‘Now, perhaps you understand, eh?’ Kostos was smiling. ‘We make a deal. You and I. You give me the papers and I keep silent. Maybe I help you get out of Morocco safe. But if you do not give me the papers, then I — ‘ He stopped and turned at the sound of footsteps echoing along the cliffs of the gorge.
It was White. He wore an old fleece-lined flying jacket, open at the front to expose the dirty white of his T-shirt. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded. And then he recognised Kostos.
‘Oh, so you two have got together, have you?’
Kostos smiled and looked across at Jan. ‘Yes. That is just about what we do, eh?’ He jerked the muffler tighter round his neck. ‘I give you to tonight, my friend. I will be ‘ere — ‘ he glanced at his heavy gold wrist-watch — ‘at five o’clock. If you do not meet me then, ready to come to an agreement, then I will know what to do, eh?’ He smiled and nodded and walked back to the jeep. The engine started with a roar that reverberated through the gorge and then he went bumping and slithering over the rocks at the base of the slide and was lost to sight.
‘Who was that frightful little man?’ Julie asked. ‘What did he mean about — ‘
‘I’ll tell you later,’ I said quickly. I was looking at White, wondering how much he had heard.
He seemed to hesitate a moment. And then he half shrugged his shoulders and turned and walked over to the nearest bulldozer, his tall, slim-hipped body moving easily, rhythmically as though he belonged in this wild place.
‘White!’ I called after him. ‘Do you know how we contact the Caid?’
But he climbed on to the seat of the bulldozer without replying, and a moment later the engine started with a shattering roar. The tracks moved and the dull, rock-burnished steel of the blade dropped to the ground, scooped a pile of rock out of the slide and thrust it to the edge of the dumping ground. The gorge echoed to the splash and rumble of a ton of rock spilling down the slope into the water.
I tapped Jan on the shoulder. ‘We’d better go down and see Capitaine Legard at the Post. He’ll take us to the Caid.’ I had to shout to make myself heard above the reverberating roar of the bulldozer.
He nodded and we went back down the track to the camp. ‘Do you think it is true, what Kostos said?’ he said.
‘He’d hardly have invented it,’ I said.
‘No, I suppose not.’ He looked worried. ‘It must be Wade’s body that was washed up. But why should they mistake Wade for me?’
‘Don’t forget they’re convinced Wade is alive,’ I pointed out. ‘And your papers showed that you aren’t unalike. The body wouldn’t have been in too good shape.’ I hesitated and then said, ‘Was Wade wearing any of your clothing?’
‘I don’t know.’ He hesitated. ‘He could be. You know what it’s like in a yacht — oilskins, windbreakers, sweaters, everything gets mixed up. One’s too tired … Maybe he was wearing something of mine.’ He said it slowly, considering the matter, and he walked with quick, nervous strides, his eyes fixed on the ground. ‘If it’s true what Kostos said,’ he murmured half to himself, ‘then officially I’m dead.’
‘You’ll have to explain that it’s Wade’s body that’s been found in Portugal,’ I told him. ‘And you’ll have to explain how he died.’
‘That means publicity.’ The words seemed to be jerked out of him. ‘There mustn’t be any publicity. It was publicity that started it last time. I told you that. I must keep my name out of the papers. At all costs there mustn’t be any publicity.’
‘That can’t be helped.’ I said. ‘The man’s body has been found and his death will have to be explained.’
He didn’t seem to hear me. ‘If I’m dead,’ he murmured to himself, ‘then it’s Wade who is alive. It’s as simple as that.’ He said it almost wonderingly. And then he strode on ahead until we came to the camp. He seemed to want to be alone.
And when we drove down the piste towards Foum-Skhira he was strangely silent. It was a queer day now. It seemed to have changed. The strength and clarity had gone out of the sun and the sky was no longer blue, but opaque and hazy. A little wind had sprung up from the mountains and it blew the dust from our wheels out in streamers in front of us. We stopped at the house where the Tricolour flew. There was a sign-board half-hidden by sand. One arrow pointed to the mountains — Agdz, 44kms.; the other south towards the desert — Tombouctou, 50js…. Fifty days! A dog raced out to meet us as we stopped. He stood barking at us furiously, a big, rangy animal, oddly reminiscent of the medieval hunting dogs depicted on old tapestries.
