by W E Johns
“What’s that?”
“I still don’t know what country we’re in, so who’s going to handle the job? To bring it before an international court would mean argument, and argument means delay —during which time the wise guys at the top would pull their irons out of the fire and get away with it. However, that’ll come later. The thing is to get away from here, and the sooner the better. I don’t like the idea of this Douglas being available in Alex. Von Stalhein might decide to use it. There’s a pilot there, too—this fellow Liebnitz.”
“What did you mean about these fellows being crazy not to post a guard?”
“Had any of them served in the R.A.F. they’d know. The Kurds, some of the wildest tribes on earth, live in these hills. Like the Pathans and Wazirs on the North-West Frontier they’ve lived for thousands of years by raiding the people of the plains. That’s their life—business and pleasure combined. They pinch anything, from camels to corn, but the most valuable loot of all is weapons and ammunition. They can’t get those any other way; but they must have them to raid, and they must raid to live. Once upon a time they relied on speed to get back to the hills before they were overtaken. But they weren’t fast enough for aircraft. Some years ago, when we took care of Iraq, our chaps caught them in the open, and so taught them that the good old raiding days were over. The R.A.F. is no longer here, but you can bet the Kurds haven’t forgotten what happened when they were. They hate aircraft, and with good reason. One day they’ll raid this place as sure as fate. They would probably have done it by now had they realized what things were like here. There’s nothing to stop them as far as I can see. That’s another reason why I shall be glad to see the back of it.”
Ginger looked apprehensively at the stark, apparently dead hills that frowned on them from three points of the compass.
“Let’s have a dekko at the castle,” said Biggles.
* * *
1 A twin-engined transport aircraft, carrying 35-40 passengers, or freight. Built in the USA.
CHAPTER XIII
A CASTLE WITHOUT A NAME
UNDER ordinary conditions the castle would have interested Ginger immensely, particularly if he had known something about it. It interested him now—but not for academical reasons. Its time-weathered walls revealed its antiquity; but, now that he was close to it, it was the size of the place that fascinated him. He reckoned it covered a good acre of ground.
It was plain at first glance that the primary consideration of the architect had been defence. Everything else was secondary. The site itself had obviously been chosen to that end. On three sides the walls rose sheer from perpendicular rock faces. Even so there was not a window—if occasional narrow slits could be called windows—less than thirty feet from the ground.
There was only one approach to the single entrance. This was a stone arched bridge over a ravine, just wide enough for one. man to cross at a time. There was no parapet. The ravine, about fifteen feet across, was not very deep, and looking down as they walked over Ginger saw, from the chaos of boulders at the bottom, that it had at one time been a water-course. Great boulders and detritus that had rolled down the hills through the ages also lay on all sides, although, by a curious chance, none had struck the bridge or it must have been carried away.
From the far side of the bridge steps had been hewn in the rock to a doorway, again just wide enough to admit one man at a time. There was no actual door. In fact, as they discovered later, there was no wood in the place at all. As they mounted the steps to the entrance Ginger couldn’t help wondering what tales the steps could tell if they could speak.
From the doorway Biggles turned and surveyed the scene with an eye to its military possibilities. “At the period this place was built it must have been literally impregnable,” he remarked. “Even now, with modern weapons, a determined garrison would take a lot of shifting. I doubt if archaeologists have ever seen it, or we should have heard something about it. It’s a masterpiece of its kind. But then, as I said just now, this is bad country, and only an armed force would dare to push as near the hills as this without risk of annihilation. Only a siege would reduce the place. Now we can understand why, in ancient times, a siege could last for years.”
“The fellows said there was water inside.”
“There would have to be, or thirst would soon do what bows and arrows could never do. As a matter of fact. I don’t think the country could always have been like it is now. After all, what is there to defend? Water once ran in that ravine, and it can’t be far under the ground now, or it would be no use sinking a well. No. There was a time when this district must have been fertile. If there was water there would be vegetation. Like so much of the Middle East it dried up and died when the water fizzled out. This is what men can do to a country. They’re doing the same thing now, in more countries than one.”
