Desmond Bagley - Flyaway / Windfall

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.’