‘Finished?’
She kissed him full on the lips. ‘Yes. And while I wash my hands you will stick on that little dressing. Then we shall try to forget love for one night, and sleep, because tomorrow we shall waken when they drop anchor.’
‘How can one forget love?’ said Grant quietly. ‘No one could forget last night.’
She stroked his hair and ran her fingers down his cheeks. ‘This time I am your doctor and I say that you need rest. We shall have many more days for loving.’
He sensed the girl kneeling on the floor by his side, her cheek resting on his arm and one hand slowly stroking his thigh. She smelt fresh and wholesome, her hair exciting with the tang of woman, and her breath moist against his skin as he allowed himself to sleep, his last memory her blue-black hair lying across his chest and the sweep of her shoulders curving beside him.
The next three days drifted past in a lazy contentment which Grant would not have believed possible, but which he remembered as one of the few interludes of total serenity in his life. Thinking back he could remember nothing important, only long hours of understanding as the ship rolled along the African coast; a shorter-than-usual call at Cisneros where the seas were so high and the wind so strong that passengers were not allowed ashore and he had to content himself with cameos of life enjoyed through the captain’s binoculars; lazily drawn-out meals in a saloon which seemed now to glow with comfort; or hours of conversation on deck when the wind was quiet, and suddenly born moments of animal satisfaction when the girl laid her head on his chest or touched his hand, stroked his thigh or dropped her arm to be kissed when they said a last good night. Even Force X and Zero were almost forgotten in the humdrummery of doing nothing but laze and love.
Guerra came almost too soon. And it was all that she had said. A huddle of houses beside a desert fort; a dusty bay sheltered from dangerous seas, and an amiable governor who greeted her like an old friend. Grant was given a red-carpet reception when introduced as her fiancé, and, as she had expected, they were offered board for the night before carrying on to Mauretania.
Next morning the Governor shook hands and drew Grant aside. ‘I shall ask no questions, Dr. Gunten. Officially you go to Port Etienne and your papers are in order. But I wish you both well, and one day, when you return after your marriage, I shall be honoured if you will stay longer.’
Her jeep had been stored under a tarpaulin near his house and her driver was a grinning, bearded giant who drove like a fiend. As they passed through the narrow white arch which is the exit from Guerra to the desert Miss Turquoise lifted up her yashmak, and her eyes were smiling. ‘Now you are my prisoner, because without me, from now on, you would be lost.’
Chapter Thirteen – ‘How shall I die?’
Balobo Mussa drove with a recklessness which made the desert fly past their wheels like a race-track until, as the spit of ground broadened towards the frontier, the jeep angled north-east, keeping below the skyline and following shallow valleys where the ground was embedded with white cockle-shells. By midday the heat was tremendous, but so long as they kept moving a stream of warm dry air gave relief to skin and tyres which already were becoming scratched by particles of sand.
Late in the afternoon they were running along the twenty-degree slope of a sand-tongue when Mussa abruptly switched off the ignition and sat, motionless, listening. Grant could only hear the soft whisper of wind and the crackle of an overheated engine, but the man put his fingers to his lips and walked uphill, crouching down as he topped the rise and wriggling forward until he was only a thin blob of creamy white against a beige foreground. The girl never moved, but Grant saw her knuckles blench as they waited for him to return.
His Arabic was good enough to follow the swift exchange of conversation, though that was at least one secret which he had kept to himself, and he allowed the girl to translate. They were ten kilometres from her camp, but sounds travelled far on the desert and Mussa ‘felt’ that he had heard shots. The place was isolated beside two springs but it was well guarded and her men had good equipment. She had had trouble only once before, but Mussa was uneasy because it was known that a party in charge of a dangerous French-Touareg had left Port Etienne four days earlier. He was a slaver in the old style who hated her tribe and almost certainly knew that she had gone to the Canaries. If he had recognized the camp as belonging to herself he might have felt it worth the risk to try to wipe out the men and steal their few women together with anything else which could be turned into money.
