Flyaway / Windfall (19 page)

It was a bare room with a counter on one side. There were a few rough deal tables, a scattering of chairs, and a wooden bench which ran along two sides of the room. My hackles rose as I saw Kissack sitting on the bench at a corner table next to a man in local dress—not a Targui because he did not wear the veil. That would be the Arab Konti had seen. Kissack was eating an omelette.

He looked up and inspected us curiously, so I turned and started to talk in German to the man next to me, asking if he thought the food here would be hygienically prepared. He advised me to stick to eggs. When I looked back at Kissack he had lost interest in us and seemed more intent on what was on his plate.

That gave me an idea. I crossed the room and stood before him, and asked in German if he recommended the omelette.

He looked up and frowned. ‘Huh! Don’t you speak English?’

I put a smile on my face and it felt odd because I didn’t feel like smiling at this assassin. ‘I was asking if you could recommend the omelette. Sorry about that, but I’ve been travelling with this crowd so long that the German came automatically.’

He grunted. ‘It’s all right.’

‘Thanks. That and a beer should go down well.’ I sat at the next table quite close to him.

He turned away and started to talk in a low voice to the Arab. The sun was not dealing kindly with Kissack. His face was burned an angry red and the skin was still peeling from him. I was glad about that; he wasn’t earning his murderer’s pay easily.

As a waiter came to take my order an aircraft flew over quite low. Kissack made a sharp gesture and the Arab got up and walked out. I ordered beer and an omelette, then I twisted and looked through the window behind me. The Arab was walking towards the fort.

Presently a bottle of beer and a not too clean glass was put in front of me. As I poured the beer I wondered how to tackle Kissack. It was all right for Byrne to talk airily about putting me next to Kissack—that had been done—but what next? I could hardly ask,
‘Killed any good men recently?’

But I had to make a start and old ploys are best, so I said, ‘Haven’t we met before?’

He grunted and looked at me sideways. ‘Where have you come from?’

‘Up north. Over the Col des Chandeliers.’

‘Never been there.’ His eyes returned to his plate.

I persisted. ‘Then it must have been in England.’

‘No,’ he said flatly without looking up.

I drank some beer and cursed Byrne. It had seemed a good idea at the time; fellow countrymen meeting on their
travels are usually glad to chat, but Kissack was bad-tempered, grouchy and uncommunicative. I said, ‘I could have sworn…’

Kissack turned to me. ‘Look, chum; I haven’t been in England for ten years.’ He put a lot of finality in his voice, indicating quite clearly that the subject was closed.

I drank some more beer and waited for my omelette. I was becoming annoyed at Kissack and was just about to put in the needle when someone called, ‘Herr Stafford!’ I froze, then looked up to see Shaeffer who had just come in. I glanced sideways at Kissack to see if the name had meant anything to him, but apparently it didn’t and I breathed easier.

‘Hi, Helmut,’ I said, hoping he wouldn’t show surprise at easy familiarity with his given name from a casual acquaintance. ‘Have a beer.’ As he sat down I immediately regretted my invitation. Shaeffer could unknowingly drop a clanger and reveal that I was not a part of his group. The only thing going for me was that his English was not too good.

‘Everything all right at the fort?’ I asked in German.

He shrugged. ‘They’re too busy to bother with us now. A plane came in from Agadez to take an injured man to hospital. I left the passports; I’ll pick them up later.’

The waiter put an omelette in front of me and I ordered a beer for Shaeffer. Kissack ordered another beer for himself so he’d be staying a while. I tinned to him. ‘You know, I
have
seen you before.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ he said tiredly.

‘Wasn’t it in Tammanrasset? You were driving a Range—Rover.’

That got through to him. He went very still, a glass half way to his lips. Then he turned and looked at me with stony eyes. ‘What are you getting at, chummy?’

‘Nothing,’ I said coolly. ‘It’s just that a thing like that niggles me. Nice to know I wasn’t mistaken. You were in Tam, then.’

‘And what if I was? What’s it to you?’

I tackled my omelette. ‘Nothing.’ I turned to Shaeffer and switched to German. ‘I forgot to tell you. Rhossi, your guide, is here in Bilma. Someone told me he was waiting for a German party so I assume it’s you. Have you seen him?’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kissack staring at me. I hoped his lack of German was complete.