‘Look!’ Julie cried. ‘A baby gazelle.’ It was in a wire enclosure; a small deer, beautifully marked with long, straight horns.
A Berber servant came to the door of the house and stared at us. I called out to him, asking for Capitaine Legard, and he pointed to the fort, telling us to go to the Bureau.
The sun had disappeared completely now. Yet there was no cloud. It seemed to have been overlaid by an atmospheric miasma. It had become very cold and the wind had risen further, driving little sifting runnels of sand before it. The whole great open space between the two forts seemed to be on the move as the powder-dry top surface of sand drifted along the ground. We were shown into the captain’s office by an immensely large, black-bearded orderly wearing a turban and a blue cloak. He was a Tuareg, one of the Blue Men of the desert.
By comparison, Legard seemed small and insignificant. He was short and stocky with sallow, tired features. There was no heating in the stone-floored office and he sat huddled behind the desk in a torn and dusty greatcoat with no insignia of rank on the shoulders. A khaki scarf was muffled round his neck. He glanced at Julie and then pulled himself to his feet, staring at us in silence from behind thick-lensed, hornrimmed glasses. The glasses caught the light so that it was impossible to see the expression of his eyes. But I felt he resented our intrusion. Moreover, though he might look insignificant, he conveyed a sense of power, as though whatever he wore or however ill he looked, he was conscious of being the ruler in this place.
Faced with the authority of the man, Jan remained silent, leaving me to explain who we were and why we had come to Foum Skhira. ‘We hoped you would be willing to take us to see the Caid Hassan,’ I added.
‘Caid Hassan is an old man now,’ he said. ‘Old and sick.’ He got Julie a chair and went back to his seat behind the desk. ‘Also, you come at a bad time.’ He made little explosive noises with his lips and stared at Jan. ‘So! You are now the owner of Kasbah Foum, eh?’
‘It has to be confirmed by the Caid,’ Jan said.
‘C’est ca.’
He stared at us from the protection of his glasses and the stillness of the room seemed to crowd in on us. His hostility and the chill drabness of the office with its bare, map-lined walls had a depressing effect on me.
‘And if the Caid confirms your title, what do you intend to do about this American?’ He said ‘this American’ with undisguised contempt.
‘I understand he’s been granted a mining concession,’ Jan said.
Capitaine Legard grunted. The grunt seemed to express what he thought of people in Rabat who granted mining concessions in his territory. There was silence again, and then he said, ‘You have documents to prove your ownership of the property, monsieur?’
Jan produced once more the crumpled envelope and passed it across the desk. Legard pulled out the deeds and examined them. Then he glanced at the covering letter. He read it slowly, carefully. Then he looked up at Jan. This letter is from Marcel Duprez?’
‘Yes.’ Jan cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps you knew him, Monsieur le Capitaine?’
‘Now. But everybody has heard of him. Capitaine Marcel Duprez was one of the finest officers of les Affaires Indigenes.’ There was sudden warmth in his tone. ‘Tell me, monsieur, how was it he came to leave you this property? Are you a relative?’
Briefly Jan explained how the war had brought them together and the part Duprez had played in helping him to get information out to the British. And as he talked, I saw Legard’s face soften and relax. ‘And you were with him when he died?’ he asked. And when Jan had described the scene in that cellar in Essen, Legard nodded his head slowly. ‘He was a fine man,’ he said quietly. ‘I am sorry he died like that. He was what the men who sit at desks in Rabat call an officer of the bled — of the country. It seems that he was not an executive type but only a leader of the people. He understood the Berbers as few of us will ever understand them. If he had not been half-dead with dysentery and undergoing a cure in France, the Germans would never have captured him.’ He shrugged his shoulders and again those little explosive noises blew his lips out. He glanced at his watch and got quickly to his feet. He seemed suddenly alert and full of vigour. ‘Alors. We will go back to the house. We will have a drink and you will perhaps tell me the full story. Then I will phone mon commandant. He will be interested. He served with Duprez. He was with him when they took Foum-Skhira. Duprez told you the story of that, eh?’