‘But why did you leave them out there?’ asked Grant, curiously. ‘Why not at Guerra?’
‘Because we don’t want our people to come too much into contact with the coast,’ she said briefly. ‘And there is more grass at the spring.’
Mussa was watching him cynically, his short pointed beard still dusted with sand where it had dug into the ground.
‘And have you any weapons?’ asked Grant.
She nodded. ‘He has a Lee Enfield with ammunition stolen from the British and I can use a Mauser. They are in a built-in compartment below the seat along with a Sten for close quarters.’
‘Fine!’ He was opening a leather case. ‘And I’ve got this. Used at home for stalking animals but dead accurate at a thousand metres with telescopic sights.’
Mussa was smiling broadly. ‘Ammunition?’ asked Miss Turquoise, translating.
‘Enough.’ He slung a pair of field-glasses over his shoulder. ‘So now let’s get on with it.’
And then even Grant heard the unmistakeable echo of a repeating rifle, probably a Stirling. Mussa was grinding forward at a steady 12 m.p.h. in second gear, and when at last they rounded the entrance to a long narrow wadi which the girl said lead towards the camp Grant finished checking the guns. The Mauser was 1945, but well cared for and a killer in expert hands, while the Enfield was in flawless condition and the Sten good as new.
The wadi became uncomfortably narrow and Mussa was battling in bottom gear when they rounded a boulder and edged into the shelter of an outcrop of rock. The camp could be seen less than three hundred metres distant beyond the top of the wadi and Grant itched to move without waiting for the girl to translate. ‘How far?’ he asked.
The driver smiled broadly. ‘A kilometre. Enough to use the rifles.’
The jeep was camouflaged by piling stones against it, shovelling sand against the wheels and covering metal parts with strips of cloth torn from one of the girl’s tan-coloured skirts while Grant filled his pockets with ammunition. They then crawled in single file along the slopes of the wadi with Mussa leading as they edged towards the skyline.
Grant raised his glasses, shading the lenses under the crook of the girl’s arm. Nineteen camels were lying in a circle on the edge of a small oasis with a cluster of date-palms behind. One was dead and nine men were taking cover behind the beasts whilst a huddle of women crouched near a barricade of wooden boxes. Three bodies dotted the dust outside the circle whilst another group of men, donkeys and camels were organizing themselves in a shallow depression four hundred yards away. Five snipers were in position on top of the low slopes and a heavily built man appeared to be giving orders in the background. ‘See.’ He handed the glasses to Mussa, who looked for a long minute at the bird’s-eye view and then gave them to Miss Turquoise.
‘It is the French-Touareg,’ he whispered.
Grant resented that Aniseeh still looked to Mussa as leader. They were outnumbered, but on the other hand the enemy could have no idea how many were in the party. A surprise counter-attack was going to be easy, and given that Mussa was a good shot they could pick off at least four before anyone could do much about it. It was also possible for him to take up position a short distance to the right where the wadi broke up into ragged cracks which could give all the cover he required. Swiftly he outlined his plan to the girl.
‘And after that?’ he asked.
‘It is with Allah,’ he quoted. ‘But if your people have any sense they will follow up as soon as we start firing
and the Frenchman is disorganized.’
Mussa gripped Grant’s forearm and squeezed hard. ‘He says that if we live he will be your brother for all time.’ Aniseeh seemed composed and held out her hand as Grant slipped from her side. ‘My fingers want you to say goodbye.’
He kissed her palm and slithered across to the piste. Slowly he drew a few deep breaths and then cocked his sights. His wrists were rock-steady and he smiled tensely as the Frenchman focussed on the rim. He was still squatting on the ground and Grant decided to take him through the heart. There was practically no wind in this stillness before night, not a ripple on the sand to deflect the trajectory. It was like old times. The butt of his favourite sporting gun snuggled against his shoulder and he could almost have caressed the smoothness of the stock as he laid his cheek against its hardness and sniffed the whiff of grease and oil which he had last laid on three weeks earlier at the Big House. He felt completely relaxed, his fingers edging over the trigger with the confidence of total familiarity whilst he again covered his target, centring over the breast-bone at an estimated eleven hundred yards. He noted that the younger man was now standing side on. Chances were that he would bend down or jump for it when he heard the shot. But there might be a few seconds’ lapse before he figured things out. His elbows were able freely to pivot on the firm dust and slowly he swung the sights alternately from one to the other, until as the second hand of his watch quivered round to zero he was once more on target, the Frenchman’s broad chest distorted slightly by the telescopic sights but with hair-line centred on sternum.
