Miss Turquoise

by George B Mair

  As Grant turned in surprise and the Caid with Sidi Achmet rushed towards Jacqueline, Ling Tao rose and sidestepped like a dancer, catching Grant off-guard, his fingers burrowing into the sides of Grant’s neck and probing for the trigger spots which would drop him unconscious, or with luck stop his heart. The sheer weight of Ling’s attack thrust him forward from the danger area where Ling still believed that he had buried his bomb. Aniseeh was less than three paces away, and her uncle, with Sidi Achmet, were still struggling with Jacqueline when Ling saw his chance, dropped from Grant’s back and leapt towards the girl, a thin clasp-knife now in his hand as he seized her round the waist and thrust the knife-point against her throat. ‘Stop fighting,’ he screamed in English, ‘or I’ll cut the girl’s eyes out!’

  He moved with unbelievable speed and was still rushing Aniseeh sideways until their backs were against the upright of the southern gate. The whole thing was over in seconds, Grant left rubbing his neck and half blacked out, whilst the Caid and his men hesitated to move in case they hit the girl.

  ‘And now, David Grant,’ said Ling venomously, ‘get that antidote and get it quickly.’

  It was no time to argue and Grant spoke rapidly in Spanish to Sidi Achmet, sending the man to open a drug-case in the bedroom and bring back a white capsule. It was unlikely that Ling Tao would recognize it as only a penicillin preparation, and the man was in no mood to discuss the finesse of bluff or double-bluff.

  When he returned Grant put it in his mouth without comment. ‘If this is a drug,’ said Ling softly as he swallowed it without even looking at the thing, ‘if it makes me dopey or queer, I’ll still manage to kill this woman before I pass out.’

  ‘There are no tricks,’ said Grant coldly. ‘So now let go my fiancée.’

  The man smiled sarcastically. ‘Am I crazy? Jacqueline de Massacré is a good second pilot and will lead the way to the plane while I follow with this woman as hostage. Miss de Massacré has a gun and you Grant will walk ahead of her, but if there is trouble from anyone the girl will be knifed and you will be shot.’

  The Caid nodded gravely as the Chinese interpreter translated, the only man left who was not under lock and key. ‘And what do you want me to do? he said to Grant in Arabic, Aniseeh translating almost automatically.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Grant quietly. ‘This man means what he says.’

  As he spoke Ling’s knife jabbed into Aniseeh’s arm enough to draw blood. ‘Speak Arabic or English.’ he snarled.

  Jacqueline had produced a pistol from somewhere under her skirts and was digging it into Grant’s back. ‘March. And if you try anything I’ll get you through the spine high enough to make sure you won’t interest women again in your life.’

  ‘Also send someone to speak to your people,’ added Ling dryly. ‘We don’t want anyone trying an ambush outside. So first stop is the aircraft, and Grant will lead the way with the gun prodding him in the right direction.’

  As they passed through the gate Grant heard a growl of conversation in the distance and the shuffle of Aniseeh’s feet as she was half dragged along the dust by Ling Tao, who never for an instant relaxed his grip. A belt of date-palms had screened the aircraft from the palace and Grant was surprised to find that it was less than two kilometres before they stopped beside a twin-engine machine which reminded him of an Ilyushin IL-14M.

  They had passed at least fifty people during the walk, but no one interfered once the Caid’s man had rapped out an explanation. They hadn’t even been followed and Grant would have bet that few people on the oases felt like disobeying orders that night. If Miss Turquoise was harmed because of some rash move by anyone there would be a slow strangling at dawn for the culprit.

  Nor was Ling himself taking any more chances. ‘The ore can wait, Grant,’ he said in English. ‘You’ve made it impossible for me even to destroy it, though at least there is still time to get rid of you and this girl.

  ‘But before you die let me tell you one thing. I am assistant controller of what you called Force X. Its real name is the Society for Activation of Terror, Anarchy and Nihilism and SATAN has been going for a very long time. It will take more than a man like you to stop it and even if I died tomorrow others are well trained and ready to take my place.’

