Flyaway

by Desmond Bagley

  But the thought of going back and telling Alix Aarvik about all this made my blood run cold. Besides, it wouldn't be fair on Byrne and Mokhtar who had gone to a great deal of trouble to help a man they didn't know. Also, I would have to be on hand when Billson recovered because someone had to get him out of the country as he had very little money left. And London was far away and receding fast, and I found I quite enjoyed the desert in a masochistic way.

  I took the rifle and looked at it in the dim light of the fire. It was an old British Lee-Enfield. 303 and, judging by its low number, it had seen service in the First World War, as well as the Second. I took out the magazine and worked the action to eject the round in the breech, then looked down the barrel into the fire. It was as clean as a whistle and any hardened sergeant would have had to give Mokhtar full marks. He had looked after it well. I reloaded and laid the rifle aside, then checked Billson again.

  Towards the end of my watch he began to stir and, just before I woke Byrne, he had begun to mutter, but his ramblings were incoherent. I put my hand to his brow but he did not seem to be running a temperature.

  I woke Byrne. 'Billson's coining to life.'

  'Okay; I'll tend to him.' Byrne looked at the sky to get the time. He wore no watch. 'You get some sleep. We start early; our next camp is at Abalessa.'

  I wrapped myself in my djellaba because it was very cold, and lay down. I wasted no time wondering about Abalessa but fell asleep immediately.

  Billson was obviously better in the morning, but he was dazed and I doubt if he knew where he was or what was happening to him. We bedded him down in the back of the Toyota on the camel hair cloth that had served as a windbreak and on a couple of djellabas. 'We can get some camel milk once we're out of Atakor,' said Byrne. 'And maybe scare up some hot soup. That'll bring him around better than anything else.'

  We travelled fast because Byrne said we had a long way to go. Coming out of Atakor we encountered the Tuareg camp we had passed on the way in. They were packing up to go somewhere but found some warm camel milk for Mokhtar. Byrne had thrown a djellaba casually into the back of the truck, covering Billson, and stood guard. 'There's no need for anyone to see him.'

  We left the camp and stopped for a while a little later while we spooned milk into Billson. He seemed even better after that, even though the skin was peeling from his face and the backs of his hands in long strips. Mokhtar applied more salve and then we set off again, with Byrne really piling on the speed now that the country was much better.

  These things are relative. Coming from the green land of England, I would have judged this place to be a howling wilderness. All sand, no soil, and the only vegetation an occasional clump of rank grass and a scattering of thorn trees which, however desirable they may have been to a camel, did nothing for me. But I had not just come from England; I had come from Koudia and Atakor and what a hell of a difference that made. This country was beautiful We travelled hard and fast, making few stops, usually to top up the tank with petrol from the jerricans. Billson finished the milk and was able to drink water which put a bit more life into him, although he still wandered in his wits — assuming he had any to begin with. Once Byrne stopped and sent Mokhtar on ahead. He disappeared over a rise, then reappeared and waved. Byrne let out the clutch and we went a head at a rush, topping the rise and down the other side to cross what, for the Sahara, was an arterial highway.

  'The main road north from Tarn,' said Byrne. 'I'd just as soon not be seen crossing it'

  'Where are we going?'

  'We're going round Tarn to the other side — to Abalessa.' He fell silent and concentrated on his driving.

  Abalessa, when we got there, was a low hill on the horizon. We didn't drive up to it but made camp about a mile away. There was still some gazelle meat left so Mokhtar seethed it in a pot to make soup for Billson before putting on the kettle for the mint tea. Byrne grunted. 'You can have your coffee when we go into Tarn tomorrow. Me, I'm looking forward to a cold beer.'

  'But I thought…'

  'Not Billson,' said Byrne. 'He stays here with Mokhtar. Just you and me. We've got to make you legal.'

  I scratched my chin. I hadn't shaved during the past few days and it felt bristly. Maybe I'd grow a beard. I said, 'You'll have to explain that.'

  'Strictly speaking, you should have reported at the paste de police at Fort Lapperine as soon as you got into Tarn. Your name will have been on the airplane manifest, so by now the cops will be wondering where you are.'

