Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Spy

Chapter Three

The next problem was how to lose Bekuv's vehicle. It was a GAZ 59A, a Russian four-wheel drive field-car. It was a conspicuous contraption — canvas top, angular bodywork and shiny metal springs showing through the seat covers. You couldn't bury it in sand, and setting it ablaze would probably attract just the sort of attention we were trying to avoid.

Mann took a big wrench and ripped the registration plates off it and defaced the R.M.M. sign that would tell even an illiterate informer that it was from Mali.

Mann didn't trust Percy Dempsey out of his sight. And Mann certainly didn't trust Johnny, the ever-smiling Arab driver. Only because he couldn't come up with a better idea did he agree to Johnny heading back north with the GAZ, while we followed with Bekuv in the VW. And all the time he was turning to look at Bekuv, watching Percy in the Landrover behind us and telling me that Percy Dempsey wasn't half the man I'd cracked him up to be.

'It's damned hot,' I said.

Mann grunted and looked at Bekuv still asleep on the bench seat behind us. 'If we dump that GAZ anywhere here in the south, the cops will check it to make sure it's not someone dying of thirst. But the farther we go north, the more interest the cops are going to take in that funny-looking contraption.'

'We'll be all right.'

'We haven't seen one of those heaps in the whole of Algeria.'

'Stop worrying,' I said. 'Percy was doing this kind of thing out here in the desert when Rommel was in knee pants.'

'You Limeys always stick together.'

'Why don't you drive for a while, Major.'

When we stopped to change seats, we stayed there long enough to let Johnny get a few kilometres ahead. The GAZ was no record-breaker. It wasn't all that far advanced from the Model A Ford from which it evolved. There would be no problem catching up with it, even hi the VW.

In fact, the old GAZ came into view within twenty-five minutes of us resuming the journey. We saw it surmounting the gentle slope of a dune and Mann flicked his headlights in greeting.

'We'll keep this kind of distance,' Mann said. There was about five hundred yards between the vehicles.

Behind us Percy came into view, driving the Landrover. 'Is Percy a fag?' said Mann.

'Queer?' I said. 'Percy and Johnny? I never gave it a thought.'

'Percy and Johnny,' said Mann. 'It sounds like some cosy little bar in Tangiers.'

'Does that make it more likely that they are queers, or less likely?'

'As long as they do their job,' said Mann. 'That's all I ask.' He glanced in the mirror before taking a packet of Camels from his shirt pocket, extracting a cigarette and lighting up, without letting go of the wheel. He inhaled and blew smoke before speaking again. 'Just get us up to that goddamned airstrip, that's all I ask.' He thumped the steering-wheel with his big bony fist. 'That's all I ask.'

I smiled. The first hint of Bekuv's possible defection had been made to a British scientist. That meant that British Intelligence were going to cling to this one like a limpet. I was the nominated limpet, and Mann didn't like limpets.

'We should have moved by night,' I said, more to make conversation than because I'd thought about it very carefully.

'And what do we tell the cops, that we are photographing moths?'

'No explanation necessary,' I said. 'These roads probably have more traffic at night when it's cool. The danger is running into camels or people walking.'

'Look at that Jesus Christ!'

Mann was staring ahead but I could see nothing there, and by the time I realized he was looking in the rear-view mirror, it was too late. Mann was wrenching the steering wheel and we were jolting into the desert in a cloud of sand. There was a howl of fury as Bekuv was shaken off the back seat and hit the floor.

I heard the jet helicopter long before I caught sight of it. I was still staring at the GAZ, watching it disappear in a flurry of sand and white flashes. Then it became a big molten blob that swelled up, and, like a bright red balloon, the fuel exploded with a terrible bang.

The helicopter's whine turned to a thudding of rotor blades as it came back and flew over us with only a few feet clearance, its blades chopping Indian signals out of the smoke that drifted up from the GAZ.

The Plexiglas bubble flashed in the sun as it banked so close to the desert that the blade tips almost touched the dunes. It was out of sight for a moment and by the time I heard the engine again I was fifty yards from the track full length on my face and trying to bury my head in the sand.

The pilot turned tightly as he came to the roadway. He circled the burning car and then came back again before he was satisfied about his task. He turned his nose eastwards. At that altitude he was out of sight within a second or two.

'How did you guess?' I asked Mann.

'The way he was sitting there above the road. I've seen gunships in Nam. I knew what he was going to pull.' He smacked the dust off his trousers. 'O.K., Professor?'

Bekuv nodded grimly. Obviously it had removed any last thoughts he might have had about driving back to Mali to kiss and make up.

