Flyaway / Windfall (15 page)

Byrne arrived late at night, riding tall on Yendjelan and coming out of the darkness like a ghost. Yendjelan sank to her knees, protesting noisily as all camels do, and he slid from the saddle. Azelouane unsaddled her while I brewed up some hot tea for Byrne. It was a cold night.

He sat by the fire, still huddled in his
djellaba
with the hood over his head, and said, ‘You making out all right?’

‘Not bad.’ I pointed to where Billson was asleep. ‘He’s not doing too well, though.’

‘He’s scared,’ said Byrne matter-of-factly.

‘Find anything?’

‘Yeah. Two guys—one called Kissack, a Britisher; the other called Bailly. He’s French, I think. They’re scouring the Aīr looking for Billson.’ He paused. ‘Looking for me, too. They don’t know about you.’

‘How do they know about you?’

‘My name had to go on that leaflet,’ he said. ‘That’s how I figured it. No point in issuing a reward unless you give the name and place of the guy offering it.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘Gone to Agadez to fill up with gas. I think they’ll be back.’

I thought about it, then said slowly, ‘That tells us something. They’re not just looking for Billson; they’re after anybody who is looking for that bloody plane. Billson’s name wasn’t on the leaflet, was it?’

‘No,’ said Byrne shortly.

‘That does it,’ I said. ‘It must be the plane.’ I put my hand on his arm. ‘Luke, you’d better watch it. They put a bullet into Billson on sight. They could do the same to you.’ I realized that I had addressed him by his given name for the first time.

He nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Christ, I’m sorry to have got you into this.’

‘Make never no mind,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to stick my head up as a target. And you didn’t get me into this. I did.’

I said, ‘So it’s Peter Billson’s plane. But why? Why should somebody want to stop us finding it?’

‘Don’t know.’ Byrne fumbled under his
djellaba
and his hand came out holding a piece of paper. ‘First results have started to come in. Maybe we should have just offered one camel; they’re reporting every goddamned crashed airplane in the desert. Fifteen claimants so far. Five are duplications—reporting the same plane—so that cuts it down to ten. Six of those I know about myself, including that French plane in Koudia I told you of. That leaves four. Three of those are improbable because they’re in areas where any crash should have been seen. That leaves one possible.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Up on the Tassili n’ Ajjer. Trouble is it’s way off Peter Billson’s great circle course.’

‘How far off?’

‘About fifteen degrees on the compass. I know I argued that Billson must have been off course—that’s why the
search didn’t find him. But fifteen degrees is too much.’ He accepted a cup of tea.

‘So what do we do now?’

‘Sit tight and wait for more returns to come in.’ He sipped the tea and added as an afterthought, ‘And keep out of Kissack’s way.’

‘Couldn’t we do something about him?’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, couldn’t Paul go to the police in Agadez and lay a charge of attempted murder?’

Byrne snorted. ‘The first thing they’d ask is why he didn’t tell the Algerian authorities. Anyway, the cops here wouldn’t be too interested in a crime that happened in Algeria.’ He was probably right; I doubted if there’d be any Interpol co-operation in the Sahara. He said, ‘I’m tired,’ and rolled over and went to sleep in his sudden way.

I beat my brains out wondering why Kissack and Bailly should want to kill anyone searching for an aircraft that had crashed over forty years before. Presently I stopped thinking. I wasn’t aware of it. I was asleep, too.

Byrne had brought us some provisions. Millet to be pounded in a mortar and boiled to a thin gruel before having crushed dates added, and flour and salt to make flapjacks. Azelouane went off somewhere and returned with a goat kid which he killed by slitting its throat, so we had fresh meat.

And so we sat tight in the hills, half a day’s journey from Timia.

Three days later Byrne went back, leaving early in the morning and returning the same night. He reported that Kissack was still active. ‘He’s really scraping the bottom of the barrel,’ he said. ‘Tassil Oued, Grup-Grup, El Maki—all the little places. But Timia seems to attract him. He knows I live near there. He was in Timia again at midday today.’

‘Hell!’ I said. ‘Be careful.’

He laughed. ‘I was standing six feet from him and I was just another Targui. How was he to know different unless someone told him, and my people wouldn’t give him a drink of water in the Tanezrouft.’ There was a tinge of pride in the way he said ‘my people’.

