Flyaway / Windfall

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘Christ!’ I said. ‘What is there to burn?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ He fumbled in the leather pouch which depended from a cord around his neck and took out a prismatic compass. He looked at me and said with a grin, ‘I’m not against all scientific advance. Mokhtar, down there, thinks I’m a genius the way I find my way around.’ He put the compass to his eye to take a sight.

  ‘How far away?’

  ‘Don’t know that, either. They say it was a column of smoke—black smoke.’

  ‘In the daytime?’

  There was astonishment in Byrne’s eyes as he looked at me. ‘Sure; how the hell else could they see smoke?’

  ‘I was thinking about the Bible,’ I said. ‘The Israelites in the wilderness, guided by a pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve got that right,’ he said mildly. ‘I read it as a pillar of cloud.’ He turned back to take another sight. ‘But I guess we’d better take a look. I make it just about due north of here, on a compass bearing. I don’t bother none about magnetic variation, not on a short run.’

  ‘What do you call short?’

  ‘Anything up to fifty kilometres. Magnetic deviation is another thing. These goddamn hills are full of iron and you’ve got to check your compass bearing by the sun all the time.’

  He put the compass away, and from another bag he took a couple of small packages which he gave to the two men. There was a ceremonial leave-taking, and he said, ‘Salt and tobacco. In these parts you pay for what you get.’

  As we set off down the steep path I said, ‘There is something that’s been puzzling me.’

  Byrne grunted. ‘Hell of a lot of things puzzle me, too, from time to time. What’s your problem?’

  ‘That veil of yours. I know it’s Tuareg dress, but sometimes you muffle yourself up to the bloody eyebrows and other times you don’t bother. For instance, you didn’t bother up there; you let them see your face. I don’t understand the rationale.’

  Byrne stopped. ‘Still on your anthropological kick, huh? Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s the politeness of the country. If you’re in a place and you don’t do as everybody does in that place, you could get yourself very dead. Take a Targui and set him in the middle of London. If he didn’t know he had to cross the street in a special place, and only when the light is green, he could get killed. Right?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Byrne touched his head cloth. ‘This thing is a chech; it’s a substitute for the real thing, which is a tagelmoust, but you don’t see many of those around except on high days and holidays. They’re very precious. Now, nobody knows why the Tuareg wear the veil. I don’t know; the anthropologists don’t know; the Tuareg don’t know. I wear mine because it’s handy for keeping the dust out of my throat and keeps a high humidity in the sinuses on a dry day. It also cuts down water loss from the body.’

  He sat down on a convenient rock and pointed downwards. ‘You’ve seen Mokhtar’s face?’

  ‘Yes. He doesn’t seem to bother about me seeing it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t—he’s a noble of the Kel Rela,’ said Byrne cryptically. ‘Society here is highly class-structured and a ceremonial has grown up around the veil. It’s polite to hide your face from your superiors and, to a lesser extent, from your equals. If Mokhtar met the Amenokal you’d see nothing of him except his eyelashes.’

  He jerked his thumb upwards. ‘Now, those guys up there are Haratin, and the Haratin were here thousands of years ago, long before the Tuareg moved in. But the Tuareg conquered them and made slaves of them, so they’re definitely not my superior, so the veil don’t matter.’

  ‘But you’re not a Tuareg.’

  ‘The male singular is Targui,’ said Byrne. ‘And I’ve been a Targui ten years longer than I was an American.’ He jabbed his finger at me. ‘Now, you’ll see lots of Tuareg faces, because you’re a no-account European and don’t matter. Got it?’

  I nodded. ‘I feel properly put in my place.’

  ‘Then let’s get the hell out of here.’

  If I had thought Atakor was bad it was hard to make a comparison with Koudia; I suppose the only comparison could be between Purgatory and Hell. I soon came to realize that the high road I had anathematized in Atakor was a super highway when compared to anything in Koudia.

  I put it to Byrne and he explained. ‘It’s simple. People make roads when they want to go places, and who in God’s name would want to come here?’

  ‘But why would anyone want to be in Atakor except a mystic like de Foucauld?’

