Biggles of the Interpol

by W E Johns

  What Arbram Nifar and his wife thought about the night alarm in Devon, if they thought about it at all, was never known, but it may be supposed that, judging from their behaviour, they did not take it seriously. It could be that their unique scheme for producing drugs in England had for so long been successful that they had grown careless — a state of mind by no means uncommon in those who break the law.

  At all events, they must have stayed on at the farm until late the next morning, for the Rolls did not arrive back at the house in Mayfair until its usual hour. This gave Biggles, with Inspector Gaskin and some of his men, ample time to perfect their plan for a complete round-up of the gang, and take up their positions accordingly. In short, when the Rolls drew up at the door of Nifar’s residence Biggles and Inspector Gaskin were watching from a plain van a few yards higher up the street. This, Biggles had asserted, was for several reasons a more satisfactory scheme than stopping the car somewhere on the road.

  Nifar’s coloured chauffeur jumped out smartly and opening the rear door took out two small suitcases. With these in his hands he advanced to the door of the house, followed closely by his employers. Nifar took out his latch-key and put it in the door, but before this could be opened the police were on the step beside him.

  ‘Just a moment, sir,’ said Gaskin quietly.

  ‘What — what is this?’ blustered Nifar, his dark eyes darting glances from Gaskin to Biggles.

  Actually, he must have known the answer to his question, for the colour had drained from his face, leaving it ghastly under its brown skin.

  ‘We’re police officers, and I must ask you to show me the contents of those suitcases,’ said Gaskin politely, but with cold deliberation.

  The woman screamed.

  ‘Instead of making a scene in the street suppose we go inside,’ suggested Gaskin imperturbably. ‘It will be better for everyone that way.’

  Moving like a man in a dream Nifar unlocked the door and pushed it open. They all moved on into the hall.

  ‘Now,’ went on Gaskin. ‘Let’s have a look in these bags.’

  The suitcases were locked. The Inspector held out a hand. ‘The keys, please.’

  Nifar, with a shaking hand, passed them over. ‘These — these cases aren’t mine,’ he stammered.

  ‘Whose are they?’ demanded Gaskin evenly.

  ‘They belong to a friend of mine.’

  ‘Do you know what’s in them?’

  ‘Er — no.’

  ‘Then why get so upset?’

  By this time Biggles had put the cases on the hall table, unlocked them and thrown back the lids to reveal the contents. These were not quite what he expected, consisting of a number of small, neat, brown-paper parcels. Some carried a name only, others an address as well, as if intended for posting.

  A slow smile spread over Gaskin’s face as he picked up one or two of the packages and read the inscriptions. ‘Well — well — well,’ he murmured softly. ‘This is the best thing that has happened in this country for a long time.’ He cocked an eye at Biggles. ‘I’ve been waiting quite a while to learn how some of these smart guys live in luxury without working. Now we know. What a haul!’

  ‘We’d better have a look at one of these parcels, to make sure,’ suggested Biggles.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  While Biggles was opening a package picked up at random the Inspector turned to Nifar. ‘Do you know what’s in these parcels?’ he inquired.

  The Egyptian, who looked as if he was on the point of collapse, swore in a husky voice that he had no idea.

  Said the Inspector calmly: ‘Then you’ll be as interested as we are to see.’

  Biggles disclosed, in neatly folded paper, a quantity of fine white powder.

  ‘Now what have you to say about it?’ The Inspector asked Nifar, in a hard voice.

  Nifar had nothing to say. Nor had his wife, who slumped in a chair.

  Gaskin turned a stern face to the ashen chauffeur. ‘If you can see which side your bread is buttered you’ll come clean, and do as I tell you. What happens to these parcels without addresses?’

  ‘The people come here for them.’

  ‘Flash Charlie, and Toni, for instance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The Inspector nodded. ‘I see. And you go off in the Rolls and deliver the others?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right. Get on with it. Two of my men will go with you.’