I thought that the Tuareg veil certainly did have its advantages, as did the fact that all the Tuareg dress alike in blue and white.

He said, ‘There’s another batch of sightings from hopefuls who’d like to win ten camels each. Twenty-two. Most of them duplicating the first lot.’

‘Any possibles?’

He shrugged. ‘Just that one on the Tassili n’ Ajjer. Let’s go talk to Paul. Where is he?’

‘Down by the
guelta.
He spends a lot of time just looking at the water.’

So we went looking for Paul and found him, as I thought we would, sitting on the little sandy beach by the pool. Byrne sat on a rock and said, ‘Paul, I want to talk to you.’

‘What about?’

‘I reckon you know more about your father’s last flight than anyone in the world. I’d like your opinion on something.’ He clicked his fingers at me. ‘The map.’

The sun was dipping behind the hills but there was still enough light to see by. Byrne spread the map on the sand and traced a line with his finger. ‘Algiers to Kano—that’s the great circle course your father intended to fly. Right?’

Paul examined the line Byrne had drawn. ‘Yes, that’s about it.’

‘It’s not
about
anything,’ said Byrne. ‘That’s the line.’ He took the stub of pencil from the wallet which hung from his neck. ‘Now we have one possibility—and it’s here.’ He marked the map with a cross.

Paul turned the map around. ‘No,’ he said firmly.

‘Why not?’

‘My father was a good pilot. He’d never have gone so far off course.’

Byrne said, ‘Remember I was a flier, too, so I know what I’m talking about. What time of day did he take off from Algiers?’

Paul said, ‘He landed in Algiers just after midday. He didn’t refuel immediately because his mechanic wanted to check the plane. That woman in Algiers said…’

‘You mean Hesther Raulier?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then call her by her name,’ said Byrne harshly. ‘She is
not
“that woman in Algiers”. Go on.’

Paul flinched. ‘Hesther Raulier said there was an argument about that. My father wanted to refuel immediately and take off, but the mechanic wouldn’t have it. He said he wanted to have the plane just right.’

I said, ‘Paul, in this race was time on the ground deducted from the elapsed time, or was it a case of whoever got to Cape Town first had won?’

‘Whoever got to Cape Town first won out-right.’

I said to Byrne, ‘Then every minute Peter Billson spent on the ground was a minute lost. It’s not surprising he argued for a quick take-off.’

Byrne nodded. ‘Who won the argument?’

‘Must have been the mechanic,’ said Paid. ‘The wo—Hesther Raulier said she took my father to an hotel where he got some sleep.’

‘Then when did he take off?’

‘At five that afternoon.’

‘That time of year it would be dark at six,’ said Byrne. ‘He was making a night flight. He wouldn’t be able to tell from the ground whether he was on course or not. He couldn’t see the ground.’

‘Hesther Raulier said it worried my father,’ said Paul. ‘Not the night flying, but he’d be landing at Kano in the dark. He didn’t know if the airstrip would be illuminated.’

‘Yeah,’ said Byrne. ‘That Northrop cruised at 215 mph, but he’d be pushing it a bit. Say eight hours to Kano landing at one in the morning. But he didn’t get that far.’

It was now too dark to see the map clearly. I said, ‘So what’s the next move?’

‘That’s up to Paul,’ said Byrne. ‘I still think the plane was off course, and now I know it was a night flight that makes it certain to my mind.’ He tapped the map. ‘This could be Peter Billson’s plane.’

I said, ‘You’d be willing to take us there?’

‘If that’s what Paul wants.’

I looked towards Paul. I couldn’t see his face but his movements showed indecision. At last he said hesitantly, ‘Yes. All right.’ Again no mention of thanks.

Byrne clapped his hands together lightly. ‘We leave at dawn.’

We arrived at Byrne’s house at eleven next morning, Byrne having scouted ahead to see if it was safe to go in. Once there he wasted no time. ‘I thought Paul would make that decision,’ he said to me. ‘We have to go through Agadez to tank up on gas, but Paul mustn’t—not with Kissack about. I’ve sent Hamiada on ahead. He’ll be waiting with camels this side of Agadez to take Paul around.’

That reminded me of something. ‘I haven’t seen Mokhtar around. He just seemed to evaporate as soon as we got here from Algeria.’

Byrne laughed. ‘He’ll be half way to Bilma by now. He’s my
madugu.
’

‘What’s that?’

