Flyaway / Windfall

SIXTEEN

We didn’t have much time for Billson in the morning because Byrne wanted to get back to Tam and we still had to go to the mound of Abalessa to take photographs, and so we had time to exchange only a few words. Mine were consoling – Byrne’s were more in the nature of threats.

Billson was very weak, but rational. He had some more of the soup that Mokhtar prepared and managed to eat a few bits of the meat. As I knelt next to him he said, ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Max Stafford. Your sister sent me to find you.’

‘Alix? How did she know where I’d gone?’

‘It wasn’t too hard to figure,’ I said drily. ‘I suppose you know you did a damn silly thing – bolting like that.’

He swallowed. ‘I suppose so,’ he said reluctantly. He looked past me. ‘Who are those Arabs?’

‘They’re not Arabs. Now listen, Paul. You made a bigger mistake when you went into Atakor without a permit. Did you know that you didn’t have enough petrol to get back to Tam?’ His eyes widened a little and he shook his head. ‘And then you were shot. Who shot you – and why?’

His face went blank and then he frowned and shook his head. ‘I don’t remember much about that.’

‘Never mind,’ I said gently. ‘All you have to do is to get well. Paul, if the police find you they’ll arrest you and you’ll go to prison. We are trying to stop that happening.’

I turned as Byrne called, ‘Are you ready?’ There was impatience in his voice.

‘Coming.’ I stood up and said to Billson, ‘Rest easy.’

Byrne was more forthright. A Tuareg in full fig can be pretty awe-inspiring but, to the recumbent Billson, Byrne towering over him must have seemed a mile high. There is also something particularly menacing about a man who utters threats when you can’t see his face.

Byrne said, ‘Now, listen, stupid. You stay here with this man and you don’t do a goddamn thing. If you step out of line just once Mokhtar will cut your crazy head off. Hear me?’

Paul nodded weakly. I noted that Mokhtar was wearing his sword and that the rifle was prominently displayed. Byrne said, ‘If you do one more screwball thing we’ll leave you for the vultures and the fennecs.’ He strode away and I followed him to the Toyota.

On top of the mound of Abalessa were the ruins of a stone building, very unTuareglike. ‘French?’ I asked. ‘Foreign Legion?’

‘Hell, no!’ said Byrne. ‘Older than that. There’s one theory that this was the southernmost post of the Romans; it has a likeness to some of the Roman forts up north. Another theory is that it was built by the remnants of a defeated legion that was driven down here. The Romans did lose a couple of legions in North Africa.’ He shrugged. ‘But they’re just theories.’

‘What’s this about Tin Hinan?’

‘Over here.’ I followed him. ‘She was found down there.’ I peered into the small stone chamber which had obviously been covered by a hand-worked stone slab that lay nearby. ‘It’s still a mystery. The Tuareg have a story that a couple called Yunis and Izubahil were sent from Byzantium to rule over them; that would be about the year 1400. Some of the jewellery found on her was East Roman of that period, but some of the coins dated back to the fifth and sixth century. And there were some iron arm rings which the Byzantines didn’t wear.’

He changed his tone and said abruptly, ‘We’re not here for a history lesson – get busy with your snapshots. Put me in one of them, and I’ll do the same for you. Fool tourists are always doing that.’

So I ran off a spool of pictures and Byrne took a couple of me and we went away although I should have liked to have stayed longer. I have always liked a good mystery which, I suppose, was the reason I was in the Sahara anyway.

Abalessa was about sixty miles from Tammanrasset and we made it in just about two and a half hours, being helped during the last stretch by the asphalted road from the airstrip to Tam. That ten-mile bit was the only paved road I saw in the whole Sahara and I never found out why it had been put there.

Byrne pulled up outside the Hotel Tin Hinan. ‘Go in and make your peace,’ he said. ‘I’m going to nose around. I’ll meet you back here in, maybe, an hour. You can have a beer while you’re waiting.’

‘Am I staying here tonight?’

‘No, you’ll be with me. But you’ll probably have to pay for your room reservation. Give me your film.’

So I took the film from the camera, gave it to him and got out, and he drove away blasting the horn. There was the predictable confusion in the hotel with reproaches which I soothed by paying the full room charge even though I had not used it. The manager’s French was bad but good enough for me to hear that the police had been looking for me. I promised faithfully to report to the poste de police.

