Midnight Runner - Sean Dillon 10

by Jack Higgins

  The Excelsior dated from colonial days and still had a whiff of British Empire about it. The bar had the look of an old movie, with cane furniture, fans turning on the ceiling, and a marble-topped bar, bottles arranged behind. The barman, Abdul, wore a white monkey jacket from his days as a waiter on cruise ships.

  "Lager," Villiers told him, "and as cold as it gets."

  He went out through the French doors and sat in a large cane chair, the awning above his head flapping in the wind. Abdul brought the lager. Villiers ran a finger down the glass, beaded with moisture, then drank slowly, but without stopping, washing away the sand and the heat and the dirt of the border country.

  Abdul had waited, an old ritual. "Another one, Sahb?"

  "Yes, thank you, Abdul."

  Villiers lit a cigarette and looked out to the horizon, a dark mood on him. Maybe it was the death of Omar, and the puzzle why he himself had been spared. On the other hand, maybe he'd stayed in Hazar too long. He'd been married once, more years ago than he cared to remember: Gabrielle of the blond hair and the green eyes, the love of his life. But he'd been away from home too much, they'd drifted apart, and finally divorced just before the Falklands War. What made it worse was that she'd married the enemy, an Argentine Air Force fighter ace who later became a general.

  No one could ever replace her. There had been women, of course, but never one to move him enough to marry again. For Villiers, it had been a life of soldiering in strange places, his only anchor the old family house in West Sussex, and the home farm, worked by his nephew, who was married with two children and also doubled as the estate manager. They were always begging him to give up soldiering while he was still in one piece and come home.

  Abdul interrupted his reverie with the second lager. Someone called, "I'll have one of those," and Villiers turned to see Ben Carver walk in wearing flying overalls and a Panama hat. He flopped down in the chair opposite Villiers and fanned his face with the hat.

  "Christ, it's hot out there."

  "How's the air taxi business?"

  "Lucrative, with all those oil leases out there on the border country. I've replaced the Three-Ten your friend Dillon crashed last year."

  "He didn't crash it, he was shot down by Bedu, as you well know."

  "All right, so he was shot down. I've still got the Golden Eagle, and I've got a couple of South African kids flying over in my new Beechcraft. Well, it's not exactly new, but it'll do nicely."

  "Are they going to stay?"

  "They're giving it six months. I need someone. There's a lot of Rashid work around."

  "I hear she's coming in today."

  "The Countess? Yeah, she's flying in with someone named Dauncey. Not staying long, though. Got a slot back to London day after tomorrow."

  "Dauncey is her cousin. Tell me, Ben, when you fly to oil sites out there in the Empty Quarter, do you see much action?"

  "Action? What do you mean?"

  "Well, since the Sultan won't let the Scouts cross the border anymore, I just don't know things the way I used to. Who do you see?"

  Carver wasn't smiling now. "A few caravans, will that do?" He swallowed his lager and stood. "I see nothing, Tony."

  "Which is what you're paid to do?"

  "I'm paid to fly to exploratory oil wells, land in the desert, then fly back." He walked to the door and turned. "And I'm paid to mind my own business. You should try it."

  "So that means you don't fly that new toy of hers, the Scorpion? I've seen that helicopter crossing the line dozens of times when we've been on patrol. That isn't you at the controls?"

  Carver glared as he walked out, and as Villiers stood, he realized Abdul was carefully cleaning a glass-topped table close to the open French door. He'd obviously heard every word.

  "Another lager, Colonel?"

  "No, thanks." Villiers smiled. "I'll be down for dinner later," and he walked out.

  H e had a long hot shower to get really clean, then relaxed in a tepid bath for half an hour, thinking about things, particularly his encounter with Ben Carver. A good man, Ben, DFC in the Gulf War, but with an eye to his bank account. He wouldn't want to rock the boat, especially the Rashid boat. There were certain things Villiers could take for granted about Kate Rashid, though. She would stay at the Rashid Villa in the old quarter, a Moorish palace. At some stage, she would proceed to Shabwa Oasis by helicopter. And she would dine at the Excelsior restaurant that night, because she always did.