  ‘The Hermitage is a place of pilgrimage. People go there, Moslem and Christian alike. So the going is easy back there.’

  After leaving Assekrem and plunging into the wilderness of Koudia I don’t suppose we made more than seven miles in the first two hours—walking pace in any reasonable country. Koudia was anything but reasonable; I don’t think there was a single horizontal bit of land more than five paces across. If we weren’t going up we were going down, and if we weren’t doing either we were going around.

  The place was a litter of boulders—anything from head size to as big as St Paul’s Cathedral, and the springing of the Toyota was suffering. So was I. We bounced around from rock to rock and I rattled around the cab until I was bruised and sore. Byrne, at least, had the wheel to hold on to, but I don’t think that made it any better for him because it twisted in his hands as though it was alive. As for Mokhtar, he spent more of his time out of the truck than in.

  Apart from the boulders there were the mountains themselves, and no one could drive up those vertical cliffs so that was when we went around, Byrne keeping his eyes on his compass so as not to lose direction in all the twisting and turning we had to do. He stopped often to take a reciprocal sighting on Assekrem to make sure we were on the right line.

  As I say, Mokhtar spent more time on the ground than in the truck, and it wasn’t too hard for him to keep up. He had a sharp eye for signs of passage, and once he stopped us to indicate tyre marks on a patch of sand. He and Byrne squatted down to examine them while I investigated my bruises. When we were about to start again Byrne said, ‘Superimposed tracks. One vehicle going in and another, later, coming out.’

  I had casually inspected those tracks myself but I couldn’t have trusted myself to tell which way the vehicles were going. As a Saharan intelligence officer I was a dead loss.

  About seven miles in two hours, then we stopped for a rest and food. There was no vegetation in Koudia at all but Mokhtar had thoughtfully gathered a bundle of acacia twigs while waiting for us at Assekrem and soon had a fire going to boil water for the inevitable mint tea. I said to Byrne, ‘Don’t you ever drink coffee?’

  ‘Sure, but this is better for you in the desert. You can have coffee when we get back to Tam. Expensive, though.’

  The sun was past its height and sinking towards the west as we sat in the shade of the Toyota. This was the hottest part of the day and, in Koudia, that meant really hot. The bare rocks were hot enough to fry eggs and the landscape danced in a constant heat shimmer.

  I remarked on this to Byrne, and he grinned. ‘This is winter—would you like to be here in summer?’

  ‘Christ, no!’

  ‘This is why they wouldn’t give Billson a permis. And come nightfall the temperature will drop like a rock. You leave water exposed out here and you’ll have half an inch of ice on it by three in the morning. If Billson is lost he’ll either have burned to death or frozen to death.’

  ‘I like a cheerful man,’ I said acidly.

  Mokhtar had disappeared about his private business but suddenly he appeared on top of a boulder about two hundred yards away. He gave a shrill whistle which attracted our attention, and waved both his arms. ‘He’s found something,’ said Byrne, scrambling to his feet.

  We went over to Mokhtar and that took us more than ten minutes in that ankle-breaking terrain. When we were fifty yards away Mokhtar shouted something, and Byrne said, ‘He’s found
a truck. Let’s see if it’s a Land-Rover.’

  As we scrambled on top of the boulder, which was as big as a moderate-sized stately home, Mokhtar pointed downwards, behind him. We walked over and stared to where his finger was pointing. There was a vehicle down there behind the boulder, and it was a Land-Rover. Or, at least, it had been—it was totally burnt-out. There was no sign of Billson or anyone else, and I suddenly realized that I wouldn’t know Billson if I saw him. I was a damn fool for not having a photograph.

  Byrne said, ‘The black smoke would come from the burning tyres. Let’s get down there.’

  Going down meant going back the way we had come and walking around the boulder. As we came in sight of the Land-Rover, Byrne, in the lead, spread his arms to stop us. He spoke rapidly to Mokhtar who went on ahead, peering at the ground. Presently he waved and Byrne walked over to him, and they had a brief discussion before Byrne beckoned to me.