Almost lovingly he drew breath and held it whilst he steadied wrists and eyes, co-ordinated judgement and smoothly squeezed the trigger. Mussa and the girl had both fired before he sighted the younger man who was now bending over the Frenchman. It was an awkward target, head down and almost out of sight, but he took him through the back to left of mid-line.
As he reloaded he longed for a repeating rifle. The snipers deployed on the crest of the rising ground ahead were now half standing when a shot barked from the little camp and one of them fell. Grant moved with the disciplined precision which was one of his most deadly qualities and dropped numbers one and three but missed on two when Mussa and Aniseeh again fired.
Bedlam then broke out as the girl’s people rushed from behind their barricade. He studied the scene below, a hand-to-hand fracas like a Hollywood Western when, suddenly, the girl screamed. Two Coast-type negroes in shorts had turned their flank and one was now rolling on top of Mussa while the other gripped Miss Turquoise round the neck. Reloading while he ran across a hundred metres of pebbly ground he reached the girl just as the man had forced her chin back to the point where it seemed that her neck must snap.
Swinging the rifle by the barrel he flung it towards the man astride Mussa, but in the same swinging movement flipped the other across the flank with the edge of his hand in a Karate chop which he knew ought to have ruptured the kidney. The man gasped and as he staggered backwards Grant gathered Aniseeh into his arms. ‘Easy, Sweetie,’ he whispered, still remembering to talk in Spanish, ‘you’ll be O.K. but keep out of my way a second.’
The man was beginning to recover his breath and their driver still struggling under the younger of the two negroes. Grant’s blow had only rattled him enough to give Mussa a breathing space, and as Grant wondered which one to handle first the negro in front whipped a short stabbing knife from the belt of his pants. Less than six inches long, he balanced it briefly on the palm on his hand and then threw it with the viciousness of a hornet. Grant lost sight of it for a second and then heard the soft thud of haft striking flesh. The blade was embedded in Mussa’s throat whilst the man astride his belly grinned broadly and began to rise.
Gathering himself into a ball Grant moved first and long-jumped ten feet to catch him off balance. Struck on the shoulder he toppled sideways and Grant stamped with full force on the gleaming black chest. He felt ribs crack as Veldtschoen shoes smashed bone and then he bent forwards to meet the knife-thrower who was still forcing himself to fight, although his face was twisted with pain. He measured distance as the man lumbered past and again Karate-chopped him, this time across the side of the neck. But he saw him fall only with the tail of his eye. The younger man had now reached the rifle and Grant moved only in time to prevent him pointing it straight at the girl. Straining with every remaining ounce of strength the negro tried to force the barrel into Grant’s face, his fingers edging towards the trigger. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips parted in a grimace of desperation. Grant could still hear shots in the distance, but more than anything he saw Miss Turquoise gasping for breath as she sat rubbing her neck.
The two men were kneeling on rocky ground, facing one another, when Grant forced the rifle-butt downwards with a heave which took the negro by surprise. As his fingers slipped on the barrel Grant saw his head come into line with the sights and dived for the trigger. The recoil tore it from both their hands but the bullet only creased a furrow through short crisp curls without even drawing blood. Half deafened by the shot Grant changed grip, his fingers fastening around the man’s neck as he threw him backwards and fell across his chest.
There was a scream as Grant again felt bones crackle beneath him and then he fastened on the broad neck, his nails cutting into skin as he throttle-crunched thyroid cartilages. As the figure went limp he returned to Aniseeh. The other man was also dead, lying on his back with his mouth open and flies were already hovering around his lips.
