Miss Turquoise

by George B Mair

  ‘Very distinguished,’ smiled Sidi Achmet. ‘You do credit to my master. But I must tell you two things. For other people this is a great feast. But it would be bad manners for the bridegroom to eat much.’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘Your wife will be on the wall with the other women. That is our custom, and she has asked me to say that she will be happy to get your ring when you are together in your own house.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Grant sourly. ‘I still haven’t read the marriage contract. What does it say?’

  The old man shrugged his shoulders. ‘That you take this bride for wife and will not divorce her without good reason. That you pay her family by giving your services to our master. That you receive a sum of money in the shape of a house and ground in return for taking the woman and that your children will be brought up to follow the customs of our country.’

  As he was speaking he had lead Grant back towards the patio. It was almost midnight and the place was transformed. At least a thousand people were either screaming inside the walls or sitting on top, the women chattering excitedly and their forearms glinting crimson in the reflection of torches.

  The Caid was already tearing meat with his fingers when Sidi Achmet bowed low, putting on a first-class act as he handed over the bridegroom.

  Another fire had been lit in the centre of the patio and Grant could see Aniseeh standing above him against the glare of its flames, an unforgettable picture in the most barbaric setting he had known in years. She was using the same colour, a turquoise which glowed with violent warmth in the strange light, and her long form-fitting gown etched every line of her body. She was also wearing demi-yashmak again and the ovoid flap seemed to sculpt her features, even the curve of her nostrils shading against the glow of torch and fire. Her sandals were almost Turkish, each turning up at the tip to end in a massive jewel which he later discovered was a pure ruby large as a small grape. A sash of kingfisher blue had been wrapped around her waist and emphasized the swelling sweep of long thighs dropping from rounded buttocks below a gently arching back. Sleeves ended under a dozen bracelets covering each wrist, and a pair of long rock-crystal ear-rings drooped below a silver tiara crowned by the crescent of Islam.

  She was standing almost like a statue, motionless except for the slight drift of her gown against the breeze, but as Grant met her eyes she bowed low in a curtsy which swept down to her feet, and a yell of screaming approval drowned even the whining music.

  ‘Sit here,’ laughed Farrachi. ‘Beside me.’

  ‘The Chinaman,’ said Grant. ‘Has he been found?’

  Farrachi gave a loud belch. ‘You worry too much. Our people say “Patience is the key to glory”. If he is alive we shall find him after sunrise.’

  ‘Your people also say that “three persons united against a town can ruin it”,’ added Grant violently. ‘That man must be found.’

  The more he thought of it, the less he liked the set-up. Ling Tao had nothing to lose. If he were still alive he must have realized that he had no chance of escape, and for a man of his training there would be no doubt as to what he had to do. Take as many people as possible with him. And certainly Grant.

  ‘After sunrise,’ smiled the Caid. ‘We can do nothing in the darkness, and neither can he.’ He turned to Sidi Achmet. ‘Give the signal.’

  A group of guards lifted their guns and as the old man snapped an order a volley was fired. The echoes had scarcely died away when the Caid stood up. His voice carried well and Grant listened, fascinated, as he gave an off-the-cuff oration which could hardly have been equalled by any living Head of State, a traditional-style word-painting which covered all the events of the previous few days, but worked with a mixture of humour and local patriotism which raised the tribe to a pitch of fanatical passion as they savoured, in true Berber fashion, the choice of simile, the turn of a phrase, and the logic of an argument.

  Then the Sheikh lifted the parchment and read out the terms of the wedding contract before signing it with a complicated flourish and handing it back to Sidi Achmet, who laid it on the table in front of Grant.

  He could almost feel Miss Turquoise staring at him and sense the eyes of the Sheikh burning into his neck as he lifted the pen. The patio was so silent that he could even hear the clink of Aniseeh’s bracelets when she moved her hand.

