Desmond Bagley - Flyaway

'Bouzarea.' After that he concentrated on his driving and. refused to answer questions. I gave up, leaned back in cushioned luxury, and watched Algiers flow by.

The road to Bouzarea climbed steeply out of the city and I twisted to look through the back window and saw Algiers spread below with the Mediterranean beyond, darkening towards the east as the sun set. Already strings of lights were appearing in the streets.

I turned back as the car swung around a corner and pulled up against a long wall, blank except for a small door. The Arab got out and opened the car door and indicated the door in the wall which was already swinging open. I walked through into a large walled garden which appeared to be slightly smaller than Windsor Great Park, but not much. In the middle distance was a low-slung, flat-roofed house which rambled inconsequently over the better part of an acre. The place stank of money.

The door behind closed with the snap of a lock and I turned to confront another Arab, an old man with a seamed, walnut face. I didn't understand what he said but the beckoning gesture was unmistakable, so I followed him towards the house.

He led me through the house and into an inner courtyard, upon which he vanished like a puff of smoke into some hidden recess. A woman lay upon a chaise-longue. 'Stafford?'

'Yes — Max Stafford.'

She was oldish, about sixty plus, I guessed, and was dressed in a style which might have been thought old-fashioned. Her hair was white and she could have been anyone's old mother but for two things. The first was her face, which was tanned to the colour of brown shoe leather. There was a network of deep wrinkles about her eyes which betokened too much sun, and those eyes were a startling blue. The blue eyes and the white hair set against that face made a spectacular combination. The second thing was that she was smoking the biggest Havana cigar I've ever seen.

'What's your poison? Scotch? Rye? Gin? You name it.' Her voice was definitely North American.

I smiled slowly. 'I never take drinks from strangers.'

She laughed. 'I'm Hesther Raulier. Sit down, Max Stafford, but before you do, pour yourself a. drink. Save me getting up.'

There was an array of bottles on a portable bar so I went and poured myself a scotch and added water from a silver jug. As I sat in the wicker chair she said, 'What are you doing in Algiers?'

She spoke English but when she said 'Algiers' it came out as 'el Djeza'ir'. Then she was speaking Arabic. I said, 'Looking for Paul Billson.'

'Why?'

I sipped the scotch. 'What business is it of yours?'

She offered me a gamine grin. 'I'll tell you if you tell me.'

I looked up at the sky. 'Is it always as pleasant here in winter?'

She laid down her cigar carefully in a big ashtray. 'So okay, Stafford; you're a hard trader. But just tell me one thing. Are you here to hurt Paul?'

'Why should I want to hurt him?'

'For Christ's sake!' she said irritably. 'Must you always answer a question with a question?'

'Yes, I must,' I said sharply. 'Until you declare your interest.'

'So, all right; let's quit fencing.' She swung her legs off the chaise-longue and stood up. Her build was stocky and she was a muscular old bird. 'I was a friend of Paul's father.'

That sounded promising, so I gave measure for measure 'His sister is worried about him.'

Her voice was sharp. 'His sister? I didn't know Peter Bill-son had a daughter.'

'He didn't. His widow remarried during the war to a Norwegian who was killed. Alix Aarvik is Paul's half-sister.'

Hesther Raulier seemed lost in thought. After a while she said, 'Poor Helen; she sure had a tough time.'

'Did you know her?'

'I knew them both.' She went over to the bar and poured a hefty slug of neat rye whisky. She downed the lot in one swallow and shuddered a little. 'Paul told me Helen had died but he said nothing about a sister.'

'He wouldn't.'

She swung around. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'He treated her pretty badly. People don't talk about those to whom they've been unkind. I'll tell you this much — Paul wasn't much help to his mother in her last years.' I picked up my glass again. 'Why should you think I'd hurt Paul?'

She gave me a level stare. 'I'll have to know a lot more about you before I tell you that, Max Stafford.'

'Fair enough,' I said. 'And I'll need to know a lot more about you.'

She smiled faintly. 'Seems we're going to have us a real gabfest. You'd better stay to dinner.'

Thanks. But tell me something. Where is Paul now?'

By the time we went in to dinner our stiff-legged attitude had relaxed. I was curious about this elderly, profane woman who used an antique American slang; any moment I expected her to come out with 'twenty-three, skidoo'. I gave her a carefully edited account and ended up, 'That's it; that's why I'm here.'

She was drinking whisky as though she ran her own distillery at the bottom of the garden but not one white hair had twitched. 'A likely story,' she said sardonically. 'A big important man like you drops everything and comes to Algiers looking for Paul. Are you sweet on Alix Aarvik?'

'I hardly know her. Besides, she's too young for me.'

'No girl is too young for any man — I know. You'll have to do better than that, Max.'

'It was a chain of circumstances,' I said tiredly. 'For one thing I'm divorcing my wife and I wanted to get out of it for a while.'

'Divorcing your wife,' she repeated. 'Because of Alix Aarvik?'

'Because the man in her bed wasn't me,' I snapped.

'I believe you,' she said soothingly. 'Okay, what's your percentage? What do you get out of it?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

A cold blue eye bored into me. 'Look, buster; don't give me any of that Limey blandness. You tell me what I want to know or you get nothing.'

I sighed. 'Maybe I don't like being beaten up,' I said, and told her the rest of it.

She was silent for a moment, then said, That's a hell of a concoction — but I believe it. It's too crazy to be a spur-of-the-moment story.'

'I'm glad to hear you say that,' I said feelingly. 'Now it's my turn. How do you happen to live in Algiers — for starters.'

She looked surprised. 'Hell, I was born here.' It seemed that her father was of French-Arab mixture and her mother was Canadian; how that unlikely match came about she didn't say. Her mother must have been a strong-minded woman because Hesther was sent to school in Canada instead of going to France like most of the children of the wealthy French colonists.

'But I haven't. been back in years,' she said. That would account for her outdated slang.

She had met Peter Billson in Canada. 'He was older than I was, of course,' she said. 'Let's see; it must have been 1933, so I'd be seventeen.'

And Billson was thirty. Hesther was on vacation, visiting the home of a schoolfriend, when Billson came into her life. She was the guest of McKenzie, a wealthy Canadian who was interested in the development of air travel, particularly in the more remote parts of Canada. Billson had begun to make a name for himself, so McKenzie had invited him for a long weekend to pick his brains.

Hesther said, 'It was like meeting God — you know what kids are. These days they go nuts over long-haired singers but in those days the fliers were top of the heap.'

'What sort of a man was he?'

'He was a man,' she said simply. She stared blindly back into the past. 'Of course he had his faults — who hasn't? — but they were the faults of his profession. Peter Billson was a good pilot, a brave man ambitious for fame, an exhibitionist — all the early fliers were like that, all touting for the adulation of the idiotic public.'

'How well did you get to know him?'

She gave me a sideways look. 'About as well as a woman can get to know a man. 1933 was the year I lost my virginity.'