Then I went into the courtyard, sat at a table, and ordered a beer, and nothing had ever tasted so good. Nothing had changed in Tammanrasset since the day I had flown in and seen it with new eyes. The Tuareg walked down the sandy street in their languid, majestic manner, or stood about in small groups discussing whatever it was that Tuareg discuss. Probably the price of camels and the difficulty of shooting gazelle. A lot of them wore swords.

Of course, there was no reason why Tam should have changed. It was I who had changed. Those few days in Atakor and Koudia had made the devil of a difference. And now it seemed I was to go down to Niger – to a place called Agadez and where was it? Ah yes; the Aïr ou something or other. I didn’t know how far it was and I wondered if I could buy a map.

There were other things I needed. I looked down at myself. The natty tropical suiting the London tailor had foisted on me was showing the strain of desert travel. I gave the jacket an open-handed blow and a cloud of dust arose. With those travel stains and my unshaven appearance I probably looked like a tramp; any London bobby would have run me in on sight. But I saw no chance of buying European-style clothing in Tam. I’d ask Byrne about that.

I finished the beer and ordered a coffee which came thick and sugary and in very small quantity, which was just as well, and I decided I’d rather stay with the mint tea. I was half way through the second beer when Byrne pitched up. His first act was to order a beer and his second to drain the glass in one swallow. Then he ordered another, and said, ‘No one called Kissack has been around.’

‘So?’

He sighed. ‘Don’t mean much, of course. A guy can change his name. There’s a party of German tourists going through.’ He laughed. ‘Some of them are wearing Lederhosen.’

I wasn’t very much amused. In the desert Lederhosen weren’t any more ridiculous than the suit I was wearing. I said, ‘Have you any maps? I’d like to know where I’m going.’

‘Don’t use them myself, but I can get you one.’

‘And I can do with some clothes.’

He inspected me. ‘Wait until we get further south,’ he advised. ‘Nothing much here; better in Agadez. Your prints will be ready in an hour; I put the arm on the photographer.’ He drained his glass. ‘Now let’s go tell the tale to the cops.’

Outside the entrance to the poste de police he said, ‘Got your passport?’

I pulled it out of my pocket and hesitated. ‘Look, if I say I’m going to Niger it’s going to look funny when he finds no Niger visa in here.’

‘No problem,’ said Byrne. ‘He won’t give a damn about that. Niger is another country and it’s not his worry what trouble you find yourself in there. He’ll be only too happy to get you out of Algeria. Now go in and act the idiot tourist. I’ll be right behind you.’

So I reported to the plump uniformed policeman behind the desk, and laid down my passport. ‘I’ve been waiting for you, M’sieur Stafford,’ he said coldly. ‘What kept you?’ He spoke heavily accented French.

‘Merde!’ said Byrne. ‘It was only a couple of days.’ I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised that Byrne spoke French, but I was. It was ungrammatical but serviceable.

‘Three and a half, M’sieur Byrne,’ said the policeman flatly.

‘I thought he’d reported – I only found out last night, and we came straight in.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Abalessa.’ He added something in a guttural language totally unlike that in which he spoke to Mokhtar. I took it to be Arabic.

‘Nowhere else?’

‘Where else is there to go out there?’ asked Byrne.

I said, ‘I suppose it’s my fault. I jumped at the chance to go out there as soon as I met Mr Byrne. I didn’t know I had to report here until he told me last night.’ I paused, and added, ‘It’s quite a place out there; I’m not sure it’s Roman, though.’

The policeman didn’t comment on that. ‘Are you staying in Tammanrasset long, M’sieur Stafford?’

I glanced at Byrne. ‘No; I’m going down to Agadez and the Aïr.’

‘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-Abbès. 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 Aïr from the north – through Iferouane and down to Timia. My place is near there. The Aïr 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 Aïr 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 Aïr.

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 poste 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 Tam, Billson was put in the back of the truck and covered with a couple of djellabas. The road to the south left Tam from Fort Lapperine and, as we turned the corner, I was conscious of the man standing outside the poste de police, cradling a sub-machinegun 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 Billson, ‘You’re sure you can do it?’

He looked at me wanly. ‘I 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.

SEVENTEEN

We drove to the Aïr 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?’