Rogue Hercules

by Denis Pitts

  Then he heard a loud whisper from the other room and the picture show was on again. The two of them were on the bed. Then he saw the fearful dimensions of the Frenchman.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said in an appalled voice. ‘He’ll kill her, he’ll split her in two.’

  Martin had picked up the table and was about to use it to smash the door open when he heard a key turning in the lock.

  It was a badly fitting key and someone was having trouble. Martin stood and felt his clothes drenched with sweat.

  ‘All right, come in you rapist bastard.’ He was ready to kill at that moment. He stood crouched, his elbows tucked in, fists bunched like spliced steel.

  ‘Come on, come on, I’m ready.’

  *

  ‘I feel it better that you do not burn down the American Consulate.’

  Alexander Turok was pouring beer for the leader of the Dockers’ Union, orange juice for the Secretary of the Somali Unity Front Party and a copious vodka for himself. The three men were sitting on the patio of Turok’s villa. It was late afternoon and soon the bright lights of the city would sprawl beneath them.

  ‘Why not?’ asked the union leader. ‘This is an anti-American demonstration you say.’

  ‘It is a demonstration against imperialist aggression, not merely by America,’ said Turok.

  ‘You know more than we do. Just exactly what are we demonstrating against, Consul?’

  Turok downed his vodka, put the glass on the table where it had worn a rim over the years, looked up and tapped the side of his nose mysteriously.

  ‘All will be revealed in due course,’ he said, peering at them through his rheumy eyes. ‘You have been looking for a demonstration. I assure you that it is an excellent reason.’

  ‘Do we attack government offices?’

  ‘The Ministry of the Interior. But stones only. No burning, no looting.’

  ‘The British Embassy?’

  Turok thought briefly. ‘No, not yet. Leave the British for the second stage. This is a truly international conspiracy. The British are part of it but they are not the principals.’

  ‘Banners. Have we banners?’

  ‘In Arabic, French and English. My staff are preparing them now.’

  ‘Press and television?’

  ‘The Tass correspondent will be present and so will all the local stringers. I believe there is a French television crew in Djibouti at this moment. That will ensure good international coverage.’

  ‘It is essential that we know why we are calling our men on to the streets,’ said the Muslim leader. He was a thin-faced man, with the eyes of a fanatic. He clearly did not like Turok or Turok’s heavy drinking.

  ‘I can tell you only that this city is in the forefront of a demonstration which will involve every country on the African continent. What is happening must be kept completely secret at this moment. If we show our cards too soon then it may well be that the imperialists will withdraw too early.’

  ‘It sounds good,’ said the docker. ‘But why can we not attack the American Embassy? You know that my men are anxious to do just that.’

  ‘I can only advise you. Stones only. The gendarmes and the legionnaires are spoiling to crack a lot of heads. They would not hesitate to gun down a large number of men at this stage in Djibouti.’

  Turok offered the vodka bottle to the union leader who shook his head.

  ‘I will telephone you as soon as I have details of the starting time. Be sure to have your group leaders in constant touch from midnight tonight. Now Comrades, thank you for coming here. Please ensure that you are not observed on the way out. Good night, friends.’

  The two visitors finished their drinks and slipped into the night leaving the Consul alone, staring dispiritedly at the crescent moon which was already bright and clearly visible in the cloudless blue sky. He was gloomy and dyspeptic. He had missed his sleep that afternoon and working in the intense heat in an airless consulate had dehydrated his body.

  He emptied the vodka bottle in a quick succession of swallows and went into the living room of the villa where his wife, a small, dowdy woman with a sad, drawn face was mending one of his shirts.

  ‘A busy day?’ she asked.

  ‘An urgent job from Moscow. How I hate their urgent jobs. They expect me to have this city alight tomorrow.’

  ‘Again?’ Her voice was sad and dispirited. Mrs Turok clearly did not like being a consul’s wife at any time. She disliked this city more than any in which they had lived.

