Bloody Passage (v5) (13 page)

"Oh, go to hell," he said and turned away as I pressed the starter and took the dinghy in toward the shore.

We waited in the shadows by the store, not that we had long for I could hear the truck coming for quite some time, the engine clear on the night air.

"Well, this is it," I said as it reached the olive grove.

She cracked then, for a moment only, flinging herself into my arms, kissing me. And then she pulled away.

"If you die on me, I'll never forgive you," I said.

It was a poor attempt at humor. She blew me a kiss, a strangely personal act that touched me deeply, smiled and turned and walked toward the truck as it pulled up.

There was a great deal of shouting and singing coming from inside. In fact, a good many of the girls sounded fairly drunk to me. Perhaps they needed to be. Not a pleasant thought. She climbed up in the cab beside Zingari and he drove away. I stood there in the shadows, listening to the sound of the engine dwindling and after a while there was nothing. So that was very much that and I turned and went back to the dinghy.

When I reached
Palmyra,
Barzini, Nino, and Langley were waiting on deck, all in battledress. I left them to load the equipment and went below and changed myself. Strange to be in uniform again. It had been a hell of a long time. Once I had enjoyed this kind of thing.

As I went up the companionway I was conscious of neither optimism nor despair. As a matter of interest, the only thing I could think about was Simone and that would never do. It was not, after all, my style, as she would have been the first to remind me.

The others were ready and waiting in the inflatable dinghy, the outboard motor ticking over. I dropped in beside them. Angelo, who had hauled himself up from the cabin to see us off, waved from the rail.

And then we were away, moving out to sea between the Sisters and the game was finally afoot.

There was supposed to be a full moon, which had worried me in the planning stage, but the weather was on our side and it wasn't much in evidence. Low cloud, light sea mist and a fine drifting rain kept visibility down to a minimum.

We stayed about half a mile off shore, too close in to run into any tunny boats and yet because of the poor visibility, well out of sight of shore. Which meant, of course, that I had to rely on dead reckoning, making the final run-in blind.

At the last possible moment, I killed the motor and we took to the oars. Not the best of solutions, considering the conditions, but taking the noise factor into account we didn't really have any other choice.

For a few rather nasty minutes I thought we'd made a bad mistake. The dinghy, minus the power of the outboard motor, heeled, water pouring over the gunnel for a stiff offshore breeze was lifting the waves into whitecaps.

Barzini and Langley had a pair of oars each and rowed like hell which they needed to do for there was a four or five knot current running as I'd expected from the chart.

The shore was plain to see now, mainly because of the surf, white in the darkness as it pounded across the beach. And once, for a moment only, the moon showed through a rent in the clouds and I could see the fortress waiting for us up there on the cliffs.

We were moving in very fast now, caught in a current of such strength that there was nothing we could do except to try to keep floating and hang on. The sea filled the darkness with its roaring, shaking and tearing at the beach with great angry sucking noises.

We bounced off a rock, spinning round in a circle and Langley lost an oar. For a moment or so, we were quite helpless, dirty white foam boiling around us and I saw, in my mind's eye, the whole thing finished before it got started.

Nino cried out a warning and I glanced over my shoulder as a long comber rolled out of the darkness, a six footer with a white, curling head on it. I thought it was the final end of things. Instead, it was our salvation for it carried us straight in over the rocks to a great bank of shingle.

I was over the side in a moment and so were the others, pushing and hauling at the dinghy to get her up to dry land. Another wave flooded in, boiling around our knees as if determined to have us back. It retreated fast and a moment later, we were over the top of the shingle bank and moving up the beach.

We deposited the dinghy in soft white sand at the very base of the cliffs and Langley said, "Christ Almighty, I'm soaked to the bloody skin."

"We're here, aren't we?" Barzini said. "That's all that matters."

He produced a thermos of hot coffee from one of the rucksacks in the dinghy and passed it round. I looked up through the rain and darkness to the ramparts. There were a couple of lights up there, but otherwise no sign of life.

Langley said, "She was delivered at nine. It's now ten o'clock. That means she's had an hour up there. Where is she?"

