by Jack Higgins
"Pretty fair. I just checked the weather on the radio. Wind force seven--heavy squalls--rain. Moderating towards evening. How are Nino and Carter?"
"Flat on their backs."
He grinned. "Ah, well, some of us have it and some of us don't, I suppose. See you later, old stick," and he opened the door and went out.
The wheel kicked like a living thing and the seas grew rougher, rocking Palmyra violently and once again I tried increasing speed until the prow seemed to reach clean out of the water each time a wave rolled beneath her.
It was an exhilarating experience and for the next hour, I was totally involved in the task in hand. Finally, Barzini appeared.
"I'll take over," he said. "Go and have a cup of coffee."
As I was about to go out, I suddenly remembered the Uzi sub-machine gun. Langley had certainly been up here on his own for long enough to do something about it if he wanted to.
I pulled down the flap and Barzini glanced up. "Still there. Did the girl tell him?"
"So she says."
I took the Uzi down and weighed it in my hands for a moment. Everything seemed perfectly normal. I took out the ammunition clip, checked it and replaced it, which seemed to be that. I was about to put it back when something made me look at the firing pin-- instinct, I suppose. It was a good job that I did because the end had been nipped off, probably with a pair of pliers.
I showed Barzini. "The bastard," he said angrily and dropped the flap under the chart table and got the Stechkin.
I checked it over thoroughly, but everything seemed to be in perfect working order. I replaced them both and Barzini said, "So, the girl was telling the truth. She is on your side."
"I'll reserve judgment on that one."
"What about this other business? Are you going to confront Langley?"
"No point," I said. "For the time being it's enough that we know."
I went below feeling unaccountably cheerful. Certainly in the right mood for ham and eggs this time. Langley, having eaten, had taken Simone's bunk in the aft cabin and appeared to be sleeping.
Simone gave me my meal and left me to go up on deck. I went up again myself when I'd finished eating and found her in the wheelhouse with Barzini. She turned to greet me excitedly as I opened the door.
"We're there, Oliver! We're there!"
Something of an exaggeration, but on the other hand, there was no doubt that the gray smudge on the horizon, visible now and then through the curtain of rain, was the coast of Libya, Cape Misratah, to be precise.
8
Fire in the Night
In spite of the weather we sighted a considerable number of small fishing craft on the way in--tunny boats mostly. By the time we were close inshore, the storm seemed to have blown itself out, the wind dropping, leaving only a calm gray evening with a light rain falling.
The entrance to Gela Bay was a narrow passage between two jagged peaks which according to the charts, were known as the Sisters. Inside, there was an enormous landlocked lagoon fringed by white beaches and backed by a scattering of palm trees. There was a stone pier and a couple of motorized fishing dhows were tied up there. There were perhaps half-a-dozen flat-roofed houses scattered among the palm trees--no more.
We dropped anchor in a part of the channel where there was eight to ten fathoms of water. Barzini cut the engine and came out to join Langley and Simone and me at the rail.
The rain hissed down into the water of the lagoon. "Come to sunny Africa," Langley observed.
"So what?" I said. "You're not here to get a tan."
Nino and Angelo Carter appeared from the companionway looking pale. I said to Simone, "Try to get some food down them, will you? We've got work to do. They aren't going to be much good in this state."
She shepherded them below and Barzini said, "Now what?"
"I'll go ashore and see what's what. Zingari might be there now. You never know. Are you coming?"
"No, I'll stay. Take the pretty boy here with you. He probably needs the exercise."
If he was trying to bait Langley he was wasting his time for he simply grinned good-humoredly and gave me a hand to get the large inflatable dinghy over the side.
I pressed the starting button on the outboard motor and we moved in toward the shore. There wasn't much activity. An Arab with a white turban wound around his head, came out of the wheelhouse of one of the fishing boats and looked across at us and a small boy stood at the water's edge in the rain and watched us come in.