  ‘Stay indoors tomorrow, woman. Those visitors of mine are too eager. It may get out of hand.’

  ‘I wasn’t going anywhere. Where is there to go in this awful place? If they burned it down you might get a nice new posting. Somewhere cool like Greenland.’

  Turok cut a slice of hard brown local bread and smeared it with butter. There were several slices of ham on a covered china dish on the sideboard. He placed the ham on the bread and chewed morosely.

  ‘These Popular Front people can be very tiring. Burn, burn, burn, that’s all they can think of. There is every possibility that there will be no American Consulate in this city tomorrow night.’

  ‘Didn’t they burn that last month?’

  ‘No, that was the West German Legation.’

  ‘Oh yes. Poor Mrs Klaus lost all her lovely clothes. She had to miss the British Garden Party.’

  Turok clipped open a can of German beer. He looked around the room with its shabby furniture and faded family photographs. Almost everything in the room was stained with mildew from the heat and damp. A constant line of red ants made their way from a crack in the wall to the wainscoting below and back again.

  ‘Who would be a consul?’ he asked wearily.

  ‘At least no one ever burns down Russian consulates,’ said Mrs Turok, trying at last to inject a cheerful note into the conversation.

  ‘Pity in a way,’ he said reflectively. ‘We could do with a new building. Just imagine, Katya, my wife, air-conditioning like the Americans!’ He finished his beer and sandwich and flopped heavily into an armchair.

  ‘It would be too bad if they burnt down the Americans. Consul-General Barker is a good man, the only other decent chess player in Djibouti. And, what’s more, he has a very fine stock of bourbon whisky.’

  *

  It was not the captain who entered the interrogation room. The man was stocky and dark-haired and wore a white light-weight suit, a collar and tie and looked cool and unhurried and uncreased as though he had just stepped out from an air-conditioned office. He smiled warmly at Martin and held out his hand. He sniffed around the room with disgust in his face.

  ‘I’m sorry for this,’ he said. ‘We cannot seem to be very hospitable. But you must know what airports are like. Luxury for the passengers and squalor for the crews.’ The man opened the door behind him and left it open.

  His voice was slightly high-pitched, almost effeminate. He took a small black document case and placed it on the table. He was a slightly fussy man who did everything with precise movements.

  ‘Sit down, Captain Gore. I hope this will not take long.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Marceau. I am an agent of the Departement de Surveillance of this territory.’

  ‘A policeman?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Copper.’

  The small man smiled thinly.

  ‘I am concerned with your aeroplane and your cargo, Captain,’ he said. ‘I have examined your documents and I must tell you that I am much concerned.’

  ‘Concerned?’

  ‘For a start, you are carrying weapons.’

  ‘We are hardly disguising the fact,’ said Martin. ‘The lading bills, consignment notes, the end-user certificate, they are all in order.’

  Martin was going to like this little man who opened his case and produced a pile of documents and placed them on the table between them.

  ‘All apparently in order. What bewilders me is that your destination is ap
parently Cyprus, which is north-west of Karachi, whereas you have landed at Djibouti, which is south-west of Karachi. A mild error in navigation, perhaps?’

  ‘We had a fire and lost an engine. We had to jettison fuel.’

  ‘You could have diverted to twelve, maybe thirteen different countries. Why this one?’

  ‘I don’t think I need to explain. We are an aircraft in transit. As it happens we were instructed to land here. I assumed that there was an engine available.’

  ‘You disobeyed an air traffic instruction at Karachi.’

  ‘Is that any concern of yours?’

  ‘Not directly, Captain. But it does add a little tarnish to your mission, you must agree.’

  ‘Karachi air traffic broke a fundamental rule,’ said Martin forcefully. ‘They were yelling at us during an actual take-off. That is unheard of. That’s why we didn’t turn back and land.’

  ‘Who employs you?’

  Martin told him. He gave the whole background from his introduction to Murphy in Brussels to the moment of take-off in Karachi. He played it straight. The questioner nodded occasionally and appeared to be friendly, almost sympathetic.

