by W E Johns
‘Not everything.’
‘Too bad. There’s nothing I can do about it.’
‘It struck me you might use your influence with him.’
‘What leads you to suppose I have any influence?’
‘He seems to have taken a liking to you.’
‘And so?’
‘It occurred to me that if you could induce him to put his name to the one outstanding document, we need waste no more time here. We could start for home as soon as the plane returns.’
‘It makes no difference to me how long I stay here.’
‘It might.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I have made no secret that I shall collect a substantial reward for my services. The sheikh is coming back here in the morning. I have the papers. Every hour we spend here is dangerous. If you could hasten our departure by getting the sheikh to sign the final document I would make it worth your while.’
‘What have you in mind?’
‘Shall we say a hundred pounds?’
Biggles nearly laughed out loud. Here was a man playing for a stake of millions, yet unable to find it in his heart to offer a bribe of more than a paltry hundred pounds. However, he kept his reactions under control.
‘No thank you,’ he said. ‘In the first place, the sheikh, having no reason to take my word for anything, would probably refuse to sign. Secondly, I have always made it a rule to keep out of political issues such as this. I’m employed to fly aeroplanes, not juggle with matters that are outside my official duties.’
‘Would five hundred pounds tempt you?’
‘No, it would not. When I make a rule I stick to it. Whatever you want from the sheikh you’ll have to get yourself.’
Another long pause. ‘Of course, his hand could always be forced,’ said Zorlan reflectively.
‘Forced? How?’
‘We have a ready-made hostage here.’
‘Hostage?’ For a second Biggles did not cotton on. Then the penny dropped. ‘You’re not talking about the girl?’ he exclaimed incredulously.
‘Who else?’
‘Great heavens, man! Are you out of your mind?’
Zorlan mumbled: ‘I shall have to do something.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t try anything like that,’ countered Biggles frigidly. ‘With those guards handy you’re liable to lose your head, and I mean that literally. I wouldn’t stand for it, anyway. And now, if that’s all you have to say, I’ll try to get some sleep while things are quiet,’
Zorlan got up and without another word walked away. With calculating eyes, Biggles watched him go. He had always known the man was unscrupulous, but not to the extent he had just revealed. Strangely, perhaps, it had never occurred to him that Zorlan might try to bribe him, and the fact that he had attempted to do so was an indication of the desperation to which he had been driven. Any lingering doubts Biggles may have had about the authenticity of the vital document — vital, that is, for Zorlan — were now banished.
One factor that puzzled him was, how could it have happened that a man of Zorlan’s character had been entrusted with such an important mission? He had always supposed him to be a professional agent. Had he been mistaken? Was Zorlan in fact a private individual who had been chosen for his knowledge of the country and the local languages? It was even possible that he had plotted the whole thing from the beginning in the hope of making an easy fortune. Either way, it was now clear that he had a dishonest streak in his make-up. What he was trying to do was inexcusable, for it could wreck the plans of the people who had trusted him and were apparently paying him well for his errand. What he had just proposed might even start a war between friendly nations.
With such sombre thoughts to occupy his mind, Biggles made his way to the spot where he had previously slept and settled down to pass the night as comfortably as circumstances permitted.
Sleep did not come easily. After what Zorlan had just said, he was less confident about the immediate future than he had been. He wondered how far the man would go to secure the fortune he had plotted to get. Thwarted, angry and desperate, now that he saw the probability of it slipping from his grasp, there might be no limit to his villainy.
CHAPTER 11
BIGGLES GETS TOUGH
BIGGLES did not sleep well. Lying on his back gazing at the stars, it was a long time before he went to sleep at all, and then for a while slumber was light and intermittent. Odd memories recurred to him, as so often happens in a wakeful night. The strange remark Alfondari had made when he had taken his pistol from him. Speaking of Zorlan, what was it he had said? ‘He’s only on one side — his own.’ Or something to that effect. It now seemed that he had been right. Had this vague warning been mere guesswork, a shot in the dark, or had he known something? It was no use wondering about that now, but it was a disturbing thought.
Towards dawn, when he had dropped off to sleep more heavily, he was awakened by the penetrating cold that chilled his very bones. As it was futile to try to sleep in such conditions he sat up, and looking at his watch saw that it was nearly five o’clock. He lit a cigarette and settled down to wait for whatever sunrise might bring. Looking around in the now failing moonlight, he located the position of the palm-shelter by two guards who stood like statues, hands resting on the muzzles of their rifles, the butts on the ground. He could not see Zorlan. Apparently he had withdrawn to some corner of his own.
Squatting hunched up, he listened impatiently for the first sounds of the returning aircraft. Unshaven, teeth unbrushed, hair uncombed, feeling generally scruffy, he wished he had removed his toilet things from the machine. At the time of its departure it had not seemed important.
His satisfaction was therefore great when before very long, with the stars dying one by one, a distant drone reached his ears. It came nearer. His eyes searched the sky in the direction from which it was approaching, but he could see nothing. Not that he expected to, because it seemed unlikely the Merlin would be showing navigation lights. Collecting some dry palm fronds ready to light a fire, he waited for the recognition signal that had been arranged. It did not come. Breaking off from what he was doing, he stared upward, frowning, suddenly conscious of misgivings. The aircraft was not losing height, as was to be expected. The drone remained constant, passing directly overhead. With something of a shock he realized the engines were not those of the Merlin. They had a deeper beat. They were certainly not jets, so MIGs could be ruled out. What, then? The drone began to recede.
