Another Job For Biggles

by W E Johns

  That Ginger was in their camp he did not doubt, for had they not found him they would have been unaware of his existence. In those circumstances he was bound to go to Ginger’s assistance, so it came to the same thing in the end. The one weak point, the one thing that should have warned him to be prepared for treachery, he thought afterwards, was the curious fact of the leader of the party being able to speak English. That could hardly be coincidence. Obviously, he had been chosen for the job for that very reason. A man having no contact with Europeans, could hardly be expected to understand English, much less speak it.

  These thoughts only occurred to Biggles when he had been riding for a little while. He observed with some misgivings that the direction they had taken if maintained, would bring them to El Moab but still, as Ginger had been lost in that area, this was perhaps only to be expected. After riding for a time he asked the man who spoke English, for the man had kept close to him, if they were going near El Moab. The man did not answer, which, thought Biggles, looked bad. However, he was by this time too far committed to the venture to withdraw, even had he wished to do so. He could only console himself with the thought that if treachery was intended, Zahar would be able to tell Bertie, when he returned, what had happened. Not that Bertie would be able to do much about it beyond blasting the dam, which he could be relied upon to do.

  Another hour and there was no longer any doubt in Biggles’s mind as to their destination. They were riding straight for El Moab. He recognised some of the ground over which he had walked during the past few hours. However, nothing could be done about it. There was just a chance that the Sultan’s men at El Moab did not know who he was, who Ginger was, or what they were doing there.

  It fell out as he expected. They rode straight into the encampment. A number of men who were standing about stared curiously as they galloped up. What had happened was now plain enough to see. Ginger had been captured. The pilot of the Moth had made his way back on foot to his starting point. He had reported the presence of a white man at aerodrome 137, and a party of natives had been sent out to bring him in.

  He wondered if the pilot had been close enough to Bertie to recognise him; or rather, close enough to realise that the white man whom the natives had fetched from the airfield was not the man he had seen there. On that occasion he had of course seen Bertie, not Biggles.

  There was little time for conjecture. A man obviously of some authority appeared—an Egyptian, Biggles thought, judging from his features and the fez he wore on his head. He made a sign to the natives who closed in suddenly and laid hands on Biggles’s person. Biggles did not resist, perceiving that resistance would be futile. The man in the fez went through his pockets, removed his automatic, and with a smug smile put it in his own.

  “Come with me; my master wishes to speak with you,” he ordered, and walked towards the door of the bungalow which Biggles had noticed during his moonlight reconnaissance.

  Biggles followed the man in. He was in no case to argue, so he did not waste breath on questions or objections. Moreover, he was very anxious to know if Ginger was really there, for if he was not, if he was still out in the wilderness, he would by this time be in a bad way.

  Having entered the house his guide turned into a room that led off from a small, bare hall. A man was standing there waiting, legs apart, his hands clasped behind his back. It was Nicolo Ambrimos, otherwise known as the Sultan.

  This really did surprise Biggles. Such a possibility had not occurred to him. Knowing the type of man he was, he had assumed—without giving the matter any serious thought—that he rarely left his comfortable villa in Aden. Only in dire emergency would such a man face the austere conditions of the desert. This, presumably, was such an occasion. Besides, there was the time factor. How had he got there in such a short while? The Sultan had not only moved, but had moved fast.

  Said Ambrimos, with a curious smile, rocking himself gently on his toes. “Well, major, so we meet again?”

  “You must have been fascinated by my personality to arrange another meeting so soon,” returned Biggles, sarcasm in his voice.

  The Sultan’s smile broadened; but there was no humour in it. “I was so anxious to see you that I risked my life in a flying machine to bring us face to face,” he purred.

  “Permit me to congratulate you on your courage,” answered Biggles coldly. “But what to me is more important is the whereabouts of a young friend of mine who last night had the misfortune to fall sick and wander away from my camp. I was told he was here. I trust I was not misinformed?”

