme of creation beyond the understanding of mortals.
Biggles sent Bertie to relieve Ginger. ‘Wake me in two hours,’ he ordered.
CHAPTER 5
THE ENEMY STRIKES
TOWARDS dawn, when the sand and stones of the wilderness had given up the heat they had absorbed during the day, the thin air turned bitterly cold, so cold that only those who have experienced the shock of a drop in temperature of perhaps ninety degrees between sunset and sunrise can believe possible. Biggles, on guard, his teeth chattering, turned up his collar and tucked his hands into his arm-pits. Ginger, lying nearby, tried to snuggle deeper into the sand in a futile search for warmth. For the rest, the scene had remained unchanged, but the sleepers were now moving uneasily as the penetrating cold bit into their bones.
Ginger opened his eyes. ‘Give me strength,’ he moaned. ‘This is murder.’ He raised himself on an elbow. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alfondari?’
‘He hasn’t moved.’
‘That surprises me.’
‘It surprises me. Apparently he still has reasons for staying with us.’
The stars were fast losing their brilliance, and as the rustle of dry palm fronds as the dawn-wind caressed them Biggles got up stiffly and stretched his muscles. ‘I’ll brew some coffee,’ he said, and walking to the aircraft disappeared inside. By the time he reappeared, to announce that coffee was ready for anyone who wanted it, another day was being born in a riot of colour that made the sky look as if a madman had been at work with a box of paints.
There was a general movement towards the aircraft. Only Alfondari remained seated.
‘If you want some breakfast come and get it,’ called Biggles. ‘I’m not going to wait on you.’
Alfondari rose to his feet and came over. From the door Biggles handed him a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits. Alfondari took them, having of course to use both hands. As Biggles released them he put a hand in Alfondari’s pocket and took out a small automatic. ‘I don’t think you’ll need this,’ he said quietly. ‘Leave it with me until we get home in case you’re tempted to do something stupid.’ It was all done in two seconds of time. Strangely, perhaps, Alfondari made no attempt to prevent this, although with both hands occupied he could only have resisted by dropping his breakfast.
But his dark eyes, as they met Biggles’, were heavy with reproach. ‘You think I’m a spy,’ he said softly.
‘I have every reason to think so,’ returned Biggles coolly.
‘What about Zorlan?’
‘What about him?’
‘Isn’t he a spy?’
‘Maybe we’re all spies if it comes to that,’ parried Biggles.
‘Have you taken his pistol?’
‘Assuming he carries one, no.’
‘Why not? What is the difference between us?’
‘He and I happen to be on the same side.’
‘I would not be too sure of that,’ replied Alfondari, darkly.
‘Meaning what?’
‘He has only one side — his own.’ With that Alfondari walked back to his tree, leaving Biggles to ponder, somewhat uneasily, the implied accusation.
‘What was that about?’ asked Zorlan, when Biggles joined him on a little hillock that commanded a view of the eastern desert.
‘I took his pistol.’
‘Why?’
‘He could have done some mischief with it. One bullet in the aircraft, in a fuel tank for instance, could keep us grounded here.’
‘Did he object?’
‘Not seriously. I had taken it before he realized what was happening. Anyhow, I feel more comfortable with that gun in my own pocket. What are you going to do?’
‘Wait. There’s nothing else we can do.’
Biggles went back to Bertie and Ginger. ‘On your feet,’ he requested. ‘We might as well be doing something. Now the shadows are falling the other way it might be a good thing to pile a bit more camouflage on the aircraft in case that MIG comes back for another look round.’
Bertie looked up. ‘You really think it will?’
‘I’d bet on it. We’ve been warned. I’d say from now on someone is going to keep this pile of dust and rocks under observation.’
For half an hour they busied themselves on the machine, making it difficult, if not impossible, to be seen from above. The work was stopped by a call from Zorlan.
‘I think I see my friends coming,’ he said, as Biggles made haste to join him. He pointed. Far out in the desert there was a little cloud of dust.
‘How do you know they’re the right people?’ asked Biggles dubiously.
‘If they were enemies they would be in greater force. Moreover, as you see, they are approaching openly.’
Biggles shrugged. ‘If you’re satisfied I shall have to be.’
Zorlan picked up his portfolio, without which he never moved, and started off up the mound. ‘I shall be waiting for them when they arrive. The business should not take long.’
Biggles beckoned to Bertie and Ginger. Watching, presently they were able to make out five horsemen riding at a sharp canter.
