Flyaway / Windfall

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘Anywhere—look for the Range-Rover—but there’s a broken-down shack that calls itself a restaurant. You might find him there. Anyway, it’s a chance to have a beer.’

  He dropped me by the side of the track and drove away after thoughtfully leaving a small canteen of water which looked as though it had started life in the British army.

  The German group pitched up three hours later, eighteen people in four long-wheelbase Land-Rovers. I stood up and held out my hand as the first Land-Rover came up, and it drew to a halt. My German, learned when I was with the Army of the Rhine, was about as grammatical as Byrne’s French, but just as serviceable. No foreigner minds you speaking his language badly providing you make the attempt. Excepting the French, of course.

  The driver of the first Land-Rover was the group leader, and he willingly agreed to take me into Bilma if I didn’t mind a squash in the front seat. He looked at me curiously. ‘What are you doing out here?’

  ‘I walked out from Bilma to look at some rock engravings.’ I smiled. ‘I’d rather not walk back.’

  ‘Didn’t know there were any around here. Plenty up north at the Col des Chandeliers. Where are they?’

  ‘About three kilometres back, just off the track.’

  ‘Can you show me? My people would be interested.’

  ‘Of course; only too glad.’

  So we went back to look at the engravings, and I reflected that it was just as well that Byrne had taken me there. We spent twenty minutes there, the Germans clicking away busily with their Japanese cameras. They were a mixed lot ranging from teenagers to old folk and I wondered what had brought them into the desert. It certainly wasn’t the normal package deal.

  Less than half an hour after that we were driving up the long slope which leads to the fort in Bilma. The Land—Rovers parked with Teutonic precision in a neat rank just by the gate and I opened the door. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

  He nodded. ‘Helmut Shaeffer. Perhaps we will have a beer in the restaurant, eh?’

  ‘I’m Max Stafford. That’s a good idea. Where is the restaurant?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ There was surprise in his voice.

  ‘I haven’t seen much of Bilma itself. We got in late last night.’

  ‘Oh.’ He pointed down the slope and to the right. ‘Over there; you can’t miss it.’

  As Byrne had predicted, he began collecting passports. I lingered, talking with a middle-aged man who discoursed on the wonders he had seen in the north. Shaeffer took the pile of passports into the fort and the group began to break up. I wandered off casually following a trio heading in the general direction of the restaurant.

  It was as Byrne had described it; a broken-down shack. The Germans looked at the sun-blasted sign and the peeling walls and muttered dubiously, then made up their minds and went inside. I followed closely on their heels.

  It was a bare room with a counter on one side. There were a few rough deal tables, a scattering of chairs, and a wooden bench which ran along two sides of the room. My hackles rose as I saw Kissack sitting on the bench at a corner table next to a man in local dress—not a Targui because he did not wear the veil. That would be the Arab Konti had seen. Kissack was eating an omelette.

  He looked up and inspected us curiously, so I turned and started to talk in German to the man next to me, asking if he thought the food here would be hygienically prepared. He advised me to stick to eggs. When I looked back at Kissack he had lost interest in us and seemed more intent on what was on his plate.

  That gave me an idea. I crossed the room and stood before him, and asked in German if he recommended the omelette.

  He looked up and frowned. ‘Huh! Don’t you speak English?’

  I put a smile on my face and it felt odd because I didn’t feel like smiling at this assassin. ‘I was asking if you could recommend the omelette. Sorry about that, but I’ve been travelling with this crowd so long that the German came automatically.’

  He grunted. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Thanks. That and a beer should go down well.’ I sat at the next table quite close to him.

  He turned away and started to talk in a low voice to the Arab. The sun was not dealing kindly with Kissack. His face was burned an angry red and the skin was still peeling from him. I was glad about that; he wasn’t earning his murderer’s pay easily.

  As a waiter came to take my order an aircraft flew over quite low. Kissack made a sharp gesture and the Arab got up and walked out. I ordered beer and an omelette, then I twisted and looked through the window behind me. The Arab was walking towards the fort.

