Flyaway

by Desmond Bagley

  I glanced at Byrne. 'No; I'm going down to Agadez and the Air.'

  'With M'sieur Byrne?'

  'Yes.'

  He suddenly seemed more cheerful as he picked up my passport. 'We have much trouble with you tourists. You don't understand that there are strict rules that you must follow. There is another Englishman we are looking for. It all wastes our time.' He opened the passport, checked me against the photograph, and flicked the pages. There is no visa for Algeria here,' he said sharply.

  'You know it's not necessary,' said Byrne.

  'Of course.' The policeman's eyes narrowed as he looked at Byrne. 'Very good of you to instruct me in my work.' He put his hands flat on the table. 'I think a lot about you, M'sieur Byrne. I do not think you are a good influence in. the Ahaggar. It may be that I shall write a report on you.'

  'It won't get past the Commissioner of Police in Algiers,' said Byrne. 'You can depend on that.'

  The policeman said nothing to that. His face was expressionless as he stamped my passport and pushed it across the desk. 'You will fill out fiches in triplicate. If you do not know how I am sure M'sieur Byrne will instruct you.' He indicated a side table.

  The fiche was a small card, somewhat smaller than a standard postcard and printed in Arabic and French. I scanned it, then said to Byrne, 'Standard bureaucratic stuff — but what the hell do I put down under "Tribe"?'

  Byrne grinned. 'A couple of years ago there was a guy here from the Isle of Man. He put down Manx.' He wilted a little under my glare and said, 'Just put a stroke through it'

  I filled in all three fiches and put them on the policeman's desk. He said, 'When are you leaving for Niger?'

  I looked at Byrne, who said, 'Now. We just have to go to Abalessa to pick up some gear.'

  The policeman nodded. 'Don't forget to report at the checkpoint outside town. You have an unfortunate habit of going around it, M'sieur Byrne.'

  'Me? I never!' said Byrne righteously.

  We left and, just outside the office, passed a man carrying a sub-machine-gun. Once in the street I said, 'He doesn't like you. What was all that about?'

  'Just a general principle. The boys in the Maghreb don't like foreigners getting too close to the Tuareg. That guy is an Arab from Sidi-bel-Abbes. It's about time they recruited their police from the Tuareg.'

  'Can he get you into trouble?'

  'Fat chance. The Commissioner of Police lives in Hesther Raulier's pocket.'

  I digested that thoughtfully, then said, 'What did you say to him in Arabic?'

  Byrne smiled. 'Just something I wouldn't want to say to your face. I told him you were a goddamn stupid tourist who didn't know which end was up. I also managed to slip in that we were waiting for a roll of film to be developed. With a bit of luck he'll check on that.'

  We went shopping. Byrne seemed well known and there was a lot of good-natured chaffing and laughter — also a lot of mint tea. He bought salt, sugar and flour, small quantities of each in many places, spreading his custom wide. He also bought a map for me and then we went back to the hotel for a final beer.

  As we sat down he said, 'No trace of Kissack, but the word is out to look for him.'

  The map was the Michelin North and West Africa, and the scale was 40 kilometres to the centimetre, about 63 miles to the inch. Even so, it was a big map and more than covered the small table at which we were sitting. I folded it to more comfortable proportions and looked at the area around Tammanrasset. The ground we had covered in the last few days occupied an astonishingly small portion of that map. I could cover it with the first joint of my thumb.

  I observed the vast areas of blankness, and said, 'Where are we going?'

  Byrne took the map and put his finger on Tammanrasset 'South from here, but not by the main road. We take this track here, and as soon as we get to Fort Flatters we're in Niger.' He turned the map over. 'So we enter the Air from the north — through Iferouane and down to Timia. My place is near there. The Air is good country.'

  I used my thumb to estimate the distance. It was a crow's flight of about four hundred miles, probably six hundred on the ground and, as far as I could see, through a lot of damn all. The Air seemed to be mountainous country.

  I said,'What's an erg?'

  Byrne clicked his tongue. 'I guess it's best described as a sea of sand.'

  I noted with relief that there was no erg on the route to the Air.

