Desmond Bagley - Flyaway / Windfall

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?’