  As the chauffeur departed, two plain-clothes men with him, Gaskin looked at Biggles. ‘My fellers’ll collect these rats as they take delivery. We’ll wait here for the others to call.’

  And so it worked out. Never was a round-up more complete. As each drug pedlar arrived, and accepted his packet from Nifar, he was arrested by Gaskin’s men who, for that purpose, had been placed where they could not be seen. They stepped out when the transaction was completed. Some of the pedlars came in expensive motor-cars, but they all left in the police van.

  ‘Never saw such a lovely collection of spivs in my life,’ said Gaskin with deep satisfaction, at the end of the day, after the last caller had been, and Nifar and his wife had been taken away to complete the party.

  Some time later the judge must have thought the same thing, as the gang, which included the foreign workers on the ‘farm’, appeared before him to receive heavy prison sentences.

  ‘If Nobby Donovan ever gets to hear of this he should reckon he got his own back on a bunch of crooks who nearly drove him to suicide,’ opined Ginger, when they were back in the Air Police office.

  ‘I hope he’ll think it was worth losing a foot to do the country the best service anyone has done it since the time he lost his,’ answered Biggles soberly. ‘He should also, now that the dope is no longer available, have solved a problem for a lot of other people who had landed themselves in the same mess as he had.’

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  ASSIGNMENT IN ARABIA

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘’Morning, Bigglesworth.’ Air Commodore Raymond waved to a chair. ‘Sit down. I have a rather unusual job for you.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘You said that as if most of our jobs were mere routine.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Let us say, this one is a bit more off course than usual.’

  Biggles reached for a cigarette. ‘All right, sir. Tell me the worst.’

  ‘I want you to fly an Arab boy to an oasis in the Arabian desert.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be difficult. But why me? What’s wrong with the regular services?’

  ‘If you’ll listen I’ll tell you why to use the regular air service would defeat its object. This job must be done quietly, secretly and without fuss.’

  ‘Which means, I suppose, that it has a political angle.’

  ‘Correct. Here, in brief, is the story. There is, in the hinterland behind Kuwait, a small province called El Kafala, the Sheikh’s residence being an oasis of that name. This sheikh was, until he died a few months ago, a friend of ours; and in order to maintain that friendship it was arranged that his son, now a boy of sixteen, should be educated in this country. That wouid enable him to learn English and see for himself how a democratic country is run. Well, he came, and was here for nearly three years.’

  ‘You mean, he has gone back?’

  ‘He is back, but he did not go of his own free will. He was abducted. From the speed with which things happened there is good reason to think this boy’s father was murdered. At all events, the breath was hardly out of the Sheikh’s body when his throne was jumped by a brother — the boy’s uncle — a man named Abu Ibn Menzil. He hates us, the reason being that we have always supported his brother, who was without doubt heir to the sheikhdom. You will now begin to see how the land lies.’

  ‘The rightful heir to his father’s place was the boy who was in this country, but it has been usurped by his uncle.’

  ‘Exactly. And he has consolidated his position by seizing the boy who is now virtually a prisoner. For this unfortunate st
ate of affairs we were to some extent responsible, for it was while the Foreign Office was considering the best course for this lad to pursue that he was seized, outside his school, and carried home. He is helpless. There is no other claimant but the uncle, who is now in a strong position. He knows perfectly well that we dare not use force to unseat him, for this would cause a flare-up among the more powerful sheikhs in Saudi Arabia, where things are very touchy already, due to the scramble for oil concessions in the region.’

  ‘You know for certain that this boy is back at El Kafala?’

  ‘Yes. The boy, Jerid Beni Menzil is his name, managed to get a letter out by a friend making the pilgrimage to Mecca. He asks for help, and that is a call we cannot ignore.’

  ‘Why hasn’t his uncle killed him?’

  ‘That’s the point. He will, no doubt, as soon as he feels that his position is assured. What will happen is, it will be given out that Jerid has died of some ailment or other.’

  ‘Why is this uncle so keen on being the Sheikh?’