  'Nobody told me that. Specifically, you didn't tell me.'

  'You'd have been told if you'd registered at the hotel. Anyway, I just told you.' He pointed to the hill in the distance. That's your alibi — the Tomb of Tin Hinan.' He paused. 'Mine, too.'

  'The previous owner of the hotel, I suppose.'

  He grinned. 'The legendary ancestress of the Tuareg. I did see a camera in your bag, didn't I?'

  'Yes; I have a camera.'

  'Then tomorrow we climb up there and you take a whole raft of photographs and we take them into Tarn to be developed. That proves we have been here if anyone gets nosey. I don't want anyone getting the idea we went the other way — up into Atakor. Not immediately, anyway.'

  'How long do we stay in Tarn?'

  'As long as it takes to satisfy that fat little guy behind the desk that we're on the level — no longer. The story is this; you came into Tam, got talking to me, and asked about the Tomb of Tin Hinan — you'd heard about it — it's famous. I said I'd take you there and we left immediately, and we've been here ever since while you've been rootling around like an archaeologist. But you don't bear down on that too heavily because to do real archaeology you need a licence. Only, tonight I discovered you hadn't registered with the cops so I've brought you back to get things right. Got the story?'

  I repeated the gist of it, and Byrne said, 'There's more. The fat little guy will ask you about your future plans, and you tell him you're going south to Agadez — that's in Niger.'

  I looked at him blankly. 'Am I?'

  'Yeah.' He pointed at Billson. 'We've got to get this guy out of Algeria fast. Clear out of the country.'

  I scratched my bristles again. 'I have no Niger visa. First, I didn't have time to get one, and secondly I had no intention of going. Looking at this place from England, I decided that there's a limit to what I could do.'

  'You'll get by without a visa if you stick with me.'

  Have you got a visa for Niger?'

  'Don't need one — I live there. Got a pretty nice place in the Air ou Azbine, to the north of Agadez. I come up to Tam once a year to look after a couple of things for Hesther. She's got interests here.'

  Mokhtar served up mint tea. I sat down, feeling comfortably tired after a long day's drive. 'How did you come to know Hesther?' I sipped the tea and found I was coming to like the stuff.

  'When she was younger she used to come down to the Ahaggar quite a lot; that was when the French were here. One time she got into trouble in the Tademait — that's about 700 kilometres north of here. Damn place fries your brains out on a hot day. Wasn't bad trouble but could have gotten worse. Anyway, I helped her out of it and she was grateful. Offered me a job in Algiers but I said I wasn't going to the damned Maghreb, so she asked me to help her out in Tam. That went on for a couple of years, then once, when she came down to Tam, we got to talking, and the upshot was that she staked me to my place in the Air, down in Niger.'

  'What do you do down there?' I asked curiously. Byrne had to earn a living somehow; he just couldn't go around helping strangers in distress.

  'I'm a camel breeder,' he said. 'And I run a few salt caravans across to Bilma.'

  I didn't know where Bilma was and a salt caravan sounded improbable, but the camel breeding I could understand. 'How many camels have you got?'

  He paused, obviously calculating. 'Pack animals and breeding stock together, I'd say about three hundred. I had more, but the goddamn drought hit me hard. Seven lean years, just like in the Bible. But I
'm building up the herd again.'

  'Who is looking after them now?'

  He smiled. 'If this was Arizona you'd call Mokhtar's brother the ranch foreman. His name is Hamiada.' He stretched. 'Got film for your camera?'

  'Yes.'

  'That's okay then. I reckon I'll go to sleep.'

  'Aren't you going to eat?'

  'We'll eat well in Tarn tomorrow. There's just enough chow left to feed Mokhtar and Billson until we come back. Wake me at midnight.' With that he rolled over and was instantly asleep.

  So I went hungry that night but I didn't mind. I looked around and saw that Mokhtar was asleep, as was Billson. It seemed as though I had been elected to stand first watch.

  At about eleven Billson awoke and was coherent for the first time. He muttered a little, then said clearly, 'It's dark. Why is it dark?'

  'It's night time,' I said softly.. 'Who are you?' His voice was weak but quite clear.