We ran the dinghy up on shore and got out. Langley said, "Now what?"
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe Zingari won't be here until later. We'll have a look around."
"At what?" he inquired.
I led the way, moving up from the beach past the stone pier. The houses were poor places, two of them on the edge of an olive grove. Another had a large veranda and, to judge by the baskets and fishing nets which hung from the roof and the cooking pots on display, was obviously the local store.
A man wearing a woolen barracan, the day-to-day dress of the average Libyan, was drinking a bottle of beer and watching us at the same time.
At the other end of the olive grove there was a huddle of black goatskin tents, a hobbled gray camel and a few goats grazing on the stunted grass. Nothing else except the harsh, barren landscape beyond, the dirt road dwindling into infinity.
"What do you think?" Langley said.
"We'll have a beer. If he doesn't come soon we'll go back to the Palmyra and wait there."
The man in the barracan on the veranda of the store came down the steps to greet us as we approached. "One of you gentlemen is Signor Grant?" he said in excellent Italian.
"That's me," I told him.
He smiled delightedly and showed us to a couple of cane chairs. "My good friend, Signor Zingari has been here this morning and told me to look out for you. He said he would be back this evening."
His name was Izmir and he owned the store and a half interest in a tunny boat or so he told us with the kind of cheerful lack of inhibition that some people show toward strangers.
He naturally wanted to know who we were. I told him we had a permit to dive in the area. That we were looking for old wrecks. I even offered to pay for any useful information he managed to obtain in that connection from local fishermen and he agreed enthusiastically.
He brought us a couple of bottles of warm beer, a local brew that was really quite pleasant and we'd just started drinking when an old Ford truck with a canvas tilt came over the rise by the olive grove and braked to a halt.
Zingari climbed down from behind the wheel. He was wearing the same shabby linen suit and straw hat and his face was paler, more anxious than ever and damp with sweat.
He patted his forehead with a grimy handkerchief and tried to smile as he came up the steps, "So, gentlemen, you are here."
"You look as cheerful as a man who's just learned he has about six months to live," Langley told him.
"A lifetime, signor, compared to how long I will live if anything goes wrong." He sat down, mopping away at his face. "This is a dangerous business. Colonel Masmoudi is a cruel man--the kind of man who delights in cruelty for its own sake. If you fell into his hands, gentlemen ..."
"But we won't," Langley said. "Positive thinking, my old dear, that's the order of the day."
Which didn't seem to have any appreciable effect on Zingari's morale. He swallowed some of the beer Izmir brought him.
"I'd like to take a look at the fortress," I said.
"You mean now?" His jaw sagged.
"Yes, from the sea. We'll go in the Palmyra. It shouldn't take long."
He looked distinctly unhappy. "But, signor, a boat nosing around in the area of Ras Kanai might arouse suspicion."
"A tunny boat?" I said. "With nets draped around the deck? I should have thought they must see dozens of those from up there on the ramparts."
He brightened at that--not too much, but enough to go inside to have a word with Izmir and when we went d
own to the dinghy a few minutes later we carried two large tunny nets between us.
The moment he was over the Palmyra's rail he darted into the wheelhouse as if for protection. Barzini was sitting on the engine-room hatch and stood up. "What's all that about?"
"Nothing," I said. "That's our good friend, Zingari. I thought we might take a little trip to see what the fort looks like from the sea and he's not exactly enchanted by the prospect."
"Holy Mother of God," Barzini said in disgust. "Sometimes I wonder how in the hell I ever allowed you to persuade me to join this crazy enterprise," and he went into the wheelhouse and pressed the button on the electric winch which immediately started to heave in the anchor.
Ras Kanai, Cape of Fear. It was well named. A grim, forbidding-looking place of jagged rocks and high cliffs and the fortress itself, half glimpsed through a drift of rain in the gathering darkness was quite something.
