“Come on, Farhad. Something has happened to John, and I am very concerned. Please try to help me find him. Surely you know some of your brother’s friends?”
Farhad grew pale. He spread his hands feebly, indicating helplessness.
“Farhad,” she said softly. “I shall now go to your home and speak with your mother. Perhaps she can help me.”
Farhad reacted as if struck by a snake.
“No, please!” he whispered hoarsely. “Miss Patricia, please do not talk with my mother. She is a very sick woman and should not be agitated. She knows nothing—believe me!”
Patricia shook her head and turned to leave.
“I have no choice,” she said. “I have to!”
He grabbed her sleeve.
“Wait! Please! Let me think some more. Perhaps I shall remember something.”
“Listen, Farhad,” Patricia said as she shook off his hand. “I am not playing games. I shall have a light meal, and you will tax your brain and remember something useful. If by the time I am through you have not come up with anything, I shall go straight to your mother. Do we understand each other?”
Farhad nodded and reentered the restaurant. Patricia sat at one of the tables and asked Farhad to bring her a simple salad. He ignored her request and plied her with dish after dish of tasty delicacies. It seemed he wished to prolong the meal to its utmost.
Martin and Philip stowed their gear in their hotel rooms, and then went directly to see the desk clerk regarding how to get to Zouérat.
“Zouérat, eh? Are you in the iron or copper business?” he asked. His English was not perfect, but adequate. “Because if you are, you needn’t go all the way to Zouérat. We have mining agencies here in Nouakchott.”
“No,” Philip said. “We represent a movie company. We need to find a shooting site. A few scenes occur in, and near, a mine.”
Apparently, not many movies were made in Mauritania. The clerk’s attitude became very friendly.
“I could book a flight to Zouérat for you. They leave twice a week. Or you could charter a light plane if you wish. I could book you a couple of hotel rooms.”
“That would be very nice, thank you,” Martin said. “Could you also book us a rented car? A lorry … er … truck or a van?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do that after your arrival. I’m not sure they have car rentals there. It is a small city, after all.”
“That’s not so good,” Philip muttered to Martin.
The clerk overheard him.
“May I make a suggestion?” he said. “I have a cousin in Zouérat who owns a garage. He may be able to help you. He belongs to a respected family in Zouérat and knows everyone.”
Martin and Philip exchanged questioning glances.
“He could probably get you a vehicle for a short period of time,” the clerk pressed on.
Martin shrugged.
“Might as well,” he said. “We haven’t come so far just to return empty-handed.”
The clerk tore a slip of paper off a pad, scribbled on it and handed it to Martin.
“His name is Mahmoud Ould Salah, and this is his address. Ask about him at your hotel and you will be given directions. Everyone knows him.”
“You have been most kind,” Philip said. “Thank you very much.”
“It has been my pleasure, sir. I will notify you when the next flight for Zouérat leaves.”
It so happened that a flight for Zouérat was scheduled for the next morning. They had no time to tour the capital, and, despite the ‘attractions’ in the brochure they found in their room, it didn’t seem like they had missed much. There were a few mosques, a museum, and a seaport six kilometers away—not really a tourist’s paradise. The clerk also informed them that he had reserved two rooms for them at the hotel in Zouérat.
Philip was apprehensive about car rental possibilities at their destination.
“I’m afraid we’ll be wasting our time,” he said. “It doesn’t look like we’ll find a car to rent.”
“You can get anything if you pay enough,” Martin reminded him.
“I know, I know. My concern is that there’ll be no cars to rent around at all. It won’t matter how much you can afford to pay.”
“If we ever get into that predicament, we’ll buy a car off someone at a price he could not possibly refuse.”
Commissaire Duval was frustrated, to say the least. He sat at his desk and reviewed the situation so far.
Professor Albert Allier was murdered. That is, for me, a fact—though yet unproven. Fact—Sir Cedric Norton was an acquaintance of Allier. Another fact—Mme. Professeur Dupré and Sir Cedric Norton have a relationship that I have failed to identify yet. Open question: why did they meet earlier at her flat and now in Belgium? Secretly? Could it be an illicit love affair? Unlikely, but who knows?
Actually, I have neglected one possible angle of investigation. Envy! Allier’s close colleagues were not questioned along this line because murder was not suspected. But perhaps one of them had felt that Allier had ‘stolen’ a scientific discovery of his? Perhaps Allier’s worldwide reputation was at the expense of a lesser researcher who was never credited for his contribution?
There is a problem here, however. I cannot begin investigating French citizens, especially scientists and civil servants, without eliciting headlines in the press. It would be impossible to hide from my superiors. Yet … perhaps a private conversation with one or two of Allier’s close co-workers could get quiet results.
The commissaire decided to search among his long list of acquaintances. There could be a scientist among them, someone who was close to Allier one way or another.
Martin and Philip were the only Europeans on the flight to Zouérat. Obviously, the other passengers were better off than most of the population.
