He again moved his position so that he could study the outside face of the dam, in order to decide before he went down just where he would place the dynamite. He selected a spot almost in the centre, where two large, badly—fitting boulders left a cavity between them. Zahar, apparently unable to restrain his curiosity, had crept nearer, and lay watching; so signalling him to remain where he was Bertie made a precarious descent to the bottom of the gorge, and for the next few minutes busied himself with his task. He soon disposed the dynamite as he had planned. The adjustment of the detonator occupied only a few moments. This done to his satisfaction, he backed away to the limit of the fuse, a matter of a few yards. Having prepared the end with his penknife he laid it on the rock, and humming softly to himself—for it had all been much easier than he had expected—produced a box of matches. All was now ready. He struck a match, but before applying it to the fuse, glanced up to make sure that Zahar was out of the danger area, in case he had not time to reach him before the explosion occurred. He had not bothered to measure the fuse because, as the actual time of the explosion was unimportant, there seemed to be no point in it. As long as it was a ' time' fuse, and not instantaneous—
and the Engineer Officer had assured him of this—that was all that mattered.
He expected to see Zahar watching him. There
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was even a chance that the Arab might have followed him to the bottom of the gorge, for natives are notoriously careless where explosives are concerned. Not seeing him, and wanting to know exactly where he was before he lit the fuse, he called: "Hi! Sambo! Where are you? "
The words acted like a signal. At all events, from that moment the situation switched from one of passive inconsequence to one of brisk action. Things happened, and they happened fast. Nor did the pace slow down for some time.
A man, an Arab, suddenly burst into view, running along the brink of the gorge from the direction of the bend. Naturally, as all Arabs dress alike, Bertie supposed him to be Zahar, who had been scouting and was now hastening to warn him of danger. In any case, against the darkening sky he could only see the figure in silhouette. He only realised his mistake when the figure dropped on one knee and a rifle came into view. Obviously it was not Zahar, for the Arab did not possess a rifle.
Bertie dropped the match he had lighted as the flame burnt his fingers, and jumped for the nearest cover. This was a large rock—the same boulder, in fact, on which he had placed the fuse. A split second later the rifle cracked, and the bullet ricocheted with a shrill whine from the same rock. He crouched lower, not daring to move ; for he heard the bolt click in the breach and knew that the man above was only waiting for him to show his head to fire another shot.
Calling himself hard names for being so foolish as to allow himself to be trapped by sheer carelessness,
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Bertie did some quick thinking. Remain where he was he dared not, for the man above would only have to shift his position to bring him into view.
Yet to expose himself by movement would have the same result. All he could do was to watch the lip of the gorge for the man to appear. When the rifle went up, he decided, before the man could take aim he would jump to a better position in the black shadow of the dam.
Still motionless, watching, he became aware of a brisk hissing noise, just above his head. Turning his eyes upward to ascertain the cause he saw a thin wisp of pale blue smoke rising into the calm air. He knew at once what had happened. The lighted match he had dropped in his startled haste had fallen on the fuse and set it alight. It must already have been burning for the best part of a minute; and the knowledge that the explosion might now occur at any time caused him to move with alacrity, bullets notwithstanding.
As he jumped from cover he looked up. The sharpshooter was still there, but he was no longer alone. There were now two figures, erect and almost motionless, though locked in close embrace. Zahar, apparently, had taken a hand.
Bertie went up the face of the gorge like a mountain goat, taking outrageous chances of breaking his bones as he leapt from ledge to ledge, sending loose stones rattling down behind him. His haste nearly cost him his life, for as he neared the top, one of the figures, he knew not which, came hurtling down to miss him by inches and land with a thud in the bottom of the
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gorge. Had it struck him it must have swept him off his perch.