Said Biggles, without enthusiasm: ‘Zorlan seems to think this is what we’ve been waiting for. I hope he’s right, because if he is it means we should soon be away from here. The more I see of this dump the less I like it. Keep an eye on Alfondari.’
However, Alfondari made no attempt to move as the little ca
valcade came on, slowing its pace as it drew near, and finally, at a walk, disappeared from sight beyond the curve of the mound. What happened after that was not known, but it was presumed that contact had been made with Zorlan and a conference of some sort was now taking place.
The best part of half an hour passed without any change in the situation and Biggles was beginning to show signs of impatience, for he still feared the return of the MIG which he could only regard as hostile, when there occurred an interruption from an unexpected quarter. He stopped in his stride facing east when faintly through the thin air came the drone of an aircraft. The others got up and stared in the same direction.
After a long pause he said: ‘Can you see him?’
‘I can’t,’ answered Bertie.
‘Nor me,’ murmured Ginger. ‘But I can tell you this,’ he added. ‘That isn’t a MIG. It’s a piston-engined job.’
Biggles’ eyes were now searching other points of the compass. They stopped facing north-west. ‘There he is,’ he said. ‘He’s coming towards us dead on so it can only mean he’s coming here. Now what? I’d bet my boots this means trouble.’
‘Why should it?’ queried Ginger. ‘We’re in order in being here.’
‘For what possible reason would a machine come to this out-of-the-way dump unless it had business with us? We’re nowhere near a regular route. If someone’s coming to see us it won’t be to bring good news.’
It could now be seen that the fast-approaching machine was a twin-engined high-wing monoplane.
‘Anyone know the type?’ asked Biggles. ‘I don’t remember seeing those square-cut wing tips before.’
Neither Ginger nor Bertie could supply the information.
All they could do was stand still while the plane came on, losing height, with the hill obviously its objective. After a quick reconnaissance it landed and ran to a stop as close as it could conveniently get, a matter of twenty to thirty yards. Guns projecting from the leading edge of the wings showed it to be a military type.
Biggles took a deep breath of relief when it came broadside on to reveal the identification marks of the Turkish Air Force: a plain red square on the fuselage with a white crescent and star against a red background on the fin. ‘I wonder what brings him here,’ he murmured in a puzzled voice. ‘Actually, unless he has a visa for Zarat he has no right to land here.’
‘He may be having engine trouble, or perhaps lost his way,’ suggested Ginger.
‘I doubt it. He didn’t act like that.’
The explanation was soon forthcoming. Two men, officers judging from their uniforms, got out, leaving the motors ticking over. One stayed by the machine; the other advanced. There was nothing aggressive in his manner.
Reaching the spectators he saluted smartly. ‘Captain Bigglesworth?’ he queried.
Biggles took a pace forward. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I am from the Turkish Intelligence Service at Ankara,’ was the answer, in fair English but with a marked accent. ‘I believe you have in your expedition a certain Colonel Alfondari. You picked him up on the airport at Ankara.’
Biggles smiled. ‘It would be more correct to say he picked us up. He informed us that he had been detailed by the Turkish authorities to act as our escort. Naturally, being in no position to dispute this, we accepted him.’
The officer smiled cynically. ‘Did it not occur to you that he might be a spy?’
‘At the time, no. Why should anyone want to spy on us?’
The officer shrugged. ‘No matter. We have come to take him away. We had been watching him, but he escaped us. We made inquiries and learned that he had been seen to get in your plane just before it took off. Where is he?’
Biggles pointed to where Alfondari, who through all this had not moved, sat under his tree. ‘There he is. I’m sorry if in some way—’
The officer brushed the apology aside. ‘You are not to blame. We will take him away and see that he does not trouble you again. Good morning.’ Another salute and the speaker strode purposefully towards Alfondari. Reaching him he spoke sharply. Alfondari got up, and after a short conversation the two of them walked to the aircraft. They got in. The pilot climbed back into his cockpit. The engines were revved up. The machine turned, raising a great cloud of dust; then it was away, heading in the direction from which it had come.
‘What about that, eh?’ chuckled Bertie. ‘So we’re rid of Alfondari. Jolly good. These jolly old Turks are smart on the job, what?’
Biggles was watching the aircraft. He did not answer. He was not smiling.
Bertie looked at him curiously. ‘Something wrong, old boy?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Biggles, slowly and pensively. ‘But the thought has just struck me that we may have been taken for a jaunt up the garden path.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Things may not be quite what they seem.’
‘Such as?’