  'My name is Stafford. Don't worry about it now, Paul; you're quite safe.'

  He didn't say anything for some time, then he said, 'He shot me.'

  'I know,' I said. 'But you're all right now. Go to sleep and we'll talk tomorrow.'

  He fell silent and when I looked at him closely five minutes later I saw that his eyes were closed and that he was breathing deeply and evenly.

  At midnight I woke Byrne and told him about it, then went to sleep myself.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  We didn't have much time for Billson in the morning because Byrne wanted to get back to Tarn and we still had to go to the mound of Abalessa to take photographs, and so we had time to exchange only a few words. Mine were consoling — Byrne's were more in the nature of threats.

  Billson was very weak, but rational. He had some more of the soup that Mokhtar prepared and managed to eat a few bits of the meat. As I knelt next to him he said, 'Who are you?'

  'I'm Max Stafford. Your sister sent me to find you.'

  'Alix? How did she know where I'd gone?'

  It wasn't too hard to figure,' I said drily. 'I suppose you know you did a damn silly thing — bolting like that.'

  He swallowed. 'I suppose so,' he said reluctantly. He looked past me. 'Who are those Arabs?'

  'They're not Arabs. Now listen, Paul. You made a bigger mistake when you went into Atakor without a permit. Did you know that you didn't have enough petrol to get back to Tarn?' His eyes widened a little and he shook his head. 'And then you were shot. Who shot you — and why?'

  His face went blank and then he frowned and shook his head. 'I don't remember much about that.'

  'Never mind,' I said gently. 'All you have to do is to get well. Paul, if the police find you they'll arrest you and you'll go to prison. We are trying to stop that happening.'

  I turned as Byrne called, 'Are you ready?' There was impatience in his voice.

  'Coming.' I stood up and said to Billson, 'Rest easy.'

  Byrne was more forthright. A Tuareg in full fig can be pretty awe-inspiring but, to the recumbent Billson, Byrne towering over him must have seemed a mile high. There is also something particularly menacing about a man who utters threats when you can't see his face.

  Byrne said, 'Now, listen, stupid. You stay here with this man and you don't do a goddamn thing. If you step out of line just once Mokhtar will cut your crazy head off. Hear me?'

  Paul nodded weakly. I noted that Mokhtar was wearing as his sword and that the rifle was prominently displayed. Byrne said, 'If you do one more screwball thing we'll leave you for the vultures and the fennecs.' He strode away and I followed him to the Toyota.

  On top of the mound of Abalessa were the ruins of a stone building, very unTuareglike. 'French?' I asked. 'Foreign Legion?'

  'Hell, no!' said Byrne. 'Older than that. There's one theory that this was the southern most post of the Romans; it has a likeness to some of the Roman forts up north. Another theory is that it was built by the remnants of a defeated legion that was driven down here. The Romans did lose a couple of legions in North Africa.' He shrugged. 'But they're just theories.'

  'What's this about Tin Hinan?'

  'Over here.' I followed him. 'She was found down there.' I peered into the small stone chamber which had obviously been covered by a hand-worked stone slab that lay nearby. 'It's still a mystery. The Tuareg have a story that a couple called Yunis and Izubahil were sent from Byzantium to rule over them; that would be about the year 1400. Some of the jewellery found on her was East Roman of that period, but some of the coins dated back to the fifth and sixth century. And there were some iron arm rings which the Byzantines didn't wear.'

  He changed his tone and said abruptly, 'We're not here for a history lesson — get busy with your snapshots. Put me in one of them, and I'll do the same for you. Fool tourists are always doing that.'

  So I ran off a spool of pictures and Byrne took a couple of me and we went away although I should have liked to have stayed longer. I have always liked a good mystery which, I suppose, was the reason I was in the Sahara anyway.

  Abalessa was about sixty miles from Tamm anrasset and we made it in just about two and a half hours, being helped during the last stretch by the asphalted road from the airstrip to Tarn. That ten-mile bit was the only paved road I saw in the whole Sahara and I never found out why it had been put there.