  ‘Sign, señor.’ Sidi Achmet’s voice was very quiet but Grant saw that the old man’s fingers were shaking as he held out the pen. And then abruptly he scrawled his name.

  Aniseeh had bowed low, her eyes twinkling through the slit of her yashmak, and the Sheikh was gripping him by the hand when a terrific crash of gunfire roared out around the patio, every gun in the place seeming to go off at the same time as the tribesmen remembered that the more noise they made, the more they would be showing respect for their ruler. Wood was being thrown on the bonfire and even the spits had been removed, the cooking fires flaring into young furnaces as children piled branches on to the embers.

  The noise was deafening, leaping flames pin-pointing bearded men as they leapt and danced around the table where Grant and the Caid were standing, when a shrieking shape suddenly broke the darkness and walls crashed into rubble on top of the crowd below. In the same split second a bloody swathe of destruction ripped through the patio and Grant heard the crash of 20 mm cannon shells. For less than the flicker of an eyelash he had glimpsed the aircraft, a U.S. Navy A4 jet, as it caught the reflection of light, and had automatically flung himself to the ground, his phenomenal reaction-time remembering that this latest kite could throw more than twelve thousand shells per minute.

  The fading whine of the aircraft still thudded against Grant’s ears as he stood up and tried to guess what had happened.

  The patio had become a charnel house, a mess of stunned humanity piled on cratered ground splashed by the wreckage of masonry and cement. Sidi Achmet had been blown to pulp by a direct hit and the Sheikh had disappeared.

  As he tried to pick his way towards where he had last seen Aniseeh he again saw the A4 sweep across the area and heard the scream of its jets, remembering that a one-second burst from its three pods of cannon was equivalent to the blast of a 4,000-pound bomb dropped at a thousand feet. The place was in near darkness, torches doused as walls fell in and the bonfires either smothered by rubble or literally blasted out of existence.

  As his eyes accommodated he saw figures beginning to rise from the ground. He had almost been deafened and could hear only faint cries of help seemingly whispering towards him in the darkness. His cheeks were wet and fingers blood-stained. His nose was choked with dust and eyes stinging as though they had been burned. He guessed that his left leg had been twisted and his chest ached as though he had been clamped in a vice. His shin suddenly struck a pile of bricks. Almost at the wall! He was still dazed, but the pain rocked him back to near-sanity and then he saw her, a patch of blue-green beneath a mass of rubble. Five or six paces still to go! He was praying aloud. Forcing himself to keep moving.

  Other shapes had also begun to rise. A house was on fire, its roof throwing enough light to show that almost all four walls had been ripped to a skeleton of gaping holes.

  Three more paces! The patch of green was moving. A hand had poked through the dust and was struggling with a brick. Fighting with a controlled passion which refused to think about why or how it had all happened Grant systematically cleared the pile with his naked hands, sweeping dust aside with his forearms and frantically following the line of colour buried under the debris.

  He knew that he was speaking to himself; speaking to Miss Turquoise; promising; cursing; raving; almost blaspheming. And then he saw her. Her face. She was alive. And conscious. Her eyes were open. She was even smiling. And then: she even lifted her fingers to be kissed before she knew who he was. Her pulse? Still beating. Everything in life had become reduced in size to a need to save this woman. A searing pain gripped him across the back as he began to take her weight, lifting her out of the mess
of dust in which she had been buried and stumbling across the rutted ground through a gash in the wall to the softness of grass beside a spring, and to the soothing chirrup of cicadas, still singing even in the midst of death.

  ‘Oh, David,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t look like that. It frightens me. I’m all right. Believe me. I haven’t been badly hurt.’

  There was no blood on her clothes. Only dust. And as he ran his hands over her chest and belly he saw that she had no pain. There seemed to be no fracture or internal damage. And she could walk.