‘Caravan master. He’s taking millet to Bilma and bringing back salt. We should catch up with him the other side of Fachi.’

‘We’re going to Bilma?’

‘Through Bilma,’ corrected Byrne. ‘And away to hell and gone the other side.’

I went to study my invaluable map, and I didn’t much like what I saw. We’d be crossing the
Erg du Ténéré
and there was no track marked. And beyond that was the
Grand Erg du Bilma.
It seemed that I was going to see the Tree of Ténéré, very bad water at forty metres included.

When I next saw Byrne he was cleaning and oiling an automatic pistol and another lay by his side. ‘You’re an old army man; take your pick,’ he invited.

They were both German; one was a Walther and the other a Luger. I said, ‘Where did you get those?’

‘There was a bit of trouble up north, if you remember,’ he said. ‘The trouble I walked away from. A lot of guns, too; and quite a few came south.’

I nodded. Both the pistols were standard German side-arms, officers for the use of. I picked the Walther and Byrne nodded approvingly. I said, ‘I wouldn’t give one of these to Paul.’

Byrne looked at me disgustedly. ‘Think I’m crazy? If I’m going to be shot it had better be by the right guy.’ He handed me a packet of ammunition and a spare magazine. ‘Load up.’

I loaded the magazines and slipped one into the butt of the pistol. Then I had a problem; I didn’t know where to put the damned thing. There was an inside pocket in the breast of the
gandoura
but it wasn’t good enough to take anything as heavy as an automatic pistol. Byrne watched me with a sardonic eye, then said, ‘There’s a belt and holster in the closet behind you.’

There was a pocket built into the holster to take the spare magazine. I strapped the belt around my waist under the
gandoura.
There was no problem of access because the arm-holes of a
gandoura
are cut very low and one can withdraw one’s arms right inside. A
djellaba
is made the same way, and on a cold night among the Tuareg one could be excused for thinking one was among a people without arms.

We left within the hour, just Byrne, Billson and myself in the Toyota, heading for Agadez. Four hours later Byrne swung off the track and we found Hamiada camped in a grove of doum palms. ‘This is where you leave us,’ Byrne said to Paul. ‘Hamiada will take you to the other side
of Agadez. We’ll join you later tonight.’ He had a few words with Hamiada, then we left them and rejoined the track.

We filled up with petrol and water at the filling station in Agadez and I noticed Byrne paying special attention to the tyres. He talked briefly with the owner and then we set off again. Byrne said, ‘There’s another batch of sightings but they’re all duplicate.’

Going by the mosque we were held up for a moment by the giraffe which was strolling up the street. Byrne nudged me. ‘Look there.’ He nodded towards the Hotel de l’Aīr. A Range-Rover was parked outside.

‘Kissack?’

‘Could be. Let’s find out.’ He swung across the dusty street and parked next to the Range-Rover. We got out and he studied it, then produced a knife and bent down to the rear wheel.

‘What are you doing?’

He straightened and put the knife away. ‘Just put my mark on a tyre,’ he said. ‘It’ll be comforting to know if Kissack’s around or not.’ He looked at the hotel entrance. ‘Let’s go talk to him.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘He’s looking for me, ain’t he? And I know it. It would be the neighbourly thing to do. If this is Kissack he has a bad habit of shooting folks without as much as a word of greeting. If a guy’s going to shoot at me I’d like to get to know him before he does. That’s what I didn’t like about the Army Air Force—you got shot at by strangers.’

I said, ‘You’re the boss.’

‘Damn right,’ he said. ‘Now, pull up your veil, and when we go in there don’t sit down—just stand behind me. And don’t say a goddamn word under any circumstances.’ He reached into the back of the Toyota and pulled out a sword. ‘Put that on.’

I slung on the sword in the way I had seen Mokhtar wear his, and followed Byrne into the hotel. So I was a Targui, a good enough disguise. I wasn’t worried about my colour; all anyone could see of me were my eyes and my hands, and the backs of my hands were deeply tanned. Anyway, many of the Tuareg were lighter coloured than I was.

Byrne went up to the bar and questioned the barman who jerked a thumb towards an inner room. We went in to find it deserted except for two men sitting at a table. Paul had described them well. Kissack was a tall, thin man with fair hair who was not so much tanned as burned, the way the sun often affects fair-skinned people. Strips of skin were peeling from his forehead. Bailly was swarthy and the sun wouldn’t affect him much.