  ‘There’s been another truck here; its tracks are on top of those of the Land-Rover, and it went that way.’ He pointed back in the general direction of the Toyota.

  ‘Where’s Billson?’ My mouth was dry.

  Byrne jerked his head at the Land-Rover. ‘Probably in there—what’s left of him. Let’s see.’

  He stood up and we walked over to the Land-Rover. It was a total wreck—a burnt-out carcass; it sat on the ground, the wheel rims entangled in the steel reinforcing wires of what had been tyres. There was still a lingering stench of burning rubber in the air.

  The window glass had cracked and some of it had melted, and the windscreen was totally opaque so that it was difficult to see inside. Byrne reached out and tugged at the handle of the door on the driver’s side and cursed as it came away in his hand. He walked around and tried the other door. He jerked it open and looked inside, with me looking over his shoulder.

  The inside was a mess. The upholstery had burned, releasing blackened coil springs, and even the plastic coating of the driving wheel had burnt away, leaving bare metal. But there was no body, either in front or on the rear seats.

  We went around to the back and got the tailgate open, to find scant remnants of what appeared to be two suitcases. Again, no body. I said, ‘The other truck must have taken him away.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Byrne noncommittally. He poked around a bit more in the ruined Land-Rover, then he straightened up. ‘Did Paul Billson have any enemies?’

  ‘He may have had.’ I went cold as I realized we were speaking of Billson in the past tense just as his half-sister had done. I said, ‘I hardly think he’d have the kind of enemy who would follow him to the middle of the Sahara to kill him.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Byrne made a nondescript noise and continued his examination. ‘I’ve seen lots of burnt-out trucks,’ he said. He picked up a jerrican lying to one side, snapped open the cap, and sniffed. ‘He had gas in here. He must have been carrying it in the back there, because he had no cans strapped on the side when he left. This is empty now.’

  ‘Perhaps there was an accident when he was refilling the main tank.’

  ‘Then where’s the body?’

  ‘As I say—the other truck rescued him.’

  Byrne stood back and looked at the Land-Rover, then talked more to himself than to me. ‘Let’s see; twenty-eight gallons in the main tank plus about four in the can—that’s thirty-two. He’d need at least twenty to get here, so he was in trouble without a fire—he didn’t have enough gas to get back to Tam. That leaves twelve gallons—eight in the tank and four in this can, I’d say.’

  ‘How do you know the can wasn’t empty? He could have refilled his main tank anywhere—even before Assekrem.’

  ‘There’s been gas in the can until quite recently—it smells too strong. And when I picked it up the cap was still closed. Now, if that can had been full of gas during the fire it would have exploded—but it hasn’t.’

  Byrne seemed to be arguing in circles. ‘So he put it in the main tank,’ I said exasperatedly.

  ‘No,’ said Byrne definitely. ‘I’ve seen a lot of burnt-out trucks in the desert, but never one like this—not with all four tyres gone like that, not with so much fire damage up front.’ He bent down to examine the petrol tank, and then crawled under.

  When he emerged he stood up and tossed something in his hand. ‘That was lying on the ground.’ It was a small screw cap with a broken wire hanging from it. ‘That’s the drain cap for the gas tank. The wire which is supposed to stop it unscrewing has been cut. That makes it certain. Someone doused this truck with gas from the can, then decided it would be a good idea to have more. So he drained another four gallons from the tank—maybe eight—to do a really good job of arson. You don’t get auto tyres burning all that easily. Then he tossed in a match and went away, and the guy who would do that wouldn’t be rescuing Billson.’

  ‘So where’s Billson?’

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe we’ll find his body around here some place.’

  I remembered something. ‘The man I put on Billson’s track back in England seemed to think that someone else was also looking for him.’ I frowned. ‘And then Hesther Raulier…’ I pulled out my wallet and found the note she had enclosed with the air ticket. I scanned it and handed it to Byrne.

  He read it through, then said, ‘Know this guy, Kissack?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Neither have I.’ He gave me back the note.

  ‘Another thing,’ I said. ‘Billson might have had a lot of money with him. I think he smuggled it out of the UK.’