  “What you were told was perfectly true,” replied the Sultan. “He is here, looking rather sorry for himself. But please sit down. You must be tired after all your exertions.” There was a sneer in the last sentence.

  Biggles accepted the invitation, for he was, in fact, tired. “Where is this young man of mine?” he enquired.

  “No doubt you would like to see him,” was the answer. The Sultan said something, in a language unknown to Biggles, to the man who had brought him in. The man at once left the room. To Biggles, Ambrimos went on: “You see what comes of interrfering with matters that are not your business, matters that you do not understand. Do you know what happened to this young fellow of yours?”

  “I’ve a pretty good idea.”

  “He drank water without first informing himself of its quality—always a dangerous thing to do in the desert. In this case it happened to be somewhat polluted by certain industrial operations which I have undertaken here. Naturally, he was sick.”

  “In plain English, he was nearly poisoned to death by an overdose of hashish which you, regardless of the consequences to anyone else, had thrown into the wadi,” said Biggles icily.

  The Sultan shrugged. “That is a crude way of putting it, if you prefer it that way. But allow me to remind you that no one invited you to come here and drink the water.”

  “I must also remind you that water in the desert is the common property of all travellers, and only a man with the mentality of a diseased weasel would foul it,” asserted Biggles caustically.

  Ambrimos flushed. “In this case it happened to turn out to my advantage,” he sneered, a rising inflection in his voice.

  “It may look that way to you at the moment,” admitted Biggles.

  At this juncture, Ginger, still looking pale and shaky, was brought in.

  He smiled wanly when he saw Biggles. “Sorry I’ve dragged you into this,” he said apologetically.

  “It may not be as bad as it appears,” answered Biggles. “How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty cheap.”

  “By the way,” put in the Sultan, speaking to Biggles, “in case you have jumped to a conclusion, may I point out that this young man was in no way coerced into coming here. He came entirely of his own free will.”

  “Perfectly true,” agreed Ginger. “But I think you should make it clear that at the time I was more than slightly doped, through no fault of my own, and cannot therefore be held entirely responsible for my actions. If you hadn’t doped the water supply I shouldn’t be here.”

  “A mere detail,” purred Ambrimos. “The fact remains you came, and being delighted to see you we made you welcome. But let us not go into that. Sit down and let us get to business. We have some serious matters to discuss—serious for me, I own, but more serious for you.”

  “I have nothing to discuss with you,” said Biggles shortly.

  The Sultan sighed. “Always so belligerent, you British. Never mind. Let us say I have things to discuss with you, and you would be well-advised to listen. And in case you should attempt to break off the conversation with the object of leaving El Moab, I must remind you that my men are outside awaiting the outcome of our talk. They do not like infidels at the best of times, and the knowledge that you have come here with the object of depriving them of their livelihood, has, quite naturally, done nothing to make them well-disposed towards you.”

  Biggles lit a cigarette. “Go ahead,” he invited. “I’m lis
tening.”

  Chapter 12

  The Sultan Shows His Hand

  By this time Biggles thought he had the situation summed up pretty well.

  He had been watched in Aden. Ambrimos had been informed that the sabotagging of his aircraft had not produced the desired result, so he had followed him across the Red Sea, probably in the machine employed in the hashish racket. It must have been this machine which, with Ambrimos on board, had passed over aerodrome 137 just before the haboob broke.

  Biggles’s aircraft had been in the hangar at the time and had escaped observation, but Ambrimos must have known that it was somewhere in the vicinity of El Moab, and was therefore more or less prepared for the situation that had arisen. Ginger’s sickness had played right into his hands.

  The Sultan’s manner suggested that he was well aware of this. He was obviously content with the way things had panned out and seemed to be in no great hurry to force a final showdown. Perhaps he thought that as he now held the trump cards, in the persons of Biggles and Ginger, the game was as good as over. Anyhow, with studied fastidiousness he selected a cigarette from a massive gold case, put it in a gold and amber holder, and with a flourish lit it from a gold petrol-lighter. The aroma of Turkish tobacco drifted sluggishly across the room.