  Evening was falling, orange streaks coloring the horizon beyond the harbor. He toweled his long hair vigorously, remembering his years with the SAS, when you were never sure what would happen next, when if you'd suddenly have to assume a civilian identity, an Army haircut wouldn't do. All that Irish time that would never go away.

  As he stood at the mirror combing his hair, he thought about how to handle dinner, then decided to go all the way: no linen suit tonight, something to impress. He took a tropical uniform from the wardrobe, khaki slacks and bush shirt, the medal ribbons making a brave show. He held it up and smiled. That would do nicely.

  R upert was much impressed with the Rashid Villa. He stood in the great hall, looking up at the vaulted ceiling. There were wonderful rugs scattered on the marble floor, Arab antiques on every hand, and the walls were painted with frescoes.

  "This is really quite a show."

  "Thank you, darling. There are offices at the back, computers, the full Monty. This is headquarters for Rashid Investments in Hazar and the whole of Southern Arabia."

  The head houseboy, who had greeted them at the great copper door, said, "Abdul, from the Excelsior, has been waiting to see you, Countess."

  "Where is he?"

  "With Abu."

  Abu was her body servant, a fierce Bedu warrior from Shabwa Oasis. He was always there to greet her when she arrived in Hazar and stayed at her side for the length of the trip.

  "We'll have tea and coffee on the terrace. Bring him to me."

  She led the way up marble stairs, Rupert following, passed along an airy corridor, and came out on a wide terrace, the awning flapping in the early evening breeze. The view was stupendous, for they were high up above the rooftops.

  "Magnificent." Rupert sat down and offered her a cigarette.

  "It'll be dark soon. Dusk doesn't last long here," Kate said.

  Behind them, Abdul was ushered in by Abu, who was tall and bearded with a hard face, and wore a white head cloth and robe.

  "Abu, it is good to see you," she told him in Arabic.

  He smiled, a thing he rarely did, and salaamed. "And for me to see you, Countess, is a blessing as always. This creature wishes to see you."

  "Then let him speak." She said to Rupert, "Abdul is the barman at the Excelsior."

  "Countess, I have news," Abdul said in Arabic.

  "English, please, my cousin has no Arabic."

  "Colonel Villiers came in from the border earlier this afternoon. Two Land Rovers and seven Scouts. He was ambushed when they halted at the pool at Hama. One of his men was shot dead. Omar. There was a sniper on the cliffs."

  The houseboy came in with the tea and coffee, served it unobtrusively, and withdrew.

  Kate Rashid said, "How do you know this?"

  Abdul shrugged. "The Scouts are in the bazaar and they've been talking."

  She nodded. "Is Villiers Sahb eating at the hotel tonight?"

  "Yes, Countess, but I have more. The colonel was drinking lager on the terrace and Mr. Carver joined him. I managed to hear their conversation."

  She turned to Rupert. "Ben Carver is an old RAF hand who runs air taxis out of Hamam. He does a lot of work for Rashid." She nodded to Abdul. "Go on."

  Abdul told her everything, for he had an excellent memory and prided himself on it. When he was finished, she opened her purse and took out a fifty-dollar bill and handed it to him.

  "You've done well."

  He backed away and raised a hand. "No, Countess, this is for you, my gift."

  "For which I thank you, bu
t do not dishonor me by refusing mine." Abdul bowed and smiled, took the bill hurriedly, turned, and went out.

  Rupert said, "So Villiers is pumping people for information?"

  "On Ferguson's behalf, we can assume."

  "Who ambushed him?"

  "Who do you think?" She spoke to Abu. "You've done well. The one you killed, who was he, this Omar?" The answer was important. Since the Scouts were all Rashid Bedu, the family links with those in the Empty Quarter were immensely strong.

  "My second cousin."

  "I want no blood feud over this."

  "There will be none, Countess."

  "And Villiers Sahb will not be touched until I give the word."

  "As you say, Countess, I would only kill him face-to-face. He is a great warrior."

  "Good. My cousin here is a great warrior, too. He fought many battles with the American Marines and is precious to me. Guard him with your life."

