The Strange Land

by Hammond Innes

  Jan nodded.

  ‘Eh bien.’ He took a battered and dusty pill-box officer’s hat from a nail on the wall and led us out through the drifting sand to his house. Like all houses in Morocco, it was built for intense heat. The floors were tiled, the walls cold, white expanses of plaster, their severity relieved by a few hand-woven rugs. There was a gramophone and some books and a small collection of brass sugar hammers, beautifully inlaid with copper and silver. When Julie admired them, he said, ‘Ah, yes. Once Foum-Skhira was famous for its silver craftsmen.’ He turned to Jan. ‘There is an old story that your Kasbah Foum was built on the site of a smelting place - for extracting silver from ore. But — ‘ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Like all these stories, it has come down by word of mouth only. Maybe it is true. Duprez excavated some old fire-places there and now there is this American…’

  He shrugged his shoulders again and took us through into his study. There was a big desk with a field telephone on it, and the walls were lined with books. Magazines, some of them American, littered the floors. On the mantelpiece were some family photographs framed in silver and above it a delightful oil painting of a Paris boulevard. He saw me looking at it and said, ‘That one I picked up in a little gallery I know on the Left Bank. It is by a man called Valere. He is not much known yet. But I think he is good. In the other room I have another by him and also one by Briffe. But this is the one I like ‘best. It is a great pleasure to sit here at my desk and look at Paris, eh? I am a Parisian, you see.’ He laughed and then turned to one of the bookshelves. ‘Regardez, monsieur.’ He pointed to a beautifully bound collection of volumes, all on art. ‘I like to look at the works of the great painters, even if I can never afford to own one. I like pictures.’ He turned abruptly away, as though he had revealed too much of himself. ‘Alors, mademoiselle. Qu’est ce que vous voulez boiret Vermouth? Cognac? I have a good cognac that I have sent out to me from France.’

  ‘I’d like a cognac then,’ Julie said. He pulled up a chair for her and then shouted for his Berber servant, who came and poured paraffin on the pile of wood in the grate so that it went up with a roar as he lit it. Legard poured us our drinks. ‘Sante!’

  ‘Sante!’

  The fire blazed with heat. The room was suddenly warm and friendly.

  ‘What is the best way for me to contact the Caid?’ Jan asked.

  ‘Ah, that is a little difficult, monsieur. I would take you myself, but…’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is as I have said - you come at a bad time. I cannot leave the Post until the food trucks arrive. I have two trucks bringing food here to these people, and they have both broken down.’ He made rude, angry noises to himself. ‘Our transport is all from the war. It works, but it needs servicing.’ He began to cough. ‘Like me,’ he said as he recovered, and he grinned at us sardonically. ‘The trouble is that everything - even the wood for the fire -has to come across the Atlas from Marrakech.’

  ‘Could you provide a guide then?’ Jan said. ‘I have to see Caid Hassan. It’s urgent.’

  Legard looked at him, frowning. ‘You have waited ten years, monsieur. What is the hurry?’ And when Jan didn’t answer, he smiled and said, ‘Ah, it is the American that is worrying you, eh? Well, he is worrying me, also.’ He leaned quickly forward. ‘Things were difficult enough here before. The date crop failed. For two years now we have what is called the Marlatt scale pest here in the palmerie. We have sprayed from the air at the time when the insect comes out to moult, but it is no good.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Then this fool arrives, paying three Arabs incredible wages to run his abominable machines. I asked him to clear the rock by hand with local labour. He refused. He did not seem to understand that the people here needed the money.’

  ‘His Arabs have left him,’ Julie said.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know.’ He had risen and was pacing up and down excitedly. ‘They departed early this morning.’ He stopped and stared at us. ‘But do you know why? Does the American say why they left?’

  ‘He said they left to get stores,’ I told him.

  ‘Pff! You do not send three indigenes to get stores when one would do.’

  ‘Maybe they were told to go,’ I suggested.

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Isn’t the Caid’s son, Ali, here in Foum-Skhira?’

  He looked at me hard. ‘How did you know that, monsieur?’