"Give her time," I said. "She'll be there."

He shook his head. "You're kidding yourself, Grant. She isn't going to make it. There was never any chance that she would in the first place."

"Why don't you shut up?" Barzini told him. "She's got more in her than you have, that girl, Langley. I think maybe she's going to surprise you."

Langley turned away angrily. I sat down under an overhang of rock to get some shelter from the rain and lit a cigarette. I was damned cold and very wet, but I wasn't worried or at least that's what I told myself, and whenever I thought of what might be happening to her up there, I pushed that thought away.

So we waited and the rain drifted in and the surf pounded the beach and nothing happened--not a damned thing. And then it was midnight and the plain ugly fact of the matter could no longer be avoided.

In the end it was Barzini who came over and squatted beside me. "Not so good, Oliver," he said.

I nodded wearily. "Not so good, Aldo."

10
Simone Alone

I
nside the cab of the old truck it was hot and uncomfortable and stank of diesel fumes. Zingari was an indifferent driver and they bounced along over the dirt road to a chorus of protest from the women in the rear. Someone banged on the partition and made a suggestion in Italian, using language as foul as it was possible to imagine.

He turned to Simone, his pale, rat-like face shining with sweat in the subdued light of the dashboard. "They are a bad lot back there. Straight from the gutter."

"They seem to serve your purpose," she said.

He shrugged. "The world is as it is, signorina. I didn't make the rules."

She struggled to contain her anger, aware of the contempt she felt for this foul little man. "I wonder how it would be if they decided to turn?" she said. "Got their hands on you."

He glanced at her, startled, the face yellow with fear, and forced a smile. "Hardly likely, signorina. They have nowhere to go. This is--how do the Americans say it?--the end of the line."

For me, too?
she wondered. The thought chilled her clear to the bone and instinctively, she put a hand on the top of her thigh, feeling the knife that Barzini had taped into position there. How could she use it? How could she possibly use such a weapon?

She became aware that Zingari was glancing sideways at her and when she looked down saw that the skirt of the mini dress was stretched taut, exposing the nylon thighs. She tried to pull it down, but found it impossible.

Zingari's tongue flickered across his lips; he was sweating harder than ever, the smell sour and offensive in that confined space. She challenged him with her gaze and he tried another of those weak smiles.

"You are too beautiful, signorina. Compared to the pigs in the rear, you will shine out like a torch in the darkness."

"And what do you suggest I do about it?"

"There's an old burnous behind your seat. Try that."

She pulled it out and unfolded it across her knees. It was typical of the kind of thing worn by Arabs of both sexes. An ankle-length mantle with a pointed hood in blue and white stripes.

Zingari slipped a hand under the mantle and squeezed her thigh. He smiled ingratiatingly. "Cover up those lovely legs, eh, signorina? Keep you out of trouble?"

Her handbag was on the floor beside her left ankle. She reached down, took out the Ceska and held it in her lap, the ugly, bulbous silencer pointing straight at him. "Touch me again," she said calmly. "Just once more ..."

He withdrew his hand hurriedly, the truck swerved from one side of the road to the other. There was another chorus of screams from inside.

"Signorina, please. I would not offend you for the world."

He was shaking like a leaf and the smell of his sweat seemed to sharpen, grow even more pungent. She leaned into the corner, her face to the window, holding the Ceska concealed in a fold of the burnous. The fine rain blowing in off the sea carried salt with it and she thought of Grant and no one else. Wondered where he was now and what was happening to him.

The moon appeared through the clouds and for an instant she saw the sea and beyond it, at the end of a great spur of rock, the fortress of Ras Kanai.
Cape of Fear.
It was well named. As it disappeared from view, she hugged herself tightly, suddenly terrified.

The women in the first truck were already getting out as they arrived. The floodlighting over the main gate was turned on illuminating the whole scene. A small gate to one side stood open and two or three soldiers in camouflaged uniforms stood outside. An enormous black-bearded man with sergeant's stripes on his sleeve stood a yard or two in front of them, hands on hips, a cigarette in his mouth, looking the women over.