  Presently a bottle of beer and a not too clean glass was put in front of me. As I poured the beer I wondered how to tackle Kissack. It was all right for Byrne to talk airily about putting me next to Kissack—that had been done—but what next? I could hardly ask, ‘Killed any good men recently?’

  But I had to make a start and old ploys are best, so I said, ‘Haven’t we met before?’

  He grunted and looked at me sideways. ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘Up north. Over the Col des Chandeliers.’

  ‘Never been there.’ His eyes returned to his plate.

  I persisted. ‘Then it must have been in England.’

  ‘No,’ he said flatly without looking up.

  I drank some beer and cursed Byrne. It had seemed a good idea at the time; fellow countrymen meeting on their travels are usually glad to chat, but Kissack was bad-tempered, grouchy and uncommunicative. I said, ‘I could have sworn…’

  Kissack turned to me. ‘Look, chum; I haven’t been in England for ten years.’ He put a lot of finality in his voice, indicating quite clearly that the subject was closed.

  I drank some more beer and waited for my omelette. I was becoming annoyed at Kissack and was just about to put in the needle when someone called, ‘Herr Stafford!’ I froze, then looked up to see Shaeffer who had just come in. I glanced sideways at Kissack to see if the name had meant anything to him, but apparently it didn’t and I breathed easier.

  ‘Hi, Helmut,’ I said, hoping he wouldn’t show surprise at easy familiarity with his given name from a casual acquaintance. ‘Have a beer.’ As he sat down I immediately regretted my invitation. Shaeffer could unknowingly drop a clanger and reveal that I was not a part of his group. The only thing going for me was that his English was not too good.

  ‘Everything all right at the fort?’ I asked in German.

  He shrugged. ‘They’re too busy to bother with us now. A plane came in from Agadez to take an injured man to hospital. I left the passports; I’ll pick them up later.’

  The waiter put an omelette in front of me and I ordered a beer for Shaeffer. Kissack ordered another beer for himself so he’d be staying a while. I tinned to him. ‘You know, I have seen you before.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he said tiredly.

  ‘Wasn’t it in Tammanrasset? You were driving a Range—Rover.’

  That got through to him. He went very still, a glass half way to his lips. Then he turned and looked at me with stony eyes. ‘What are you getting at, chummy?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said coolly. ‘It’s just that a thing like that niggles me. Nice to know I wasn’t mistaken. You were in Tam, then.’

  ‘And what if I was? What’s it to you?’

  I tackled my omelette. ‘Nothing.’ I turned to Shaeffer and switched to German. ‘I forgot to tell you. Rhossi, your guide, is here in Bilma. Someone told me he was waiting for a German party so I assume it’s you. Have you seen him?’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kissack staring at me. I hoped his lack of German was complete.

  Shaeffer shook his head. ‘He’ll be camped at Kalala near the salt workings.’

  I turned back to Kissack. ‘I was just asking Helmut, here, if he’s seen the guide yet. You need a guide to cross the Ténéré.’

  ‘When were you in Tammanrasset?’ Kissack asked suddenly.

  ‘Evidently when you were,’ I said. ‘Oh, by the way; did you h
ear anything about that chap who disappeared? Another Englishman. There was a devil of a brouhaha going on about it when I left.’

  Kissack moistened his lips. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Wilson,’ I said. ‘No, that’s not right. Williamson? No, not that, either. My memory really is playing me up—first you, now this chap.’ I frowned. ‘Billson!’ I said in triumph. ‘That was his name. Billson. The police were really in a stew about him, but you know what Algerians are like. Bloody bureaucrats with sub-machine-guns!’

  The waiter put a bottle of beer and a glass in front of Shaeffer and another bottle before Kissack. He ignored it. ‘What happened to this Billson?’ His voice was over-controlled.

  I didn’t answer immediately but popped a slice of omelette into my mouth. I’d got Kissack interested enough to ask questions and that was progress, and the omelette was quite good. I swallowed and said, ‘He went up into Atakor without asking permission and didn’t come back. There were a hell of a lot of rumours floating around when I left.’

  ‘What sort of rumours?’

  ‘Oh, the usual stuff that goes around when anything like that happens. Unbelievable, most of it.’