As it was still morning when they arrived, Martin and Philip went directly to their hotel, had a wash and something to eat in the hotel’s modest dining room, and then went to see the manager. He spoke no English, but their French was adequate for conversation. They explained the purpose of their visit as seeking a location for shooting a movie.
“Most interesting,” the manager said. It was obviously his first encounter with the movie world outside the cinema theatre.
“We were referred to a garage owner named Ould Salah,” Martin said. “Could you please direct us to him?”
“Certainly,” said the manager. “It’s about ten minutes’ walk from here.” He took them to the hotel’s entrance and pointed down the road eastward. “Just keep walking in that direction and you’ll see his garage. You can’t miss it.”
Zouérat was more like a large village than a small town. It had about thirty thousand inhabitants. The streets were narrow and most of them were unpaved. The few people you could see walking about were mainly commoners—laborers, porters, vendors, and the like. Martin and Philip drew the attention of all, even though they were dressed in casual outfits.
Mahmoud Ould Salah’s garage was an enormous courtyard surrounded by a stone wall. A large structure was built against one of the corners of the wall, serving as workshop, storage, and office. Another corner seemed to serve as storage, too, as it was walled with corrugated tin sheets. The entire courtyard was strewn with semi-dissembled cars, car parts, piles of old tires, barrels, tins, crates—almost anything imaginable.
As they approached the building, a man of about fifty emerged to greet them. He was a short and thin Berber, and he wore spotless, well-ironed blue dungarees. From afar, he greeted them in French:
“Welcome! Please enter my office.”
They met and shook hands, and then followed him into the building. They entered a well-furnished office behind a wooden partition. A large desk was laden with files and papers. Behind it was an oversized swivel armchair, and in front were seats for customers or visitors. An ancient dial telephone stood on a small table by the desk.
“I am Mahmoud Ould Salah, at your service. Please be seated.”
He went over
to his armchair and clapped his hands. Instantly, a youth appeared and was instructed to serve tea.
“My cousin in Nouakchott informed me of your arrival,” Ould Salah said. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Martin Cooper,” Martin said, “and this is my colleague, Philip Brown. We represent a London movie company. We’re here concerning a movie we are planning. Your cousin is a very courteous and pleasant man, and we enjoyed making his acquaintance. He informed us that you were all-powerful in Zouérat. We were hoping you could help us on our quest.”
Salah smiled.
“My family has been here for several generations,” he said proudly. “It is true that I wield a lot of power here, as I am very well connected. If you ask for anything that exists here, I can probably get it for you. But if it is not here—well, that’s where my powers end.”
“We need a truck,” Philip said.
“Yes, so my cousin informed me. There are several trucks and vans here, but they are all in use. There are no idle or unused vehicles in these parts. The owner depends on his vehicle to make his living. No vehicle—no work. I have a jeep, just outside. You would be doing me an honor if you would let me show you around Zouérat. I’m afraid, however, that I can do no more.”
Tea was served along with local cookies. They sipped in silence.
“Mr. Ould Salah,” Martin said finally, “allow me to tell you a bit about our movie. The plot is pretty standard—the hero chases the bad guy into a mine where he captures him. Zouérat is an excellent candidate for this scene—if we find a suitable abandoned mine.”
Martin paused to make sure that Ould Salah understood.
“If you would be so kind as to let us use your jeep to scout the area, we will gladly compensate you for your trouble.”
A glint of interest showed in Ould Salah’s eyes.
“And,” Martin continued, “if we do find a suitable location, we shall discuss the further possibility of using a truck to carry our equipment to the shooting site.”
Salah smiled broadly.
“I can let you have my jeep and my driver,” he said. “He will take you to places which may be suitable for you.”
“I am very pleased to hear that,” Martin said. “When do you think the jeep and the driver could be ready?”
“I will arrange everything by the time you finish your tea,” Ould Salah said. He got up, walked into the courtyard and yelled: “Salim!” and returned to his seat in the office. A minute later, a young black man of about twenty entered. He was dressed in tattered overalls, and spoke in the local Arabic dialect:
“Yes, master.”
Salah addressed him in French mixed with Arabic.
“Prepare the jeep and then take these gentlemen to the places I shall tell you.”
“Yes, master,” Salim said, and disappeared.
Salah turned to the Englishmen with a satisfied smile.
“You see? Even in Zouérat things can be arranged efficiently.”
“We haven’t discussed payment yet,” Martin reminded him.
“Quite unimportant now,” Ould Salah waved him off. “When you return, and if you’re satisfied, you’ll pay me whatever you think it was worth.”
“That is very generous of you, Mr. Ould Salah,” Martin said. “Unfortunately, this is the first time we have ever visited this region of the world, and we have no idea what an acceptable payment should be. So please throw us a ball-park figure so that we can get our bearings.” Martin hoped he had worded his request as diplomatically as possible.
Ould Salah smiled again.