Panting from his exertions he pulled up and flattened himself against the rock face. If it was Zahar who had gone down it would obviously be suicidal to continue the ascent, for the other man would be waiting to receive him, and with the butt of his rifle knock him on the head before he was in a position to defend himself. Yet the explosion, should it occur now, would have an effect just as fataL So he was, to mutilate the popular expression, between the devil and the deep blue gorge.
He took the only course open to him. Everything depended on who was at the top, so he took immediate steps to find out. "Hi! Sambo! Is that you up there?" he called.
The reply, to his unspeakable relief, came in Zahar's voice. "0 Sahib of the glass eye, it is me. Why do you wait?"
Bertie wasted no time explaining why he was waiting.
He scrambled over the top without any regard for dignity, and, breathless, found Zahar in the act of cleaning his dagger in the sand.
"What have you been doing with that thing? " he demanded.
Zahar sheathed the weapon. "Good tidings," he reported calmly. "That Arab was Abu bin Hamud. He would have slain you, but Allah—may he be glorified—delivered him into my hands to be punished for his sins. It was written."
"What brought him here, I wonder?" muttered Bertie, brushing dust from his clothes.
Zahar turned wondering eyes to Bertie's face.
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"God is the knower," quoth he. "Doubtless it was His will." Obviously as far as Zahar was concerned there was nothing more to be said.
Bertie had nothing more to say about it either. He turned a puzzled face in the direction of the wadi as from it there came a great noise of shouting. "I wonder what that's all about," he murmured. "Someething seems to be going on. Let's go and have a dekko. I mean, if some lads are having a frolic in the wadi, we'd better warn them to get out of it before they get their feet wet—if you see what I mean."
Zahar looked at him sadly. "Why should we throwaway our lives to save this misbegotten spawn of dogs and hyenas? " he protested.
" Ah! there you've got me, Sambo," answered Bertie lightly. "It's a way we have—very silly and all that. But let's have a look, anyway."
He set off along the rim of the gorge towards a babble of voices which now came plainly to their ears.
Chapter 14
Ambrimos Gets His Answer
FOR Biggles and Ginger, in their insalubrious prison quarters, the day passed slowly. For Ginger, still feelmg the effects of the drug, it was a nightmare of heat, noise, flies, and the overpowering stench of filth.
What Biggles thought about it all was a secret he kept to himself. He rarely spoke, but sat for the most part deep in thought, smoking cigarette after cigarette with the object, as he said, of keeping the flies at a distance and off—setting to a certain extent the disgusting stink.
One thing was to Ginger quite evident, however.
Whatever Biggles was planning it was not escape. That was out of the question, for, apart from the sentries, every native in the camp had foregathered at the spot as if in anticipation of an unusual entertainnment. The mob surrounded the hut, talking, shouting and gesticulating, in a state of high excitement. To get through such a barrier, even if Biggles and Ginger had possessed automatic weapons, would have been impossible. There was, as Biggles once remarked just nothing they could do about it.
Towards evening, a caravan comprising men women and children—presumably the slave part~ formed up, and with its beasts of burden filed away towards the east, in the direction of the Red Sea.
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This was on
e of the occasions on which Biggles had something to say. "So Ambrimos is in that racket, too. What a skunk the fellow must be.
Anything for money."
"They have at least taken some of the flies with them," observed Ginger morosely. "I didn't know there were so many flies in the world."
"Where there's dirt, you'll always find flies," answered Biggles tritely.
"The dirtiest fly of the lot is Ambrimos. He's half-way to becoming a maggot. Someone should have put a heel on him long ago. Unfortunately, his sort are not rare in the world of today."
Silence fell.
Some time later Ginger said: "I wonder what Bertie's up to?"
Biggles flicked the ash off his cigarette. "Probably waiting for us at the aerodrome."
"He may decide to look for us and drift along this way."
"Why should he come here? He doesn't know we're here. Zahar didn't know where I was bound for so he couldn't tell him. If he did come, he'd only get his block knocked off anyway. He could do nothing against this crowd."
