by Overton, Max
"What if somebody comes in for a meal?" Daffyd asked.
"Few people do, except expatriates."
They tucked into their meal, and after ten minutes of dedicated eating and drinking, Marc threw down his fork and stifled a contented belch.
"Now that's what I call a decent meal. Individual plates, edible food, utensils, a halfway decent wine and..." he lifted his wineglass and examined it critically, "...passably clean glassware. Why can't the Libyans eat like this?"
"You need to get out more, boyo," Daffyd said mildly.
"And you need to adapt," Dani added. "There won't be many more meals like this once we leave Benghazi."
"Speaking of which..." Daffyd speared the last cherry tomato in his salad and popped it into his mouth. "Where do we go next?"
Dani topped up her glass with red wine and then looked around to make sure they were not being overheard. "I'm open to suggestions, never having crossed international borders illegally. The Egyptian border is about three hundred miles east of here, near a place called El Salloum, but I rather think that'll be guarded."
"You think they'll have our names down on some list of persona non grata even in an out of the way place like that?" Marc asked. He poured himself another glass of wine and drained it in two gulps.
"Perhaps, perhaps not," Daffyd said. "But we can't risk it. I took a look at a map before we came out here and there's a little village called Al Jaghbub deep in the Libyan Desert. It's right on the border and the Egyptian town of Siwa Oasis is only a hundred or so miles away."
"There's a road to Siwa?"
"No. We'd have to cross the desert."
"How the hell are we going to do that?" Marc asked. "I'll tell you right now I'm not walking that distance."
"I don't see you coming up with any suggestions," Daffyd retorted. He pulled out his tobacco tin and started to roll himself a cigarette.
"Easy guys," Dani murmured. "We're all in this together, so let's see if we can work something out calmly and rationally. Could we hire a jeep from Al Jaghbub...or even Benghazi for that matter?"
"Possibly," Daffyd said. He lit up and blew a cloud of strongly scented smoke into the clear night sky. "I'll look into it tomorrow. Another possibility might be hiring camels..."
"Lawrence of Arabia, forsooth," Marc laughed. "Do you know how to ride one?"
"All right, perhaps not, but we're just exploring possibilities at the moment. It really boils down to walking, riding camels or vehicular transport. I think a jeep might be our best bet."
The next morning, Daffyd set off to explore the car rental firms in Benghazi. Marc insisted on accompanying him.
"Just in case you decide to hire a herd of camels or donkeys."
There were vehicles to hire, but the influx of oil company personnel had bumped the prices up and most firms who had vehicles capable of handling the dirt roads and rough country were reluctant to hire them out.
"I am sorry, sirs," said the clerk in the fifth car hire firm. "If you are not used to driving on country roads we cannot let you have a vehicle. The risks are too great, unless you are willing to pay a much higher rental."
"How much higher?"
The clerk told them. "Perhaps if you could find an experienced driver?"
"Where would we find one of those?"
The clerk shrugged. "You could ask around."
Outside on the street, Daffyd cursed fluently in Welsh. "It's starting to look like a camel might be the only answer."
"Can you drive a camel?" Marc asked with a grin.
"No, but I hear you get many miles to the gallon with them," Daffyd replied.
They stopped off in a coffee shop to consider their next move. The caf� was crowded with Libyans, but they squeezed behind a small table in one corner and put their order in for two coffees and some sweet sticky date cakes. While they waited, they looked around casually at the other customers.
"Why the hell did we come in here?" Marc muttered. "This lot looks as though they'd be happy to murder us for the price of a coffee."
"An interesting mix of people," Daffyd said. "Mostly what I'd call Coastal Arabs, but there are a few Berbers and even a couple of Sub-Saharans."
"And does any of this interesting mix of cut-throats and murderers actually help us find a vehicle or a driver?"
"I suppose we could ask."
"And let them know we're rich foreigners itching to be robbed and murdered? I think not."
"They can see we're foreigners already, and by their definition, rich, so what have we got to lose?"