  Words were rattling out at machine-gun speed. He nodded towards Jacqueline. ‘And I was the double agent. Not her. But she is mine to use as I like, mind and body.’

  His lips were parted in a grimace of rage, his teeth gleaming with saliva like the fangs of a rabies-mad dog. ‘My chief wanted you to know these things in the last minutes of your life.’

  Two guards had been left on the plane, one of them the first pilot, and as Ling chattered a series of orders towards the stairs up to the open door of the flight-deck Grant pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead.

  He felt Jacqueline stiffen. The gun bored more deeply into his back. But he guessed she would do nothing until Ling clicked a final order.

  As he thrust the handkerchief back into his pocket he caressed his lapel. The badge swivelled to the finest touch and he froze, motionless, as he kept his hands at shoulder-level.

  The port engine began to throb and Ling glanced towards Jacqueline. ‘You have thirty seconds left to say what you like and then let him have it through the skull. A last souvenir from SATAN. And Ling Tao,’ he added viciously.

  Grant felt the gun slither sideways as the girl edged round to face him, but her eyes were steady and her fingers rock firm as it eased upwards across his stomach and along his breast-bone until it stopped just in front of his ear. Time was running short, but he would have bet anything that she would throw a final insult before pulling the trigger.

  Aniseeh was staring, her face twisted with fear, but he saw that Ling was concentrating upon the girl, his knife touching her left breast, and he guessed that Ling wanted her to see him die.

  Everything now depended on ADSAD’s boffins.

  If they had slipped up on this acid-gun thing it would be the end.

  For both of them.

  A bead of sweat broke on his nose.

  How long was a second?

  Fifteen seconds Juin had promised.

  And then it would go off.

  Jacqueline was now almost in front of him.

  Slightly half left of centre.

  How often had her head snuggled against that very lapel which might now destroy her beauty for ever.

  The badge was pointing straight for her face.

  The sweat bead was trickling down towards his nostrils. Tickling like hell.

  He could see her finger tighten on the trigger.

  And then he felt the quiver of power against his chest. The hiss of escaping air shook his jacket like a leaf in a storm and Jacqueline let out a scream of agony as biting vapour smacked into her face, the concentrated vitriol splashing against lips and nose as she dropped the gun and threw up her hands, rubbing the sticky acid against her fingers as she fumbled to protect herself.

  Grant was shocked by the damage. In a split fraction of a heart-beat he could see her satin-glazed beauty curl like a snail covered with salt.

  He crashed a fist into the side of her jaw, in the same breath leaping a clear seven feet to butt Ling straight on the forehead before he could do more than gash Aniseeh’s blouse, his stabbing blow deflected to draw a long thin scratch along her neck before he fell as though pole-axed.

  Darting backwards Grant pocketed Jacqueline’s gun and grasped Aniseeh by the hand. ‘For God’s sake let’s get the hell out of here. Two men still in the plane. We need reinforcements. Don’t let’s try our luck too far.’

  Running at almost top speed and followed by the Sheikh’s man they were within the shadows of trees when a first rifle-shot rang out from behind and spat dust up near Grant’s feet, a second rippling through Aniseeh’s hair as she flung herself to the ground and wriggled round the bole of a palm with Grant fast on her heels. And then as they heard the noise of two engines revving up Grant saw Jacq
ueline blunder up the steps into the aircraft, a figure at the top pulling her inside as it eased forwards and lumbered towards the landing strip. Aniseeh was gasping for breath, her blouse now stained with blood, and Grant could feel her heart racing as she snuggled up beside him on the dust, her fingers gripping his arm and her lips whispering hysterical nonsense into his ear.

  Five minutes later the machine took off into the wind and screwed overhead. A flap opened below and he threw himself on top of the girl as a black shape dropped towards them. The bomb blasted a hole deep enough to take a London bus and uprooted several trees. Fragments of casing hissed like shrapnel around, flicking dust or crunching into wood whilst the vacuum of blast stripped Grant’s clothes from him and left him stark naked, gasping for breath and with his lips and eyes filled with sand. ‘Aniseeh,’ he muttered. ‘Where in hell are you?’ And then he felt her fingers running up and down his back as she wriggled over beside him.