"That's Husseini, the senior n.c.o.," Zingari said to Simone. "Don't fall into his hands, signorina. You'll never be the same again. Now put the burnous on and wait on the other side of the truck."

He got out and went round to the rear. Simone heard him shouting at the women, the chorus of catcalls he received in reply. She slipped out of the cab, pulled the burnous over her head and waited in the shadows.

The women from the second truck started to move forward to join the others. Zingari went round to the other side of the cab and reached inside to switch off the lights.

"Signorina?" he called softly. "Get in among the women. Lose yourself in the crowd and pray. There is nothing more I can do for you."

She felt calm then for no reason that made any kind of sense. Ice-cool as she pulled the hood of her burnous about her face, she moved round the tail of the truck and joined the other women.

They were as foul as she had imagined. Many of them partly drunk, some completely. Most of them were old or looked old, ravaged by years of squalor and disease. There were very few Arabs as was to be expected, but a considerable number of Italians, the sweepings, from the sound of their accent, of the slums of Naples.

Simone pressed on into the center of that jostling throng. No one took the slightest notice of her, most of them being totally occupied in calling to soldiers up on the wall above the gate. A large, fat woman in front of Simone with hair so red that it could only have come out of a bottle, stumbled drunkenly as she crossed the raised railway line outside the gate and fell flat on her face. She tried to get up and failed and the others flooded past, several of them trampling on her.

It was a heaven-sent opportunity. Simone got her to her feet, not without considerable difficulty, an arm around her shoulders and moved on with the crowd, the woman moaning drunkenly.

The onward rush slowed down for a while as the women passed in through the narrow gate, two or three at a time. Sergeant Husseini stood watching, the great bearded face expressionless and yet Simone felt that there was nothing that escaped him. That he saw everything there was to see. The eyes seemed to fasten on hers, she turned her face down and moved on, clutching the other woman tightly. A moment later and they were through the narrow gate and moving along a dark tunnel, finally emerging into an enormous courtyard.

The women milled around in an unruly mob, but staying together. Beyond them were the soldiers, a gap of thirty or forty yards between the two groups. The women jeered and catcalled, shouting obscenities and the men replied in kind.

Simone looked around the square quickly, taking everything in. The ramparts, the great iron-barred gate to the main building which presumably housed the prisoners. The railway train Grant had mentioned stood on the far side, beside the main building. There were half a dozen boxcars, two or three flat-tops, as far as she could see, but the locomotive itself was standing inside what was obviously an engine shed.

Most surprising of all, in the far corner of the compound a pleasant villa in the Italian colonial style stood in a lush garden surrounded by a low wall.

To the right of her were several small buildings, presumably storehouses, and several trucks were parked, all in an area of deep shadow. She eased her arm away from the woman beside her, leaning her against the wall and started to edge away through the crowd toward the concealing darkness and, suddenly, everyone went silent.

It was really quite remarkable. As if someone had turned off a switch. An iron gate in the wall surrounding the house had opened and a man was walking across the courtyard.

Like the other soldiers present he wore a camouflaged uniform. The only difference was that he was bareheaded and wore no badges of rank and yet Simone knew there was only one person this could be.

Colonel Masmoudi paused in the center of the courtyard between the two groups. He had a swagger stick in one hand which he tapped restlessly against his right thigh. Sergeant Husseini moved in smartly and saluted. Colonel Masmoudi raised the swagger stick briefly. He was a handsome man with a heavy dark moustache. There was a brief exchange in Arabic. Simone couldn't understand a word, but the contempt on Masmoudi's face was enough.

His eyes traveled over the women casually. He started to turn away and at that precise moment, the fat woman leaning against the wall seemed to regain her senses. She cried out incoherently and lurched forward, grabbing at Simone and pulling down the hood of her burnous.

Masmoudi turned. Simone seemed to feel his eyes burn into hers. He stood there staring at her in the silence, then said something to Sergeant Husseini, who walked into the crowd very quietly, scattering the women roughly on either side of him.