Shaeffer shook his head. ‘He’ll be camped at Kalala near the salt workings.’

I turned back to Kissack. ‘I was just asking Helmut, here, if he’s seen the guide yet. You need a guide to cross the Ténéré.’

‘When were you in Tammanrasset?’ Kissack asked suddenly.

‘Evidently when you were,’ I said. ‘Oh, by the way; did you hear anything about that chap who disappeared? Another Englishman. There was a devil of a brouhaha going on about it when I left.’

Kissack moistened his lips. ‘What was his name?’

‘Wilson,’ I said. ‘No, that’s not right. Williamson? No, not that, either. My memory really is playing me up—first you, now this chap.’ I frowned. ‘Billson!’ I said in triumph. ‘That was his name. Billson. The police were really in a stew about him, but you know what Algerians are like. Bloody bureaucrats with sub-machine-guns!’

The waiter put a bottle of beer and a glass in front of Shaeffer and another bottle before Kissack. He ignored it. ‘What happened to this Billson?’ His voice was over-controlled.

I didn’t answer immediately but popped a slice of omelette into my mouth. I’d got Kissack interested enough to ask questions and that was progress, and the omelette was quite good. I swallowed and said, ‘He went up into Atakor without asking permission and didn’t come back. There were a hell of a lot of rumours floating around when I left.’

‘What sort of rumours?’

‘Oh, the usual stuff that goes around when anything like that happens. Unbelievable, most of it.’

I had Kissack hooked because he asked, ‘Such as?’

I shrugged. ‘Well, for instance, someone said his Land—Rover had been found burnt out the other side of Assekrem. You know those parts?’

‘Not well,’ said Kissack tightly.

‘This is a damned good omelette,’ I observed. ‘Anyway, someone else said his body had been brought out and he’d died of exposure. But then there was a buzz that he’d been brought out alive but he’d been shot. I told you—unbelievable stuff. Those things don’t happen these days, do they? The desert is pretty civilized now.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Shaeffer. He grinned. ‘My Tamachek is better than my English—I heard Tammanrasset and Atakor and Assekrem.’

‘Oh, just about an Englishman who vanished near Tam.’

Kissack was looking bleak. He said, ‘Any rumours about what finally happened to Billson?’

‘The last I heard was that he was in hospital in Tam with a police guard—sort of house arrest. Just another bloody rumour, though.’

Kissack fell silent and poured his beer. He was thinking hard; I could almost see the damned wheels going round. I turned to Shaeffer and started to chat about the problems of crossing the Ténéré, all in German. After a while Kissack said, ‘Stafford…it is Stafford, isn’t it?’

I turned. ‘Yes?’

‘How did you get from Tam to here?’

That was a stumer; a damned good question. I visualized the Michelin map I had pored over, and said lightly, ‘Flew across to Djanet from Tam, then came south. I was already booked into the party. Why?’

‘What were you doing in Tam?’

I frowned. ‘Not that it’s any of your business but I’m interested in Charles de Foucauld. I wanted to see where and how he lived.’

Kissack said, ‘I think you’re a damned liar.’ He nodded towards Shaeffer. ‘Any tour group coming down from Djanet is going to go through Tammanrasset anyway. Why should you want to go there twice?’

I stood up. ‘Because I’m leaving the group at Agadez and going south to Kano. That’s why. Now get up off that damned bench. No man calls me a liar.’

Kissack looked up at me but didn’t move. Shaeffer said, ‘What’s the matter?’ He hadn’t understood what was said but the changed atmosphere needed no language to understand.

‘This man called me a liar.’ I was suddenly infuriated with Kissack and I wanted to belt hell out of him. I stooped, grabbed his shirt, and hauled him to his feet. The table went flying and a glass smashed on the floor. Kissack made a grab for the inside of his jacket so I rammed my elbow into his side and felt the hardness of a gun.

Then Shaeffer grabbed me from behind and hauled me away. ‘Herr Stafford; this is no place to make trouble,’ he said, his mouth close to my ear. ‘The prison here is not good.’