  ‘Gun-running is not your trade then?’

  ‘I fly people and things from one airfield to another. That’s my trade.’

  ‘The nature of this load does not worry you?’

  ‘If you mean there are twenty tons of high explosives sitting out there in the sun and surrounded by a lot of heavy-smoking soldiery, yes I am worried. I want to be returned to my aircraft.’

  ‘I was talking about the morality of running arms.’ The Frenchman looked directly into Martin’s eyes. There was a mocking look in his own which disconcerted.

  ‘I don’t moralise. If I wasn’t flying this load, some other man would be. The money is good.’

  ‘You are an intelligent man, Captain. That is no answer.’

  ‘You mean those things kill people? Is that the morality you mean? But automobiles kill, cigarettes, liquor, asbestos dust, insecticides, so does white bread kill. So if I came in here with a load of Chesterfields and Johnny Walker whisky, what then? Would I still be getting all this morality crap? Like I say, one load is like another.’

  Marceau took a packet of Disque Bleu from his breast pocket and offered it to Martin, who shook his head. The Frenchman smiled.

  ‘I had hoped for something a little less cynical,’ he said. ‘We are a small community and it is always good to talk to new faces.’

  ‘Give me a shower and two hours between clean sheets and I’ll justify anything you like,’ said Martin wearily.

  The Frenchman suddenly became serious. He talked in a level, calculating tone.

  ‘Captain Gore, please listen carefully. Firstly, I must tell you one of the principal reasons for the delay in my getting to this airport is the fact that I have been talking by telephone to my opposite number in Cyprus. The end-user certificate you have is, in my opinion, entirely bogus. I think that your flight-plan is equally bogus.’

  Marceau paused and looked at Martin who shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘I take it that my guess is correct? We will know soon enough.’

  ‘Take it any way you like.’

  ‘Captain, your true destination if you please.’

  Martin sighed. The time had come for the mild outrage act, he decided.

  ‘I landed my aircraft here on instructions from the contractor in the honest belief that my crew and myself would be welcomed and that every facility would be given in terms of repair and refuelling.’

  ‘I am sure that you will be given every assistance in due course,’ said the Frenchman. ‘I merely need to be satisfied that you are acting within the law.’

  ‘Which law?’

  ‘Come, come, Captain.’ The Frenchman wagged an admonishing finger across the table. ‘Stop playing with words. You are, as they say, a sitting duck. The possession of that forged certificate is enough for me to bring criminal charges against you. So please, answer me this one question. What is your true destination?’

  ‘You seem certain that it is forged.’

  ‘I have seen too many of them.’

  ‘I’m just a servant,’ said Martin. ‘No more than a truck driver delivering a load. Maybe we should send for the boss.’

  Now the Frenchman sighed deeply.

  ‘Captain, it is hot and stuffy and most unpleasant in this room. Your boss could be several days in arriving. I assure you that we want to see you safely on your way.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now let me make my position clear, finally. The government of this territory has received a cable from the Foreign Ministry in Paris which asks us to give you landing, repair and refuelling facilities. It did not mention the nature of your cargo. Clearly, your employer has some considerable influence in Paris. That does not impress me. The man who signed the cable is known to my department as being a man without a great deal of honour. Now your cargo is going somewhere. I have to establish only that it is not going to enemies of France.’

  ‘Whom, for instance?’

  ‘Well, there are the Somalis who have spent years fermenting revolution in this province and who threaten daily to invade. Or there is an entire army of rebels in Chad who are extremely well armed and a constant menace to the population there. And there are many more. I would be failing in my duty if that load were to get into the wrong hands. I need proof, Captain. And once I have that proof I assure you that you will have all the facilities you require as long, naturally enough, as you are able to pay for them.’

  Martin put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands and scratched at his scalp while he thought. ‘As far as I know the consignee is not an enemy of France. In fact, I think you have done a lot of business with them.’

  ‘That is not proof, Captain.’

