The Miernik Dossier

84. REPORT BY COLLINS.

A servant fetched me from my room before lunch on 15th July and led me to a parlour in the Amir’s wing of the palace. There I found Prince Kalash and Ilona Bentley, together with a rather light-skinned Sudanese who was introduced to me as Chief Inspector Aly Qasim, of the Special Branch at Khartoum. I recognized Qasim as the man to whom Prince Kalash had spoken after our audience with the Amin a few days before. Prince Kalash told me that Miernik had wandered into the desert, or perhaps had been kidnapped by “bandits” while inspecting some ruins in the Tabago Hills that morning. It was feared that Miernik’s life was in danger. Christopher and Zofia Miernik had gone out in a Land Rover, by themselves, to search for the missing man. “I am responsible for this contretemps,” Prince Kalash said. “Of course I should be in the search party, but my cousin here has convinced my father that I should remain in the palace.” He appeared to be genuinely embarrassed, an entirely new mood for Prince Kalash. The attitude of Ilona Bentley was equally out of character. She sat on a stool with a handkerchief in her fist, her eyes reddened and her hair somewhat dishevelled. Miss Bentley was obviously (rather too obviously, I thought afterwards) fighting for self-control.

2. Chief Inspector Qasim stated that he wished to interview us. I asked if he was acting in an official capacity. “A disappearance is a police matter, and I am a policeman,” Qasim said. His manner was cold but correct.” He asked me when last I had seen Miernik, and I told him the night before. Had Miernik mentioned his intention of accompanying Prince Kalash this morning? No. Qasim wrote down the answers to these pointless questions in a notebook. He asked Miss Bentley the same set of questions-with more revealing results for me, at least. Ilona Bentley had seen Miernik just before his departure; she had observed him and Prince Kalash from her window as they got ready to climb into a Land Rover parked in the central courtyard. She had run out of the palace, hoping that they might take her with them. “It’s tedious, hanging about one’s room all day. If there was to be a lark of any kind, I wanted to go along. Prince Kalash refused to consider it. I thought it beastly of him. There was a bit of an argument, as Prince Kalash will recall.” Qasim said: “A friendly argument, I expect?” Prince Kalash answered: “It was a spat. Ilona is a wilful girl. You can ignore that incident, Aly.” Qasim was by this time staring fixedly at Miss Bentley’s bare thighs. “One never knows what small bit of evidence will crack the case,” he said in a voice filled with sexual innuendo. “I will write it down.” He did so. Prince Kalash glowered at Qasim’s bad form. “Then write down that she forgave us before we left,” Prince Kalash said. “She wished us a happy day. In fact she went back to her room and fetched a camera for Miernik. She hung it around his neck and-I hope this will not drive you wild with envy, Aly-she kissed him good-bye. Miernik agreed to take pictures of the ruins for her. Miss Bentley is an enthusiastic photographer.” To Miss Bentley I said: “I hope it wasn t your new Leica, Ilona.” “No,” she said, “it was an old camera I carry as a spare.”

3. During the remainder of the day there was a great deal of activity at the palacemen coming and going, Prince Kalash occupied every moment with his father and Qasim. It was obvious that something more important than Miernik’s disappearance was worrying them. Qasim had arrived in a police helicopter, and he frequently dashed out of doors, leaped into the aircraft, and clattered away for an hour or two. When I protested to Kalash about the danger to Christopher and Zofia Miernik, he shrugged. “Paul is quite able to take care of himself,” he said. “I think they’re in no great danger. And they won’t be alone out there for very much longer.” He refused to elaborate on this last statement. When, the following morning, Christopher had not returned, I asked to see the Amir. It was my intention to demand that a party be sent after the American. Apart from the competitive aspect of the situation, I was anxious about him. Unlike Miernik, Christopher had no bona fides that would impress a band of Communist guerrillas. The Amir regretted that he could not see me. Whilst I was waiting in an anteroom of the Amir’s suite, Qasim entered-accompanied by a lieutenant-colonel of the parachute regiment in battle dress. Qasim smiled agreeably and said: “Good day, Captain Collins. We hope to have some news of your friend soon.” Qasim was pleased with himself for having let me know, with that reference to my army rank, that he had a file on me. At about ten o’clock that night, Prince Kalash came to my bedroom. “Nigel,” he said, “I have some rather distressing news. Paul had a radio with him, and he was supposed to contact me morning and evening so that we might keep track of him. There was no word from him this morning, nor again this evening. Perhaps he is out of range, or trying to transmit from low ground. But I think not. I think he may be having some difficulty.” The true dimensions of this incredible muddle became apparent to me. I spoke angrily: “Well, then, we’d better go out and find him. Really, Kalash, the situation is intolerable. First Miernik is carried off by a lot of cutthroats, and then you permit Christopher to go out alone-with a girl, Kalash-and lose him too. It’s too stupid. I’m beginning to believe you’re willing to get us all killed in this damned desert.” Prince Kalash then said a very curious thing: “Not all of you, Nigel,” in a tired voice. “Be ready to leave at dawn. The boy will wake you up.” He strode out of the room.

