Flyaway / Windfall. Desmond Bagley
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and that did kill him.’
‘How so?’
‘In 1916 the Germans bribed the Libyan Sennousi to stir up trouble with the desert tribes against the French. The Tuareg of the Tassili n’ Ajjer joined with the Sennousi and sent a raiding party against Tam. De Foucauld was caught and shot with his hands bound – and it was an accident. An excitable kid of fifteen let a gun go off. I don’t think they meant to kill him. Everyone knew he was a marabout – a holy man.’ He shrugged. ‘Either way he was just as dead.’
I looked at Byrne closely. ‘How do you know all this?’
He leaned forward and said gently, ‘I can read, Stafford.’ I felt myself redden under the implied rebuke, but he laughed suddenly. ‘And I talked to some old guys over in the Tassili who had been on the raid against Tam in 1916. Some of the books I read sure are wrong.’ He half-turned as if about to set off again, but stopped. ‘And there was someone else in Tam not long ago like de Foucauld – but a woman. English, she was; name of Daisy Wakefield. Said she was related to some English lord – something to do with oil. Is there a Lord Wakefield?’
‘There is.’
‘Then that must be the guy.’
‘Did you know her?’
‘Sure, Daisy and I got on fine. That’s how I caught up with the news; she subscribed to the London Times. A mite out-of-date by the time it got here but that didn’t matter.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She got old,’ he said simply. ‘She went north to El Golea and died there, God rest her soul.’ He turned. ‘Come on.’
‘Byrne,’ I said. ‘Why are we climbing this mountain?’
‘To see a guy at the top,’ he said without turning.
I trudged after him and thought: My God! Wakefield oil! This damned desert seemed littered with improbable people. In fact, I was following one of them. Maybe two, counting Paul Billson.
The building at the top of Assekrem was simple enough. Three small rooms built of stone. There were two men there who ushered us inside. They were dark-skinned men with Negroid features. Byrne said casually, ‘Don’t handle any of the stuff here; it’s de Foucauld’s stuff – holy relics.’
I looked about with interest as he talked with the men. There was a simple wooden table on which were some books, a couple of old-fashioned steel pens and a dried-out ink-well. In one corner was a wooden cot with an inch-thick mattress which looked about as comfortable as concrete. On a wall was a picture of the Virgin.
Byrne came over to me. ‘Billson went through three days ago, I think. Or it could have been two days because another truck went through the day after, and I’m not sure which was Billson. But that truck came out again yesterday.’
‘We didn’t see it.’
‘Might have gone out the other way – through Akar-Akar.’ He rubbed his jaw reflectively and looked at me. I noticed he hadn’t bothered to keep up his veil in the presence of these men. He said abruptly, ‘I want to show you something frightening – and why de Foucauld built here.’
He turned and went outside and I followed. He walked across the natural rock floor of a sort of patio to a low stone parapet, and then pointed north. ‘That’s where your boy is.’
I caught my breath. Assekrem was a pimple on the edge of a plateau. Below the parapet were vertiginous cliffs, and spread wide was the most awe-inspiring landscape I had ever seen. Range after range after range of mountains receded into the blue distance, but these were none of your tame mountains of the Scottish Highlands or even the half-tamed Swiss Alps. Some time in the past there had been a fearsome convulsion of the earth here; raw rock had ripped open the earth’s belly with fangs of stone – and the fangs were still there. There was no regularity, just a jumble of lava fields and the protruding cores of volcanoes for as far as the eye could see, festering under a brassy sun. It was killer country.
‘That’s Koudia,’ said Byrne. ‘The land beyond the end of the world.’
I didn’t say anything then, but I wondered about de Foucauld. If he chose to meditate here – did he worship God or the Devil?
Byrne was still talking to the dark-skinned men who had come out to join us. There was much gesticulating and pointing until, at last, Byrne got something settled to his satisfaction. ‘These guys say they saw something burning out there two days ago.’
‘Christ!’ I said. ‘What is there to burn?’
‘Don’t know.’ He fumbled in the leather pouch which depended from a cord around his neck and took out a prismatic compass. He looked at me and said with a grin, ‘I’m not against all scientific advance. Mokhtar, down there, thinks I’m a genius the way I find my way around.’ He put the compass to his eye to take a sight.
‘How far away?’
‘Don’t know that, either. They say it was a column of smoke – black smoke.’
‘In the daytime?’
There was astonishment in Byrne’s eyes as he looked at me. ‘Sure; how the hell else could they see smoke?’
‘I was thinking about the Bible,’ I said. ‘The Israelites in the wilderness, guided by a pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night.’
‘I don’t think you’ve got that right,’ he said mildly. ‘I read it as a pillar of cloud.’ He turned back to take another sight. ‘But I guess we’d better take a look. I make it just about due north of here, on a compass bearing. I don’t bother none about magnetic variation, not on a short run.’
‘What do you call short?’
‘Anything up to fifty kilometres. Magnetic deviation is another thing. These goddamn hills are full of iron and you’ve got to check your compass bearing by the sun all the time.’
He put the compass away, and from another bag he took a couple of small packages which he gave to the two men. There was a ceremonial leave-taking, and he said, ‘Salt and tobacco. In these parts you pay for what you get.’
As we set off down the steep path I said, ‘There is something that’s been puzzling me.’
Byrne grunted. ‘Hell of a lot of things puzzle me, too, from time to time. What’s your problem?’
‘That veil of yours. I know it’s Tuareg dress, but sometimes you muffle yourself up to the bloody eyebrows and other times you don’t bother. For instance, you didn’t bother up there; you let them see your face. I don’t understand the rationale.’
Byrne stopped. ‘Still on your anthropological kick, huh? Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s the politeness of the country. If you’re in a place and you don’t do as everybody does in that place, you could get yourself very dead. Take a Targui and set him in the middle of London. If he didn’t know he had to cross the street in a special place, and only when the light is green, he could get killed. Right?’
‘I suppose so.’
Byrne touched his head cloth. ‘This thing is a chech; it’s a substitute for the real thing, which is a tagelmoust, but you don’t see many of those around except on high days and holidays. They’re very precious. Now, nobody knows why the Tuareg wear the veil. I don’t know; the anthropologists don’t know; the Tuareg don’t know. I wear mine because it’s handy for keeping the dust out of my throat and keeps a high humidity in the sinuses on a dry day. It also cuts down water loss from the body.’
He sat down on a convenient rock and pointed downwards. ‘You’ve seen Mokhtar’s face?’
‘Yes.