  ‘What do you call a lot of money?’

  ‘The thick end of £60,000.’

  Byrne whistled. ‘I’d call that a lot, too.’ He swung around and rooted in the back of the Land-Rover where all that was left of two suitcases were the locks, hinges, metal frames and a pile of ashes. He said, ‘Whether Billson’s money was in here when the fire bust out we’ll never know without a forensic laboratory, and those are a mite scarce around here. Was it common knowledge that Billson would be carrying so much loose dough?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ I said. ‘It’s really only a guess on my part.’

  ‘You don’t have a monopoly on guesses,’ said Byrne. ‘And a lot of guys have been killed for less than that.’

  As we walked away from the Land-Rover I said, ‘Funny that the chap who did this should close the cap on that empty jerrican; especially as he was going to leave it.’

  ‘Probably automatic,’ said Byrne. ‘I do it myself. Good habit to have.’

  ‘I’d still like to know what Billson was doing here,’ I said.

  ‘He was looking for a wrecked airplane, like you said. And he’d have found it, too—it’s about five miles further north of here. I was going to head there if we hadn’t found this. Billson must have heard about it back in Tam so he came for a look-see, the goddamned fool!’

  ‘It couldn’t be…’ I began.

  ‘Of course it couldn’t be his father’s plane,’ said Byrne tiredly. ‘It’s a French military airplane that force-landed back when they were getting ready to blow an atom bomb up at Arak. They got the crew out by chopper, then went back to take out the engines and some of the instruments. Then they left the carcass to rot.’

  He went to talk to Mokhtar, and I sat on a rock feeling depressed. Billson must have been the biggest damned fool in the history of the Sahara. He had probably read the Land-Rover’s Owner’s Manual and taken the manufacturer’s fuel consumption claim as gospel, but it’s one thing tooling along a motorway and another fighting your way through Koudia. I doubt if we’d been getting more than five miles to the imperial gallon since we left Assekrem and perhaps ten or twelve in Atakor. I don’t think it’s disrespectful to British Leyland to suggest that the Land-Rover was averaging about the same.

  But Billson had probably measured straight lines on a map and set out on that basis. But that was water under the bridge or, more accurately, vapour through the carburettor. What we had now was an entirely different set of circumstances in wh
ich Billson’s idiocy didn’t figure because, if we found his body it would be because he had been murdered by a man, and the man was possibly called Kissack.

  It was then that I made the discovery. Mokhtar or Byrne would probably have done it, but they didn’t—I did, and it brought back some of my self-respect as a working member of this crazy expedition and made me feel something less of a hanger-on while others did the work.

  I was looking down idly at the rock on which I sat when I noticed a small brown stain over which an ant was scurrying. For a moment I wondered how even an ant could live in Koudia, and then I noticed another and then another. There was quite a trail of them going backwards and forwards between a crack in the rock and the stain.

  I stood up, looked at the Land-Rover, took a line on it, and then explored further away. Sure enough ten yards further on there was another stained rock, and a little way along there was another. I turned. ‘Hey!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think I’ve found something.’ Byrne and Mokhtar came up and I said, ‘Is that dried blood?’

  Mokhtar moistened the tip of his little finger and rubbed it on the stain, then he sniffed his fingertip delicately, looked at Byrne, and said one word. ‘Yeah,’ said Byrne. ‘It’s blood.’

  ‘There’s a line of it coming from the Land-Rover.’ I turned and pointed towards a narrow ravine. ‘I think he went up there.’

  ‘Okay—Mokhtar goes first; he’s better at this than we are. He can see a sign you wouldn’t know was there.’

  Billson, if it was Billson’s blood, had gone up the ravine but fairly soon it became obvious that he hadn’t travelled in a straight line. Not because of the difficulty of the terrain because he had dodged about quite a bit when he had no obvious need to, and on occasion he had reversed his course. And the blood splashes got bigger.

  ‘Hell!’ I said. ‘What was he doing? Playing hide-and-seek?’

  ‘Maybe he was at that,’ said Byrne grimly. ‘Maybe he was being chased.’