Gently he palpated her neck and throat. No permanent harm had been done, but she could hardly speak and her shoulders were bruised. Carrying her like a baby he ran back to the furrow where he had left his field-glasses. There had been casualties on both sides and Miss Turquoise’s people had returned to their stockade having had the worst of it. Moving swiftly he collected the rifle and picked up his jacket. Its pockets were loaded with ammunition and he was ramming the first shell into the breach when he heard the unmistakable sound of a jeep and turned again to the glasses, focussing on a cloud of dust in the distance. ‘A patrol of Spanish soldiers,’ he explained shortly. ‘Probably heard the shooting and wondered what in hell it was all about.’
Aniseeh’s men seemed to have spotted the soldiers at almost the same time and the Spanish flag was now flying above her camp. ‘That will have been Sidi Achmet,’ she whispered. ‘He thinks fast.’
The jeep stopped near the flag and four young men jumped out, deploying for action with repeating guns at the hip while the girl’s people joined in with guns, knives and fists.
When it was over Grant watched the Spanish N.C.O. line up prisoners and count heads. It seemed the moment to join them, though he realized that there would have to be explaining. But Miss Turquoise was welcomed by her men in a way that left no doubt as to who she was and Grant was introduced as her fiancé, an American doctor from Las Palmas.
As he watched her move away with some of her women to wash and change, the sergeant accompanied him back to her tents where a bandaged Bedouin brewed tea over a solid-fuel stove. Eight out of twenty men had been killed and the others were prisoners, but Aniseeh had lost four of her own twelve and one woman had been scratched on the thigh by a stray bullet. Several camels had also been shot and the army jeep put out of action by a bullet which had struck the ignition. The soldiers had been on a routine desert patrol but knew that a caravan had recently left Port Etienne and been alerted for possible slavers. Five girls had been rescued and drugs found in the baggage, so they were pretty certain that it was the one which had been reported.
Aniseeh joined them whilst they were still talking, the conversation having taking a dangerous turn when the sergeant asked about permission given to Dr. Gunten to move across the colony. She had changed into tribal costume and seemed even younger, but everything had been dyed a fantastic shimmering blue-green and he saw again the shade of turquoise which had helped to earn her nickname. Tallow candles had been lit and a young moon was throwing mellow light against every
corner of the camp. The prisoners had been tied up under guard while the girls who had been rescued were sitting sullenly together near the spring.
‘We are going to have food,’ said Aniseeh. ‘Smoked fish; gazelle steak with rice; dates and wine for the men.’
Places had been prepared under the palm trees and rugs laid on the ground, but it was now cold and pots filled with smouldering charcoal sat between the guests, though Aniseeh asked to be excused, saying that she would dine later. Two musicians were piping in the darkness by the trees and a girl dancing in the moonlight as Grant listened to the steady click of insects amongst the grasses. Sidi Achmet, Aniseeh’s top man, had fussed around him like a mother and the women were staring at him through their yashmaks, their brown eyes twinkling with admiration.
The soldiers were a happy-go-lucky quartette who looked forward to the end of military service and a return to Madrid. One wished that he had brought his guitar and another sang flamenco between courses. The fish was better than Grant had expected, having had enough dried fish in the Congo to last him for several lifetimes, but the gazelle steak was remarkable and the rice done to a turn. Dates had been fresh plucked and were served with cold water, which was ideal introduction to a tiny cup of pungent coffee brewed as only the Arab or Turk knows how.
Grant was lighting his after-dinner pipe when the soldiers, one after the other, suddenly fell forwards, unconscious. He looked at them stupidly and turned towards the girl who had been standing behind him. ‘Poison,’ she smiled, ‘and one reason why I could not break salt or bread with them.’
‘In the name of reason, why?’ he asked at last.
‘Look,’ she croaked impatiently, ‘can’t you understand that they would have to report everything to the authorities and that Madrid would then discover how you have been smuggled into the country? They would follow us to our oases and there would be trouble.’
Miss Turquoise Page 13