Kissack had his hand inside his jacket. I shook off Shaeffer’s hands and stuck a finger at Kissack. ‘You don’t want the coppers here, either—not with what you have there. You’d have too much explaining to do.’

The barman came from behind the bar carrying a foot-long bar of iron, but stopped as Shaeffer said something in Arabic. Kissack withdrew his hand and it came out empty. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ His eyes flickered towards the barman. ‘Hell; this is a lousy place, anyway.’ He dipped his hand into his pocket and tossed a couple of bank notes on to the floor, then walked towards the door.

From a distance someone said in German, ‘Brawling Englishmen—I bet they’re drunk.’

I said to Shaeffer, ‘Tell the owner I’ll pay for any damage. Your Arabic sounds better than his French.’

He nodded and rattled off some throat-scratching Arabic. The barman nodded curtly without smiling, picked up the money, and returned to the bar. Shaeffer said, ‘You should not cause fighting here, Herr Stafford.’ He shook his head. ‘It is not wise.’

‘I was provoked.’ I looked through the window and saw Kissack walking towards the mud-coloured huddle of houses that was Bilma. I had blown it. I hadn’t got a damned thing out of him that was of any use. What’s more, I had probably given him grounds for suspicion.

But perhaps something could be retrieved if I was quick about it. I went to the bar and laid a bank note down. The barman looked at me unblinkingly so I put down another. I had to add two more before he nodded curtly. Then I went out fast, looking for Kissack. If I could get him alone he was going to tell me quite a few things, gun or no gun.

Bilma is constructed on something like the lines of Daedalus’s Labyrinth; no streets, just a warren of alleys and passages, and if I had met the Minotaur I wouldn’t have been particularly surprised. It was difficult keeping up with Kissack and twice I lost him and had to cast about. Not that he was being evasive—he didn’t look behind him to see if he was being followed or anything like that. In fact, I think he was lost himself at times, not very difficult in Bilma, and I swear we passed the same corner three times.

I followed him deeper and deeper into the maze. There were very few people about and those I encountered regarded me incuriously. They looked to be the same kind that I had seen at Fachi and whom Byrne had called Kanuri. Every so often I would pass a more or less open space where sheep or goats were penned or where chickens scratched, but in general there were just mud walls set with secretive doors every so often. A good shower of rain would have dissolved Bilma in one night, sending it back to the earth from which it had arisen.

At last I peered around a corner to see Kissack open a door and vanish inside. I walked up and looked at the door and then at the expanse of windowless wall. It wouldn’t be too difficult to climb but doing the burglar bit in broad daylight would be unwise—even a blank-minded Kanuri
would regard that as anti-social, and I was uncomfortably aware of an old toothless crone who had stopped at the end of the alley and was looking at me.

While I was debating the next step my mind was made up for me by a voice saying in French, ‘Why didn’t he wait at the restaurant?’ It floated from the corner I had just turned.

That did it. There was just one thing to do so I opened the door and slipped inside. I found myself in a courtyard just big enough to hold Kissack’s Range-Rover and very little else. Around the sides of the courtyard were hovels made of the ubiquitous mud.

Behind me, on the other side of the door, the voice said, ‘Is this it?’ There wasn’t much else to do but what I did. I hurled myself forward and dived under the Range-Rover, being thankful for the generous ground clearance. I was only just in time because the door opened wide just as I got hidden and several men came into the courtyard. I twisted my head, counted feet, and divided by two—four men.

‘Where is Kissack?’ said the man who had queried about the restaurant. He still spoke French.
‘Kissack!’
he bellowed.

‘In here.’ Kissack’s voice came from one of the mud buildings.

The French-speaker switched to English. ‘You come out here.’ A door slammed and Kissack’s feet came into view. ‘If you think I’m going into that flea-ridden kennel you’re mistaken.’ The tone was distasteful and the accent standard BBC grade announcer’s English.

‘Hello, Lash,’ said Kissack.

‘Don’t hello me,’ said Lash acidly. ‘And it’s Mr Lash to you.’ He went back into French. ‘You lot get lost for the next half-hour but then be findable.’

‘How about the restaurant?’ someone asked.