  I had Kissack hooked because he asked, ‘Such as?’

  I shrugged. ‘Well, for instance, someone said his Land—Rover had been found burnt out the other side of Assekrem. You know those parts?’

  ‘Not well,’ said Kissack tightly.

  ‘This is a damned good omelette,’ I observed. ‘Anyway, someone else said his body had been brought out and he’d died of exposure. But then there was a buzz that he’d been brought out alive but he’d been shot. I told you—unbelievable stuff. Those things don’t happen these days, do they? The desert is pretty civilized now.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Shaeffer. He grinned. ‘My Tamachek is better than my English—I heard Tammanrasset and Atakor and Assekrem.’

  ‘Oh, just about an Englishman who vanished near Tam.’

  Kissack was looking bleak. He said, ‘Any rumours about what finally happened to Billson?’

  ‘The last I heard was that he was in hospital in Tam with a police guard—sort of house arrest. Just another bloody rumour, though.’

  Kissack fell silent and poured his beer. He was thinking hard; I could almost see the damned wheels going round. I turned to Shaeffer and started to chat about the problems of crossing the Ténéré, all in German. After a while Kissack said, ‘Stafford…it is Stafford, isn’t it?’

  I turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘How did you get from Tam to here?’

  That was a stumer; a damned good question. I visualized the Michelin map I had pored over, and said lightly, ‘Flew across to Djanet from Tam, then came south. I was already booked into the party. Why?’

  ‘What were you doing in Tam?’

  I frowned. ‘Not that it’s any of your business but I’m interested in Charles de Foucauld. I wanted to see where and how he lived.’

  Kissack said, ‘I think you’re a damned liar.’ He nodded towards Shaeffer. ‘Any tour group coming down from Djanet is going to go through Tammanrasset anyway. Why should you want to go there twice?’

  I stood up. ‘Because I’m leaving the group at Agadez and going south to Kano. That’s why. Now get up off that damned bench. No man calls me a liar.’

  Kissack looked up at me but didn’t move. Shaeffer said, ‘What’s the matter?’ He hadn’t understood what was said but the changed atmosphere needed no language to understand.

  ‘This man called me a liar.’ I was suddenly infuriated with Kissack and I wanted to belt hell out of him. I stooped, grabbed his shirt, and hauled him to his feet. The table went flying and a glass smashed on the floor. Kissack made a grab for the inside of his jacket so I rammed my elbow into his side and felt the hardness of a gun.

  Then Shaeffer grabbed me from behind and hauled me away. ‘Herr Stafford; this is no place to make trouble,’ he said, his mouth close to my ear. ‘The prison here is not good.’

  Kissack had his hand inside his jacket. I shook off Shaeffer’s hands and stuck a finger at Kissack. ‘You don’t want the coppers here, either—not with what you have there. You’d have too much explaining to do.’

  The barman came from behind the bar carrying a foot-long bar of iron, but stopped as Shaeffer said something in Arabic. Kissack withdrew his hand and it came out empty. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ His eyes flickered towards the barman. ‘Hell; this is a lousy place, anyway.’ He dipped his hand into his pocket and tossed a couple of bank notes on to the floor, then walked towards the door.

  From a distance someone said in German, ‘Brawling Englishmen—I bet they’re drunk.’

  I said to Shaeffer, ‘Tell the owner I’ll pay for any damage. Your Arabic sounds better than his French.’

  He nodded and rattled off some throat-scratching Arabic. The barman nodded curtly without smiling, picked up the money, and returned to the bar. Shaeffer said, ‘You should not cause fighting here, Herr Stafford.’ He shook his head. ‘It is not wise.’

  ‘I was provoked.’ I looked through the window and saw Kissack walking towards the mud-coloured huddle of houses that was Bilma. I had blown it. I hadn’t got a damned thing out of him that was of any use. What’s more, I had probably given him grounds for suspicion.