  Her voice was very gentle. ‘And I thought we were safe.’

  He looked at her anxiously, grasping her wrists and staring into her eyes. ‘Are you all right?’ Her blouse was stained and there was a crust of blood and sand on her arm.

  The aircraft had faded into the darkness and already even the noise of the engine was drowned by the whine of wind and the chirrup of cicadas. ‘I’m alive,’ she said. ‘A little pain where that man gripped me, but nothing important.’

  Slowly he helped her to her feet and began to laugh when he saw that she had come out of it even better than he. ‘I’ll bet,’ he said, ‘that this is the first wedding feast where the groom has arrived naked as he was born and his bride with a couple of knife wounds.’

  ‘But this time,’ said Aniseeh shyly, ‘we shall get married. And this time we really will do everything well.’

  Chapter Eighteen – ‘Please give me the ring’

  The tribesmen had taken cover in their mud-brick houses. Several had been killed or wounded, but Grant paused only to make sure that no urgent first aid was required and to wriggle into clothes handed over by an old woman before the Sheikh and Sidi Achmet, followed by soldiers, joined them at a spring. Aniseeh was still slightly hysterical, but he left her to make explanations while he splashed his face with water and slicked back his hair.

  ‘Then the bomb came,’ she finished, ‘and I might have been dead now if David hadn’t thrown me behind a tree and covered me with his own body.’

  The Caid looked at him curiously. ‘We have a proverb which says that “he who hides his secret will succeed in his aim”. And our people also say that “the thirst after wealth is more terrible than thirst for water”. I was blinded by the thought of so much money.’

  Sidi Achmet bowed his head. ‘They would have killed you. Perhaps killed us all.’

  ‘Killed!’ Aniseeh interrupted. ‘That Chinaman! What happened to him?’

  Cursing under his breath, Grant suddenly remembered. Perhaps they really had been partially concussed by the explosion. Nothing else could have excused such an oversight. The man had been left unconscious on the sand. Certainly he couldn’t have entered the aircraft, and the chances were that the bomb had missed him.

  ‘One minute,’ he muttered, and padded lightly through the palms towards the rutted track at the end of the runway. Lighting was difficult and the ground seemed to heave with patches of shadow cast by low dunes. A pink flare behind showed that torches were still burning around the patio, but the moon was low on the horizon and so many feet had left tracks that it was almost impossible even to pin-point the spot where Jacqueline had scheduled to murder him.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Farrachi had joined him. ‘If he is still here we shall find him in the morning.’

  ‘And if he is not?’

  ‘Surely we have enough guards to protect us against one wounded trouble-maker?’ Slipping his hand through Grant’s arm he gently led him away. ‘Never,’ he said quietly, ‘have I seen a person tell so many lies and get away with it. But now it seems that you also speak Arabic.’

  Grant hesitated. ‘Yes,’ he admitted at last, ‘I understand Arabic, but I never lie to friends and there is a difference between lying and bluffing.’

  The Caid’s grasp tightened on his arm. ‘Were you bluffing or lying when you said you would marry Aniseeh?’

  ‘Neither. I’ve already told Sidi Achmet that I would marry her if things turned out right.’

  The Caid paused, slowly stroking his beard. ‘Perhaps your ideas as to what turns out right are different from mine. I would like to know what is going to happen here. The Chinaman seemed to think that Americans and Russians would come tomorrow.’

  ‘That is more than likely.’ Grant suspected that the Caid was in a raging temper. Speaking as though to a child he explained the complicated situation which had developed after the discovery of riodorium and the importance which it had acquired in a world now controlled in everything which mattered by scientists whose inventions had begun to frighten even the politicians.

  The Caid shrugged his shoulders. ‘I want to know what is going to happen here. Not in the world outside.’

  ‘Look, sir,’ said Grant urgently. ‘The great powers will leave your people alone. They will see that Madrid doesn’t interfere and give you a fair price. They will also guarantee your continued independence. What more can you ask?’

  ‘And when the mineral has been taken away and men have forgotten Bobaida Farrachi will your guarantee of independence still mean anything?’

