Flyaway

Kissack kicked me in the ribs and Lash caught his arm.

'Don't do that. I detest gratuitous violence.'

Kissack said, 'Gratty-what violence?'

'I mean I don't get my kicks out of it as you do.' Lash turned and looked at Flyaway. 'It doesn't look crashed,' he complained. 'Not so it would burn out. We'll have to raise the tail and tip the whole plane forward on to the engine.'

'Hell, that thing's heavy!'

'Not as heavy as all that, and there are five of us. All we have to do is to lift up the tail and put stones under it. When we get the pile of stones high enough it'll tip forward like a see-saw. But first, some petrol, I think.'

They walked away towards Flyaway and Lash climbed up on to the wing again. Kissack handed him a full jerrican and Lash poured it into the cockpit, and then poured another into the cargo compartment. Then he did the same thing again with two more jerricans and I saw the shimmering haze of evaporating petrol above the aircraft. It was like a bomb and only needed a spark to explode.

All five of them assembled at the tail. While four of them lifted the other piled stones underneath and gradually the tail rose higher and higher. While all eyes were off me I got busy with the stone blade at Byrne's wrists. I didn't see Flyaway tip over but when I looked her fuselage was at forty-five degrees and her tail was pointing to the sky. The rending noise had been the propeller bending under the sudden weight of the engine as it hit the ground.

They poured more petrol into her and Kissack used the last can to lay a trail across the sand. He didn't want to be too close when he tossed in a naked flame. He was quite a competent arsonist. Lash, standing close by us, took a paper from his pocket; I think it was the same one he had used to identify Flyaway. 'I won't need this any more,' he said conversationally, and lit one corner with a cigarette lighter. He held it up to make sure it was aflame, then tossed it into the petrol-soaked sand.

At first nothing happened. In the bright glare of the sun it was impossible to see the flames as they ran towards Flyaway. But then she exploded in fire; flames gouted out of the cockpit with a roar as though under forced draught, and ran up the fuselage right up to the tail and rudder until she was totally enveloped.

The donkeys brayed and plunged in fright. Lash shouted, 'Get those bloody donkeys out of here!' I don't think he had realized until then how much heat so much petrol would generate. They rounded up the donkeys and pushed them through the cleft, then went through themselves, leaving us lying there.

I took the opportunity of trying to cut the thongs at Byrne's wrists again, but he snatched himself away. 'For Christ's sake!' he said. 'Roll over against the rock and keep your head down. That goddamn auxiliary tank will be going up any second.'

We rolled over and huddled against the rock, keeping our faces away from the burning aeroplane. Behind us, seventy yards away, the auxiliary fuel tank exploded like a bomb and I felt a wave of searing heat. There was a pattering noise all about and something hit me in the small of the back. When I looked at Flyaway again she had blown in two, and her tail-plane and rudder were lying some distance from the forward section. One wing was also detached.

And I had lost my stone blade.

After that the flames died down very quickly and Lash came back. He looked down at us quizzically. 'Feeling a trifle singed? Never mind, it will make your hair grow.'

'Go to hell!' said Byrne.

Lash ignored him and looked at the wreck of Flyaway. 'A really nice job,' he said with satisfaction. 'I had considered using gelignite but it might not have looked right. This looks perfectly natural. Anyone who goes to the movies knows that, crashed aircraft burn well.' He beckoned to Kissack. 'Get these two on their feet and walking. We'll visit the grave.'

Kissack bent down and cut the thongs at my ankles and he wasn't particularly considerate about it because he cut me, too. I got to my feet laboriously because my hands were still tied behind my back and I lost my balance. Lash and Zayid led the way, with Byrne and me following, Kissack behind us with a pistol in his hand. The other two tagged on behind.

The cairn of stones had been disarranged and Billson's skull was showing. Lash looked down at it unemotionally. 'Well, we've got the body but we can't leave it like this, can we? I mean, the man wouldn't have died and conveniently buried himself.'

He gave orders in French and his men began to dismantle the cairn. I said, 'How did you know the plane would need burning?'

Lash shrugged. 'I didn't. If it had burned forty years ago it would have saved me a considerable amount of trouble. But I didn't take the chance. I never take chances. I came prepared for anything.'

He looked down as the desiccated corpse was revealed. 'Kissack wanted to put this in the cockpit before we burned the plane — but Kissack is a fool, as I'm sure you've learned. As soon as he told me there was an arm missing I vetoed that suggestion. Everything must not only look right — it must be right. I never take chances.'

The body was soon wholly uncovered. Lash looked down at it. 'Is this as you found it?'

'Yes.'

'I don't believe you. He would have left a message of some kind — left his papers.' His head came up and he stared at us. 'Where are they?'

'Maybe you just burned them,' said Byrne. 'You didn't search that airplane too well.'

'But you did,' said Lash. He turned to Kissack and said abruptly, 'When we get back down there I want those donkeys unloaded and everything searched.'

'All right,' said Kissack. He held the pistol negligently in his hand, muzzle down.

I wasn't worried about Billson's papers because Paul had them, wherever Paul was, which was probably a long way over the horizon by now. But if our stuff was searched they'd find the compass. Why in hell I was worried about that I don't know; it should have been the least of my worries.

I said, 'Kissack!'

'What?'

'When you burned Paul Billson's Land-Rover did you search it first?'

'What the hell? No, I didn't. What's it to you?'

'Nothing. You're getting paid five thousand pounds for this job, aren't you? I bet Lash is getting ten times as much.'

Lash's eyes flickered. 'Mr Stafford exaggerates.'

I stared at Kissack. 'Didn't Lash tell you?'

'Tell me what, for God's sake? What's Billson's Land-Rover got to do with my five thousand quid?'

I shrugged. 'Just that Billson was carrying quite a lot of cash. More than five thousand — much more. I can't believe Lash didn't tell you.'

'How much more?' Kissack said hoarsely.

'Fifty-six thousand in British currency. It was in his suitcase in the back of the Land-Rover.'

Kissack's eyes widened, and he whirled on Lash. 'Is that true?'

'How would I know?' said Lash in a bored voice. 'Keep your cool, man. Stafford's just trying to needle you.'

'Is he, now? I wonder?'

Lash lost his boredom. 'Damn it, if I'd known do you think I wouldn't have told you? Do you think I'd have stood by and let you burn money? I'm not such a — '

He had no time to say more because there was a shockingly loud bang from quite close and the top of Kissack's head blew off, spattering grey fragments of brain all about. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground, letting the pistol fall as he did so.

Paul Billson always did over-react.

CHAPTER THIRTY

An army rifle, even one of First World War vintage, is intended to kill men at ranges of up to a thousand yards or more, and an averagely good marksman finds it a comfortably good tool at four hundred yards. Paul Billson was not an averagely good marksman; in fact, he was not a marksman at all and later confessed that it was the first shot he had ever fired, whether in anger or otherwise. But even Paul Billson could not miss killing Kissack at a range of fifteen feet.