  ‘Because he looks forward to being a multi-millionaire, as he will be when the oil under his land is tapped. As we don’t deal in murder ourselves there can be no question of liquidating this false sheikh. And while the boy is in his hands the less we say the better, for to raise a scream would simply result in Jerid being put to death forthwith. That would be the end of the business as far as we were concerned, for the uncle would then have a legitimate claim to the sheikhdom. In a word, we must get this boy out of his uncle’s clutches before we can act.’

  ‘How do the people, the Arabs, feel about this?’

  ‘They would support the boy if he were free. It’s unlikely they know where he is. Not knowing he’s a prisoner they may be wondering why he doesn’t show up.’

  ‘All right. So you want the boy. How are you going to get him?’

  ‘It would, of course, be absurd for you to show your face in El Kafala. Nor could you hope to pass as an Arab. So this is the plan. There is at the London University a young Arab medical student named Miktel. He knows Jerid, coming from that district. He has been approached and he says he is willing to rescue him if we will take him there. That’s where you come in. The idea is, you will fly Miktel to a small oasis some two or three miles from El Kafala, wait there for him, and fly him, and Jerid, back to this country. He will guide you to the oasis.’

  ‘What about landing conditions?’

  ‘He says there are miles and miles of sabkha — you know the sort of stuff, mostly gravel — all round the oasis. There’s not likely to be anyone there, for at this time of the year the water hole dries out. The place is only visited when the dates are ripe. Well, how do you feel about it?’

  ‘Not entirely happy, but I’ll go.’

  ‘When will you be ready to start? There’s no time to lose.’

  ‘As soon as this chap Miktel is ready. What about his clothes?’

  ‘He’ll be dressed as he would be at home. He has his Arab clothes, abbas, gumbaz, kafich, and so on, with him. He thinks it would be best to arrive about sundown. Leaving you to wait he will go on in the dark. In broad daylight he might be recognized and questioned.’

  Biggles got up. ‘Okay, sir. I’ll get ready. I shall have an opportunity, I suppose, to have a word with this lad Miktel before we start?’

  ‘Of course. Which way will you go?’

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘Italy, Cyprus, Amman, and then straight across the Syrian Desert.’

  The Air Commodore nodded. ‘I’ll prepare a document that should give you diplomatic immunity en route. Will you go alone?’

  ‘Yes. The less weight the better. A Proctor would be best for the job, I think. I’ll have a reserve machine follow me in case anything should go wrong. These long runs over nothing but sand, in a single-engined job, are always a bit of an anxiety. If anything goes wrong you haven’t a hope. It’s a comfort to know someone’s behind you.’

  ‘All right. Let’s call it settled,’ concluded the Air Commodore.

  On the afternoon of the fifth day after the conversation in the Air Commodore’s office an Air Police Proctor aircraft bored a lonely course eastwards from Amman, famous in Biblical history as the capital of the Ammonite kingdom conquered by David, now capital of the Hashemite kingdom of Jordan.

  Around the machine the thin desert air quivered under the torture of a merciless sun as it burned its daily journey across a dome of shimmering steel.

  Below lay the wilderness, the ancient wilderness of Moab, naked, hopeless, a place of death; a vast area, not of sand in the manner of the Sahara, but of hard baked clay, gravel, ashes, crumbling rocks, pebbles, or a mixture of these things called by the Arab sabkha. A land without water.

  Always the sun blazed, striking down with lances of white heat, distorting the weary earth into grotesque shapes and making the atmosphere so unstable that the machine sometimes wallowed in ‘bumps’ of disconcerting violence.

  From time to time Biggles, wearing dark glasses as a protection against the glare, glanced at the boy in the seat beside him. Always it was the same, impassive, inscrutable.

  Miktel was a fine example of the desert Arab, of medium height, slim, with a flawless olive-brown skin and features of classic regularity. Biggles had come to know the lad well during the past few days, and was aware that behind the mask of imperturbability was courage and a sense of humour. Miktel had told him that he was seventeen, and hoped one day to be a doctor, of which his people were in need.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘This sort of bumpy flying sometimes makes people feel sick.’