  But perhaps something could be retrieved if I was quick about it. I went to the bar and laid a bank note down. The barman looked at me unblinkingly so I put down another. I had to add two more before he nodded curtly. Then I went out fast, looking for Kissack. If I could get him alone he was going to tell me quite a few things, gun or no gun.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Bilma is constructed on something like the lines of Daedalus’s Labyrinth; no streets, just a warren of alleys and passages, and if I had met the Minotaur I wouldn’t have been particularly surprised. It was difficult keeping up with Kissack and twice I lost him and had to cast about. Not that he was being evasive—he didn’t look behind him to see if he was being followed or anything like that. In fact, I think he was lost himself at times, not very difficult in Bilma, and I swear we passed the same corner three times.

  I followed him deeper and deeper into the maze. There were very few people about and those I encountered regarded me incuriously. They looked to be the same kind that I had seen at Fachi and whom Byrne had called Kanuri. Every so often I would pass a more or less open space where sheep or goats were penned or where chickens scratched, but in general there were just mud walls set with secretive doors every so often. A good shower of rain would have dissolved Bilma in one night, sending it back to the earth from which it had arisen.

  At last I peered around a corner to see Kissack open a door and vanish inside. I walked up and looked at the door and then at the expanse of windowless wall. It wouldn’t be too difficult to climb but doing the burglar bit in broad daylight would be unwise—even a blank-minded Kanuri would regard that as anti-social, and I was uncomfortably aware of an old toothless crone who had stopped at the end of the alley and was looking at me.

  While I was debating the next step my mind was made up for me by a voice saying in French, ‘Why didn’t he wait at the restaurant?’ It floated from the corner I had just turned.

  That did it. There was just one thing to do so I opened the door and slipped inside. I found myself in a courtyard just big enough to hold Kissack’s Range-Rover and very little else. Around the sides of the courtyard were hovels made of the ubiquitous mud.

  Behind me, on the other side of the door, the voice said, ‘Is this it?’ There wasn’t much else to do but what I did. I hurled myself forward and dived under the Range-Rover, being thankful for the generous ground clearance. I was only just in time because the door opened wide just as I got hidden and several men came into the courtyard. I twisted my head, counted feet, and divided by two—four men.

  ‘Where is Kissack?’ said the man who had queried about the restaurant. He still spoke French. ‘Kissack!’ he bellowed.

 
‘In here.’ Kissack’s voice came from one of the mud buildings.

  The French-speaker switched to English. ‘You come out here.’ A door slammed and Kissack’s feet came into view. ‘If you think I’m going into that flea-ridden kennel you’re mistaken.’ The tone was distasteful and the accent standard BBC grade announcer’s English.

  ‘Hello, Lash,’ said Kissack.

  ‘Don’t hello me,’ said Lash acidly. ‘And it’s Mr Lash to you.’ He went back into French. ‘You lot get lost for the next half-hour but then be findable.’

  ‘How about the restaurant?’ someone asked.

  ‘That’s all right—but stay there so I can find you.’ Three men went away and the door slammed. Lash said, ‘Now just what in hell have you been doing, Kissack?’

  ‘Just doing what I was told,’ said Kissack sullenly.

  ‘Like hell you have!’ said Lash explosively. ‘There’s a contract out on Billson and he’s still alive. Why?’

  ‘Christ, I don’t know,’ said Kissack. ‘He should be dead. I shot him in some of the most God-awful country you’ve ever seen. He couldn’t have walked out.’

  ‘So he was helped, and the next thing is someone is advertising for that bloody aeroplane. Advertising, by God! Leaflets all over the bloody desert! The idea, Kissack, was not to draw attention to that aeroplane but, because you’re ham-fisted, everybody and his bloody Arab uncle is looking for it.’

  ‘That’s not my fault,’ yelled Kissack. ‘I didn’t know about Byrne.’

  ‘He’s the man who put out the leaflets?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a sodding Yank who’s gone native.’

  ‘I’m not going to stand here and fry my brains out,’ said Lash. ‘Get in the car.’

  The Range-Rover rocked on its springs as they got in, and I took the opportunity of easing my position because a stone was digging into my hip. The arrival of Lash changed everything. Kissack having failed twice had sent for reinforcements—and the boss had arrived. From what I heard, Lash was certainly more incisive than Kissack.