  I told him then about the visit we had had from Kostos.

  ‘Ah, oui. That man Kostos!’ He resumed his pacing. ‘Merde!’ The word burst out of him with explosive force. ‘Everything goes wrong this year.’ He swung round on his heels so that he faced me. ‘Did you see the souk when you came in and the road up the mountain?

  First the dates and then the rain. And now Ali is here.’ He started to cough again and winced, pressing his hand against his belly. He leaned on the desk for a moment and then walked slowly round to his chair, his body bent, and slumped into it. ‘Eh bien,’ he murmured, ‘my relief will arrive soon.’

  ‘You’re not well,’ Julie said.

  He looked across at her and smiled wanly, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Every year I go to Vichy to take the cure. I am late this year, that is all.’ He shouted for the house-boy who came running with a glass of water, and he drained it at a gulp.

  ‘Is it dysentery?’ Julie asked.

  He nodded. ‘Oui, mademoiselle. The amibe. With us it is an occupational disease. We do not always stay in the Posts. We have to visit all parts of the Territory, and sometimes we must drink bad water. For the indigenes it is different. They are immune. But for us…’ He shrugged his shoulders again.

  ‘About this man Ali,’ I said. ‘Can’t you arrest him? I understood…’

  ‘Oui, oui, monsieur. I can walk into the kasbah now, this morning and arrest him. But it would disturb the people, and things have been difficult here lately. Maybe when the food trucks arrive …’

  The field telephone on the desk buzzed. ‘Pardon, monsieur.’ Legard lifted the receiver. ‘Oui, mon commandant - id Legard… Oui… Oui… Oui, mon commandant….’ He looked across at us, the instrument still held against his ear, and his eyes fastened on Jan. ‘Oui. Exactement… Vraiment?’ His tone was one of astonishment. For a moment there was silence whilst he listened to the voice at the other end of the line, and then he said, ‘Je le ferai…. Non, non, Us sont justement arrives…. Oui, out, je comprends parfaitement.’ He asked about the food trucks then and after a short conversation on the subject, he nodded. ‘Oui, je le ferai… Ca va bien. Adieu, mon commandant.’ He put the receiver down slowly on to its rest. Then he stared at the three of us, a little startled, a little angry. ‘Your papers, monsieur,’ he demanded, looking at Jan and holding out his hand. When they were handed to him, he went through them slowly, glancing up every now and then as though to check that they really did relate to the man sitting opposite him.

  ‘And yours, monsieur,’ he asked, addressing me.

  He checked my passport and then he looked up at the two of us and said, ‘I regret, but I have orders to retain your papers temporarily. You are to remain in this district until you have permission to leave.’

  ‘What exactly is the trouble?’ I asked.

  ‘There is no trouble. It is solely a matter of routine.’ He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘If you require accommodation …’

  ‘We sleep in our vehicle,’ I said.

  ‘Bon. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to leave for Agdz.’

  ‘Don’t you want to see my passport?’ Julie asked.

  ‘It is not necessary, mademoiselle.’

  ‘But if it is a matter of routine.’ She held out her passport.

  ‘I repeat, mademoiselle. It is not necessary.’ He shouted for the house-boy. ‘If there is anything you require for your comfort,’ he added formally, ‘Mohammed will see that you have it.’ He indicated the Berber boy and then ordered him to escort us out.

  Disconcerted by the abruptness of his change of attitude towards us, we went without an
other word.

  Little runnels of sand had drifted under the front door despite the sacking that had been placed there. And when Mohammed opened it for us, we were met by a cold blast of wind that flung a cloud of stinging sand in our faces. We thrust our way out, too battered by the impact of the storm to think. The door closed behind us and we hesitated, huddling together for protection. The palmerie had disappeared completely. The Foreign Legion fort was no more than a vague blur in the sand-laden atmosphere. The whole surface of the ground seemed to be on the move, rustling past our feet and climbing into the air with a singing sound on each gust, swirling upwards higher than the flagstaff.

  We fought our way to the bus, hauled open the door and staggered inside.