  ‘The freight and the aircraft are destined for Rhodesia,’ said Martin firmly. ‘You will find a separate set of consignment notes hidden in the airframe.’

  ‘I assumed as much.’ The Frenchman stood up, gathered the papers and put them back in the case. ‘Thank you, Captain. You are, needless to say, breaking International Law. There is a total embargo on any such delivery to Rhodesia. On the other hand, my government is most reluctant to become involved in a cause célèbre and I shall recommend to my minister that we turn a blind eye on this occasion. It is, as I say, too hot.’

  Martin said weakly, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But I must tell you at once, Captain, that you will be given a deadline of twelve hours to be out of this territory. My minister is concerned for his own reputation as well as that of France.’

  ‘I’ll show you the documents.’

  ‘I am obliged, Captain,’ said Marceau quietly. ‘Had you not done so then we would have had to search your aircraft thoroughly which would have meant removing your load with all the attendant dangers. I think it unlikely that it would have been replaced in the aircraft.’

  Marceau looked again with keen eyes directly at Martin. The same strange, mocking smile.

  ‘I will tell you why I am allowing you to go, Captain Gore. I sympathise with the Rhodesian cause. Very soon, we French will be booted out of Djibouti. We have brought civilisation to this little state. I dread to think what will happen when it gets into the hands of the Marxists. You can go. It is the people who will fight whom I respect — not you. Be sure to honour your deadline.’

  *

  They had ridden into the city in an ancient, bone-cracking Citroen cab. Stubbles had been left in the aeroplane, sleeping, while they awaited the new engine.

  Martin, who was tired and irritable after the talk with Marceau, flopped in the back seat and said, ‘Twelve bloody hours. They’re asking a hell of a lot from one engineer and a couple of locals who’ve never seen a Hercules before.’

  Harry said nothing. He had been unusually quiet and morose from the moment the aircraft had landed and he appeared to have shrunk more and more into himself.
The road from the airport was rough and covered in potholes. Martin glanced at Harry. The co-pilot’s face appeared to have sagged and gained an unhealthy greyness in its skin texture which had not been there before. He looked old and worried.

  Martin squeezed his arm.

  ‘Apart from the fact that we’ve landed deep in the fertiliser, Harry, my boy, what’s worrying you?’

  Harry was a long time in answering.

  ‘I guess it’s the heat, the smell, I’m just tired.’

  ‘It’s being back in Africa?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe it’s something like that. I did once swear that I’d never set foot on this birthplace of my ancestors again.’

  ‘Just for twenty-four hours. You’ll be away from it again tomorrow on a scheduled flight with money waiting at the other end. Come on, cheer up.’

  Martin was trying hard.

  Harry struggled to smile.

  ‘I’m just tired, I guess. And I’ve been fighting off a premonition about this journey.’

  ‘Premonition?’ Martin grinned. ‘I’ve known you for two whole years now, Harry Black, and you are the most pragmatic, prosaic, feet-on-the-ground flyman I’ve ever known. You don’t wear a St Christopher’s medal, you don’t carry a mascot. You leave that kind of thing to white men like me. And now you’re having premonitions. What the hell sort of premonitions?’

  Harry growled the answer.

  ‘Don’t bug me, you know what I mean.’

  ‘All right, so we’ve blown an engine. How many times have we blown engines?’

  ‘It’s not the engine,’ said Harry. ‘It’s nothing to do with the fire. Nothing to do with the load. We can get that to Rhodesia without any trouble. It’s just a gut feeling about everything else. It’s there, like a kind of cancer. It’s been there since we signed the contract.’

  Martin rested his arm behind Harry and felt the engrained dirt on the leather upholstery of the Citroen. The driver gunned the cab mercilessly along the rough road picking up a thick cloud of dust.

  Harry continued softly, ‘You know, brother, every time I took off in Vietnam I reckoned that I’d never land again. That wasn’t premonition. That was good, old-fashioned animal fear. This is something else. What about that business in Karachi? And what about that Russian plane? And how about those goons at the airport?’