“Men?”
“Cut down your forests and there’s no cool ground to bring down the rain. But that’s not our worry now.”
A short spiral staircase led into what they thought must be the main chamber of the castle; the quarters of the rank and file of the garrison. In the middle was the well. Biggles picked up a piece of fallen masonry and tossed it in. It took only about three seconds for it to splash. Which was to be expected, for a modern rope and bucket showed that the men outside had drawn up their water by hand.
Other signs of their occupation were there in plenty—empty tins, cartons, cigarette ends and the like, as well as some mattresses thrown down against the walls, which showed that some of the men had sometimes slept there. The great hall was gloomy on account of the comparatively tiny window slits, but Ginger could see nothing of the snakes or scorpions that had been promised. On the whole, considering its age, the building was in a surprisingly good state of repair, inside as well as outside. Only in one or two places had the masonry cracked and this, Biggles thought, was due to an earthquake.
Said Biggles: “I’d rather sleep in here than in one of those tents. It is at least reasonably cool. Besides, should anything go wrong we should have a better chance in here than outside. One man could hold this place against an army.”
“Let’s hope we never have to play Horatius holding the bridge,1” answered Ginger warmly. Walking over to one of the slits he could see the tent-dwellers withdrawing any petrol that was left in the tanks of their machines. He told Biggles. “Are you going to explore this place?” he asked.
“No,” answered Biggles. “We’ve other things to think about. We might have a look at what’s at the top of those steps, in case we have occasion to use them,” he decided, pointing to another narrow flight of steps that wound upwards from a corner.
Cobwebs proclaimed that the steps had not been used for some time, and Ginger, pulling them off his face, and at the same time watching where he was putting his feet, was not sorry when they reached the top, to find themselves in another large room, although not so big as the one below, with loopholed turrets in two of the corners. Here there was that curious musty smell one usually encounters in ancient buildings.
Going to the nearest turret Biggles, with his penknife, flicked into space a black scorpion that was crawling on the sill. “They were right about those venomous little beasts,” he remarked. “Watch where you put your hands. This is no place to get stung.”
There were two of the standard window slits in the turret. One looked out over the improvised airfield and the plain beyond, behind which the sun was sinking like a monstrous orange, flooding the desolation with a strange unearthly glow. The men could be seen working on the Beechcraft.
Leaving Biggles watching them Ginger turned to the other loophole, which overlooked the bridge and the boulder-strewn rising ground which, falling to the sandy floor of the valley, formed its boundary. All was stark dead wilderness. The only living thing in sight was an area of straggling camel thorn. Or so he thought, and would, no doubt, have continued to think, had not a slight movement caught his eye. Instantly his eyes focused on the spot, yet so
perfectly did the object—which did not move again—merge into the colourless background, that it took him a minute to pick it up. Even then he was not sure if he was looking at the thing that had moved, much less discern what it was. The trouble was, he was looking at a scene without outline. Nowhere was there any rest for the eyes. Observation was not made easier by the quivering of the heat-soaked air near the ground. But as he stared he thought he could make out a shape, a shape in the rough form of a man lying prone, his head towards the airfield. He was still by no means sure that this was not imagination.
“Biggles,” he said softly. “Come here.”
Biggles joined him.
“At two hundred yards, a large pointed rock, with a sort of little spike on top. The sun is just catching it.”
“I’ve got it.”
Ginger held out his arm at full length. “At nine o’clock, two fingers away. Does that look like a man to you—a man lying on his stomach?”
Biggles raised his arm, squinting past two fingers.
“I thought I saw it move,” said Ginger.