We'd draped nets from the mast down to the stern rail and I stood in their shelter and examined the situation through binoculars. The cliff below the south ramparts looked completely unclimbable to me and at their base, waves thundered in across a jumble of black rocks although there was also a narrow strip of shingle which promised some sort of toehold.
I passed the binoculars to Nino who kept them for only a few brief moments while he examined the cliff face. He gave them back to me and nodded cheerfully. "Nothing to it. Given time, I could get up there on my own. With a rope it will be a piece of cake."
"Even in darkness?"
"Most suitable time of all," he said. "Nothing to see if you look down."
Which seemed to take care of that so I handed the binoculars to Langley. He took rather longer over his inspection than Nino. "Two sentries," he said. "I can see them clearly enough. Nasty-looking cliffs those."
"You think you can get up them?" I said.
"Do you?"
I didn't seem to have a ready answer to that one. Certainly Simone looked serious enough and even Barzini wasn't smiling as he took Palmyra round in a wide circle and started back.
"Cheer up, Aldo." I leaned in the wheelhouse window and helped myself to one of his cheroots. " After all, you don't have to get up the damn thing, do you?"
Before he could reply, Zingari, who was standing in the corner by the door, looking if possible even more agitated than ever, cracked wide open.
"For pity's sake, Signor Grant, abandon this whole foolish scheme. No good will come of it."
Barzini said in disgust, "My God, and we're supposed to depend on that object."
Langley appeared in the open doorway. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and scratched a match on the door. "What's the matter with you, then, old stick?" he said to Zingari. "Didn't Mr. Stavrou pay you enough?"
"Please--signor," Zingari protested. "Mr. Stavrou has been more than generous."
"Oh, I see. What you mean is that you didn't know what the job would entail before you took it."
Zingari oozed sweat, the little anguished eyes swivelled helplessly from side to side seeking escape where there was none.
Langley said, "Mr. Stavrou appreciates loyalty above most things. Last year, for example, he had dealings with a man called Cousceau in Algiers in connection with foreign exchange. Rather large sums were involved and friend Cousceau proved wanting."
Zingari licked dry lips. "Signor--please. What has this to do with me?"
"They found him in a cellar in the Casbah," Langley went on. "Nailed to a table. Hands and feet. He'd been there three days and he was certainly in no condition to get up and walk. You find this interesting?"
Zingari, face twitching in horror, seemed incapable of speech, which suited me just fine, for I was beginning to get the impression that the more scared Zingari was, the better it was for the rest of us.
We passed between the Sisters into the lagoon and dropped anchor again. It was almost dark and Zingari tugged at my sleeve as I stood at the rail.
"You need me anymore, Mr. Grant? Can I go now?"
"All right," I said. "Get in the boat."
I took him ashore myself, running the prow up onto the sand so that he could step out dry-footed. As he did so, I said, "Tomorrow morning."
He turned warily, bending to peer at my face through the darkness. "Signor?"
"Ten o'clock," I said. "Here, with the truck. I want you to show me everything. The prison, the road, Zabia. You understand me?"
"But Signor," he said, "there could be great danger in driving around in the immediate area of the prison. What if we are stopped?"
"I'm sure you'll think of something," I said. "Ten o'clock--and don't forget to let the customs authorities know we're here." I took the dinghy round and away, back toward Palmyra.
Everyone was in the saloon when I went down the companionway and Simone was pouring coffee. Nino and Angelo Carter seemed quite recovered and there was a reasonably cheerful atmosphere.
Barzini said, "He looks like a broken reed to me, that one. What do you think?"
"Langley put the fear of God into him," I said. "And I've just added a few coals to the fire. Let's hope it does the trick."
"And when do we have the dubious pleasure of his company again?" Langley inquired.
"Ten o'clock tomorrow," I said. "He's coming back with the truck to take me on a tour of inspection."
For once, there was no challenge in his voice. He was all business. "And who else?"
But I had already considered that question. "Angelo for one because he has to see the set-up at Zabia. One more, I think. You and Nino can argue about who."