'Then let's get the hell out of here, before the cops arrive to mop up the mess.'

We slowed as we passed through the smoke and the stink of rubber and carbonized flesh. Bekuv and I both turned to make sure that there was no last chance that the boy could have survived it. Then Mann accelerated, but behind us we saw the Landrover stop.

Mann was looking in the rear-view mirror. He saw it too. 'What's that old fool stopping for?'

I didn't answer.

'You got cloth ears?'

'To bury the kid.'

'He can't be that dumb!'

'There are traditions in the desert,' I said.

'You mean that's what that dummy is going to tell the cops when they get there and find him carving a headstone.'

'Probably.'

'They'll shake him,' said Mann. 'The cops will shake Percy Dempsey, and you know what will fall out of his pockets?'

'Nothing will.'

'We will!' said Mann, still watching in the mirror. 'Goddamned stupid fruit.'

'I make it twenty k.'s to the turn-off for the airstrip.'

'Unless our fly-boy was scared shitless by that gun-ship, and went back to Morocco again.'

'Our boy hasn't even faked his flight plan yet,' I said. Tie's only fifteen minutes' flying time away from here.'

'O.K., O.K., O.K.,' said Mann. 'I don't need any of that Dunkirk spirit crap.' For a long time we drove in silence.

'Watch for that cairn at the turn-off,' I said. 'It's no more than half a dozen stones, and the sand has drifted since we came down this road.'

'There's no spade in the Landrover,' said Mann. 'You don't think he'd bury him with his bare hands, do you.'

'Slow a little now,' I said. 'The cairn is on this side.'

An aircraft came dune-hopping in from the north-west. It was one of a fleet of Dornier Skyservant short-haul machines, contracted to take Moroccan civil servants, politicians and technicians down to the phosphate workings near the Algerian border. The world demand for phosphates had made the workings the most pampered industry in Morocco.

The pilot landed at the first approach. It was part of his job to be able to land on any treeless piece of hard dirt. The Dornier taxied over to us and flipped the throttle of the port engine, so that it turned on its own axis, and was ready to fly out again. 'Watch out for the prop-wash!' Mann warned me.

Mann's father had been an airline pilot, and Mann had a ten-year subscription to Aviation Week. Frying machines brought out the worst in him. He rapped the metal skin of this one before climbing through the door. 'Great ships, these Dorniers,' he told me. 'Ever see a Dornier before?'

'Yes,' I said. 'My uncle George shot one down in 1940.'

'Just make sure you lock the door,' said Mann.

'Let's go, let's go,' said the pilot, a young Swede with a droopy moustache and 'Elsa' tattoed on his bicep.

I pushed Bekuv ahead of me. There were a dozen or more seats in the cabin, and Mann had already planted himself nearest the door.

'Hurry!' said the pilot. 'I want to get back on to my flight plan.'

'Casablanca?' said Mann.

'And all the couscous you can eat,' said the pilot, and he opened the throttles even before I had locked the door.

The place from which the twin-engined Dornier climbed steeply was a disused site left by the road-builders. There were the usual piles of oil-drums, two tractor chassis and some stone markers. Everything else had been taken by the nomads. Now a bright new VW bus marked Dempsey Desert Tours was parked in the shallow depression of a wadi.

'That's screwed this one up for ever,' said Mann. 'When the cops find the VW they'll be watching this airstrip for ever.'

'Dempsey will collect it,' I said.

'He's a regular little Lawrence of Arabia, your pal Dempsey.'

'He could have done this job on his own,' I said. 'There was no need for us to come down here.'

'You're even dumber than you look.' Mann looked round to make sure that Bekuv couldn't hear.

'Why then…?'

'Because if the prof yells loud enough for his spouse, someone is going to have to go in and get her.'

'They'll use one of the people in the field,' I said.

'They'll use someone who talked to the professor… and you know it! Someone who was here, who can talk to his old lady and make it sound convincing.'

'Bloody risky,' I said.

'Yep!' said Mann. 'If the Russkies are going to send gun-ships here and blast cars out of the desert, they are not going to let his old lady out of their clutches without a struggle.'

'Perhaps they'll write Bekuv off as dead,' I said.

Mann turned in his seat to look at the professor. His head was thrown back over the edge of the seat-back. His mouth was open and his eyes closed. 'Maybe,' said Mann.

Now I could see the mountains of the High Atlas. They were almost hidden behind the shimmer of heat that rose from the colourless desert below us, but above the heat haze I could distinguish the snow-capped tops of the highest peaks. Soon we'd see the Atlantic Ocean.