  “You must understand, major, that I am a man of business,” he remarked airily.

  “I seem to remember you telling me that before,” reminded Biggles coolly.

  “With me business comes first, first and last and all the time,” went on the Sultan, like a man who is saying something that he has said many times before. “I work very hard, doing my best to please everybody, yet always the British Government puts obstacles in my way. For which reason, as you will appreciate, I do not like your government. You provide an example. You were sent here to upset my business—don’t deny it. Being human I’m bound to resent that. It is true that, among other things, I deal in a commmodity which is always in demand in the Middle East.”

  “Say hashish and have done with it,” suggested Biggles.

  “Very well—hashish. What of it? I do not force my wares upon people. They demand them. I supply them, and by supplying them of course I make money.”

  “And at the same time make havoc of their lives,” put in Biggles. “You don’t care how many lives you wreck, how many homes you break up, as long as you make money. All right. Now let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s the point of this conversation?”

  “The point is this,” answered Ambrimos. “I have no intention of allowing the British Government, or that interfering body which it supports, called the Central Narcotics Intelligence Bureau, to ruin the business which I have spent my life in building. Whatever they do, human nature being what it is, I shall always be able to buy a road. I imagine you know the meaning of our expression, buying a road?”

  “No. That’s a new one to me.”

  “Buying a road is a nice way of saying that I am able to bribe officials along the routes by which my merchandise reaches its market. Everyone needs money, and this is money easily earned. A man has only to close his eyes for a few minutes, and Lo! his pockets are full of gold.”

  Biggles raised a critical eyelid. “Are you suggesting that I might earn my bread and margarine by this method?”

  Ambrimos smiled sleekly. “You would then have butter instead of margarine.”

  “I’d rather have clean margarine than dirty butter.”

  The Sultan sighed. “Being a man of peace I always try peaceful methods first. I like you. There is a frankness, a directness, about the way you speak, that appeals to a certain softness in my own nature. I was hoping that you would consider it worth your while to accept an interest in my business.”

  Biggles shook his head. “Thank you,” he said softly. “But that happens to be a bit of a road that is not for sale.”

  “Ah! a pity. Yes, a pity. A great pity. I have for some time needed a good pilot. You know, of course, what happens to roads that refuse to be—er—repaired?”

  “Just as a matter of interest, tell me this,” said Biggles curiously. “Have you no fear that I might agree to your proposal, and then, having won your confidence, do a bit of selling myself—sell my inforrmation to the Narcotics Bureau, for instance?”

  “No,” answered Ambrimos. “That would probably be my way, because selling anything at a profit has always been a passion with me,” he confessed, with startling frankness. “But you would not do that. The British are an obnoxious, meddlesome breed, but they have one characteristic which even we who hate them must admire. Having given their word they keep it. That, of course, although they do not seem to realise it, is their weakness. It is impossible to run a business on such lines and make it pay.”

  “We haven’t done so badly,” murmured Biggles.

  “You would have done better had you been a little less squeamish in your transactions.”

  “Okay. Let’s leave it at that,” suggested Biggles.

  The Sultan regarded him from under half-closed eyelids. “You realise that this refusal to co-operate forces upon me a painful alternative. Being a man of intelligence you will perceive that it would be folly on my part to allow you to go away and cause me further trouble?”

  “How are you going to prevent it?”

  “That is a plain question, and one that calls for a plain answer,” returned the Sultan smoothly. “I shall have you put to death.”

  “That’s plain enough,” admitted Biggles.

  “I hoped you would see it like that,” said Ambrimos softly. “With you disposed of, I shall produce more and more hashish—and other things.” The Sultan’s pose of placid self-assurance began to break under the mounting anger which revealed his real character. Gone was the silky quality of his voice. It took on a hard, vicious tone.