He had a coin in his hand in a moment, nodded to Nino and tossed it. Nino called. Langley scooped up the coin with a grin. "All set then, old stick. You're stuck with me."
Which had a kind of inevitability about it, but I could worry about that later. "There's still one more chore to be done before knocking off for the night. I want those amphorae over the side."
"You expect visitors?" Barzini asked.
"I told Zingari to notify customs we're here when he gets back to Zabia. If they do turn up, I want the evidence that we're working away plain for all to see. First thing in the morning I'll go over the side and bring one back up in plain view of the beach. You or Nino can do the same later on in the morning when the rest of us are ashore. Go through the motions. Look busy."
The amphorae were in the forrard hold, great double-handled earthenware wine jars made to hold a good ten gallons each. Phoenician, Roman, Greek--they were found all over the eastern Mediterranean. The sort of thing which constantly came up in fishermen's nets, particularly when they were trawling.
We all went up on deck and got the hatch of the main hold open. Nino and Angelo dropped inside and passed each amphora up in turn. There were four all together and Langley and I manhandled them over the starboard rail.
There was a kind of hiatus afterward and I found myself alone in the prow, smoking a cigarette and looking toward the shore. There was music from the Bedouin camp beyond the olive grove, some sort of pipes and a drum, insistent, throbbing through the darkness.
Simone said, "There's always something new out of Africa, isn't that what the man said?"
"Something like that," I could smell woodsmoke on the air and it had stopped raining. I said, "What about a drink to celebrate?"
"Celebrate what?"
"The fact that you didn't tell Langley about the Stechkin."
She went very still. "What happened about the Uzi?"
"Now minus a vital portion of its firing pin."
"So you believe I'm on your side?"
I didn't answer, mainly because I didn't want to. For the moment there was no one else on deck, so I pulled in the dinghy and dropped over the rail. "Are you coming?"
I looked up at the face, pale in the subdued glow from the deck light. She said nothing, showed no emotion. Simply climbed over the rail and dropped down beside me. I started the motor and took the dinghy in toward the shore.
Izmir was open for business
and welcomed us with delight for we were his only customers. He brought us a bottle of Verdicchio, nicely chilled by the waters of the cistern at the back of the house and put his wife to work cooking.
Due mainly to Italian influence, good, traditional Libyan cooking is hard to find these days and the tourist trade isn't helping, but she came up with some sort of fish soup that would have been hard to beat anywhere in the world and a superb dish of couscous.
It had stopped raining, the stars were out and a small, sad wind blew in from the sea and rattled the slats of the veranda blinds.
Simone said, "Can we go for a walk? Do you mind?"
"Why not?" I said.
I took the bottle of Verdicchio and a glass with us, she kicked off her shoes and we walked along the beach and round the point beyond the palm trees. There wasn't a soul about although we could still hear the music from the Bedu encampment.
She moved down to walk in the shallows. I said, "You want to watch it. You could step on a Portuguese Man o'War or something in the dark."
"I feel like living dangerously." She looked up at the stars. "This is a good night to be alive."
I could have told her that the prospect of an early demise always does have that effect, but I didn't want to spoil it for her.
She said, "I haven't felt like this--not this close to you--since those days at the villa at Cape de Gata."
"Subject made love to Miss Delmas on the terrace."
It was about the cruelest thing I could have said under the circumstances and instantly regretted. She took it like a soldier. "All right, Oliver, I deserved that."
"No, you didn't."
I pulled out a pile of brushwood from under the wood. There were stacks of driftwood around on the beach, most of it damp from the rain, but only superficially. Then I put a match to the brushwood, it all burned readily enough, the flames roaring up into the darkness.
I gave her a cigarette and we sat there roasting ourselves. She said, "Could you go back?"
"To Cape de Gata?" I shrugged. "Only for my things. On the whole it pays to keep moving in this life. Never go back to anything is a fair motto."