  ‘What happened?’ Julie asked us as she got her breath back. ‘What was that phone call about?’

  ‘I think the police have discovered that Jan didn’t come straight out from England,’ I said.

  But she shook her head. ‘No, it wasn’t that. Legard is an officer of the AI, not a policeman, and Jan was a friend of Capitaine Duprez. His attitude wouldn’t change because he was in trouble with the immigration authorities.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But it would if his commandant had thrown doubt on Jan’s identity.’ I glanced at Jan. He was sitting on the berth, his head in his hands, frowning. ‘Well, what do we do now?’ I asked him.

  He lifted his head and looked at me almost in surprise. ‘We find Caid Hassan. That’s the first thing. Afterwards…’ He shrugged his shoulders a little wearily. ‘Afterwards, I don’t know. But first we’ll see the Caid. As soon as the storm is over.’

  I glanced at my watch. It was just after twelve. And at five Kostos would be at the camp again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Though we had parked in the lee of the Foreign Legion fort, the sand still found its way into the interior of the bus. I would have liked some sleep, but sleep was impossible. We just sat and watched the sand whirl past the windscreen, sifting like water over the long snout of the bonnet. A jeep passed us, battling against the swirling clouds of sand like a little mechanical toy. Legard was at the wheel, muffled in his Spahis cloak. He was driving towards the mountains.

  ‘Why did he have to go to Agdz?’ asked Jan. ‘He said he couldn’t leave the Post until the food trucks arrived.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad I haven’t got to drive through this in an open jeep,’ Julie said.

  ‘He’ll be clear of it in the mountains,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Why don’t we go to the mountains then?’

  I glanced round at her. She had her eyes closed and she looked tired. ‘We could go back into the house,’ I suggested.

  ‘No, we can’t sleep there. Besides, we need some food.’

  ‘All right. I’ll drive up to the foot of the mountains then.’ I leaned forward and pressed the starter button.

  ‘Why not go to the Kasbah Foum?’ Jan suggested.

  ‘If you like.’

  It wasn’t easy driving. Sand was sifting along the ground so thick that it was difficult to see the piste. It was like driving through a dead world. But at length the palm trees thinned, and as we climbed towards Kasbah Foum,’ the weight of the sand lessened. Soon we could see the mountains, a vague shadow looming up ahead of us like a heavy cloud formation photographed in sepia. There was the watch tower and the ruined city, and there, straight ahead of us, was the kasbah and the dark gash of the gorge.

  In that queer half-light the place looked inhospitable, almost hostile. There was a deadness about it. The tumbled graveyard of the ancient city seemed to be spilling down the hill on to the kasbah. The gorge was a yawning cavity in the mountains, remote and sinister. I glanced at Jan. Those last lines of Browning’s came into my mind: And yet dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, and blew. Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.

  I pulled up close to White’s tent and switched off the engine. The camp was deserted, but from the entrance to the gorge came the sound of a bulldozer working, carried to us faintly on the wind. ‘We’ll have some food and then you’d better get some sleep,’ I told Julie.

  As soon as we had finished lunch, Jan left us, walking quickly up the track to the gorge. To Julie and me who watched him go, he looked a small and pathetically lonely figure against the immensity of the mountains. ‘What will happen to him?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  Her hand touched my arm. ‘How deeply are you involved, Philip?’

  ‘With the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t get more than ten years,’ I said, trying to make a joke of it. But her eyes looked worried. ‘Get some sleep,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing to be done about it now.’

  She hesitated, and then she nodded and went through into her compartment of the caravan. I stretched myself out on the berth behind the driving seat and pulled a rug over me. I must have slept, for I woke up with a start to the sound of a car drawing up alongside. It was a jeep and for a moment I thought it was Legard. But then I saw there was a Berber at the wheel, and it was Kostos who climbed out of the passenger seat. He saw me and waved his podgy hand.

  ‘Lat’am. Where is Wade gone to?’

  ‘Wade?’ And then I laughed because the name sounded so odd now. I pointed up to the mouth of the gorge and he nodded and climbed back into the jeep which shot off up the track. I glanced at my watch. It was just after five. The wind had died away and all the sky over the palmerie was shot with red and gold and a soft blue violet as the sun sank.