  “I hate you British,” he went on. “I will break you and your Empire. Sweet will be my revenge for the insults I have borne from your supercilious officials. Do you hear me? I will bring you into the dust, in spite of all your soldiers, your sailors and your airmen. British rule shall wither like a leaf in the desert, and it will be I, Nicolo Ambrimos, who will do this. Do you know how? Perhaps you can guess, for I know why you are here, what you seek. Gurra, the weed of Paradise. Yes, I have it. More and more will go to your miserable country of fog and rain. It will flow into your factories to undermine the strength of your workers and turn them into useless human wreckage. Gurra shall do what guns and bayonets could not do. Your machines will turn to rust from idleness. You will lose the will to fight. Then you will fall, fall to a great power that is waiting for that day. After that, Europe will fall, and Asia, mighty Asia, will rise again.”

  To say that Biggles was surprised by this outburst would be understatement. He was amazed. This political angle was something new, something that he had not even considered. Ambrimos, in his anger, had let the cat out of its bag with a vengeance. Clearly, it was not only money that Ambrimos wanted. He wanted power. Here, pondered Biggles, was yet another would-be dictator burning to inflict his will on a world still suffering from the effects of the last one. He was planning to achieve his end, not with guns and bombs, but by drugs that would reduce whole nations to helplessness. Whether or not such a plan could succeed was open to question, yet obviously it could do an immense amount of harm. Ambrimos was more than a racketeer. He was a fanatic and a dangerous one.

  The Sultan was watching him. “Fantastic, you think, eh?”

  “Fantastic is the word,” agreed Biggles.

  “But not so fantastic as you might think,” declared Ambrimos. “Do you read history? Did you ever read of the conquest of Peru? Do you know why the Spaniard Pizarro, with a mere handful of men, was able to conquer a nation of ten millions? Because the Incas had rotted their brains and muscles with the drug cocaine, which they obtained by chewing the leaves of the coca plant, until they had no will of their own and only the strength of little children. That is what Pizarro himself said, and he knew. The Incas are no m
ore. Thus will it be with Britain, and the rest of your vaunted Western Civilisation.”

  Biggles smiled bleakly. “I see. So you’re aiming to be a modern Pizarro?”

  Ambrimos smiled a superior smile. “Pizarro conquered only one nation. I shall conquer many.”

  “And then what?”

  “The world shall be set free.”

  Biggles shook his head wearily. “Don’t give me that line of hooey,” he said in a pained voice. “There are enough people already singing that tune. The more talk there is of freedom the less freedom people get. What people like you really want is to put more shackles on everyone so that you can tickle your vanity playing Lord of Creation. If you really want to do people a bit of good, all you have to do is jump in the sea and drown yourself. In short, your real aim is to plunge the world into another war.”

  “Certainly not! I am a man of peace,” declared Ambrimos.

  Biggles drew at his cigarette and exhaled slowly. “The old old story. You want peace so you start a war to get it. Either you’re nuts or you must think other people are. If all you people who are so anxious for peace would pipe down, ordinary folk would forget that there is such a thing as war. They would then get on with the things they really want to do instead of hurting themselves by throwing things at each other. What have you got to moan about, anyway? You’ve done yourself pretty well. But I know your sort. You tuck yourself in under the Union Jack because if you went anywhere else you’d get your throat cut. Then you turn round and bite the hand that protects you because it has something that you haven’t got, and could never get. That something needs guts, not jelly, in its belly. Quit bleating, or else give me leave to go outside to be sick.”

  The Sultan stared. His breath came faster. His face had taken on a curious pallor under its colour.

  “Now I’ll make a suggestion, a practical one,” went on Biggles. “Tomorrow let us pull up all the gurra and burn it. Then I’ll fly you back to Aden where you can live in comfort for the rest of your life as long as you drop the hashish racket and stick to dates and frankincense. No man ever gave you sounder advice than that.”