4. At dawn on 17th July I went outside to find Prince Kalash and Chief Inspector Qasim standing by the helicopter. Qasim opened the door and gestured for me to get in. I sat in the back with a silent Prince Kalash. The pilot, very smartly turned out in starched khaki, buckled our safety belts for us. He asked Kalash’s permission to touch him, but not mine. The helicopter lifted off very rapidly and headed north. “We have searched all this ground,” Qasim shouted, “but there is no sign of any of your friends. If they were there, we would be able to see them from the air. However, we will look again. Keep an eye out and tap the pilot on the shoulder if you see anything.” The terrain was a perfect blank-eroded bare hills and wadis, an occasional patch of stunted trees. I saw nothing. At the end of an hour, the pilot put the machine into a steep climb, and then hovered at about four thousand feet. Qasim squirmed round in his seat and pointed out the left-hand window. Below us, as if drawn on a map, lay a large blue lake shaped like a bird’s claw. A battle was being fought in the space between two of the toes. Scores of parachutes blew over the floor of the desert. Soldiers skirmished towards an encampment in which a half-dozen large striped tents were afire; as we watched, a row of vehicles under camouflage netting went up in flames like a string of firecrackers. Inside the camp, men in native robes were running about through a heavy mortar barrage, firing off rifles. These men had no cover of any kind and they were being knocked over rapidly by the exploding mortar bombs and by small arms fire from the attacking troops. The soldiers advanced on three sides, firing automatic weapons and heaving a prodigious number of grenades; they seemed to be taking almost no casualties. Some of the men in the camp threw down their weapons and attempted to surrender. They were shot out of hand. In less than fifteen minutes, the fight was over. Qasim watched its progress with guffaws of delight; Prince Kalash looked on with indifference. Qasim spoke in Arabic into a microphone. Someone on the ground must have told him it was safe to land, for he gestured at the ground with an arrogant thrust of his thumb, and we went down.

5. The helicopter landed a few hundred yards from the camp. The lieutenant-colonel I had met the day before was standing by a map table with a gaggle of staff officers. He touched his cap to Qasim, bowed to Prince Kalash, and gave me a fishy look. Bursts of automatic fire split the air, the unmistakable sound of British weapons. I heard no return fire, so I assumed that the troops were dealing with their prisoners. It was impossible to see what was going on, as a small hill lay between us and the site of the battle. I asked no questions. It was hardly necessary. The Sudanese obviously had located the main camp of the Anointed Liberation Front, and were destroying it. Qasim spoke to the lieutenant-colonel for several moments, leaving Prince Kalash and me to fidget in the heat. At the palace he might defer to the prince; here he was in command. As the firing died, Qasim approached us. “I’m afraid there is no trace of your friends in the camp,” he said. “That can be taken as a good sign. Perhaps Miernik is merely lost after all. Of course, it’s also possible all three have been murdered elsewhere. We have taken a number of prisoners, and naturally I will interview them. As soon as I have any sort of information, you shall have it as well.” I remarked that it was unlikely any prisoners of the bandits could have lived through this attempt to rescue them. Qasim shrugged and said to me: “I have brought you here on Prince Kalash’s personal assurances, Captain Collins. We have known for some time of the existence of this gang of bandits. They were the same ones who attacked you at Kashgil. Criminals of the worst sort, ruthless men-a rather atavistic phenomenon, I’m afraid. They were given every opportunity to surrender and submit to a fair trial. But Colonel Shangiti tells me they refused all appeals to reason. I’m afraid all but a handful of them were killed while resisting arrest. All well and good-a suitable end to a bad lot. If your friends have perished, they are the last victims of this scum. But we are trying to build a nation in Sudan. Publicity over brigands like these only encourages others of their kind. Also, it is, I will be frank, an embarrassment internationally that we should still have such elements in our country. Therefore I ask you to keep what you have seen to yourself, so far as the press and the idly curious are concerned.” Qasim smiled brilliantly. “I am sure you will be discreet, Captain Collins. If you must discuss this-and I know it is a temptation, perhaps even a duty to do so-be so kind as to discuss it only with men who are as discreet as yourself.” Qasim and Prince Kalash growled at one another in Arabic for a moment or two. Two soldiers accompanied by a shouting officer came into our area on the double, carrying a stretcher with a dead body on it. Qasim, Prince Kalash, and Colonel Shangiti inspected the corpse. Prince Kalash returned to me. “I came specially to talk to that chap, he was a brother of mine, but they’ve killed him,” he said. “The army wants you and me to clear out now.” We got back into the helicopter. The pilot apparently was as curious as I about the fate of the “bandits.” He hovered for a moment over the camp. Nothing remained of it except a few scorched places where the tents had been and a pillar of smoke from the burning motor park. The dead had been arranged in a long rank at the edge of the camp. I counted more than fifty corpses. There were no wounded; only the dead. Four men in native robes were being marched under guard towards Qasim. I expect they were later subjected to what Qasim calls “interviews.”

