Flyaway / Windfall. Desmond Bagley

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СКАЧАТЬ motorway. Since there wasn’t a motor-way within two thousand miles, that was unlikely. Byrne saw my expression and said, ‘Rough country,’ as though that was an adequate explanation. However, the engine ran sweetly enough and the tyres were good.

      We left in the dim light of dawn with Byrne driving, me next to him, and Mokhtar sitting in the back. Jerricans containing petrol and water were strapped all around the truck wherever there was an available place, and I noted that Mokhtar had somewhat unobtrusively put a rifle aboard. He also had a sword, a thing about three feet long in a red leather scabbard; what the devil he was going to do with that I couldn’t imagine.

      We drove north along a rough track, and I said, ‘Where are we going?’

      It was a damnfool question because I didn’t understand the answer when it came. Byrne stabbed his finger forward and said briefly, ‘Atakor,’ then left me to make of that what I would.

      I was silent for a while, then said, ‘Did you get a permis?’

      ‘No,’ said Byrne shortly. A few minutes went by before he relented. ‘No fat bureaucrat from the Maghreb is going to tell me where I can, or cannot, go in the desert.’

      After that there was no conversation at all, and I began to think that travelling with Byrne was going to be sticky; extracting words from him was like pulling teeth. But perhaps he was always like that in the early morning. I thought of what he had just said and smiled. It reminded me of my own reaction to Isaacson’s treatment of Hoyland. But that had been far away in another world, and seemed a thousand years ago.

      The country changed from flat gravel plains to low hills, barren of vegetation, and we began to climb. Ahead were mountains, such mountains as I had never seen before. Most mountains begin rising gently from their base, but these soared vertically to the sky, a landscape of jagged teeth.

      After two hours of jolting we entered a valley where there was a small encampment. There was a bit more vegetation here, but not much, and there were many sheep or goats – I never could tell the difference in the Sahara because the sheep were thin-fleeced, long-legged creatures and I began to appreciate the Biblical quotation about separating the sheep from the goats. Camels browsed on the thorny acacia and there was a scattering of the leather tents of the Tuareg.

      Mokhtar leaned forward and said something to Byrne, who nodded and drew the truck to a halt. As the dust drifted away on the light breeze Mokhtar got out and walked over to the tents. He was wearing his sword slung across his back, the hilt over his left shoulder.

      Byrne said, ‘These people are of the Tégéhé Mellet. Mokhtar has gone to question them. If a Land-Rover has been anywhere near here they’ll know about it.’

      ‘What’s the sword for?’

      Byrne laughed. ‘He’d feel as undressed without it as you would with no pants.’ He seemed to be becoming more human.

      ‘The Teg-whatever-it-is-you-said … is that a tribe of some kind?’

      ‘That’s right. The Tuareg confederation of the Ahaggar consists of three tribes – the Kel Rela, the Tégéhé Mellet and the Taitoq. Mokhtar is of the Kel Rela and of the noble clan. That’s why he’s gone to ask the questions and not me.’

      ‘Noble!’

      ‘Yeah, but not in the British sense. Mokhtar is related to the Amenokal – he’s the boss, the paramount chief of the Ahaggar confederation. All you have to know is that when a noble Kel Rela says, “Jump, frog!” everybody jumps.’ He paused, then added, ‘Except, maybe, another noble Kel Rela.’ He shrugged. ‘But you didn’t come out here to study anthropology.’

      ‘It might come in useful at that,’ I said.

      He gave me a sideways glance. ‘You won’t be here long enough.’

      Mokhtar came back, accompanied by three men from the camp. All were veiled and wore the long, flowing blue and white gowns that seemed to be characteristic of the Tuareg. I wondered how they kept them so clean in that dusty wilderness. As they came close Byrne hastily adjusted his own veil so that his face was covered.

      There were ceremonial greetings and then a slow and casual conversation of which I didn’t understand a single word, and I just sat there feeling like a spare part. After a while Byrne reached into the back of the truck and produced a big round biscuit tin. He took out some small packages and handed them round, and Mokhtar added his own contribution. There was much graceful bowing.

      As he started the engine Byrne said, ‘Billson came through here four days ago. He must have been travelling damned slow.’

      ‘I don’t wonder,’ I said. ‘He’s more used to driving on a road. Which way did he go?’

      ‘Towards Assekrem – or further. And that’s not going to be any joke.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      He gave me a considering look. ‘Assekrem is a Tamachek word – it means, “The End of the World”.’

      The truck jolted as he moved off. The Tuareg waved languidly and I waved back at them, glad to offer some contribution to the conversation. Then I sat back and chewed over what Byrne had just said. It wasn’t comforting.

      Presently I said, ‘What did you give those men back there?’

      ‘Aspirin, needles, salt. All useful stuff.’

      ‘Oh!’

      Three hours later we stopped again. We had been moving steadily into the mountains which Byrne called Atakor and had not seen a living soul or, indeed, anything alive at all except for thin grasses burnt by the sun and the inevitable scattered thorn trees. The mountains were tremendous, great shafts of rock thrusting through the skin of the earth, dizzyingly vertical.

      And then, at a word from Mokhtar, we stopped in the middle of nowhere. He got out and walked back a few paces, then peered at the ground. Byrne looked back, keeping the engine running. Mokhtar straightened and walked back to the truck, exchanged a few words with Byrne, and then took the rifle and began to walk away into the middle distance. This time he left his sword.

      Byrne put the truck into gear and we moved off. I said, ‘Where’s he going?’

      ‘To shoot supper. There are some gazelle close by. We’ll stop a little further on and wait for him.’

      We drove on for about three miles and then came across a ruined building. Byrne drew to a halt. ‘This is it. We wait here.’

      I got out and stretched, then looked across at the building. There was something strange about it which I couldn’t pin down at first, and then I got the impression that it wasn’t as much ruined as intended to be that way. It had started life as a ruin.

      Byrne nodded towards the tremendous rock which towered three thousand feet above us. ‘Ilamen,’ he said. ‘The finger of God.’ I started to walk to the building, and he said sharply, ‘Don’t go in there.’

      ‘Why not? What is it?’

      ‘The Tuareg don’t go much for building,’ he said. ‘And they’re Moslem – in theory, anyway. That’s a mosque, more elaborate than most because this is a holy place. Most desert mosques are usually just an outline of stones on СКАЧАТЬ