  "As you say, Countess." He went out.

  She explained to Rupert what Abu had told her, and suddenly, darkness started to fall and the houseboy came in and switched on the lights. Moths fluttered instantly.

  "So what now, cousin?" Rupert asked.

  "I think a glass of champagne." She nodded to the houseboy, who was hovering, and gave the order. A moment later, Abu appeared.

  "It grieves me to disturb you, Countess, but Selim asks to see you."

  "Selim? Really? How interesting. Bring him in." She said to Rupert. "Another man has turned up--and this one is a Sergeant in the Scouts."

  "And, of course, a Rashid. It still puzzles me how this all works, both sides made up of the same people."

  "That's because you're a Yank and you don't understand the Arab mind."

  The houseboy appeared with a bottle of Bollinger in an ice bucket and two glasses. He thumbed the cork off expertly and poured.

  "I thought alcohol was forbidden in Arab countries," Rupert said.

  "It varies. Hazar has always had a rather liberal attitude."

  "And you go along with that? After all, you are a Muslim."

  "I also don't wear a chador," she said, referring to the obligatory headscarf for Muslim women. "I'm also half-English, Rupert. I serve both sides of the coin."

  As she sipped champagne, Abu ushered Selim in. The Sergeant looked very worried.

  "You speak good English, Selim, so we'll speak English now. Does Villiers Sahb know you are here?"

  "No, Countess." Selim was instantly alarmed. "I am here because I felt I must speak to you."

  "Why?"

  "We've been in the border country, the Scouts, with the Colonel. We no longer cross into the Empty Quarter."

  "I know this."

  "Villiers Sahb asked me many questions. He wanted to know if there was anything going on over the border."

  "And what did you tell him?"

  "That I knew nothing. But he made me feel uncomfortable. I don't think he believed me."

  "Which shows his intelligence, for you were lying to him, weren't you?"

  "Countess, please."

  "Light me a cigarette, Rupert." He did so and passed it to her. "But you must not lie to me, Selim." She leaned forward. "So tell me what you have heard whispered."

  "The camp, Countess, the camp at Fuad Oasis. Foreigners come and go, and there is sometimes much gunfire. Those who roam the desert, the Adoo bandits, have heard of such things."

  "Many people talk mysteries, and loose tongues abound. But they can be cut out, Selim. Why have you come to me? You are the Colonel's man."

  "But I am also Rashid." Selim was bewildered. "My loyalty is to you first, Countess, you are our leader, all Rashid agree."

  "Even the Hazar Scouts?"

  "Well, there are those who are old-fashioned in their ways, who look to the Colonel."

  "Men who keep their oath, you mean, unlike you? You also swore the oath, you tasted salt with Colonel Villiers, and ate his bread. There is a matter of honor here, and loyalty. You say you are loyal to me, but can I depend on loyalty and honor from a man who has none?"

  "Countess--please," Selim said wildly.

  "Go from my sight. Never return."

  Abu gripped Selim's arm and pushed him out of the terrace. Rupert said, "What was that all about?"

  "Honor is everything to my people. Men die for it--and Selim will die for his lack of it."

  Abu returned and, to Rupert's total astonishment, said in excellent English, "The man is a dog, Countess. What would you have me do?"

  "See to him, Abu."

  "At your orders."

  He went out and she smiled slightly at Rupert. "When Abu was eighteen, his uncle, a rich trader, sent him to London University. He got a degree in economics--but on his return, he found that he preferred being a warrior. He is a very good one."

  "Then God help Selim."

  She finished her champagne and stood up. "Time for a shower and a change of clothes. I'll show you your suite."

  S elim hurried from one narrow alley to another, making for the old quarter, and yet the truth was he had no idea where to go. He had thought to find favor with the Countess. Instead, he had received a death sentence. Nothing was more certain. He paused and stood in a doorway to consider the situation.

