The Collectors - Book Four: Diamonds and Sand (The Collectors Series 4)

by Sewell, Ron

  “Al Wigh is over one hundred kilometres from the Niger border,” said the soldier behind the pilot.

  “It is but to land I need a flat piece of ground but I’ll get you as close as I can.”

  The calmness in his voice reassured them.

  “Niger straight...” Both engines stuttered and died. Apart from the rush of the wind over the wings, silence.

  The pilot checked the fuel tanks while pushing the control forward. “This might be a good time to land.” He stared through the windscreen. The terrain ahead did not look promising.

  One of the men pointed to a flat stretch beyond a sea of dunes.

  The pilot nodded. “As we don’t have a choice. Here we go.”

  With the fuel and electrical services shut off the glide continued. The plane cleared the dunes, its wheels scoring shallow furrows in their peaks. The pilot commenced a standard approach. The wing wheels touched and the nose wheel ploughed deep into soft sand. In its own sand storm the fuselage turned, somersaulted, twisted and came to rest.

  In the semi-dark, the pilot unfastened his seat belt and dropped from his seat. Wreckage surrounded him. He stopped and thought. The plane’s on its head. He groped for the left door handle and pushed, it did not budge. The right window displayed a glimmer of light. With a groan he shoved, it shifted, sand cascaded into the cabin. Undeterred he dragged his body through the gap, pushed the suffocating sand away and pulled himself into the hot desert air.

  Exhausted he crawled under a wing and into the shade, closed his eyes and relaxed. The thought of his passengers jarred him into action. With both hands, he scooped the sand away from the door until it opened wide. He peered into the aft end of the cockpit. The five soldiers hung from their seats. Blood dripped and congealed in a pool under them. It took effort and a long time to disentangle each man from the wreckage. Single-handed he dragged four battered and groggy soldiers out. On examining the fifth he shrugged and joined the others.

  As the sun approached the horizon, he removed a case containing emergency rations from the rear compartment and opened it. The water container was intact. Next, he searched for his charts.

  The four surviving soldiers sat and nursed their wounds. Apart from multiple bruises and concussion, two suffered a broken arm, one a twisted ankle and the forth nothing of significance.

  The pilot stood and pointed. “Niger is that way.” He turned. “Help is forty kilometres in that direction. I intend to return to Al Wigh. I can make it in one day. What you choose to do is your own decision. There’s a first aid kit behind the rear seats. I’ll come back.” A shot sounded and the pilot swayed, dropped to his knees and tumbled, his face in the sand.

  The soldier shoved the pistol into his belt before turning to the others. “Together we walk towards Niger. If we die so be it.” He picked up the emergency ration case. “We rest until the sun has set.”

  Each man attended to his own wounds as best they could, applying antiseptic cream to lacerations, and manufacturing slings for broken arms.

  ***

  Petros nudged the others awake with the toe of his shoe. “Shake a leg. Might as well get going.”

  “You’re a pain in the arse,” said Bear.

  “I know,” said Petros. “I’ll drive the Toyota to the pump room and we can fill the tank. At least we’ll have more than enough fuel to get back.”

  Petros clambered up the makeshift ladder and breathed the fresh cool air of the new day. Relieved the soldiers had gone, he strolled to the vehicle, jumped into the driver’s seat, inserted and turned the ignition key. Nothing happened. With both fists, he thumped the steering wheel while shouting “Shit, shit, shit.”

  In a foul mood he returned to the tomb and descended the ladder. “The Toyota won’t start.”

  “It’ll be a loose connection. The way ZZ drove was not perfect,” said Bear.

  “Mr Bear, the engine was okay when I stopped.”

  “Whatever,” said Petros, “grab your gear and let’s have a look. I’m many things but a mechanic, never.”

  The three men and ZZ climbed into the sunlit day. A few minutes later, Amadou opened the bonnet.

  “We’re not driving anywhere in this. Somebody destroyed the wiring between the battery and the starter motor.”

  “One of those fucking soldiers,” said Bear.

