Flyaway

At first, during the flight north, I was preoccupied with my own thoughts and gazed sightlessly at the vast dun expanse which flowed below. There were too many damn loose ends to tie up and I couldn't begin to see where to start.

Presently I took out Byrne's envelope and handed it to Paul. 'Can you open that for me?'

'Of course.' He ripped off the end, shook out the contents and gave it back to me.

As Byrne had promised he'd billed me, and it was all set out clearly, payable in pounds sterling. His own services he had put down as a guide at?30 a day; at thirty-three days that came to?990. Then there was the purchase of gasoline — so many litres at such-and-such; oil and new tyres; camel hire — and the purchase of five camels at?100 each. He also added in half the cost of a new Toyota Land Cruiser which seemed quit e steep until I remembered how Kissack had shot Byrne's truck full of holes in the Ten6re. Altogether the bill came to a little over?5000.

There was no charge for saving life. Byrne was one hell of a fellow.

As I put it away Paul said happily, 'I'm looking forward to seeing that editor's face again.'

'Um — Paul; do me a favour. Don't go off pop as soon as we get to London. I don't want you to tell anyone a damn thing until I give you the word. Please!'

'Why not?'

I sighed. 'I can't tell you now, but will you believe me when I say it's for your own good? In any case, you can't tell anyone about Lash and Kissack.'

Again he said, 'Why not?'

'Jesus!' I said. 'Paul, you killed a man! Shot the top of his head right off. You don't want to open that can of worms. Look, you can tell the newspapers about finding Flyaway and your father's body, but just give me time to find out something will you? I want to discover what the hell it was all about.'

'All right,' he said. 'I won't say anything until you say I can.'

'And you won't do anything, either. Promise?'

'I promise.' He was silent for a while, then he said, 'I don't remember much about my father. I was only two when he died, you know.'

'I know.'

'About the only thing I can remember was him bouncing me on his knee and singing that nursery rhyme; you know, the one that goes, "Fly away, Peter! Fly away, Paul!" I thought that was a great joke.' So would Billson. Paul rubbed his chin. 'But I didn't like my stepfather much.'

I cocked my eye at him. 'Aarvik? What was wrong with him?'

'Oh, not Aarvik; he came later. I mean the other one.'

I said, 'Are you telling me your mother married three times?'

That's right. Didn't you know?'

'No, I didn't,' I said thoughtfully. 'What was his name?'

'Can't remember. He wasn't around much, and I was only a kid. After I was about four years old he wasn't around at all. It's all a long time ago.'

Indeed it is, Paul; indeed it is!

He didn't say much after that revelation and neither did I. We lapsed into silence and I was still mulling it over when we landed at Algiers.

The big Mercedes with the Arab chauffeur was waiting by the hangar as the Comanche taxied up and we were soon wafted luxuriously to the heights of Bouzarea overlooking Algiers. If the chauffeur was surprised at carrying a Targui he didn't show it.

We stopped at the small door in the wall which opened as silently and mysteriously as before, and Paul and I walked towards the house. Hesther Raulier was still lying on the chaise-longue and might never have moved but that she was wearing a different dress. As we approached she put down her cigar and stood up.

Suddenly her monkey face cracked into a big grin and she laughed raucously. 'Jesus, Stafford! What in hell do you think you're doing? Auditioning for The Desert Song?'

She put me to bed fast and summoned the doctor who, apparently, was on tap immediately. She said, 'Luke put a couple of words into his cable that meant something bad — stuff I hadn't heard since the Revolution — so I got in Fahkri. He's used to gunshot wounds and knows how to keep his mouth shut.'

Dr Fahkri examined my arm, asked how long ago it had happened, and then told me the bullet was still in there. He deadened the arm, sliced it open and took out the bullet, stitched it up again and put on a proper splint. I said to Hesther, 'Better have him look at Paul. He took a bullet in the shoulder about a month ago.'

She spoke to Fahkri in Arabic and he nodded and went away, then she turned to me. 'What happened out there?'

'Kissack happened,' I said. 'He and a man called Lash — and four others.' I gave her an edited version of what had happened, and ended up by saying, 'I don't know what we'd have done without Luke Byrne.'

'Luke's a good man,' she said simply. 'But what was it all about?'

'Whatever set it off was in England. I suppose Paul really started the ball rolling but he triggered something, a sort of time bomb that was lying around for forty-two years. I've got a few questions to ask. If I find any answers I'll let you know.'

'You do that.' She stood up. 'You can't go back to England dressed as a Targui.'

I shrugged. 'Why not? London is full of Arabs these days, and nobody there could tell the difference.'

'Nonsense. I'll get a tailor in tomorrow and you'll have a suit the day after. You and Paul both.'

We stayed in Algiers for four days, more so I could recuperate from Fahkri's surgery than anything else. I lazed about and read the English newspapers that Hesther bought me so that I could catch up on the news. Everything was going to hell in a handcart, as usual.

Once, referring to Paul, she said, 'That guy's changed — changed a lot. He's quieter and not as nervy.'

I grinned. 'God knows why. What happened to him is enough to make anyone go screaming up the wall.'

On the fourth day we left on an Air Algerie flight to Orly. The interior of the plane was decorated in a tasteful shade of emerald green. Green may be the Arab colour but this plane had pictures of jaunting cars and scenes from Killarney because it had been bought second-hand from Aer Lingus. However, it got us to Orly all right and we transferred to the London flight.

An hour later we were at Heathrow. It was raining and it looked as though it had never stopped since I had left.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I had telephoned Heathrow from Orly and so there was a car waiting with a driver, since I could not drive a car with a broken arm. He drove us the short distance to the Post House Hotel and I told him to stick around while I booked in. There were reservations for Paul and me in adjoining rooms, so we went up and I got him settled.

Paul, of course, was dead broke — he hadn't a penny — and that suited me fine because I wanted him immobilized. I didn't give him any money, but said, 'Paul, stay here until I get back. If you want anything, order it — it's on the house. But don't leave the hotel.'

'Where are you going?'

'I have things to do,' I said uninformatively.

I went down to the lobby, cashed a sheaf of travellers cheques, picked up the driver, and gave him an address in Marlow. As we left the hotel-studded environs of Heathrow I reflected that the Post House was the ideal sort of anonymous caravanserai to hide Paul; I didn't want his presence in England known yet, nor mine, either.

The car pulled up outside Jack Ellis's house and I walked up and rang the doorbell. Judy Ellis opened it, looked at me uncertainly, and said, 'Yes?' interrogatively.

I had met Jack's wife only three or four times. Stafford Security Consultants Ltd was not the kind of firm that drew wives into the business orbit; we had other ways of ensuring company loyalty, such as good pay. I said, 'Is Jack in? I'm Max Stafford.'

'Oh, I didn't recognize you. Yes, he's just got back. Come in.' She held the door wide and let me into the hall while making all the usual excuses wives make when the boss drops in on an unexpected visit. The place didn't look all that untidy to me. 'Jack,' she called. 'Mr Stafford's here.'