  There was nowhere to hide, not in Hazar, not in the high country of the border or in the Empty Quarter. The word would go out amongst his people, and every hand would be against him. His mind raced and came up with only one possible solution: the harbor. There were boats there that called at every port in Southern Arabia. Perhaps he could get to Aden or even Mombassa on the east coast of Africa. There was a larger Arab population there and it was far from Rashid territory.

  He hurried away, taking a different direction, and came out on the waterfront. It was very dark, but there were lights on the moored shipping. If he could slip on board one of the ancient coastal steamers, all would be well.

  He turned on to one of the boardwalk wharfs, which had several boats tied up. It was very quiet, with only the sound of distant laughers, and then a board creaked behind him and he turned and saw Abu. Selim turned to run, but Abu was faster. He caught him by the robe, a knife in one hand, pulled back Selim's head, and drew the knife across his throat. Selim sagged, the life going out of him, and Abu wiped his knife on the man's robe and pushed him over the side of the wharf. The body fell some fifty feet, there was a splash, then only the silence again.

  Abu walked away quickly. When he had gone, another Arab came out of the darkness wearing the crossed bandoliers of the Scouts, an AK slung from his left shoulder. He peered over the edge of the wharf and saw Selim's body floating facedown in the faint light at the stern of a coastal steamer. After a moment, he turned and walked away.

  V illiers made a striking figure in his tropical uniform as he went into the bar at the Excelsior. There were only half a dozen people, all alone, and all European, with an air of business about them. One or two looked at him, curious. There was no sign of Kate Rashid or Rupert Dauncey. Villiers moved to the bar, where Abdul polished glasses.

  "I'd have thought the Countess would be in tonight. I know she's in town."

  "Later, Sahb, she comes later."

  "Did she tell you that?"

  Abdul looked nervous. "Would you like a lager, Colonel Sahb?"

  "Not now."

  He walked out, lit a cigarette, and stood at the top of the steps leading down to the garden. One of his men squatted at one side of the steps, his AK across his knees.

  Villiers said in Arabic, "I see you, Achmed."

  "And I you, Colonel Sahb."

  "So why are you here?"

  "Selim is dead. He floats in the harbor."

  "Tell me," Villiers said, offering a cigarette and a light.

  "We were to go with the women in the bazaar, have whiskey sups. Sahb knows we can do that there."

  "And?"

  "Selim was troubled, not himself. He said he had to see a friend. I thought it strange, so I followed."

  "An
d where did he go?"

  "The Rashid Villa. It was almost dark. I stood in the palms on the other side of the street and looked up to the terrace. The Countess was there with a man, English, I think."

  "No, American. I know who this man is."

  "Then Abu brought Selim on to the terrace, and he and the Countess talked. A little later, Selim came out. He stood there looking worried, as if he didn't know where to go."

  "What do you mean by worried?"

  "He had the stink of fear on him, Sahb. He started down the street, and I was about to follow when Abu came out and went after him."

  "And you followed."

  "Yes, Sahb, down to the harbor. He turned on to one of the wharfs. He seemed to be examining the ships, then Abu ran up behind him, cut his throat, and pushed him into the water."

  Villiers said, "Why would Abu do this thing?"

  "For the Countess, Sahb."

  "But what would be her reason?"

  "Allah alone knows this."

  Villiers offered him another cigarette. "I'm grateful, Achmed, that you've told me this, but why? You, too, are Rashid, the Countess is your leader."

  He knew the answer before it came. "But Sahb, I have tasted your salt, sworn the oath, and I am your man. This the Countess would agree on. It is a matter of honor."

  "And perhaps Selim had none."

  Achmed shrugged. "He was a weak man."

  "But a good Sergeant."

  "I would be better, Sahb."

  Villiers smiled. "Well, you must prove that to me." He took out his pack of cigarettes and gave them to him. "Go on, you rogue, but no mention of this to the others."

  "It will come out, Sahb, these things do."

  "Let it be in its own time."

  Achmed faded into the darkness and Villiers went inside and approached the bar. A matter of honor. That was supremely important to the Bedus, and perhaps Kate Rashid also saw it that way.

  "Cigarettes, Abdul," he said. "Marlboros."

  Abdul passed a pack across. "A lager now, Colonel?"