  ‘But you, David?’ Her eyes were anxious as she leaned over him and slowly persuaded him to lie on the ground. His head was swimming and he felt sick. Somewhere there was the noise of an aircraft landing. But it didn’t seem to matter as he felt Aniseeh’s warm hands gently touch his limbs. ‘Just a cut above your ear.’ She fumbled in her gown and produced a packet of cigarettes from a small pocket worked inside a hem. ‘Take one,’ she said quietly. ‘It will help to steady our nerves.’

  He lit it in silence, content simply to hold her. He could do nothing more. Something had gone wrong. He tried to remember his conversation with the Admiral. He had issued clear instructions. ‘Chinese soldiers are likely to be in control but he expected to hold out in the palace.’

  The A4 had arrived at the one moment in time when a mistake could have been made. Who could blame the pilot for guessing that the blazing volleys of gunfire were not being directed against the house which must have been etched against the ground like a white sugar-lump as he swept overhead?

  His thoughts were still disorientated and fragmentary. But how in hell had it all happened so quickly? He had made his radio signal at around two pip emma local time: which meant fifteen hours at Greenwich, seventeen in Moscow and ten hours, or mid-forenoon, in Washington. In each case just about right for contacting the top men.

  ‘Don’t think, David.’ Aniseeh whispered. ‘You look worried. Speak out loud so that I can hear you.’

  He nodded and almost automatically did as she asked. Even with a slow commercial flight Moscow–Accra was only around seventeen hours with long stops at every touchdown, and New York–Dakar was only twelve. A real fast bird could slash that time. Perhaps even to half. But the A4 was a naval job. Given a carrier or a base somewhere around the coast there would have been ample time for top consultations and still rush a kite to the Sahara before midnight.

  But the same applied to Moscow. Supersonic jets could be let loose from somewhere in the Balkans and be at Casablanca within five hours, using a decent airport to swap planes for a rough job which could take the desert airstrip but still rendezvous at the oases well within time-limits.

  And perhaps the Admiral hadn’t needed to see the President personally. A phone call might have been enough to do the trick. Kennedy had plenty know-how to judge when a man was talking sense. And the Telstar gimmick which he had used to bluff Ling Tao was still another possibility. It might even turn out to be one more bluff which later proved to be true.

  As might RAMEN! Russia, America and England would have to get together over this if they wanted to skip difficult questions of UNO or frontier wars with every state interested in Spanish Sahara. And if they did what better name could be given to the alliance than that? RAMEN. Something tough, tripping easily from the tongue, but putting Russia in first place. A diplomatic name-game that would appeal to Khrushchev even if it raised stark rage in Pekin.

  The more he thought of it, the more he realized how swiftly events must have moved once the Admiral got his message. Allow ten minutes to contact the President direct and another twenty to put him fully in the picture. Moscow could have been advised within an hour if the President had used the hot line.

  And, of course, it was a cinch to get through to Downing Street or the F.O. A link-up of television, either using Telstar or tape, could easily bring the three Heads of State together so that they could talk direct and look at each other before taking the plunge which mattered.

  Khrushchev knew at least as well as any of the others when it was time to quit bluffing and get down to the stark realities of living. And he was a big enough man to join this sort of alliance given that the stakes were high enough. Even although he might pretend to everyone that the idea was impractical.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Aniseeh softly. ‘You are making yourself ill trying to guess. Just give me my ring. Our wedding contract must have been destroyed but at least it was signed. So give me my ring. I want to feel that I belong to you, and it is quiet here on the grass.’

  ‘But the others?’ he muttered. ‘There must be people needing help in there.’ He was adjusting to the ruins ahead and the whine of voices from the rubble. Surely some of them at least could still be saved.

  ‘Please,’ Aniseeh’s voice was very gentle.

  He opened his gown. The ring was still hanging round his neck, and he glanced, almost in surprise, at the thin gold hoop with its tiny stone. Such a strange place to end its journeyings! She was looking at him with the same long stare of appraisal which he had once noted at Las Palmas when suddenly her expression changed.