“This trip will be on me,” he said. “Just give the boy a tip of three hundred ouguiyas. We’ll talk again later.”
Salim reappeared.
“The jeep is ready,” he said.
Ould Salah gave him instructions what to show them, and the young man made some marks in a dirty notebook. Right outside the office door stood a large, shiny jeep with a bright orange stripe painted around it. Martin got in next to the driver and Philip sat in the back.
Salim was an excellent driver. He took them out of the city, and after about fifteen minutes of driving, he turned off onto a narrow dirt road that seemed to lead into the brown hills. A few kilometers later, Salim slowed down and turned right onto an almost imperceptible path. Turning around an immense rocky protrusion, they saw the entrance to a cave that, as they approached, turned out to be an abandoned mineshaft. Here and there were scraps from earlier days when work had been carried out—wooden shoring, metal piping and the like.
Salim brought the jeep to a halt in a cloud of dust, and they got out for a closer look. The mine’s entrance was at the foot of a hill. The opening was about three meters wide and two and a half meters high, and it bored into the hill for several meters at the same level until it disappeared into the darkness. Right above the entrance to the mine, the earth was about a meter thick, but the steep incline of the hill made the thickness much larger as you entered into the mine.
Martin speculated the possibility of driving a van into the mine’s entrance. He consulted with Philip in English.
“Looks all right to me,” he said. “Sufficient ‘shielding’ of earth, I’d say.”
“We couldn’t get a large lorry into there,” Philip said. “Not high enough. But I suppose any van could get in easily. Yes, this place looks suitable to me, too.”
Martin made a note of the GPS coordinates directly at the mine’s entrance and of three additional points outside the entrance in an approximate ten-meter semicircle. He would use them later to calibrate the precise coordinates given to Boulanger.
“Right,” he said. “I think we’re done here. We have a location, so we can call off the search for others. It has the ideal balance between closeness to the city and isolation from prying eyes. Let’s get back now. I want to convince our host that anyone would sell their van to us if we give them the money for a brand new vehicle.”
They instructed Salim to take them back.
Mahmoud Ould Salah identified the sound of his approaching jeep and awaited their arrival outside his office with a big smile on his face.
“What did I tell you?” he jabbered as he led Martin and Philip indoors. “You found a good mine, right? Of course. I told him where to take you. Come on in.”
Philip handed the driver a couple of local banknotes and followed Martin into the office.
“You were right, Mr. Ould Salah,” Martin grinned. “The place is suitable, it’s nearby, and it didn’t take long to find. So we’re in a position to move forward now. We have a script, actors, a shooting site, and financial backing. All we need now is a vehicle to carry our equipment. A truck or a van would do fine.”
“Mr. Martin, I would like to help you, but as I have already explained …”
“Time is money, Mr. Ould Salah. You were very helpful in saving us time finding the site. We need to press on. Now—I am proposing that any owner of an old van would be prepared to sell it to us for the price of a brand new van, the best on the market. Do you know of any such person?”
Salah’s features seemed to be frozen.
“You, of course,” Philip said, “would earn a broker’s fee. You name the percentage. Doesn’t that sound fair to you?”
It took a whole minute for Ould Salah’s face to change.
“You have spoken wise words, sir,” he said finally, “and they are probably true and factual in London. Your offer would be the normal form of transaction there. But this is Zouérat, Mauritania. A car owner here regards his vehicle as a member of his family. It serves him and earns his income—therefore, he treats it accordingly and becomes attached to it. If it breaks down, he will repair it again and again for years. But he will never sell it. A foreigner would probably find that hard to understand.”
“But surely an attractive offer—” Martin began.
“I shall call a few of my friends who have vans that suit your needs. You can listen in on my conversation with them and judge for yourse
lves.”
Martin and Philip remained silent. Ould Salah thumbed through his directory and dialed a number. He spoke mostly in French so that his guest could follow the dialog. It was evident that the party being called would not hear of any offer to buy his car. Ould Salah called three more people, and got the same result.
Salah put down the phone and leaned back in his seat. He shook his head slowly at the two Englishmen.
“I don’t understand,” Philip said. “It defies reason.”
“Not really,” Ould Salah said. “The second man I called spelled it out for me. If he sold his car, he would have to wait for at least two months before getting the new one. How will he make a living during these two months? Even if you compensate him for loss of income for that period, it won’t do him any good—someone else will have taken his job by then. It is a very competitive and ruthless marketplace here, you know.”
“This is a great disappointment for us,” Martin said ruefully. “After finding everything matching so perfectly, we’re now stumped for lack of a simple thing like a van.”
Salah got up.
“Come with me,” he said. “I would like to show you around my yard. It contains many interesting objects. Perhaps something may give you an idea.”
Martin and Philip could not very well refuse. They were shown old, rusty parts of cars, the engine of a World War II fighter plane, an engineless tractor, tires of all types and sizes, and—inside the tin-walled storage space—a large generator on wheels.
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