‘That’s all right—but stay there so I can find you.’ Three men went away and the door slammed. Lash said, ‘Now just what in hell have you been doing, Kissack?’

‘Just doing what I was told,’ said Kissack sullenly.

‘Like hell you have!’ said Lash explosively. ‘There’s a contract out on Billson and he’s still alive. Why?’

‘Christ, I don’t know,’ said Kissack. ‘He should be dead. I shot him in some of the most God-awful country you’ve ever seen. He
couldn’t
have walked out.’

‘So he was helped, and the next thing is someone is advertising for that bloody aeroplane. Advertising, by God! Leaflets all over the bloody desert! The idea, Kissack, was not to draw attention to that aeroplane but, because you’re ham-fisted, everybody and his bloody Arab uncle is looking for it.’

‘That’s not my fault,’ yelled Kissack. ‘I didn’t know about Byrne.’

‘He’s the man who put out the leaflets?’

‘Yes. He’s a sodding Yank who’s gone native.’

‘I’m not going to stand here and fry my brains out,’ said Lash. ‘Get in the car.’

The Range-Rover rocked on its springs as they got in, and I took the opportunity of easing my position because a stone was digging into my hip. The arrival of Lash changed everything. Kissack having failed twice had sent for reinforcements—and the boss had arrived. From what I heard, Lash was certainly more incisive than Kissack.

And I could still hear them because they had the windows down. Lash said, ‘When we heard about the leaflets I told you to stay put in Agadez. So what happens? I arrive to find you’ve gone into the damned desert. Then we get a message that Bailly’s been in a motor smash. What happened to him?’

‘It wasn’t a smash,’ said Kissack. He told Lash of how he had ambushed us. ‘I had them nailed down, all but one who got away—and I reckoned he couldn’t get far on foot. They didn’t have a chance. Then Bailly started to scream his bloody head off.’

‘What happened?’

‘Christ knows! This Arab did something to him. What or how I don’t know, but he’s going to lose his foot. There was Bailly wriggling around on the sand and yelling fit to bust, and the Arab was dodging away among the dunes. We chased him a bit but he got away.’

‘You were scared,’ said Lash flatly.

‘You’d be bloody scared if you’d seen what he did to Bailly,’ Kissack retorted. ‘He wouldn’t stop screaming. I had to slug him to shut him up.’

‘So then you put him in this car and brought him to Bilma. Kissack, you’re stupid.’

‘What else was there to do?’

‘You could have killed Bailly to shut him up and then attended to the others. You said you had them nailed down.’

‘Jesus, you…’ Kissack’s voice caught. ‘You’re a cold-hearted bastard.’

‘I’m a realist,’ said Lash. ‘Now, who were these men you were shooting at?’

‘One of them was Byrne, the Yank who got out the leaflets. He spun me a yarn back in Agadez but I saw through it. Another I’m pretty sure was Billson. The other two were Arabs.’

‘Arabs or Tuareg?’

‘Who cares? They’re all the same to me.’

‘I repeat, and I don’t like repeating myself—you’re stupid, Kissack. Did they wear veils?’

‘Byrne did—and one of the others. The one who did for Bailly had no veil.’ There was a pause while Lash digested that, and Kissack said defensively, ‘What’s the difference? Christ, I hate this bloody desert.’

‘Shut up!’ Lash was silent for a while, then said, ‘What happened to them?’

‘I don’t know. They aren’t here. I shot up that Toyota pretty good; got three of the tyres. And no one is going to walk out of all that sodding sand out there, Mr Lash.’

‘You said that before about Billson, and you were wrong.’ Lash was contemptuous. ‘And I’m betting you’re wrong again because you’re stupid. Before I flew down from Algiers I took the trouble to find out about this American, Byrne. He’s been in the desert thirty-five years, Kissack. The Algerians don’t like him much but he has friends with political clout so he still hangs around. Anyway, he spends most of his time here in Niger. If you didn’t kill him, then I’m saying he’s going to get out because he knows how. Did you kill him?’

‘No,’ said Kissack sullenly.

‘Tomorrow you take me and show me that shot-up Toyota. If it’s not there you’re going to wish you were Bailly.’