  Miktel flashed one of his quick smiles. ‘It is not so bad as riding on a camel for the first time. I am glad I am in the air, for the ground below would burn the soles of my feet after wearing shoes for the pavements of London.’

  ‘You haven’t recognized any landmarks yet?’

  ‘No. Nor do I expect to, for this part of the desert is new to me. It looks bad ground after the green fields of England.’ Miktel smiled. ‘You know, there are still Arabs who believe the English covet our land because it is so much better than theirs. Even I as a small boy could not believe that you had so much water that the rivers were allowed to waste themselves in the sea. All this land needs to make it fertile is water, but alas! there is none. Are we going well for time?’

  Biggles looked at his instruments and in the reflector snatched a glance in the direction of the sun now falling towards the horizon behind them. ‘We should arrive, as arranged, just before sunset, if my compass has told the truth. From this altitude we should see the oasis.’ Biggles smiled. ‘I hope it is there. It isn’t marked on my map.’

  ‘It is too small, perhaps. You need have no fear of it not being there. To the Arab, an oasis, however small, is a thing to be remembered. It may mean life.’

  The aircraft droned on, Biggles’ ears, attuned, instinctively listening for any change in the note of the engine. On arrival there would be plenty of room to land, Miktel had assured him. Actually, Biggles was more afraid of not being able to get off, should he find himself on soft sand.

  His calculations were proved correct when, as the great orb of the sun touched the western horizon, Miktel exclaimed: ‘In front I see the three hills of the Jebel Goz, of which I told you. El Kafala lies beyond. The oasis a little to the left.’

  Biggles altered course a trifle and presently, in the mysterious purple twilight, the oasis as conspicuous as an islet in an ocean of water, came into view. He throttled back and began a long glide towards it, eyes questing the inhospitable terrain for any sign of life. But nothing moved.

  Neither he nor his companion spoke as, reaching the little group of sun-scorched palms, he made a low circuit and landed, more than a little relieved when the wheels trundled over firm sabkha. He taxied on with confidence, knowing that anyone there would have run out to look at them. Finding an opening between the palms he went on into it, turning the
nose of the machine to face the open desert should swift departure be necessary. This done he switched off and they got down, Biggles in khaki tropical kit, Miktel in the garments and head-dress of his people.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ said Biggles. ‘Now it’s up to you. I hate the idea of you going alone, but if I came I’m afraid I’d do more harm than good.’

  ‘Certainly you would. It is unlikely that the people would harm you, but the Sheikh would soon hear of your arrival and that would defeat our object.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘Only God is the knower,’ returned Miktel, with Moslem piety. ‘What is written is written.’

  ‘Well, good luck.’

  ‘What happens will be the will of God,’ asserted the lad, with Arab fatalism, and with that he strode away into the gloom.

  Biggles watched him go until he was out of sight. Then, from petrol cans that occupied the rear seats, he topped up his tanks as far as the spirit would go, afterwards putting the empty cans in a little depression and covering them with sand. After that, with nothing more to do, he found a seat on a fallen palm and gazed out across the trackless desert. A solemn silence fell.

  Time passed, the brooding silence persisting. The moon, huge and pale gold in colour, crept over the horizon to cast weird shadows and people the waste with strange, mystical influences.

  An hour passed. Two hours. Three hours, and still the desert lay silent under a moon now clear silver as it rode high in the heavens to dim the faces of a million stars. Midnight came and vanished into the past, with the air cooling rapidly as the arid earth gave up its heat. Biggles began to think the strange thoughts which the Arabs assert come to men who sit too long alone in the wilderness. Uneasiness crept upon him, not so much for himself as for the lad who had so casually walked into what could only be a position of great danger. Should he be found, and his purpose suspected, his fate at the hands of the usurping uncle was a foregone conclusion.