Flyaway / Windfall. Desmond Bagley
postage stamps. And I never forgot for one moment that I had been badly beaten up in a quiet street in Kensington.
‘Did you see the man?’
‘Yes. He – they chased me.’
‘How many?’
‘Two of them.’
‘Were they locals? I mean, were they Arabs or Tuareg?’
‘No, they were white men, like you and me.’
‘Didn’t he say anything before he shot you?’
‘No. As I said, the car just stopped and he shot me.’
I sighed. ‘So what happened then?’
‘Well, when I fell down they couldn’t see me because I was behind the Land-Rover. Close by there was a gap between two rocks and I nipped in there. I heard them getting out of their car so I went between the rocks and up a sort of cleft and ran for it.’
He fell silent so I prompted him. ‘And they chased you. Did they shoot at you again?’
He nodded. ‘Just the one man. He didn’t hit me.’ He touched his shoulder. ‘Then this started to hurt and I became dizzy. I don’t remember any more.’
He had collapsed and fortunately fallen out of sight down a cleft in the rocks. The men had probably searched for him and missed him, not too difficult in Koudia. But burning his Land-Rover was another way of killing him; I couldn’t imagine a man with a gunshot wound and no water walking out of Koudia.
‘How did you find me?’ he asked.
‘We were looking for you.’
He stared at me. ‘Impossible. Nobody knew where I’d gone.’
‘Paul, you left a trail as wide as an eight-lane motorway,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t difficult for me, nor for someone else, evidently. Do you have any enemies? Anyone who hates you badly enough to kill you? So badly that they’d follow you to the middle of the Sahara to do it?’
‘You’re mad,’ he said.
‘Someone is,’ I observed. ‘But it’s not me. Does the name of Kissack mean anything to you?’
‘Not a thing.’ He brooded a moment. ‘What happened to my Land-Rover? Where is it?’
‘They burned it.’
He looked stricken. ‘They burned it!’ he whispered. ‘But what about …’ He stopped suddenly.
‘How much money did you have in those suitcases?’ I asked softly. He didn’t answer, so I said, ‘My assessment is about £56,000.’
He nodded dully.
‘Whether they searched those cases before dousing them with petrol or not doesn’t matter. You’ve lost it.’ I stood up and looked down at him. ‘You’re a great big law-breaker, Paul. The British can nail you for breaking currency regulations, and now the Algerians are looking for you. If they find you with a bullet hole in you that’ll bring more grief to someone. Jesus, you’re a walking disaster.’
‘Sorry to have been the cause of trouble,’ he mumbled. His hand twitched, the fingers plucking at his jacket.
I contemplated that piece of understatement with quiet fury. I bent down and stuck my finger under his nose. ‘Paul, from now on you don’t do a single thing – not a single bloody thing, understand, even if it’s only unzipping your fly – without consulting either me or Byrne.’
His head jerked towards Byrne. ‘Is that him?’
‘That’s Byrne. And walk carefully around him. He’s as mad at you as I am.’
They had finished putting up the tents and Mokhtar had a fire going. I told Byrne what I had got from Billson, and he said contemplatively, ‘Two Europeans in a Range-Rover. They shouldn’t be hard to trace. And they shot him just like that? Without even passing the time of day?’
‘According to Paul – just like that.’
‘Seems hard to believe. Who’d want to shoot a guy like that?’
I said tiredly, ‘He was driving around with 56,000 quid in British bank notes packed in his suitcase. I shouldn’t think it went up in flames in the Land-Rover. He probably opened his mouth too wide somewhere along the line, and someone got greedy.’
‘Yeah, you could be right. But that doesn’t explain Kissack.’
‘I don’t believe he exists.’
‘If Hesther says he was looking for Paul Billson, then he exists,’ said Byrne firmly. ‘Hesther don’t make mistakes.’
We had mutton that night because Mokhtar had bought a sheep that morning from a passing Targui at Abalessa. He grilled some of it kebab-style over the fire and we ate it with our fingers. It was quite tasty. Byrne pressed Billson to eat. ‘I’m trying to fatten you up,’ he said. ‘When we get to Fort Flatters you’ve got to walk some more.’
‘How much more?’ asked Billson.
‘Quite a piece – maybe thirty kilometres. We’ve got to get you round the Algerian border post.’ He turned to me. ‘You’ll have a walk, too; around the Niger border post.’
I didn’t look forward to it.
The next night I tackled Paul again, this time not about what he’d been up to in North Africa, but about the puzzling circumstances of his life in England. I could have questioned him as we drove but I didn’t want to do it in front of Byrne. Paul might unburden himself to a single interrogator but he might not before an audience.
I dressed his wound again. It was much better. As I rewrapped the bandage I said, ‘How much did you earn at Franklin Engineering, Paul?’
‘£200 a month.’
‘You’re a damned liar,’ I said without heat. ‘But you always have been, haven’t you? You were on £8000 a year – that’s nearly four times as much. Now, tell me again – how much did you earn?’ He stayed sullenly silent, and I said, ‘Tell me, Paul; I want to hear it from you.’
‘All right. It was £8000 a year.’
‘Now, here comes the £8000 question,’ I said. ‘Do you consider that you were worth it to Franklin Engineering?’
‘Yes – or they wouldn’t have paid it to me.’
‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’ Again he maintained silence. ‘Do you know that Mr Isaacson wanted to fire you ten years ago, but the managing director wouldn’t agree?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know that Mr Stewart wanted to fire you when he arrived from Glasgow to reorganize the accounts office, and again the managing director wouldn’t have it?’
‘No.’
‘Who is your guardian angel, Paul?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘For God’s sake!’ I said. ‘You were doing work that any sixteen-year-old office boy could do. Do you think that was worth eight thousand quid a year?’
He avoided my eye. ‘Maybe not,’ he muttered.
‘Then how come you were paid it? There must have been some reason. Who were you blackmailing?’
That got him angry. ‘That’s a damnable thing to say,’ he spluttered. ‘You’ve no right …’
I cut in. ‘How did you get the job?’
‘It was offered to me. I got a letter.’
‘When was this? How long ago?’
Billson frowned in thought, then said, ‘Must have been 1963.’