6. As we flew over the wadi, Prince Kalash told me there had been a cloudburst the night before. More than two inches of rain fell on the hills in the space of an hour. The guerrilla camp had been flooded. “Allah akhbar, “Kalash shouted with a grin, “God is great. These fellows were wringing out their stockings when the army dropped in.” The wadi had been transformed into a lake-shaped, as I’ve said, like a bird’s foot. From the tip of the eastern-most claw a long smear of mud ran along the bed of what was normally a dry stream. It was apparent that a crude earth dam of some sort had been taken out by the sudden weight of the water. For a few moments, the dry stream must have been a torrent; now it was empty again, its slippery surface already beginning to bake and crack in the sun. Christopher had not been captured by the guerrillas. Kalash was now convinced that he was alive and well. “Perhaps Paul tried to strike across the hills to the Maffia road,” Kalash said. “Keep an eye peeled.” We flew low over the glistening mud, nosing round hills. For a long time there was no sign of life. Then, in a steep defile between two brown cliffs, we saw Christopher’s Land Rover. It lay on its side in the mud with its bonnet open and the canvas roof ripped away. It was quite empty. Downstream was a trail of gear, scattered by last night’s flood-jerry cans, pots and pans, tins of food. We saw no human beings.

7. The pilot landed the helicopter and the three of us got down into the mud and poked aimlessly at the wreckage. The Land Rover was not damaged, apart from a soaked engine. It was obvious what had happened. The flash flood, roaring down the steep bed of the dry wadi, had caught the Land Rover from behind and turned it over, spilling Paul and Zofia into the water. “Probably it wasn’t raining here,” Prince Kalash said. “They would not even have heard the water coming along behind them over the noise of the engine. The sand deadens the sound-these floods come very quickly. The water can be six feet deep in a narrow place like this. Eventually it just subsides into the sand.” A few hundred yards downstream I found Zofia’s red rucksack, caked with drying sand. I took it with me back to the helicopter.

8. I sat in the rear of the chattering machine, staring at the back of Kalash’s head. I thought it impossible that Christopher and Zofia Miernik could have survived the accident. Death by drowning in the desert seemed a fitting end to this farcical adventure. It has been a waste of friends from beginning to end. Prince Kalash, without turning his head, reached back and seized my arm with his huge hand. The helicopter made an abrupt turn, the horizon revolving beyond its perspex cabin. When it resumed course I looked downwards and saw Paul Christopher and Zofia Miernik standing on a bald hill. They were holding hands, calmly watching the helicopter as it settled to the ground, raising dervishes of sand around them. I learnt that Miernik was dead. Christopher had found him with Ilona’s Exakta beside him. That discovery answered the question as to the purpose of the homing device. Prince Kalash and I were left alone on the desert when the helicopter left to take Christopher and Zofia back to the palace. We found Miernik’s body not far from the place where the helicopter had landed. Prince Kalash gazed stolidly at the abused and bloated body of his friend. I said: “Odd that they should have killed only Miernik, isn’t it?” Prince Kalash shrugged. “Miernik was the one they found,” he said. “With how much help?” I asked. The prince went still like the future amir he is. “My dear Nigel,” he said at last. “Miernik was bound to be killed by his friends. Be glad you didn’t have to do it.” He took my arm and walked me away from the corpse.