The fat woman pawed at him, smiling archly. He pushed her violently away, grabbed Simone by the arm, and propelled her in front of him through the crowd. She fought to control the panic that surged inside her, for fear would not help her now, and schooled herself to play her part.

She kept her head down, Masmoudi tapped her under the chin with his swagger stick and she looked into the dark eyes. "What are you, Italian?" he asked in that language.

She shook her head and said in a low voice, "No, colonel, I'm from Marseilles."

"Ah, a Frenchwoman." He switched to excellent French without any apparent difficulty. "How the hell do you come to be here with this heap of filth?"

"An old friend invited me to stay with him in Tripoli for a while. When I arrived, he'd moved on." She shrugged. "I'd very little money. It didn't last long."

"And then you met Zingari."

She managed to sound angry. "The swine didn't tell me it would be like this."

"Never mind. It may well prove a most fortunate occurrence for both of us." He took her arm and said casually over his shoulder, "All yours, sergeant."

Husseini gave them enough time to get clear then shouted something unintelligible that was drowned in the immediate uproar as the two groups rushed together. Simone glanced over her shoulder. It was an incredible sight, a scene from hell with the damned pulling and tearing at each other in a shouting, struggling, heaving mass of bodies in the light from the floodlamps.

"Don't look back," Masmoudi told her. "That's feeding time at the zoo. Something to keep the animals happy. Not for you."

"Don't you believe in the equality of men then?" she said. "I understood you were a Communist."

He opened the garden gate and pushed her inside. "A magnificent absurdity. God made some men big, some small among other things."

"God?" she said. "Does he still enter into your scheme of things?"

They had reached the steps leading up to the veranda of the house and he paused, turning to look at her, a slightly quizzical frown on his face. "I think there is more to you than meets the eye, little flower," he said.

Her mouth went dry. This was not the man she had expected. Handsome, shrewd, even gentle if he wanted to be, she was sure of that. He in no way filled Zingari's description.

She said desperately, trying to be coy, "Hidden depths."

"Who knows?" He smiled faintly, opened the front door and led her inside.

It was comfortably furnished, but no more than that. A soldier's room. Table, chairs, a large divan piled high with cushions, shelves filled with books.

As he closed the door, he took her handbag from her and dropped it on a chair. There wasn't a thing she could do about that and he slipped his arms about her waist from the rear, pulling her close against him.

Quite suddenly he flung her forward across the cushions of the divan, holding her down with one hand and considerable strength. He pulled up the burnous, slipped a hand under the hem of her skirt and felt for the springblade knife.

"What have we got here?"

He pulled it away roughly, the surgical tape tearing free so that she cried out in pain. He held up the knife and sprang the blade. He laughed then, his mouth wide.

"Oh, a young lady of considerable depth, I can see that." He flipped the knife across the room to bury itself in a cupboard door.

"I didn't know what to expect," Simone said. "I only wanted to protect myself."

As he released her, she turned, the burnous opened and the hem of the cotton mini dress slipped back, exposing the thighs. Masmoudi's eyes sparkled fire; he ran a hand up each clad leg from ankle to thigh and smiled.

"You know something, little flower? I'm going to enjoy you." She felt her stomach grow weak, some deep, instinctual response moving inside her as he stood over her, hands on hips. "Yes, definitely an occasion. In fact, a champagne occasion. Wait there. I'll be right back."

He crossed the room, opened a louvred door and disappeared. Simone was on her feet in an instant and went after him. She peered through the slats of the door into a kitchen. Masmoudi opened the door of a large icebox and took out a bottle of champagne. She turned away at once, tiptoed across the room, picked up her handbag and let herself out.

She hurried down the path to the garden gate. It was all quiet now, the soldiers presumably having taken the women to their quarters, but the floodlighting was still on making it impossible to cross the square directly.

She worked her way round, keeping to the shadows, pulling the hood of the burnous close about her face and had barely reached the far side and the shelter of the vehicles parked in the shadows when Masmoudi's front door was flung open and he appeared on the veranda.