  Accompanied by a growing apprehension, Petros said, “Any ideas? Or it’s a long hot walk.”

  “The wreck in the village,” said Amadou. “If it has battery connections we might be lucky.”

  “Bear, Amadou, I don’t hold out much hope. Have a look, we might get lucky.”

  Petros frowned as he leant against the vehicle.

  Twenty minutes later Bear and Amadou returned with wiring from the wrecked car.

  “They look good but will they work?” said Petros.

  “For what we have in mind they might just do the trick,” said Amadou. “Now get out of the way. Bear, spanners and pliers from the tool kit, it’s inside the rear door compartment.”

  “With the dexterity of a skilled mechanic, Amadou removed the damaged cable from the battery to the solenoid and the other to the starter motor. “One fits but the other’s short.”

  “Time to start walking,” said Petros.

  “No way. My repair will not be perfect but once this engine starts, don’t stop.”

  With pliers he split the old and newer cables and spliced them.” He checked the length before wrapping masking tape over the join. “Not as per the manufacturers’ instructions but should do,” he said with a grin. He connected both ends and stood back. “Petros, you can have the privilege of turning the key.”

  “Yes or no?” said Petros.

  “Turn the fucking key,” said Bear.

  The engine turned, stuttered, fired and roared. Petros grinned. “Jump in, we need to fill the tank.” Without thinking as he stopped outside the pump room he switched off the ignition.

  “PK if you had half a brain you’d be dangerous. Start the engine and please leave it running.”

  Hesitant he turned the key and the engine started. “Okay, so I made a mistake. No harm done.”

  Bear turned towards him. “You wouldn’t have said that if we had to walk.”

  Petros operated the diesel filler cap lever, jumped out, strolled into the pump room and carried a full jerry can to the car. Diesel splashed the paintwork as he filled the tank. A few more cans followed until it overflowed.

  The sun beat on them, their shirts soaked with sweat.

  “Time to go,” said Petros.

  ZZ lowered his head. “I must say goodbye to my friend.”

  Petros placed his diesel-covered hand on ZZ’s shoulder. “As long as it takes.” He watched as the boy scampered towards Akeem’s unmarked grave.

  Bear stood with his hands in his pockets looking at the rising sun. “It’s going to get hot.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “We hid a body in the tent before we left,” said Amadou.

  Petros turned to Bear. “Now you tell me. Who is it?”

  “One of Soames’ mob attempted to kill Akeem. With luck he’ll still be where we left him.”

  “And if he isn’t?” said Bear.

  “Then shit creek comes to mind.”

  “If he is, we have a problem,” said Petros. It’ll be dusk by the time we arrive back in the village. Time to go.”

  The three men jumped into the Toyota.

  “ZZ,” shouted Bear.

  Two minutes later, he arrived, his face tear-streaked. “Mohammed tells us we should not cry over the dead but I could not help it. He was a good man. With both hands he wiped away his tears.”

  “He will be missed,” said Bear.

  Petros said nothing, closed the windows and set the air-con to full. “ZZ, you know the way. Please show me.”

  “Steer south, Mr Petros, and you will find the road.”

  “Okay boss,” said Petros but ZZ wasn’t listening.

&
nbsp; ***

  The four soldiers gathered the map, compass and supplies.

  The fittest of the group laid the map on the ground and pointed. “We are here, more or less sixty kilometres from the Niger border. We walk ten kilometres an hour to find safety. Any less and we die. If you stop, you die. Understood?”

  The three men nodded but one asked, “Do you believe we can walk through this desert and survive the night?”

  “You can stay here if you want.”

  “Better get going.”

  Their walk remained slow but steady as they paced themselves. Weak, they placed one foot in front of the other, not thinking.

  Dusk blended into the dark, the moon gave intermittent light as they trudged towards the dark line on the horizon. On the hour they stopped, rested for ten minutes and drank a mouthful of water. Tired, each man sucked a boiled sweet as he trudged across the powdery sand.