Marc gave Daffyd a sour look but said nothing. When the waiter pushed through the crowd to their table with the coffee cups and confectionery, Daffyd decided to risk it.
"Excuse me. My friend and I are looking for a driver. Do you know of someone?"
"There are taxis outside."
"We don't want a taxi. We want to hire a car to go into the desert, but we must find a driver also."
The waited shrugged. "Who knows?" He placed the cups and dish on the table and retreated back into the crowd.
"That did a fat lot of good," Marc commented.
"Drink your coffee," Daffyd replied. "Then we'll try somewhere else." He sipped the strong black brew appreciatively and nibbled on a date cake. "These are actually very good. Try one."
Marc did, and ended up finishing them and dabbing at the crumbs with his forefinger.
Daffyd drained his coffee and pushed his chair back. "I was just thinking that maybe we should ask a taxi driver."
"We can't afford a taxi to the deep desert."
"No, but they're professional drivers. They may know of someone."
They got to their feet and started out of the caf�. The waiter called out and shuffled across to them holding out a piece of paper.
"Take," he said. "My brother's wife's cousin. He might drive you."
Daffyd looked at the Arabic scrawl on the piece of paper. "Thank you, but I cannot read Arabic."
The waiter smiled. "Is address. You must show to taxi driver. His name is Muammar. Very good driver. You see." He disappeared back into the throng of customers.
There was a taxi stand just down the road, so Daffyd and Marc approached the single car at the rank and showed the driver the piece of paper.
"You know address? You can take us? How much?"
The driver studied the scrawl and named his price. Daffyd reached out to take the piece of paper and the driver held it out of reach, naming a lower price. Daffyd grinned and halved it. The taxi driver threw up his hands in mock horror and countered. They eventually settled on a sum that could be paid for with the loose change in Daffyd's pocket and the two men piled into the back of the car.
"Why don't they just charge a reasonable amount to start with?" Marc grumbled. "Then we wouldn't have to waste time haggling."
"Ah, but that's half the fun for the locals," Daffyd said. "If you don't haggle they'll rob you blind."
"So you prefer to rob him? He's only getting a pittance."
"I estimate he's still getting two or three times the normal fare."
The taxi turned off into a side street and pulled up at a faded stucco house with a cast-iron grill gate.
"There," said the driver, handing the piece of paper to Daffyd. He accepted the fare and grinned when Marc pressed another couple of coins into his palm. "Blessings, effendi. You want me to wait?"
Daffyd declined the offer, and after the taxi roared off, crossed to the gate, reaching through the bars and pulling on a frayed rope. A bell clanged above them and after a few moments an old man appeared in the shadows, yawning and scratching himself.
The man stared at the two foreigners and frowned. He said something in an Arabic dialect, and then in Italian.
Daffyd held up the piece of paper. "Muammar?"
The man peered at the scrawl and then nodded, turning away and disappearing into the gloom. Daffyd and Marc waited, the heat of the day raising a sweat and dampening their shirts. At last, a young man of no
more than twenty years appeared. He smiled at the foreigners and spoke in Italian first, and when there was no response, in English.
"I am Muammar al-Hadi. You have a note with my name on it. May I see it, please?" the young man read the note and passed it back. "My uncle says you need to go into the desert and need a driver." He tapped himself on the chest. "I am a superlative driver."
"Uncle?" Marc queried. "The waiter implied a more tenuous relationship."
"My cousin's husband's brother. In my culture, all older relatives are uncles."
"Perhaps we could go somewhere for a cup of coffee and talk business," Daffyd suggested.
"My apologies. I have been most remiss." Muammar opened the gate and stood to one side. "Please enter my humble home and refresh yourselves." He led them through a shadowed alcove into a shady courtyard and sat them down at an old wooden table. Clapping his hands, he told the old man who had answered the bell to fetch some coffee. They waited in silence until the coffee appeared. Muammar poured the black beverage himself and passed a cup to each of his guests before serving himself.