“I think you’re right, but I wouldn’t be sure,” answered Biggles slowly. “Yes, by James!” he went on quickly. “He moved again! I saw him distinctly. He’s looking round the side of a rock. He couldn’t be seen from below. Here, we’re slightly above him. He couldn’t have seen us coming to the castle. But then, he wouldn’t, being where he is. We needn’t wonder who he is or what he’s doing. He’s a Kurd, and he’s watching the camp. I don’t see any others. Now you’ll see the point of my argument a little while ago about those fellows being crazy. If the camp is being watched you may be sure there’s something in the wind. And those fools down there don’t even suspect anything. Where do they think they are —on Margate beach?”
“What are you going to do—if anything?”
“We shall have to warn them. They’ll laugh in our faces of course. Fools always laugh at what they don’t understand, or don’t want to believe. We’d better go right away. This isn’t a place to stroll about after dark. I want to see how much petrol they’ve managed to raise between them. Hark! Can you hear something?”
“I can hear it all right,” returned Ginger lugubriously. “It’s an aircraft. Multiple power units. It’s that confounded Douglas.”
“I can see it,” said Biggles. “Just coming out of the sun, heading for the valley. That puts an end to any ideas about going to the camp.”
In silence they watched the aircraft land and taxi in. Four men got out.
“Pantenelli, Festwolder and von Stalhein,” said Biggles. “The other fellow must be the transport pilot we were told about. By thunder! Lindsay was right when he said those rascals would have to do their own dirty work for a bit. They haven’t wasted any time.”
“They’d have to know what the position here was like.”
“It’d be a joke if they didn’t bring any spare fuel with them, wouldn’t it? They’d find themselves in the same position as the rest of us.”
“They’d take the Beechcraft, in which case we should lose it.”
“If we didn’t get it first.”
“They won’t give us a chance. They saw us take off. Seeing the machine they’ll know we’re here. They’ll ask where we are. The gang will tell them we’re in the castle. They’ll come over to winkle us out.”
“Not necessarily. They’ll still think we’re two new hands, recruited by Raban. They can’t possibly know our names—our real names. I don’t see how von Stalhein could have an inkling that we’re on this job.”
“They’ll come over to ask why we pushed off this morning without von Stalhein, you watch it.”
“We’ll tell them what happened at the hotel.”
“Suppose von Stalhein comes?”
“Oh, if he comes over the cat will be out of the bag with one beautiful jump,” admitted Biggles.
“Here they come, the whole pack of ‘em,” muttered Ginger. “Von Stalhein is with them. That, I’d say, has torn it.”
“Not at all,” disputed Biggles. “We won’t let ‘em in.”
Ginger was not impressed. “How long can we stay here?”
“If it comes to that, how long can they stay there?”
“As long as they feel like it, as far as I can see.”
“Then you can’t see very far. We’ve got the water supply. I’d wager a month’s pay that those useless erks in the camp haven’t a pint of water between them. If nobody was detailed to fetch water you can bet your sweet life nobody fetched any.”
“Maybe the Douglas brought some beer.”
“I hope it has. Let ‘em drink it. They’ll get thirsty all the faster. But if there is any liquid going Pantenelli and Festwolder will keep it for themselves. They’re not used to going without anything. But we’d better get downstairs. We look like having to do the Horatius act after all. Von Stalhein’s face should be worth looking at when he sees us.”
“We can’t stall off that mob.”
“Can’t we? You see. Watch what happens when they realize we’ve got guns.”
“You’ll use them?”
“That’s what they’re for. Most people in the world have sound reasons for not wanting to be shot, and that goes for the gang down there. They all want to go on living. They’ll all know that the first man who sets foot on that bridge will die. They’ll know it because I shall tell ‘em so. And I shan’t be bluffing. It’s either them or us for the chop, and it isn’t going to be me if I can prevent it. As no one will be in a hurry to die there’ll be no rush to be the first man on the bridge. The two most potent motives on this earth of ours are love and money. There’s no love in that crowd, and money’s no use if you’ve got a bullet in your ticker.2”
By the time they had reached the head of the steps overlooking the bridge the gang was only about a hundred yards away. Von Stalhein, Festwolder and Pantenelli walked in front. Ginger hoped that the lone Kurd might cause a diversion, but if he saw what was happening he did not show himself. The party continued to advance in a purposeful way. So far none of them had seen Biggles leaning against a side pillar just inside the entrance doorway.