  ***

  The doubts Petros harboured grew as he approached Waw al Kabir. Overcast skies now and then parted to expose the moonlight. With disquiet, he circuited the village twice. The locale next to their tented accommodation appeared deserted. At the end of two problematic days, he parked the Toyota at the rear of their tent, jumped out and waited for the others.

  “ZZ,” said Amadou, “go home and rest.” He handed him a wad of American dollars. “For breakfast.”

  ZZ laughed. “I will be here when the sun is awake. Tonight I will enjoy my own bed.”

  Their eyes followed ZZ until he disappeared into the dark.

  “Right, where’s the body?” asked Petros.

  “Follow me,” whispered Amadou. Inside the tent he lit the kerosene lamp. He tossed the assortment of cushions to one side and pulled the carpet back. “With his hands he dragged the sand away until they could see the corpse. He looked at Petros and Bear. “Next move?”

  “Bury him a long way from here,” said Bear.

  Petros dug into the sand, grabbed an arm and with Amadou pulled the corpse free. “Into the wagon and we’ll bury him twenty or so kilometres south. When and if he’s found no one will care for a dead and unknown man.”

  “We’ve stacked up the bodies on this trip,” said Bear as he heaved the corpse over his shoulder.

  “Apart from Akeem the world is a better place without those scum,” said Petros.

  “It was them or us and I’m glad it wasn’t us. I quite enjoy living,” said Bear.

  The three men were thankful when the night receded. In turn, they enjoyed the luxury of a shave, shower and clean clothes.

  ZZ arrived with tea, bread and cooked meats for breakfast. “My father, tell me plane is missing.”

  “We need that like a hole in the head,” said Bear before he shoved an overfilled sandwich into his mouth.

  “No problem,” said Amadou. My contacts will find us another plane and pilot.”

  “So what do you suggest?” asked Petros.

  “Wait,” said Amadou with a big grin.

  “I wonder what happened to the other aircraft?” said Bear.

  “If they’ve crashed in the wilderness they are dead or as good as. Two days without water and no cover. The needle for survival bounces on zero,” said Amadou. “ZZ, do you know if he sent a distress call?”

  “My father tell me missing. That is what I know.”

  “Excuse me,” said Amadou, “I need to make a few calls in private.”

  “Talking of calls, I must phone Maria, and Bear, Jocelyn.”

  Bear shoved half of another sandwich into his mouth. “Phoned her while you had a shower and got my ears bent. I told her the satellite was out of action.”

  “What are you going to say when she sees the state of your head?” said Petros.

  “Be thankful the bastard missed.”

  A few minutes later, Amadou returned. “Good news and not so good. A plane will arrive here before nightfall and return us to Benghazi. There we have a problem. Armed Muslim factions are attempting to establish their power base.”

  “Where’s the problem?” asked Bear.

  “For you, Bear, dressed as an Arab, none. Petros with his short, blond hair, plenty, makes him a prime target.”

  “But he’s British and if my memory is correct, we helped them get rid of Gaddafi.”

  “They’ll say it was a mistake after I’m dead,” said Petros.

  “When attacked by an armed mob, it’ll be reported as unfortunate. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tonight you remain in my house and I’ll arrange for your safe departure tomorrow.”

  “I second that proposal but how do we leave the country,” said Bear.

  Amadou shrugged. “Tomorrow I’ll give it due thought and consideration. For the moment I’ll sort out what we owe for the Toyota and arrange lunch.”

  Petros and Bear watched as he strolled away and returned to the tent.

  “Where are the diamonds, PK?”

  He pointed. “Under the carpet.”

  Bear touched his head and winced as he lay on the cushions and closed his eyes. “Wake me when lunch arrives.” Petros laughed.

  Amadou stopped amongst the palms, checked that no one was within ear-shot and pressed a few buttons on his mobile.

  The deep voice of a middle-aged man bellowed, “Ibrahim the undertaker.”

  “Ibrahim, the robber of the dead,” said Amadou.

  “They don’t need it where they’re going and I have expenses.”

  “I need a favour.”

  “Wait, my friend, I am in the middle of important business. Call me back in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes.” The line went dead.

