Hammond Innes - The Strange Land

It was not quite four when we reached the airport. The field was empty. The Paris flight had not yet landed. I told Kavan to wait in the taxi and slipped over the white-painted fence and round to the back of the airport buildings where the buffet was. I was in luck. Vareau was there. ‘Monsieur Latham!’ He came waddling over to me, a fat, slightly shabby man with a face like a bloodhound. ”Comment ca va, eh, eh? You wish me to arrange a seat for you on the plane, yes?’

‘Not for me,’ I said. ‘For a friend.’ And I drew him aside and explained the situation to him. But he shook his head. ‘You know, mon ami, I would do anything to help you. But it is too dangerous. The regulations are most strict now. I must put his name on the Paris list and then what happens when the office in Casablanca see that, eh? Non, non, it is impossible.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘It’s not impossible. The Casablanca office wouldn’t even notice. And if they did, then you made a mistake, that’s all. You’ve got to help me, Vareau.’ There was no other way of getting Kavan out, not with his papers correct. And they had to be correct if he were to work with me at Enfida. I pleaded, threatened, cajoled, and in the end he agreed to do it for twice the sum I originally offered him. Even then he wouldn’t have done it but for one thing — for personal reasons the air hostesses were being changed at Tangier. It was this factor that made the thing possible.

We went through the details carefully and then I returned to Kavan. He was sitting exactly as I had left him, his body rigid, his face tense. He looked dazed and desperately tired, oddly unfamiliar in his new suit. ‘Is it all right?’ he asked urgently as I climbed in beside him. ‘Did you fix it?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I fixed it.’ But all the same I was wondering whether he could carry it through. His nerves were on edge and beneath the stubble of his beard I saw that the corner of his mouth was twitching.

‘What do I have to do?’ he asked. Tell me what I’m to do._’

I hesitated. I was wondering just how much I needed a doctor, for this business involved me deeper than I cared to go. But it was no good getting cold feet now. The man would just have to pull himself together. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Now listen. This is the drill. As soon as the Paris plane is sighted, Vareau, the French clerk, will come for you. He’ll take you to the lavatory and there you’ll shave off that beard, so that your appearance coincides with the photograph on your papers. By the way, I suppose your visa for entry into French Morocco is okay?’

‘Yes, yes.’ He nodded. ‘That was all arranged at the French Consulate in London.’

‘And you have a labour permit?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good/ You’ll stay in the lavatory until Vareau collects you. By then the passengers who are going through to Casablanca will be congregated in the buffet. You will join them. Have a drink or something to occupy yourself. Talk to nobody. If anybody speaks to you, reply in Czech. Vareau will bring you your ticket and anything else you need to get on to the plane. When the Paris passengers are instructed to return to the plane, you will go with them. There will be a different air hostess and your name will be on the list of passengers travelling direct from Paris to Casablanca. If the air hostess or the immigration official asks you anything, you don’t understand — you speak nothing but Czech. Is all that clear?’

He nodded and I had him repeat the instructions word for word.

‘When Vareau takes you to the lavatory, he will give you an immigration form to fill in. You will complete it in the lavatory and return it to him when he comes to collect you. Only one question on that form is not straightforward. Against Where have you come from? you will put Heathrow, London, via Paris. For destination and purpose of visit you state the exact truth — that you are going to work as a doctor in Morocco and that your address will be the English Mission at Enfida. Any questions about that?’

‘No. No, I don’t think so.’ He was frowning. ‘But I don’t understand how it helps. The authorities at Casablanca will want to know why my papers are not stamped as having come from Paris. When they find they are not stamped, they will know — ‘

‘There’s no difficulty there,’ I said, and I pulled out my own passport. ‘Look!’ I had come out to Morocco by air from England in July 1949, yet the only indication was the entry stamp of the immigration authorities at Casablanca. Though I had stopped off two days in Paris no entry had been made in my passport. ‘You see. All you have to say is that you’ve come from England. You left London by the night flight yesterday. All right?’ He nodded uneasily. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about once you’re on that plane,’ I assured him.

‘But you’re not coming with me?’

‘No. I shall go by train. We’ll meet in Casablanca.’

He gripped my arm. ‘Come with me on the plane. You could get a ticket here. There’s nothing to stop you. Why must you go by train?’ He was like a child afraid of being left.

‘Because I reserved two berths in the wagon-lit. It would look odd if neither of us turned up.’

He nodded unhappily and stared out across the airfield, his fingers drumming nervously on his knee. ‘Isn’t there some way we could both go together?’

‘No. This is the only way that gets you into Morocco with your papers in order. I should warn you there’s a French Civil Control office at Enfida.’

‘I don’t like it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s dangerous. And if I’m caught — ‘

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ I said, and took hold of him and swung him round so that he faced me. ‘Now just listen. I’m in this as deep as you are. If you’re caught, then I’ll be in trouble, too. If you don’t like this arrangement, then I’m through with you. Understand?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’ He half shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, if it’s the only way…’ He nodded slowly. ‘Very well. I’ll do what you say.’

‘Fine. You’ve nothing to worry about. Just convince yourself that you really have come direct from England.’

‘I’ll try.’ He nodded and then asked me where he should meet me in Casablanca.

‘At the railway station,’ I said. ‘The train for Marrakech leaves at 8.45 a.m. tomorrow.’

‘And your train arrives when?’

‘At seven twenty.’

‘I shall be at the station in time to meet your train then.’

‘All right. But if we do happen to miss each other, we’ll rendezvous in the foyer of the Hotel Metropole.’

‘If I’m not there to meet your train,’ he said, ‘you’d better look for me in the prison.’ He said it unsmilingly.

The taxi driver, who had been standing talking to one of the baggage checkers, called out to us and pointed. The silver glint of wings showed above the hills behind us. I pulled open my case and handed Kavan my shaving things. As we got out of the taxi, Vareau appeared round the corner of the airport building and signalled to us. I gripped Kavan’s hand. ‘Good luck!’ I said. ‘You’re clear on what you have to do?’

‘Quite clear.’ He nodded and then said urgently, ‘You’ll contact Karen, won’t you? You’ll let her know where I am?’

‘I’ll get in touch with her somehow,’ I assured him.

‘Promise you won’t leave Tangier without — ‘

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Now hurry. Vareau’s waiting.’

I watched him climb the fence and disappear round the front of the building with the clerk and then I got back into the taxi and sat there, watching the airfield, whilst the Constellation landed and taxied over. It was about ten minutes before the passengers emerged from the plane and came across the brown, burnt-up grass to the airport building.