  Byrne pulled up outside the Hotel Tin Hinan. 'Go in and make your peace,' he said. 'I'm going to nose around. I'll meet you back here in, maybe, an hour. You can have a beer while you're waiting.'

  'Am I staying here tonight?'

  'No, you'll be with me. But you'll probably have to pay for your room reservation. Give me your film.'

  So I took the film from the camera, gave it to him and got out, and he drove away blasting the horn. There was the predictable confusion in the hotel with reproaches which I soothed by paying the full room charge even though I had not used it. The manager's French was bad but good enough for me to hear that the police had been looking for me. I promised faithfully to report to the poste de police.

  Then I went into the courtyard, sat at a table, and ordered a beer, and nothing had ever tasted so good. Nothing had changed in Tammanrasset since the day 1 had flown in and seen it with new eyes. The Tuareg walked down the sandy street in their languid, majestic manner, or stood about in small groups discussing whatever it was that Tuareg discuss. Probably the price of camels and the difficulty of shooting gazelle. A lot of them wore swords.

  Of course, there was no reason why Tarn should have changed. It was I who had changed. Those few days in Atakor and Koudia had made the devil of a difference. And now it seemed I was to go down to Niger — to a place called Agadez and where was it? Ah yes; the Air ou something or other. I didn't know how far it was and I wondered if I could buy a map.

  There were other things I needed. I looked down at myself. The natty tropical suiting the London tailor had foisted on me was showing the strain of desert travel. I gave the jacket an open-handed blow and a cloud of dust arose. With those travel stains and my unshaven appearance I probably looked like a tramp; any London bobby would have run me in on sight. But I saw no chance of buying European-style clothing in Tarn. I'd ask Byrne about that I finished the beer and ordered a coffee which came thick and sugary and in very small quantity, which was just as well, and I decided I'd rather stay with the mint tea. I was halfway through the second beer when Byrne pitched up. His first act was to order a beer and his second to drain the glass in one swallow. Then he ordered another, and said, 'No one called Kissack has been around.'

  'So?'

  He sighed. 'Don't mean much, of course. A guy can change his name. There's a party of German tourists going through.'

  He laughed. 'Some of them are wearing Lederhosen.'

  I wasn't very much amused. In the desert Lederhosen weren't any more ridiculous than the suit I was wearing. I said, 'Have you any maps? I'd like to know where I'm going.'

  'Don't use them myself, but I can get you one.'

  'And I can do with some clot
hes.'

  He inspected me. 'Wait until we get further south,' he advised. 'Nothing much here; better in Agadez. Your prints will be ready in an hour; I put the arm on the photographer.' He drained his glass. 'Now let's go tell the tale to the cops.'

  Outside the entrance to the paste de police he said, 'Got your passport?'

  I pulled it out of my pocket and hesitated. 'Look, if I say I'm going to Niger it's going to look funny when he finds no Niger visa in here.'

  'No problem,' said Byrne. 'He won't give a damn about that. Niger is another country and it's not his worry what trouble you find yourself in there. He'll be only too happy to get you out of Algeria. Now go in and act the idiot tourist. I'll be right behind you.'

  So I reported to the plump uniformed policeman behind the desk, and laid down my passport. 'I've been waiting for you, M'sieur Stafford,' he said coldly. 'What kept you?' He spoke heavily accented French.

  'Merde!' said Byrne. 'It was only a couple of days.' I supposed I shouldn't have been surprised that Byrne spoke French, but I was. It was ungrammatical but serviceable.

  'Three and a half, M'sieur Byrne,' said the policeman flatly.

  'I thought he'd reported — I only found out last night, and we came straight in.'

  'Where were you?'

  'Abalessa.' He added something in a guttural language totally unlike that in which he spoke to Mokhtar. I took it to be Arabic.

  'Nowhere else?'

  'Where else is there to go out there?' asked Byrne.

  I said, 'I suppose it's my fault. I jumped at the chance to go out there as soon as I met Mr Byrne. I didn't know I had to report here until he told me last night.' I paused, and added, 'It's quite a place out there; I'm not sure it's Roman, though.'

  The policeman didn't comment on that. 'Are you staying in Tammanrasset long, M'sieur Stafford?'