"Do you mean you're just going to sit here and wait for Ambrimos to bump us off when it suits him? "
"Can you think of any way of preventing it? I can't. If we went outside those savages would simply make pincushions of us. Judging from their behaviour they'd ask for nothing more."
Another silence.
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"I landed you in this mess," remarked Ginger miserably.
"Don't talk nonsense," answered Biggles shortly. "We came here together.
We knew the risks. Things happened to go wrong, that's all. When things go wrong, to start talking about whose fault it was gets you nowhere.
We'll just have to take what's coming. If I can grab a spear from one of these toughs and stick it into Ambrimos I shall be satisfied that we've done a good job, whatever happens afterwards. We can rely on Bertie to knock a hole in the dam."
The day wore on. The sun sank below the rim of the wadi, which at once began to fill with shadows. The babble outside increased rather than diminished.
Suddenly a hush fell.
"Now what?" muttered Ginger expectantly.
"I'd say it's Ambrimos, coming to gloat," returned Biggles.
He was right. The crowd of wild-eyed, mop-haired natives, parted, and the Sultan appeared at the door of the hut. He called to Biggles and Ginger to come out.
They obeyed. "You were wise to stay outside," Biggles told him. "The smell inside was quite bad enough."
" I'm sorry, but it was the only shady place I had to offer," purred Ambrimos, missing the sting in Biggles's remark. "Have you thought about my proposition?"
"There was nothing to think about," Biggles told him.
Ambrimos sighed. "You know the alternative?"
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"You told us. There's no need to make a song about it."
"Very well, upon your own heads be it," came back Ambrimos, his voice hardening. "Perhaps you think I'm not serious?"
"Why should I think anything of the sort?"
"Perhaps you are right. Why indeed? You have meddled in my affairs and this is what happens to people who do that."
"One day you'll learn what happens to people who do what you're thinking of doing," answered Biggles.
Ambrimos smiled. "Not here," he said softly.
"The arm of you British may be long, but it does not reach as far as this."
"Don't fool yourself," Biggles told him grimly. "It can reach as far as you're ever likely to get."
The Sultan frowned. "So even now you dare to threaten me? Very well.
Stiff-necks, they call you British. I can at least find a way to loosen yours." He made a signal to the waiting crowd and stepped back.
Some of the natives, silent now, at once closed in.
Biggles and Ginger were each held firmly by half-dozen hands. A lane was made through the throng as the party moved forward.
Ginger soon saw what Ambrimos intended. The man had spoken literally. In the middle of the wadi stood an ancient fig tree with many branches that spread out at right—angles from the trunk. From one of these, two ropes, each with a noose at the end, hung side by side. Below these a rough plank had
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been placed across two packing cases. He drew a deep breath. "Looks as if we'd had it this time," he said softly.
Biggles did not answer.
In a curious sort of anticipatory silence the prisoners were led to the tree. Nearby two men sat on a stone, smoking cigarettes, watching the scene. One was the Sultan's manager, and the other, from Bertie's description of him, the Moth pilot.
"You will excuse me if my methods seem a little old-fashioned," mocked Ambrimos in a silky voice. "But it is not often that my men get a treat of this sort. They are anxious to make the most of it and I feel that I must oblige them. In the same way, I feel that I'm being generous in employing your own national method of disposing of people who have become a menace to others. Were I not here to keep order the manner of your departure from this world would, I fear, be more prolonged and more painful. Bearing that in mind, will you be so obliging as to mount the plank? "
Ginger was thinking desperately. Of all the perilous positions they had ever been in, this was the most hopeless. All along he had hoped that Biggles would do something, but now, looking around at the brutish faces that surrounded them, he realised that there was nothing that he could do. There was no hope of escape, or of rescue. Even if by some remote chance Bertie and Zahar had managed to track them, and arrived on the scene, what could they do against such a mob? They would simply perish in a futile attempt at rescue. And the nearest military camp was many page 179
miles away on the other side of the Red Sea, so no aid could be expected from that quarter. For the first time in his life Ginger abandoned hope.