  I pulled on my shoes and hurried up the track. The gorge was already beginning to get dark and there was a damp chill about the place. It echoed to the thunder of machines and as I rounded the base of the slide, I saw that both bulldozers were in operation. White was driving one and Jan the other, as though they had settled their differences and gone into partnership.

  The jeep was parked close to the point where the rubble was being tipped into the water. Beside it stood Kostos and the Berber driver. The Berber, in his white djellaba with the hood drawn up over his head, seemed so natural, so much a part of the scene, that he emphasized the incongruity of the European in his crumpled suit and the great, blundering machines. Every time Jan’s bulldozer rumbled past him, Kostos moved forward, shouting and gesticulating in his endeavour to make himself heard above the roar of the diesel engine. As I came up, Jan stopped and switched off his engine. Seeing this, White stopped his engine, too, and in the sudden silence the Greek’s voice, raised to a scream to make himself heard, was like the cry of some wild bird.

  ‘… do not stop, we will leave at once, do you hear?’ Kostos was waving his plump hands and his face was red with the effort of shouting. It was rather comic.

  And then I saw that the Berber standing beside him was Ali d’Es-Skhira.

  ‘We would like to talk to you privately,’ Kostos said.

  ‘Anything you have to say, you can say to me here,’ Jan answered.

  Kostos hesitated, glancing quickly round at White and myself. The movements of his head were jerky. ‘Well, what have you decided?’ His voice sounded small and peevish against the silence of rock and cliff and water.

  Jan didn’t say anything. He stared down at Kostos from his seat at the bulldozer, and his gaze shifted to Ali. The only sound was the soft tinkle of water seeping through rock.

  ‘Come on now,’ Kostos said. ‘You make your mind up, eh?’

  ‘I’ve made up my mind. The answer is No.’

  Ali took Kostos by the arm and they conferred together in a whisper. And all the time Ali was looking at Jan. Finally he spoke to him in French. ‘You are not the man I am expecting to meet here.’

  ‘No,’ Jan said. ‘He’s dead.’

  Ali nodded his head. His face showed no surprise. ‘But you have the deeds of Kasbah Foum?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Again Kostos and Ali conferred together. ‘C’est fa.’ Ali nodded and folded his hands in the sleeves of his djellaba. ‘My friend says
that the original offer still stands,’ Kostos announced. ‘For the papers, five hundred thousand francs.’

  There was a silence. Nobody moved, nobody said anything. It was like a tableau. Then Ali turned his head slowly and gazed at the cliff face, now rapidly being cleared of debris. His features were impassive. Only his eyes betrayed his interest. They were dark and brown, but they gleamed in the fading light.

  He glanced at Jan, staring at him as though to imprint the shape of his face on his mind. Then he turned without a word and climbed into a jeep. Kostos hesitated, looking from one to the other of us uncertainly. He seemed nervous, almost reluctant to leave. He was a European, and I suddenly got the impression he was uneasy. Then he turned, ducking his head in a quick, awkward movement, and scuttled back to the jeep, his thin-soled shoes making a frail, scraping sound on the rocks. The jeep drove off and we watched it go, not moving or speaking until the sound of it died away and was lost in the stillness.

  ‘He. knows now,’ Jan said to me.

  I nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The wind has dropped, hasn’t it?’ His voice trembled slightly. ‘I think we should try and see the Caid right away.’

  ‘We should have gone before,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Of course. But it seemed a pity that this bulldozer should not be operating. And we’re so close to the entrance now.’ There was warmth and excitement in his voice again. ‘White doesn’t know the exact location of the entrance. But I do. Marcel gave me bearings. Another two days’ work …’ He stopped there, his excitement damped by my silence. ‘What’s the matter, Philip? You’re worried about Ali. Is that it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s a pity we didn’t see the Caid this afternoon. So long as Ali thought you were Wade, there was no reason for him to oppose the visit. But now … it may be dangerous.’