Byrne said, ‘I’m Byrne. I hear you’ve been looking for me.’

Kissack looked up and his eyes widened. ‘
You
are Byrne?’

‘Yeah.’ Byrne lowered his veil. I wondered if Kissack knew that was a mark of contempt.

Kissack smiled. ‘Sit down, Mr Byrne. Have a drink?’ He was English, probably a Londoner to judge by his accent.

‘Thanks.’ Byrne sat down. ‘I’ll have a beer.’ Kissack’s eyes wandered past him to rest on me thoughtfully. Byrne jerked his thumb at me. ‘He don’t drink; it’s against his religion. He’ll have a lemonade.’

Kissack held up his arm and a waiter came and took the order. ‘My name is Kissack. This is M’sieur Bailly.’

Bailly merely grunted, and Byrne nodded shortly. Kissack said, ‘I understand you are interested in aeroplanes, Mr Byrne.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Crashed aeroplanes.’

‘Yeah.’

Kissack narrowed his eyes as he studied Byrne. He was getting the answers he wanted, but they were too monosyllabic for his taste. ‘May I ask why?’ he said smoothly.

‘Guess it’s because I used to be a flier myself.’

‘I see. Just a general interest.’

‘Yeah.’

Kissack’s eyes flickered to Bailly, who grunted again. It was a sound of disbelief. ‘Any particular aircraft you’re interested in.’

‘Not really. They’re all interesting.’

‘I see. What’s the most interesting aeroplane you’ve come across so far?’

The waiter came back. He put a beer on the table and handed me a glass of lemonade. Byrne didn’t answer immediately but picked up his glass and studied the bubbles. ‘I guess it’s the wreck of an Avro Avian up in the Tanezrouft. Got quite a history. Name of
Southern Cross Minor.
Owned by Kingsford-Smith who flew it from Australia to England in 1931. Then a guy called Lancaster bought it to try to beat Amy Mollison’s record to Cape Town.’ He drank some beer, then added drily, ‘He didn’t.’

Kissack seemed interested. ‘When was this?’

‘1933. The wreck wasn’t found until 1962. The desert hides things, Mr Kissack.’

‘Any other old aeroplanes?’

‘None as old as that—far as I know.’

Byrne was playing with Kissack, teasing him to say out-right what he wanted. I pushed the glass of lemonade under my veil and sipped. It was quite refreshing.

‘Any about as old?’

‘Well, let’s see,’ said Byrne reflectively. ‘There are a couple of dozen wrecks from the war littered about in places too difficult to get them out. I wrecked one of those myself.’

‘No—from before the war?’

‘Not many of those. What’s
your
interest, Mr Kissack?’

‘I’m a reporter,’ said Kissack. ‘Investigative stuff.’

‘In the Sahara?’ queried Byrne sardonically.

Kissack spread his hands. ‘Busman’s holiday. I’m just touring around and I guess my journalistic instincts got the better of me.’

Byrne nodded his head towards Bailly. ‘He a reporter, too?’

‘Oh no. M’sieur Bailly is my guide.’

Bailly looked more suited to be a guide to the murkier regions of the Kasbah in Algiers. Byrne said, ‘Is that all you wanted me for?’ He drained his glass.

Kissack stretched out his hand. ‘How long have you lived here, Mr Byrne?’

‘Thirty-five years.’

‘Then please stay. I’d like to talk to you. It’s nice to be able to talk to someone again in my own language. I have very little French and M’sieur Bailly has no English at all.’ He was a damned liar; Bailly was taking in every word. Kissack said, ‘Have another beer, Mr Byrne—that is, if you’re not in a hurry.’

Byrne appeared to hesitate, then said, ‘I’m going no place. All right, I’ll have another beer. You want to pick my brains, that’s the payment.’

‘Good,’ said Kissack enthusiastically, and signalled for a waiter. ‘You’ll be able to fill me in on local colour—it’s hard for Bailly to get it across.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Byrne modestly.

The waiter took the order and I gave him my empty glass. Kissack said casually, ‘Ever come across a man called Billson?’

‘Know of him. Never did get to meet him.’

‘Ah!’ Kissack was pleased. ‘Do you know where he is?’

‘He’s dead, Mr Kissack,’ said Byrne.