In the crimson glow of the setting sun he mounted the plank on which Biggles had already climbed, and from this elevated position gazed down at a sea of hostile faces. He looked at Biggles, quite sure that it was for the last time.
Biggles smiled a curious apologetic smile. "So long, laddie," he said.
"Sorry I brought you into this. We've had. a long run and I suppose it had to happen sometime."
A hush fell over the scene as a giant Sudanese climbed on to the plank with the apparent object of adjusting the ropes. He was reaching for the nearest when, from no great distance away, there came the crack of a rifle shot.
All heads turned in the direction of the sound.
There was some muttering. Ambrimos spoke swiftly to his manager, who got up and began walking along the wadi towards the place where it narrowed into a gorge. Who had fired the shot and for what purpose, Ginger wondered? The Sudanese was staring up the gorge, too, his attention, like the rest, distracted for the moment. Ginger saw Biggles edging slowly towards the heavy knife that the man carried in his belt; but before the movement was completed, through, the sultry air there came a hail.
"Hi!" shouted a voice. "What's going on down there?"
Ginger's eyes switched to the top of the wadi, and he was seized by an insane desire to laugh when he
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saw Bertie standing there, clear against the sky, in the act of adjusting his eye-glass. Zahar was with him.
"Mad as a hatter," he heard Biggles mutter.
"What are you chaps doing?" called Bertie. "They're hanging us," yelled Ginger, who thought
it was time that Bertie knew the truth.
"Are they, by Jove," came back from Bertie. He pointed a threatening finger. "Ambrimos! Stop that, you infernal scamp!" He started scramblmg down the sandy bank of the wadi.
"Crazy," murmured Biggles simply.
Ginger's eyes were not the only ones that had switched to the cause of the interruption. Every head had turned. A swelling mutter of astonished voices arose from the crowd, and those who were nearest started to run towards the intruder, with the clear object of seizing him. And in this they must have succeeded, in spite of the fact that
Bertie drew his pistol and opened a brisk fire, had there not come at this juncture a further interruption, one more startling than the first.
Biggles had just snatched the knife from the Sudanese, and kicked him off the plank, when from somewhere close, though out of sight, came a tremendous explosion that soon marked its position by sending into the air a cloud of smoke, sand and rocks. Following closely upon it, before the reverberations had died away, came a low roar as if of distant thunder. An instant later there swept into sight a wall of water, a wave nearly twenty feet high that curled over at the top in a never-falling swirl of yellow foam.
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For perhaps two seconds no one moved. Then a wild yell went up as every man in the wadi perceived his danger and fled for safety. It was obvious that none could reach it, for the water was travelling at the speed of a train, sinking a little as it filled the wadi from side to side.
Ginger stood still, his brain reeling from shock. In a detached sort of way he saw Biggles fling the knife at Ambrimos, who was running with the rest. Then, turning, Biggles shouted: "The rope! Quick! Up the rope!"
Ginger recovered his senses with a rush. He realised what Biggles meant.
Grabbing the rope which was to have taken his life, but was now the only means of saving it, he went up it hand over hand. He was only just in time. As it was he had to lift his legs as the crest of the wave clutched at them, and whirled away the support on which a moment before he had stood. Gasping, he managed to get a hand over the branch to which the rope had been tied. Another second and he sat astride it, staring in a dazed sort of way at a swirling yellow flood that raced below. He gazed around. The only persons in sight that he could see were Bertie and Zahar, who, being safely above the flood, had sat down to watch. What had become of the crowd needed no effort of imagination to work out. Every man and everything else in the wadi except the tree, had been swept away by the raging waters which still filled the wadi although most of its early force had been spent.
"There was more water in that reservoir than I page 182
thought," came from Biggles, who had adopted the same posture as Ginger a couple of yards away.
38 Another Job For Biggles Page 13