‘It’ll be there, Mr Lash. I know where I put the bullets.’

‘Don’t bet on it,’ said Lash coldly. ‘Because I’m assuming it’s not there. Now I told you to stay in Agadez and wait for me. Why the hell didn’t you?’

Kissack had an access of courage. ‘Remember what you said when you came in here. You said there was a contract out on Billson and you asked why he was still alive. I was just doing the job.’

‘Good God Almighty!’ said Lash violently. ‘Those bloody leaflets changed all that. Even a cretin like you should have realized that. Whether Billson is alive or dead, that plane is going to be found now. If it is, then my principal is going to be up a gum tree and he’s not going to like that.’

‘If I’d got Byrne there’d be nobody to give the reward. That’s why I had a crack at him.’

‘I don’t deal in damned ifs,’ snapped Lash. ‘I want certainties. And you’re wrong. If that crashed plane is worth maybe a thousand pounds to Byrne, then anyone who finds it will figure it’s worth something to someone else, whether Byrne is around or not. I tell you, that plane is going to be found and talked about.’

‘What’s so bloody special about it?’ asked Kissack.

‘None of your business.’ Lash fell silent. Presently he said, ‘Any idea why Byrne and Billson suddenly took off in this direction? Do you know where they were going?’

‘I didn’t ask.’

‘Working in the dark as usual,’ said Lash acidly. ‘Now this is how we work it from now on. I’m betting that Byrne and Billson are still around—so we find them. And when we do you don’t lay a bloody finger on them. What’s more, if they’re in trouble you get them out of it. Understand?’

‘Hell! One minute you want to know why they’re not dead, and the next you want me to pick ‘em up and dust ‘em off.’ Kissack was disgusted.

Lash was heavily patient. ‘We don’t know where that plane is, do we? But Byrne might have a good idea by now—he’s the one who’s been advertising for it. So we let him find it and, if necessary, we help him. Then, when we’ve got Byrne, Billson and the plane all in one place…’

‘Bingo!’ said Kissack.

‘And I’ll be along to see you don’t make a balls-up of it,’ said Lash. ‘Now, is there anything else you think I ought to know? It doesn’t matter how insignificant it is.’

‘Can’t think of anything, except there’s been some funny rumours going round Tammanrasset.’

‘What rumours?’

‘Well, I heard that Billson was in some sort of hospital jail in Tam. But he couldn’t be, could he? Not if he was in the Ténéré.’

‘When did you hear this?’

‘Today—in the restaurant. A British tourist travelling with a German crowd was shooting his mouth off. Billson dead of exposure, Billson alive with a bullet in him, Billson alive and in jail. But all just rumours, this chap Stafford said.’

‘What!’

‘He said they were just rumours; nothing certain.’

‘What did you say the name was?’

‘Whose name?’

‘The British tourist, for Christ’s sake! Who else are we talking about?’

‘Oh! He called himself Stafford. No, he didn’t; but his German mate called him Stafford.’

‘Good God Almighty!’ said Lash softly.

‘And he answered to Stafford when I talked to him. Is he important?’

‘Did he say where he’d come from? He’s been in Tammanrasset, you say.’

‘He came down from Djanet with a German tour group. Said he’d flown to Djanet from Tam. I thought that was a bit funny but he explained it. Said he was leaving the tour at Agadez and going down to Kano.’

‘And he had a German friend?’ Lash sounded puzzled.

‘That’s right. They jabbered a lot in German. I think he was the tour leader. They were talking about a guide to take them across the Ténéré.’

‘Coming down from the
north
with Germans? But how…’ Lash cut himself short. ‘When was this?’

‘Not long ago. I came straight here from the restaurant and then you pitched up a couple of minutes later.’

‘Then he might still be there?’

‘He was there when I left.’ There was a hint of a shrug in Kissack’s voice. ‘We had a bit of a barney; he was getting on my wick.’

‘How?’

‘All his talk about Billson in Tam was making me edgy.’

‘So you do have some imagination, after all. Come on; let’s see if he’s there.’

‘So who is he?’

They got out of the Range-Rover and walked across the courtyard. Lash said, ‘Trouble!’

The door slammed.