  It was a valid point. ‘I think so. Both London and Washington keep their promises.’

  ‘Possibly,’ smiled the Caid, ‘but I shall need advice and I need a doctor even more.’

  ‘So?’ asked Grant warily.

  ‘You told Sidi Achmet that if the time came for your marriage to Aniseeh you would guard her with your life. As proof of good faith I want you to marry before sunrise. Then we shall take you to a small green place not far from here. But when your foreign aeroplanes arrive I will bring their leaders to see you so that you can tell your story, and after matters have been arranged you will stay with my niece while the foreigners do what we decide.’

  Grant smiled. It was the most tactful possible way of saying that he would be a hostage for good behaviour until the ore had been removed. ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Afterwards,’ said the Sheikh, ‘you will stay as my adviser on matters which affect the outside world, and as my doctor on matters which affect myself.’

  ‘But if I tell you that I don’t want to spend my life here? Marry—yes. Stay—no.’

  The Caid squeezed Grant’s forearm and his words were overlaid with menace. ‘No one could leave here without knowing the desert, and tribal law says that none of my people can leave without my permission. So long as I am alive I would expect you to look after me and be my right arm.’

  ‘And if people disobey tribal law?’

  The Caid looked towards the oases, where, in the distance, a group of figures still stood together near the spring, silhouetted against a sky alight with reflection from more torches than ever. ‘We must go back,’ he said, ‘but the law is strict and people who break it are strangled.’ He held out his hand. ‘There is a hand of friendship. I am forcing myself to forget that your interference has caused so much trouble. So take it and be my friend. You swore by the Koran to Sidi Achmet that you would marry my niece if the time came and if you were both alive. Well, the time has come for you to prove that you don’t always lie.’

  Grant hesitated long enough to see the Caid’s eyes darken with suspicion. ‘One thing only,’ he said quietly. ‘May I make another call on the radio to my chief? I would like to bring him up to date on what has been happening.’

  Farrachi shook his head. ‘Too much has been said already. Things will have to have . . . as you say . . . “turned out right” before I would trust you to speak to anyone except myself or Sidi Achmet.’

  ‘And Aniseeh,’ continued Grant desperately. ‘Will she have enough time to get ready?’<
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  The Caid smiled sarcastically. ‘Women never have enough time to make themselves beautiful and she will have all that is needed. Her marriage clothes have been waiting for years.’

  The second reminder that a marriage had once been arranged to a man who had died, and a hint that by Berber standards she was old to be a bride. ‘Even the contract has been written out,’ said the Caid, ‘and we shall sign it together during the celebration. But first,’ he continued smoothly, ‘we must find clothes for yourself, because my people will want you to show them honour.’

  The Sheikh’s manner was confident, and as they walked back towards the palace Grant heard him rap out order after order to Sidi Achmet and the cluster of bodyguards or servants who trailed behind. By the time they reached the western gate everything had been arranged and there was time only for a slow cup of coffee in the larger patio before Achmet returned with a parchment scroll.

  ‘Read this,’ smiled Farrachi. ‘It will be signed after all the people have collected and then you will be married. Send it back to me when you are finished and meanwhile Sidi will bathe and dress you.’

  At least a hundred torches were burning on the walls and the tables were being set with every delicacy which the oases could produce. Stuffed kids were already on spits standing beside the main gates while servants coaxed wood into flames. The patio walls were fully eight feet broad and reached by steps at each corner, but although less than an hour had passed since the news had been spread round the villages women had begun to scramble on top, fighting for the best places. Only men would be allowed to walk inside the patio, their women watching from the walls while the men gorged themselves with food and fired guns, shouted jokes or competed to see who would make the loudest noise.

  It looked like being the party of a lifetime, and something of the rising excitement hit even Grant as he strode off with Sidi Achmet to the baths. A wardrobe of finery had been collected, and after the women had finished bathing him the old man helped him to dress: a headscarf hanging with golden galloons and a flowing gown of thinly textured velvet, cream coloured but edged with crimson brocade which reached his ankles and almost covered leather sandals whose half-inch-thick soles made him feel as though he was almost walking on stilts.