Flyaway / Windfall. Desmond Bagley
pith out of a man, but Paul had not really been scared until now. Probably he had reasoned that it was a case of mistaken identity and it was over, his attacker having given him up for dead after burning the Land-Rover. The knowledge that he was still being pursued really shook him and ate at his guts. He kept muttering, ‘Why me? Why me?’ He found no answer and neither did I. He also got rid of the rest of my whisky in short order.
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?’
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