  We drank our beer leisurely and then wandered down the street to pick up the photographs. Suddenly Byrne nudged me. 'Look!' A policeman came out of a doorway just ahead and crossed the road to go into the paste de police. 'What did I tell you,' said Byrne. 'He's been checking those goddamn pictures.'

  'Hell!' I said. 'I didn't think he'd do it. A suspicious crowd, aren't they.'

  'Keeping the Revolution pure breeds suspicion.'

  We collected the photographs, picked up the Toyota at a garage where it had been refuelled and the water cans filled, and drove back to Abalessa.

  Mokhtar reported no problems, but Billson suddenly became voluble and wanted to talk. He seemed a lot stronger and, since he hadn't been able to talk to Mokhtar, it all came bursting out of him.

  But Byrne would have none of it 'No time for that now. I want to get out of here. Let's go.'

  Again we picked up speed as we hit the asphalted section of road and, because we had to go through Tarn, Billson was put in the back of the truck and covered with a couple of djellabas. The road to the south left Tarn from Fort Lapperine and, as we turned the corner, I was conscious of the man standing outside the paste de police, cradling a submachine-gun in his arms, and sighed with relief as we bumped out of sight.

  About four miles out of town Byrne stopped and went to the back of the truck where I joined him. He uncovered Billson, and said, 'How are you?'

  'I'm all right.'

  Byrne looked at him thoughtfully. 'Can you walk?'

  'Walk?'

  Byrne said to me, There's a police checkpoint just around the corner there. I bet that son of a bitch back there has told them to lay for me.' He turned to Billson. 'Yes, walk. Not far — two or three kilometres. Mokhtar will be with you.'

  'I think I could do that,' said Billson.

  Byrne nodded and went to talk to Mokhtar. I said to Bill-son, 'You're sure you can do it?'

  He looked at me wanly. 1 can try.' He turned to look at Byrne. 'Who is that man?'

  'Someone who saved your life,' I said. 'Now he's saving your neck.' I went back and got into the cab. Presently Byrne got in and we drove on. I looked back to see Billson and Mokhtar disappear behind some rocks by the roadside.

  Byrne was right. They gave us a real going-over at the checkpoint, more than was usual, he told me afterwards — much more. But you don't argue with the man with the gun. They searched the truck and opened every bag and container, not bothering to repack which Byrne and I had to do. They pondered over my passport for a long time before handing it back and then we had to fill in more fiches, again in triplicate.

  'This is damn silly,' I said. 'I did this only this morning.'

  'Do it,' said Byrne shortly. So I did it.

  At last we were allowed to go on and soon after leaving the checkpoint Byrne swerved off the main track on to a minor track which was unsignposted.

  The main road goes to In Guezzam,' he said. 'But it would be tricky getting you over the border there. Fort Flatters will be better.' He drove on a little way and then stopped. 'We'll wait for Mokhtar here.'

  We got out of the truck and I looked at the map. After a few minutes I said, 'I'm surprised they're not here by now. We were a fair time at the checkpoint and it doesn't take long to walk three kilometres.'

  'More like eight,' said Byrne calmly. 'If I'd told him the truth he might have jibbed.'

  'Oh!'

  Presently Mokhtar emerged on to the side of the road. He was carrying Billson slung over his shoulder like a sack. We put him in the back of the truck and made him as comfortable as possible, revived him with
water, and then drove on.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  We drove to the Air in easy stages, doing little more than a hundred miles a day. It was during this period that I got to know Paul Billson, assuming that I got to know him at all because he was a hard man to fathom. I think Byrne got to know him a lot better than I did.

  In spite of his garrulity at Abalessa, he felt a lot less like talking after passing out while going around the checkpoint, but he was a lot better that evening when we made camp.

  We now had tents which were carried on a rack on top of the truck, and while Byrne and Mokhtar were erecting them I dressed Billson's wound. It was clean and already beginning to heal, but I puffed some penicillin powder into it before putting on fresh bandages.

  He was bewildered. 'I don't know what's going on,' he said pathetically. 'Who are you?'

  'I told you — Max Stafford.'

  That means nothing.'

  'If I said that I was responsible for security at Franklin Engineering would that mean anything?'

  He looked up. 'For God's sake! You mean you've chased all the way out here because I left Franklin's in a hurry?'