"Now, may I have the honour of knowing your names?"
"Of course. I am Dr Daffyd Rhys-Williams and this is Dr Marc Andrews."
"Medical doctors?"
"Scientists."
"And how may I be of service, Dr Williams, Dr Andrews? You require a driver?"
"Yes. We have to go into the deep desert but the hire companies say we must have an experienced driver."
"I am very experienced," Muammar said. "It is just the two of you going? There is much equipment to take? I ask because I know oil company people have much equipment."
"We are not oil people, but scientists who...who look at ancient peoples. There is a third person, Dr Dani Hanser, and just a suitcase each. No equipment."
"Ancient peoples? Well, that is not my business. Where do you want to go?"
"Al Jaghbub."
Muammar frowned. "You have a permit?"
"Do we need one?"
"It is a military district. There have been reports of bandits. Unless you have a permit, the army will not let you in."
"Can we get a permit?"
"There is much paperwork involved."
"Damn," Marc said. "There goes our plan."
"Unfortunately, it seems we will not need your services after all," Daffyd said. "Thank you for your hospitality, Muammar. We must seek another solution."
"May I ask where these ancient peoples you seek are located? Perhaps there is another way there."
Daffyd hesitated and looked at Marc, raising his eyebrows enquiringly. Marc shrugged and looked away.
"We need to cross the desert border into Egypt."
Muammar examined the two foreigners carefully before speaking. "You are smuggling something into Egypt or out of it? As I said before, your business is not my business, but I must weigh the risks. You understand? I have no wish to cause offence, but the forces of King Idris impose severe penalties on smugglers of drugs or artefacts."
"Nothing in or out," Daffyd said. "Only ourselves."
"The nearest Egyptian town to Al Jaghbub is Siwa. You wish to go there specifically, or just into Egypt?"
"Anywhere in Egypt."
Muammar smiled. "Then there is no problem. You will hire a jeep and pay for petrol, and I will drive you to Al Jawf in the south. All I ask is food and a tent at night, for I desire to visit my mother's people in that place. We will have a great adventure, no?"
Return to Contents
* * *
Chapter Six
The telephone connection crackled and faded, forcing the man to shout. Luckily, there was no one likely to overhear as the man had placed the call from a call box outside a pub in the countryside near Chesterfield.
"Sarraj."
"Colonel, it is Ali Hafiz. I am calling from Ches..."
"I know where you are. Name no names. What do you have to report?"
"The woman is not here."
"Where is she?"
"Nobody knows. The university suspended her and she booked a flight to Cairo, but then cancelled it."
Sarraj considered this information for a minute. "She will not be allowed to enter Egypt. What of the others in the Syrian expedition?"
"The older man and his assistant have also disappeared. It may be related."
"Find out. What about the junior members."
"Still at their studies."
"See whether they know anything. I need to know where the woman has gone."
Ali Hafiz hung up the receiver and stood in the wooden and glass phone box looking out at an overcast English day. He hated the cold, damp weather and looked forward to the end of his assignment in that barbarous country. However, he knew that he would have to find out where the woman had gone. Colonel Sarraj could be utterly ruthless when it came to failure to carry out his will.
* * *
"Where?"
"Al Jawf. It's a small settlement in the south of Libya," Daffyd said. "Muammar's mother's people come from there so he'll drive us and introduce us to his family."
"I'm not sure it was a good idea to tell a perfect stranger we plan to cross into Egypt illegally," Dani said. "What if he goes to the police?"
"What if he does? We're in Libya legally and it would be his word against ours. We could just say he misunderstood us."
Dani still had misgivings and voiced them, but in the absence of a reasonable alternative, she gave in. The next day, they went to the car hire firm and filled out forms and paid for the use of an ancient American jeep left over from the war. Muammar al-Hadi turned up with his driver's licence and assured the clerk of his ability to handle the vehicle on rough roads. He was surprised to see a woman with Daffyd and Marc.