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Well, I can’t say I am,’ admitted Byrne. ‘There was no death certificate. But I reckon he’s dead, all right.’

Kissack frowned. ‘How do you know?’

‘Hell!’ said Byrne. ‘He must be. His airplane crashed over forty years ago. You don’t suppose he’s still walking across the desert like the children of Israel?’

Kissack said in a choked voice, ‘That’s not the Billson I meant.’

‘No?’ said Byrne. ‘I thought you were still on the airplane kick.’ The waiter put a beer in front of him and he picked it up.

‘Your Billson,’ said Kissack softly. ‘When did that happen?’

‘Was in 1936 during the London to Cape Town Air Race.’ He shrugged. ‘And he’s not my Billson.’

‘Do you know where
that
aeroplane is?’

‘Nobody knows where it is,’ said Byrne. ‘I told you—the desert hides things. Hell, you could hide an air fleet in three million square miles.’ He drank some beer. ‘Not that I wouldn’t be interested in it if someone found it.’

‘You wouldn’t be looking for it?’ asked Kissack.

‘Why in hell would I be doing that? I’ve better things to do with my time. When that airplane is found it’ll be in a goddamn nasty part of the desert, else it would have shown up by now. I’ve better things to do than risk my neck like that.’

Kissack put his hand to his breast pocket. From it he extracted a piece of paper which he unfolded and laid on the table. It was one of Byrne’s leaflets. ‘I’m unable to read this myself but Bailly translated it for me,’ he said. ‘I found it remarkably interesting.’

‘Yeah, I suppose a reporter might.’

‘And you still say you’re not looking for that aeroplane?’

‘Not specifically—no.’ Byrne pointed to the leaflet. ‘That’s something I distribute every three-four years—more in hope than anything else. I told you, I was a flier during the war. Flying in North Africa, too. I’m interested in desert air-planes, especially since I put one there myself. Might write a book about them.’

‘A scholarly monograph, no doubt,’ said Kissack sarcastically.
‘Some Aspects of Air Disasters in the Sahara.’

‘I know it sounds nutty,’ said Byrne. ‘But it’s my hobby. Most folks’ hobbies seem nutty to someone or other. Ever thought how crazy stamp collecting is?’

‘Expensive, too,’ said Kissack. ‘Ten camels must be worth a lot of money.’

‘Might seem so to you.’ Byrne shrugged. ‘I breed them.’ He grinned at Kissack. ‘Get them at cost price, as you might say. And it ain’t much, spread over three or four years.’

Kissack wore a baffled look. The yarn Byrne was spinning was just mad enough to be true. He took a deep breath, and said, ‘The man I’m looking for is Paul Billson.’

‘
Paul
Billson.’ Byrne tasted the word along with some beer. ‘
Paul
Billson.’ He shook his head. ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of him. Any relation?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Kissack flatly. He prodded the leaflet with his forefinger. ‘Get any results from that?’

‘Not so far. Just the same goddamn list I got last time I put it out.’

Kissack looked at him for a long time wordlessly. Byrne stirred, and said, ‘Anything more you’d like to know?’

‘Not for the moment,’ said Kissack.

Byrne stood up. ‘Well, you know where to find me again if you want me. Up near Timia. Nice to have visited with you, Mr Kissack. Hope I’ve been of help.’ He nodded pleasantly to Bailly.
‘Bonjour, M’sieur Bailly.’

Bailly grunted.

As we drove away from the hotel I said, ‘Well, now we know.’

‘Yeah,’ said Byrne laconically. After a while he said, ‘That guy gives me a real creepy feeling.’

‘Why should he be looking for Paul? He must have written him off as dead.’

‘It must have come as a hell of a shock to him,’ said Byrne. ‘He knocks off Paul, then the whole goddamn Sahara is flooded with questionnaires about crashed airplanes—and coming from Niger, for God’s sake! He must have been a confused boy.’

‘But he was quick off the mark.’ I thought about it. ‘Good thing we didn’t bring Paul into town.’ I laughed. ‘That was a crazy yarn you spun him.’

‘It won’t hold him long,’ said Byrne. ‘He’ll ask around and find I’ve never done a damnfool thing like that before. I’m hoping he’ll go up to Timia—that’ll give us some space between us. If he wastes his time on Timia we’ll be the other side of Bilma before he finds out he’s lost us.’