Baffled and disappointed, Biggles walked to his broken column to think the matter over. All he could be sure of was the undeniable fact that a plane, a heavy type, had passed overhead. What it was doing there or where it could be going so far from any regular route he could not imagine. There was no reason to suppose that its business had anything to do with him; but as it was not showing lights, which was significant, he could not shake off an uneasy feeling that it was in some way involved in the affairs of Zarat.
He was not surprised when Zorlan appeared and asked sharply: ‘Why hasn’t the plane landed?’
‘The plane you heard was not ours,’ answered Biggles.
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘It happens that my job is aviation.’
‘If the plane was not ours what do you suppose it was and what could it be doing here?’
‘I haven’t the remotest idea. Your guess would be as good as mine. We’ve already had proof that my machine is not the only one operating in the district.’
‘Could it have been a MIG?’
‘No. I can assure you of that.’
Zorlan said no more. He waited for a minute or two and then strode away.
Biggles was content to see him go. He was not in the mood for questions. He fetched and drank a bottle of soda water, munching a biscuit with it.
The sky was now lightening in the first rays of a colourful dawn and it was not long before he heard the soun
d he so anxiously awaited. This time there was no mistake. It was the Merlin. It came on, losing height, wheels down, to circle the hill before making a good landing. As it taxied to its old position Biggles walked to meet it. The engines died. Bertie stepped down.
‘How did you get on?’ asked Biggles tersely, as Ginger joined them.
‘All right. No trouble, no trouble at all, old boy. Tanks topped up. I spoke to the Air Commodore. Told him the lot. Took a bit of time. He had to speak to someone else.’
‘What did he say? Out with it.’
‘You were right — all along the line. Zorlan has no authority whatsoever to ask the sheikh to sign anything except the official documents that were handed to him in London. There was nothing in them about him getting a share of the oil, or anything else. When I mentioned seven per cent the chief nearly choked. Zorlan did the job for a fee. He’s had half of it. The arrangement was the other half would be paid when he got back.’
‘Did the chief say what I’m to do?’
‘He certainly did — and how. You’re to take charge, relieving Zorlan of all the papers. Please yourself about how you do it. Use your initiative about how you get home with them.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Practically. He suggested it would be a good thing to burn the paper about the seven per cent to make sure it doesn’t fall into wrong hands.’
‘Did you tell him the others had been signed?’
‘I said I thought so. Naturally we hadn’t seen them; but you’d spoken to the sheikh and we’d also been to Rasal al Sharab.’
‘Good. Thanks, Bertie. You’ve done a good job. Now we know just how we stand. Was anything said about what we were to do with Zorlan?’
‘No. I imagine it’s supposed we shall bring him home with us to collect the other half of his commission. Nothing was said about cancelling it. We couldn’t very well leave him stranded here.’
Biggles looked dubious. ‘The sheikh may have something to say about that when he learns that Zorlan tried to work a swindle on him.’
‘Do you have to tell him?’
‘He’s bound to ask; and we can’t push off without another word with him. He may be relying on us to fly his fiancée to Suwara. He said he’d be back early, so we can expect him any time now. If he doesn’t want us for anything there’s no reason why we shouldn’t head for home.’
‘He must have spent most of the night in the saddle.’
‘That’s his affair. He appeared to see no difficulty about it. By the way, did you see or hear anything of another aircraft near here?’
‘No. Why?’
‘A machine passed over a little while ago. I thought it was you, but it went right on.’
‘How are you going to get these papers from Zorlan?’ asked Ginger.
‘Ask him for them. It’s no use mincing words at this stage.’
‘And if he refuses to hand them over?’
‘I shall take them.’
‘If I’m any judge he’ll cut up rough.’
‘He can cut up as rough as he likes. When I tell him the game’s up, if he’s wise he’ll pack it in. What else can he do? Fight the lot of us? Damage the plane and get himself stuck here? Don’t worry. Whatever he tries on we should be able to handle it. I’m taking those papers home. That’s definite.’
‘Here he comes now, complete with portfolio,’ resumed Bertie. ‘He must be wondering what all this nattering is about.’
‘Okay. Stand by for trouble if that’s how he wants it.’
‘What if he pulls a gun?’
‘I’ve got one. So have you.’
Zorlan came up. ‘What’s the news?’ he inquired, looking from one to the other. His eyes came to rest on Biggles.
‘The news, Professor Zorlan, is this. I must ask you to hand over that portfolio.’
It was evident this demand came as a shock. Zorlan took a pace back. ‘I shall do nothing of the sort.’
‘If you won’t give it to me I shall have to take it.’
‘What right have you to talk like this to me?’
‘I have received fresh orders from London. I am now in charge of the operation.’
‘So that’s where the plane has been,’ sneered Zorlan.