"Dr Hanser is a woman? I thought you said his name was Danny. That is a male name, isn't it?"
"Yes it is, but her name is Dani, D-A-N-I. Is this a problem, Muammar?"
"You are married to this woman? Or you, Dr Andrews?"
"No."
"You are her guardian?"
"No. She is the leader of our expedition. I repeat--is this a problem? Should we look for another driver?"
Muammar considered the question and shook his head. "No, I am not a strict Muslim. However, if we meet up with desert tribesmen, can she refrain from giving me direct orders? She can make suggestions, and it would help if she was suitably deferential, but a woman in a position of authority is frowned upon." The young man sighed. "Libya is a relatively enlightened country, but some desert people still believe a woman should be subject to a male at all times."
"Not just desert people," Marc muttered.
Daffyd raised an eyebrow at the young man and then turned back to the Libyan. "Why don't you ask her?"
Muammar looked startled, but stammered out the question.
Dani smiled. "I know how many Muslim men view women. I can be circumspect."
Muammar grinned. "Then we have no problem. Let us depart for Al Jawf at once."
"We're going to need camping equipment," Marc said. "I don't suppose there are hotels between here and this Jawf place."
"Not even there," Muammar said. "It is a small settlement and a meeting place for the desert tribes. You will need tents, food, fuel, and especially water."
Under Muammar's guidance, they found and stocked up on the necessary supplies, loading it into their hired jeep before setting off a few hours later.
"How far away is Al Jawf?" Dani asked.
"About six hundred miles."
Dani made some quick calculations. "Two days then--three?"
"More like a week," Muammar said. "These are not English roads."
The first part of the trip led south out of Benghazi, along the coast road that they had travelled on by bus. The road was potholed and in places, drifts of sand had spilled across the surface, necessitating careful driving. Muammar drove at speed, but handled the ancient jeep expertly, increasing their confidence in his ability. Toward the end of the day they came to Aj
dabiya, a small village, barely more than a scattering of houses around a crossroad. Muammar slowed and drove around the dirt streets until he found a vacant plot and a lone date palm struggling for existence in a harsh land.
"We can camp here tonight," Muammar said, driving off the road and underneath the palm tree.
They got out of the jeep, stretching cramped limbs and slapping dust out of their clothes before unloading the tents--one large and one small--and starting a small fire. Sunset came swiftly, the orange glow of the desert sunset fading to reds and purples before darkness descended. A thousand small birds chattered and rustled in the dense dry fronds of the date palm and in the dried litter at its base other rustlings told of less welcome creatures awakening from a day spent hiding from the heat. The temperature dropped away with the setting sun, so they huddled closer to the fire, sitting cross-legged on the bare ground, cooking and eating plain tinned fare and flat bread, washing it down with black coffee. Daffyd rolled and smoked one of his noxious cigarettes but sat downwind of his companions and limited his pleasure to just one.
Marc looked toward the palm tree where the roosting birds were settling down and threw a small stone towards one of the unseen creatures at the tree's base. "What are those things? Snakes?"
"Possibly," Muammar said. "There are cobras and vipers in Libya. Also scorpions, but it is likely those are just mice." He considered for a moment. "Of course, mice attract snakes."
"Great," Marc muttered. He got up and moved around to the far side of the fire and scowled at the palm tree.
Moths were attracted to the fire and came spiralling in from the desert, pursued by little bats that swooped and dived past them in silence, snatching insects from the air with ease. The four people watched amazed as the little creatures performed complex aerial acrobatics above them, barely seen against the starry body of the night. A larger insect buzzed in the night, lurching into the light on horny wing-cases just above their heads with two bats in pursuit. The insect sideslipped, evading one bat but falling into the path of the other. Without thinking, Dani put her hand up and the bat shied away, chirruping in alarm, allowing its intended prey to cannon into her hand. She lowered it and looked at the insect in the firelight as it closed its wing-cases and sat quietly on her palm.