Strangely, perhaps, it was von Stalhein who saw him first. He stopped, advanced a few paces and stopped again. All Biggles had said about his expression came true, and revealed that he had not suspected who was in the castle. His face, usually immobile, took on a look of incredulity. He said something to his companions, who also stopped. What he said could not be heard, but that Biggles was the subject of the conversation was plain.
After a while the advance was resumed, but very slowly now, as if von Stalhein was feeling his way cautiously to find out what sort of reception was waiting for him.
Biggles allowed him to get nearly to the far side of the bridge. Then he called. “That’s close enough. What a fellow you are for changing jobs. I never know where I’m going to run into you next. Fancy meeting you here, of all places.”
“Do you intend to stay there?” asked von Stalhein.
“I’ve no intention of coming out.”
“We can talk about this.”
“You can talk from there. I’m listening.”
The chief members of the party on the far side of the bridge went into a huddle.
A wild thought occurred to Ginger that this was their chance to drop to the ground on the far side of the castle and make a dash for the Beechcraft, using the rope at the well for getting down. But he had to abandon the plan when, measuring the size of the loopholes with his eye, he saw that neither he nor Biggles could get through. The intention of the architect was, no doubt, that nobody should get in.
From their gesticulations, and the way they looked at the bridge, it seemed that those on the far side were contemplating an attack. Biggles squashed it by giving his assurance that the first man to step on it would never take another. He held up his Luger to let them see he was armed.
As there was no cover, and at such a range Biggles could hardly miss, no one volunteered to l
ead a storming party. Moreover, darkness was now fast closing in, so apart from bullets, the project offered some natural risks.
The men stood talking for some time. Then two were posted as guards and the rest retired towards the camp. They were soon lost to sight in the gathering darkness.
”So they’re not going to try to get in,” observed Biggles.
“But they’ve seen to it that we don’t get out. They’ll think up something and come back in the morning. They won’t just leave us here.”
“By morning they’ll be getting thirsty and be asking us for a drink,” asserted Biggles. “Tomorrow will be another day, anyhow. We’ll take it in turns to watch, and snatch a nap.”
“Can you see any way out of this?” asked Ginger.
“Frankly, no,” answered Biggles. “The thing will just have to work itself out. If we can’t stay here indefinitely neither can they stay there.”
“What about Algy? He might do something. He knows where we are.”
“Without an aircraft it’s hard to see what he could do. Whatever he did would take time, and where we’re concerned that’s likely to be in short supply. Tomorrow will probably see the end of this business. Since there’s nothing we can do about it ourselves let’s leave it like that for the moment.”
* * *
1 A long poem by Macaulay describes how the Roman soldier Horatius kept invaders from entering Rome in 500 BC.
2 Slang: heart.
CHAPTER XIV
OUTSIDERS TAKE A HAND
THE night that followed was as strange as any that Ginger could remember. There was something unreal about it. The silent, brooding land, the brilliant moonlight and the black shapeless shadows cast by it, induced an uneasy feeling that he was no longer in the world he had always known but in a world in which life had yet to appear—or from which all life had departed. He wasn’t sure which. It was such a world as might appear in a dream, a world peopled only by the spirits of a long-forgotten past. There was something frightening about it. For this the Biblical associations of the place may have been partly responsible. Certainly names that had not occurred to him since child-hood passed in solemn procession before his eyes. Where were all these people now, men and women who had been so important in their day? Where were the hosts of soldiers and slaves who had sweated and toiled to build this fantastic fortress; who had gazed on this same scene under the same impassive moon and glittering stars? Gone. Gone to dust. Gone as utterly as if they had never been. In the all-enfolding silence the thought hung on him like a weight.