‘How do we know that aircraft was Turkish, or that fellow was what he pretended to be — a Turkish officer?’
‘With those markings the machine couldn’t be anything else but Turkish.’
‘Couldn’t it? Anyone can slap some paint on any aircraft.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘I may be getting a bit slow on the uptake, but now I’ve had time to think a feeling grows on me that neither that machine nor its crew were what they appeared to be. I have a suspicion they were pals of Alfondari, sent here to pick him up.’
‘For crying out loud!’ exclaimed Ginger. ‘What put that idea in your head?’
‘Several things, none of them significant in itself but taken together add up to something I can’t ignore. To start with, Alfondari showed no surprise, and certainly no alarm, when that aircraft landed. Why? He must have seen the Turkish markings. If he was a fraud, pretending to be Turkish, surely that would have worried him. Why didn’t it? Was it because he expected someone to come and take him home — wherever that might be? He knew we suspected him of being a spy, yet he sat here as quiet as a lamb. He knew there was no need for him to do anything. He went off without the slightest protest. If I’m right he must now be laughing at the way we were taken in. There was nothing we could have done about it even if we had suspected this earlier. We couldn’t have prevented the machine from leaving. As you must have noticed, the pilot never left it.’
‘We could have prevented it from taking Alfondari,’ said Bertie.
‘By resorting to force, perhaps, which would probably have meant a shooting match. What would have been the sense of that? We don’t want Alfondari. I’m glad to be rid of him. He’d become a responsibility. Don’t overlook the fact that the aircraft carried guns. The men with it must have seen our machine when they were on the ground. We should have looked silly had they taken off and shot it to pieces from the air. Taking it all by and large I think we’re better off as things are.’
Ginger spoke. ‘There was no need for Alfondari to stay with us any longer. He knows what’s going on here, or as much as he’s ever likely to know. He did what he came to do and it looks as if he’s got away with it. It’s my guess that the people behind him knew something had gone wrong with their plan. Look at it like this. They must have known Alfondari had a radio transmitter. That being so they’d be sitting on the right wave-length waiting for his signals. They started to come through. Then, suddenly, they cut out. Moreover, they were not resumed. Why? The answer’s pretty obvious. We had spotted what Alfondari was up to and put a stop to it. That, in fact, is exactly what did happen. It follows that once we’d realized our passenger was a spy, there would be no point in leaving him here. No more signals could be expected, but if he could be brought home he’d be able to talk. So a plane was sent to pick him up. Once it gets to its base Alfondari will be able to do all the talking he would no doubt have done from here had we not silenced his radio. I’d say it’s as simple as that.’
Biggles nodded gloomily, his eyes still on the aircraft under discussion, now a f
ast-fading speck in the sky. ‘That’s about the English of it. The course that plane is on won’t take it to Ankara, or anywhere near it. We may be wrong, but if we’re right we should soon know all about it. The devil of it is, Alfondari knows the people Zorlan came here to meet are here at this very moment. We can reckon the machine he’s in is equipped with radio. You realize what that means. He has only to send a signal to his headquarters and this hump of dirt we’re sitting on will be about as healthy as a dynamite factory that’s just caught fire. It looks as if the ruins of Quarda are due for a bit more knocking about.’
‘Then it’s time we were on our way,’ said Bertie brightly.
‘We can’t go without Zorlan. What the deuce is he doing? He behaves as if time didn’t matter.’
‘If he knew what had happened here he might be persuaded to step out a bit faster,’ suggested Ginger.
‘Probably. Our orders were to stay here, but in the circumstances I think he should be told what has happened. It could affect the entire transaction — whatever that might be. Ginger, hoof it to the top of the hill and see if you can spot him. If you can find him tell him what goes on.’
‘Right.’ Ginger set off up the hill at a run, dodging the obstacles.
The others watched him. Once or twice he disappeared from sight behind masses of old masonry, but for a moment near the top he stood in plain view. There he stopped, staring towards the east. Then he looked down at them, arm outstretched, pointing in the same direction. He followed this by making a signal that was not understood except that it indicated urgency. His voice reached them faintly, but what he called was heard neither by Biggles nor Bertie, for at that moment a slight breeze was stirring the palm fronds causing them to rustle harshly; and, of course, the nearer sounds drowned the more distant one.
‘What do you make of that?’ muttered Biggles, as Ginger appeared to dive over a ridge.
‘I’d say he’s spotted Zorlan. What else could it mean? It’s a bit soon to expect trouble.’
Biggles' Special Case Page 5