  'Not entirely — but you get the drift. There's a lot you can tell me.'

  He looked around. We were camped on the lee side of a ridge almost at the top. I had queried that when Byrne picked the spot; camping on the flats at the bottom of the ridge would have been better, in my opinion. Byrne had shaken his head. 'Never camp on low ground. More men die of drowning in the Sahara than die of thirst.' When I expressed incredulity he pointed to mountains in the north-east. 'You could have a thunderstorm there and not know it. But a flash flood sweeping through the wadis could come right through here.' I conceded his point.

  Billson said, 'Where are we?'

  'About fifty miles south-east of Tammanrasset'

  'Where are we going?'

  'Niger. We're getting you out of Algeria; the police are looking for you. You bent the rules.'

  'Why are you doing this for me?'

  I put the last knot in the bandage and snipped off the loose ends. 'Damned if I know,' I said. 'You've certainly proved to be a bloody nuisance. Niger is probably the last place in the world I want to go to.'

  He shook his head. 'I still don't understand.'

  'Have you remembered anything about the man who shot you?'

  'A bit,' said Billson. 'I stopped because one of the tyres was going soft and I thought I might have to change a wheel. I was looking at it when this other car came along.'

  'Car or truck? 5 A car seemed improbable in Koudia, 'A Range-Rover. I thought he might help me so I waved.

  He came up and stopped about ten yards away — then he shot me.'

  'Just like that?'

  'Just like that. I felt this blow in my shoulder — it knocked me down. It didn't hurt; not then.'

  I looked at Billson speculatively. This sounded an improbable story, but then, Billson collected improbabilities about him as another man might collect postage stamps. And I never forgot for one moment that I had been badly beaten up in a quiet street in Kensington.

  'Did you see the man?'

  'Yes. He — they chased me.'

  'How many?'

  Two of them.'

  'Were they locals? I mean, were they Arabs or Tuareg?'

  'No, they were white men, like you and me.'

  'Didn't he say anything before he shot you?'

  'No. As I said, the car just stopped and he shot me.'

  I sighed. 'So what happened then?'

  'Well, when I fell down they couldn't see me because I was behind the Land-Rover. Close by there was a gap between two rocks and I nipped in there. I heard them getting out of their car so I went between the rocks and up a sort of cleft and ran for it.'

  He fell silent so I prompted him. 'And they chased you. Did they shoot at you again?'

  He nodded. 'Just the one man. He didn't hit me.' He touched his shoulder. 'Then this started to hurt and I became dizzy. I don't remember any more.'

  He had collapsed and fortunately fallen out of sight down a cleft in the rocks. The men had probably searched for him and missed him, not too difficult in Koudia. But burning his Land-Rover was another way of killing him; I couldn't imagine a man with a gunshot wound and no water walking out of Koudia.

  'How did you find me?' he asked.

  'We were looking for you.'

  He stared at me. 'Impossible. Nobody knew where I'd gone.'

  'Paul, you left a trail as wide as an eight-lane motorway,' I said. 'It wasn't difficult for me, nor for someone else, evidently. Do you have any enemies? Anyone who hates you badly enough to kill you? So badly that they'd follow you to the middle of the Sahara to do it?'

  'You're mad,' he said.

  'Someone is,' I observed. 'But it's not me. Does the name of Kissack mean anything to you?'

  'Not a thing.' He brooded a moment. 'What happened to my Land-Rover? Where is it?'

  'They burned it.'

  He looked stricken. 'They burned it!' he whispered. 'But what about…' He stopped suddenly.

  'How much money did you have in those suitcases?' I asked softly. He didn't answer, so I said, 'My assessment is about?56,000.'

  He nodded dully.

  'Whether they searched those cases before dousing them with petrol or not doesn't matter. You've lost it.' I stood up and looked down at him. 'You're a great big law-breaker, Paul. The British can nail you for breaking currency regulations, and now the Algerians are looking for you. If they find you with a bullet hole in you that'll bring more grief to someone. Jesus, you're a walking disaster.'

  'Sorry to have been the cause of trouble,' he mumbled. His hand twitched, the fingers plucking at his jacket.