  Ibrahim turned to the dark-haired woman who lay naked on his bed. “Get dressed and come back this evening.”

  The woman swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She crossed her arms covering her breasts. “You told me this is the last time.”

  The expression in his eyes told her he wanted payment in full. “We have an agreement. I buried your husband at no cost and you oblige me in any way I choose, every week for three months.”

  “Enough is enough. Animals do not do what you want. I will not come back,” shouted the woman.

  “You will or I will tell the world that you are Satan’s whore.”

  “Bastard,” she cried as she covered herself in a well worn cloak.

  Ibrahim let her out of the front entrance, closed and bolted the door behind her. “I’m tiring of that one and she is as cold as ice,” he muttered. “I have better sex with the dead.” The telephone rang dragging him back to the moment. He ran to his desk. “Amadou?”

  “Yes. I arrive in Benghazi late tonight. Tomorrow morning at ten you will visit my house and we will discuss the different ways you have of shipping, let’s say, contraband out of Libya.”

  “That will be expensive,”

  “My friend, you owe me.”

  “Sometimes you frighten me.”

  “With Gaddafi dead, I’ll need a new patron.”

  Ibrahim sat back in his chair. “For a man of your skills that should be easy.”

  “I assisted in the fall of Gaddafi. Who will trust me? What’s left for people such as us?”

  “Your word has always been good. You are reliable and I’m sure many feel the same as I. You are in the business of supply and demand and your world-wide contacts are still there. Go to Syria and join the rebels; they need weapons and you have the supplies.”

  “I don't know but I must finish this job first. Then I will take a holiday. Tomorrow and don’t be late.”

  ***

  Amadou shoved his mobile into his pocket and thought, Where in this god-forsaken place can I find suitable clothes for Bear and Petros? He glanced at his watch and then across at a man in fine white robes drinking coffee outside a cafe. The location consisted of an open frontage with half a dozen tables. Amadou approached. “A thousand pardons but I can’t help but admire your robes. Where did you purchase such finery?”

  The overweight man with dark eyes
responded in accented English. ”Why do you ask?”

  “Can I buy them?”

  His eyes glistened. “What price do you offer?” He lifted the robe with his right hand. “These are the finest Egyptian cotton.”

  Amadou knew he could strike a deal. “They are not for me, but for two gullible tourists. I’ll give you a fair price but I must make a small profit.”

  For the following fifteen minutes, the men haggled.

  Amadou smiled as they shook hands. “Your wife is with you? Perhaps I can purchase from you a burqah of similar quality?”

  Dark eyes frowned. “You know the burqah must be of a dull colour and loose fitting so she is covered from head to toe and does not draw attention to her femininity when outdoors. Double our agreed price and I will get you her finest.”

  “You are a man of honour, sir,” said Amadou. “I will wait with the money until you return.”

  The man entered the white painted dwelling and retuned a few minutes later. “A clean set of my robes and a dark blue Burqah for your friends.” He paused and held out his right hand.

  Amadou hated being ripped off but removed his wallet and placed three hundred dollar notes into the man’s palm.

  “Your clothes.”

  Amadou walked at speed along the street and listened to the man laughing. With rapid strides he carried his overpriced purchases to their camp.

  “Your new clothes,” said Amadou as he entered the tent, throwing them on the rugs. “Bear, you will be a wealthy Arab. Dump those rags.” He laughed. “Petros, my friend, forgive me but you stand out in any crowd. You will be Bear’s wife and wear this.”

  Petros pushed himself from the floor. “You can take a hike. I’m not putting that on.”

  Amadou kept his voice calm. “They are murdering non-Muslims in Benghazi. With your fair complexion and blond hair you should survive at least ten minutes. A woman in a burqah is never touched.”

  “You’ll look stunning, darling,” Bear said grinning.

  Petros stared Amadou in the eyes, holding the burqah. “Do you believe this is necessary?”

  Amadou’s face remained passive. “I do. Wear your shirt and trousers underneath so no one can see your skin.”