Flyaway / Windfall. Desmond Bagley

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      ‘Civilized people hereabouts,’ said Byrne. ‘Don’t like to keep things in cages. Same with camels.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Well, a Tuareg-trained camel is worth more than one trained by an Arab, all other things being equal. A Targui is kinder about it and the camel responds. Real nice people.’

      Looking up at the stars that night I thought a lot about that.

      After that nothing very much happened except that I got a new suit of clothes and learned how to ride a camel, and the two were connected. Byrne was going out to inspect his herd, and when I arrived for my camel-riding lesson in jeans he shook his head solemnly. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I really don’t think so.’

      And so I dressed like a Targui – loose, baggy trousers in black cotton cloth fitting tight around the ankles, a white gandoura, the Tuareg gown, and another blue gandoura on top of that. There was a djellaba too, to be worn in cold weather or at night. Literally topping it off was the chech, twenty feet of black cotton, about eighteen inches wide, which Byrne painstakingly showed me how to arrange.

      When I was dressed in all my finery I felt a bit of a fool and very self-conscious, but that wore off quickly because no one else took any notice except Billson and I didn’t give a damn for his opinion. He wouldn’t change his clothing nor ride a camel; I think he had slightly Empire notions about ‘going native’.

      A camel, I found, is not steered from the mouth like a horse. Once in the saddle, the Tuareg saddle with its armchair back and high cross-shaped pommel, you put your bare feet on the animal’s neck and guide it by rubbing one side or the other. Being on a camel when it rises to its feet is the nearest thing to being in an earthquake and quite alarming until one gets used to it.

      Byrne, Hamiada and I set out with two pack camels for the grazing grounds near Telouess and were going to be away for over a week, Byrne commenting that he could not reasonably expect any reaction from his leaflet campaign for at least a fortnight. He had arranged with the owner of the filling station for the distribution of the leaflets in packets of 500 to the twenty most important oases south of the Atlas mountains.

      ‘And it’ll take that time to bring Paul up to the mark,’ he said. ‘Because one thing is certain – if we find that airplane it’s going to be in some of the lousiest country you’ve ever seen, else the French would have found it years ago.’

      What Billson did while we were away I don’t know. I never found out and I didn’t ask.

      Looking back, I think those days spent wandering in the Aīr was the most idyllic time of my life. The pace was slow, geared to the stride of a camel, and the land was wide and empty. One fell into an easy rhythm, governed not by the needs of other men but by the passage of the sun across the sky, the empty belly, the natural requirements of the beast one was riding.

      We found Byrne’s herd and he looked at the animals and found their condition good. They were looked after by a family of Tuareg headed by a man called Radbane. ‘These people are of the Kel Ilbakan,’ said Byrne. ‘A vassal tribe from south of Agadez. They graze their stock here in the winter and help me with mine.’

      We accepted Radbane’s hospitality and stayed at his camp for two days, and then struck west, skirting the base of a mountain called Bagzans. We were striking camp on the ninth day out of Timia when Hamiada gave a shout and pointed. We had visitors; three camels were approaching, two with riders. As they came closer Byrne said, ‘That’s Billson.’

      He frowned, and I knew why. It would need something urgent to get Billson up on to a camel.

      They came up to the camp and I noted that Billson’s camel was on a leading rein held by the Targui who accompanied him. The camels sank to their knees and Billson rocked violently in the saddle. He slid to the ground painfully, still incongruously dressed in his city suit, now worn and weary. His face was grey with fatigue and he was obviously saddle-sore. I had been, too, but it had worn off.

      I said, ‘Come over here, Paul, and sit down.’ Byrne and Hamiada were talking to the Targui. I dug into my saddlebag and brought out the bottle of whisky which was still half full. I poured some into one of the small brass cups we used for mint tea and gave it to Paul. It was something he appreciated and, for once, he said, ‘Thanks.’

      ‘What are you doing out here?’ I asked.

      ‘I saw him,’ he said.

      ‘Who did you see?’

      ‘The man who shot me. He was in Timia asking questions, and then came on to Byrne’s place.’ He paused. ‘In the Range-Rover.’

      ‘And you saw him? To recognize him?’

      Paul nodded. ‘I was bored – I had no one to talk to – so I went down among the Tuareg. There’s a man who can speak a little French, about as much as me, but we can get on. I was outside his hut when I saw the Range-Rover coming so I ducked inside. The walls are only of reeds, there are plenty of cracks to look through. Yes, I saw him – and I knew him.’

      ‘Was he alone?’

      ‘No; he had the other man with him.’

      ‘Then what happened?’ I looked up. Byrne had come over and was listening.

      ‘He started to talk to the people, asking questions.’

      ‘In Tamachek?’ asked Byrne abruptly.

      ‘No, in French. He didn’t get very far until he spoke to the man I’d been with.’

      ‘That would be old Bukrum,’ said Byrne. ‘He was in the Camel Corps when the French were here. Go on.’

      ‘They just talked to the old man for a bit, then they went away. Bukrum said they asked him if there were any Europeans about. They described me – my clothes.’ His fingers plucked at his jacket. ‘Bukrum told them nothing.’

      Byrne smiled grimly. ‘He was told to say nothing – they all were. Can you describe these men?’

      ‘The man who asked the questions – the one who shot me – he was nearly six feet but not big, if you see what I mean. He was thin. Fair hair, very sunburned. The other was shorter but broader. Dark hair, sallow complexion.’

      ‘Both in European clothes?’

      ‘Yes.’ Paul eased his legs painfully. ‘Bukrum and I had a talk. He said he’d better send me to you because the men might come back. He said you’d be where wheels wouldn’t go.’

      I looked at the jumble of rocks about the slopes of Bagzans. Bukrum had been right. I said, ‘I’ve asked this question before but I’ll ask it again. Can you think of any reason – any conceivable reason – why two men should be looking for you in the Sahara in order to kill you?’

      ‘I don’t know!’ said Paul in a shout. ‘For Christ’s sake, I don’t know!’

      I looked at Byrne and shrugged. Byrne said, ‘Hamiada and I will go to Timia and nose around. We’ll make better time on our own.’ He pointed to the Targui who was talking to Hamiada. ‘His name is Azelouane; he’s Bukrum’s son. He’ll take you to a place in the hills behind Timia and you stay there until I send for СКАЧАТЬ