  I contemplated that piece of understatement with quiet fury. I bent down and stuck my finger under his nose. 'Paul, from now on you don't do a single thing — not a single bloody thing, understand, even if it's only unzipping your fly — without consulting either me or Byrne.'

  His head jerked towards Byrne. 'Is that him?'

  That's Byrne. And walk carefully around him. He's as mad at you as I am.'

  They had finished putting up the tents and Mokhtar had a fire going. I told Byrne what I had got from Billson, and be said contemplatively, 'Two Europeans in a Range-Rover. They shouldn't be hard to trace. And they shot him just like that? Without even passing the time of day?'

  'According to Paul — just like that.'

  'Seems hard to believe. Who'd want to shoot a guy like that?'

  I said tiredly, 'He was driving around with 56,000 quid in British bank notes packed in his suitcase. I shouldn't think ' it went up in flames in the Land-Rover. He probably opened his mouth too wide somewhere along the line, and someone got greedy.'

  'Yeah, you could be right But that doesn't explain Kissack.'

  'I don't believe he exists.'

  'If Hesther says he was loo king for Paul Billson, then he exists,' said Byrne firmly. 'Hesther don't make mistakes.'

  We had mutton that night because Mokhtar had bought a sheep that morning from a passing Targui at Abalessa. He grilled some of it kebab-style over the fire and we ate it with our fingers. It was quite tasty. Byrne pressed Billson to eat. 'I'm trying to fatten you up,' he said. 'When we get to Fort Flatters you've got to walk some more.'

  'How much more?' asked Billson.

  'Quite a piece — maybe thirty kilometres. We've got to get you round the Algerian border post.' He turned to me. 'You'll have a walk, too; around the Niger border post'

  I didn't look forward to it The next night I tackled Paul again, this time not about what he'd been up to in North Africa, but about the puzzling circumstances of his life in England. I could have questioned him as we drove but I didn't want to do it in front of Byrne. Paul might unburden himself to a single interrogator but he might not before an audience.

  I dressed his wound again. It was much better. As I re-wrapped the bandage I said, 'How much did you earn at Franklin Engineering, Paul
?'

  '?200 a month.'

  'You're a damned liar,' I said without heat. 'But you always have been, haven't you? You were on?8000 a year — that's nearly four times as much. Now, tell me again — how much did you earn?' He stayed sullenly silent, and I said, 'Tell me, Paul; I want to hear it from you.'

  'All right. It was?8000 a year.'

  'Now, here comes the?8000 question,' I said. 'Do you consider that you were worth it to Franklin Engineering?'

  'Yes — or they wouldn't have paid it to me.'

  'You don't really believe that, do you?' Again he maintained silence. 'Do you know that Mr Isaacson wanted to fire you ten years ago, but the managing director wouldn't agree?'

  'No.'

  'Do you know that Mr Stewart wanted to fire you when he arrived from Glasgow to reorganize the accounts office, and again the managing director wouldn't have it?'

  'No.'

  'Who is your guardian angel, Paul?'

  'I don't know what you mean.'

  Tor God's sake!' I said. 'You were doing work that any sixteen-year-old office boy could do. Do you think that was worth eight thousand quid a year?' He avoided my eye. 'Maybe not,' he muttered. Then how come you were paid it? There must have been some reason. Who were you blackmailing?'

  That got him angry. 'That's a damnable thing to say,' he spluttered. 'You've no right…' I cut in. 'How did you get the job?'

  'It was offered to me. I got a letter.'

  'When was this? How long ago?'

  Billson frowned in thought, then said, 'Must have been 1963.'

  'Who sent the letter?'

  'A man called McGovern. He was managing director of Franklin.'

  McGovern! Then managing director of Franklin Engineering, later Chairman of the Board, now Chairman of the entire Whensley Group and knighted for his services to industry. Sir Andrew McGovern, who ran like a thread through Billson's life and who wanted to run his own security operation as soon as Billson disappeared. I said, 'What was in the letter?'

  'McGovern offered me a post at?2000 a year.' Billson looked up. 'I grabbed it.'

  He would!?2000 wasn't a bad salary back in 1963 when the average pay was considerably less than?1000. 'Didn't you wonder why McGovern was offering that?'