  She opened her mouth to speak and then flung herself forward on top of him. The crack of a pistol fired at close quarters dinned his senses and he felt the kick of a bullet as it tore into her body. She screamed and rolled aside, curling into a ball as he leapt to his feet and saw Ling Tao a few paces away, caught in the glare of flames from the roof of a nearby house. But something seemed to have gone wrong with the ejector mechanism of his gun and he was working feverishly at the breech.

  Everything was happening at once, the noise of more aircraft overhead, Aniseeh moaning with pain on the ground, and survivors within the ruins yelling with fear as they heard the shot and watched the shapes of aircraft point towards the landing strip. Lights had sprung up in the far distance and the oases were now being covered with shadows which threw the nakedness of destruction into sick relief.

  Ling Tao had dropped his gun and was standing, hands loosely by his side with knees slightly flexed. But as he turned towards the Chinaman Grant could also see that damage was local, that the A4 had simply gouged out a target area which really must have looked as though it had been filled with rabble attacking the palace. He could even see Aniseeh still twisting with pain as he leapt upon Ling Tao.

  Every sense had been heightened: his field of vision, which in a glance could appreciate background detail; hearing, which registered approach of latest arrivals; even smell, which sickened with the stench of blood and cinders; and the bitter, gritty taste which seemed to fill his mouth. But best of all he savoured the touch of flesh as he felt Ling try to turn his attack by a judo grip which ended with the two men locked together, their arms around one another’s waists and knees entwined as their feet shuffled for purchase on the slippery dust.

  The man was wiry, with fingers which could bore like gimlets, while long nails ripped scratches in the skin. But he was breathing heavily, and Grant could feel his heart racing as they writhed against each other. Ling’s gleaming teeth were only an inch from Grant’s throat, and as he lunged suddenly forwards, snapping, Grant butted him full on the nose. Cartilage crunched beneath his forehead and he could hear the hissing intake of breath as the man’s grip relaxed. Crashing short jabs to his stomach he threw him backwards, following with a dive which thudded to a stop as Ling kicked up his legs and caught Grant in the crutch with pointed shoes which seemed to sink into his very bowels.

  Grant could stand pain better than most and grabbed Ling by the ankles before he had time to recover balance. ‘Now,’ he heard himself grunt as he strained to take the weight and began to swing round, whirling the Chinaman face down as he turned, and pivoted in circles until his head had begun to swim.

  Clenching his teeth he forced one final effort and span another full turn at speed before heaving upwards with his shoulders and dropping his grip. Ling cleared at least twenty feet before his head struck the side of a block of masonry. Grant could hear the heavy t
hwack of breaking bone and a deep moan as the man rolled to the ground.

  The girl had dragged herself against a low bank of grass and ripped a strip from her dress to form a tourniquet which was gripping her thigh. The bullet had torn through her leg just above the knee, but it seemed as though no bone had been broken. ‘My ring,’ she pleaded urgently. ‘David. Please. Put it on before you take me away. I want to be married properly. Slip it on my finger and then carry me to the house.’

  The ring was still hanging on its cord, but as he rose to undo the knot the girl slumped forward, unconscious.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he prayed, ‘don’t let her die now.’ Forcing himself to move with the clinical precision which was part of his combined character and training he slipped a hand over her chest. Her heart was beating. On the surface of things it looked like a simple faint.

  ‘You seem about all in, David.’ The voice did more than anything else to shock him back to full sanity. The chief himself was standing on the edge of the garden beside two other men in uniform. ‘I told you I might come over, so permit me to introduce Lieutenant-General Nesterenko Gleb of Moscow and Colonel Frank B. Smith from Washington. They practically beat the sun to get here. But the main thing is that thanks to real fast action at all top levels we made it on schedule and it looks as though riodorium is now in the bag. As is a treaty between the Three Great Powers.’

  Grant turned in surprise when he heard the familiar drawl. So RAMEN had become a thing, after all!

  The Russian’s face was vaguely familiar. And he had heard of Frank Smith.