‘No matter where it’s been, it’s been far enough. You don’t need me to go into details, but your scheme is known and it’s all washed up. I’m putting the matter to you fairly and squarely in the hope you’ll have the good sense not to make a fuss.’
‘This portfolio is my personal property and neither you nor anyone else has any right to touch it!’ exclaimed Zorlan with a show of indignation.
Biggles went on dispassionately. ‘The case may be yours, but the papers in it are not. You can have the case back when I’ve taken out certain papers it contains.’
Zorlan’s face had turned pale. That was something beyond his control. The same with the malice in his eyes. ‘What do you expect to find?’
‘That sort of bluff won’t help you. In particular I want the document the sheikh refused to sign, the one that would have given you an outrageous share in his oil profits.’
‘Ah! So he told you.’
‘Of course he did. He’s not a fool. He has every right to safeguard his interests. He asked me to check with London and I have done so. You know as well as I do, now, that you had no right to ask the sheikh to put his name to any document other than those that were given to you to present to him.’
‘What are you going to do with it?’
‘Burn it. It’s no use to you, anyhow. The sheikh won’t sign it. I shall tell him not to.’
Zorlan’s usually imperturbable face was a picture of hate and chagrin.
Biggles put out a hand. ‘The case, please.’
Zorlan took another pace back. He whipped out an automatic. ‘Try to take it from me at your peril,’ he grated.
Biggles shook his head sadly. ‘I thought you were an intelligent man, but now you’re behaving like a fool. What do you hope to gain by this nonsense? You can’t get away from here. When the sheikh comes, and he should be here any minute now, and I tell him the facts, it’s likely that he will have something to say. You may find him less tolerant than I am trying to be — particularly if I mention you had the lunatic idea of seizing his fiancée as a hostage. Use your head and save yourself worse trouble. Give me that case and I’ll undertake to fly you back to London or, if you wish, drop you off at any intermediate airport on the way.’
As he finished Biggles stepped forward and took the portfolio from Zorlan’s hand. Zorlan did not resist. ‘You can put that pistol away,’ advised Biggles.
The case was locked.
Again Biggles put out a hand. ‘The key, please.’
Zorlan handed it over.
Biggles unlocked the case, ran through the documents until he found the one he wanted. He passed it to Bertie. ‘Put a match to that.’
Bertie held it up and set fire to one corner. Nobody moved or spoke while the flame consumed it. The black ash dropped to the ground.
‘Now you’ve got what you wanted you will let me have the rest of the papers,’ said Zorlan sourly.
‘Certainly not.’
‘Why not?’
‘As you no longer enjoy the confidence of my government, my orders are to hold them in safe custody until I can return them to London.’ Biggles handed back the empty portfolio. The packet of papers, too bulky to go into his pocket, he gave to Bertie. ‘Put those in a safe place in the machine.’
Zorlan again looked from one to the other. He found no sympathy. ‘Very well,’ he said icily. ‘But let me tell you something. This isn’t the end.’
‘It is as far as I’m concerned.’
‘That’s what you may think.’
‘Any more of that sort of talk and I shall think twice about taking you home,’ promised Biggles sternly. ‘You’re not quite out of the wood yourself, if it comes to that.’
Zorlan turned abruptly and strode away.
‘Tak
e his gun,’ urged Ginger.
Biggles shrugged. ‘We’ve done enough. Let him go and think it over.’ He looked up at the sky, now turning egg-shell blue with the near approach of day. ‘I’ll take a walk up the hill to see if there’s any sign of the sheikh. I shall be more than ever glad to see the end of this disagreeable business.’
‘Hark!’ said Ginger.
Biggles, who was walking away, stopped. ‘Damnation take it,’ he muttered savagely.
From a long way off came the unmistakable growl of aero engines.
CHAPTER 12
THE BATTLE OF QUARDA
FOR perhaps ten seconds no one spoke. They all stood rigid, listening intently.
‘It’s coming this way,’ said Ginger.
‘It isn’t a MIG,’ stated Bertie.
‘Whatever it is it’s coming from the east, which means it’ll be no friend of ours,’ prophesied Biggles. ‘It may be that machine I heard come over half an hour ago, going home. Let’s have a look.’
They hurried round the base of the hill to a spot where the view eastward was not interrupted by trees or the rising ground.
‘There it is,’ observed Biggles, coming to a halt. ‘A four engined job.’
‘It’s dead on course for us,’ said Bertie.
‘Yes, and I don’t like it. That’s a military type. What’s it doing here? I smell mischief.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘What can we do?’
‘We could chuck some camouflage over the Merlin,’ suggested Ginger.
‘Hold hard a minute,’ returned Biggles. ‘Before we get in a flap we’d better wait to see if this is the objective. It’s holding its altitude, so it might be going right over. If it intended coming down here it would be losing height by now.’
‘Machine guns won’t do much damage from where it is,’ declared Ginger optimistically.
‘That doesn’t mean it may not use heavier stuff.’
‘Bombs?’
‘Could be.’ Biggles’ eyes were still on the approaching aircraft. ‘It looks mighty like a bomber type.’ He lowered his eyes to scan the desert. ‘Where the devil’s the sheikh? He should have been here before this.’