“Well, watch the sun,” he said. “But we are driving north and we want to go east. Shouldn't we head east now?”
“There's a road somewhere ahead of us ... about ten kilometres. Momar was heading for that. If we can find it, it will take us to a village and we can get a guide.”
But after driving fifteen minutes or so. Girland came to the conclusion that they had somehow missed the road. He stopped the car under the shade of a tree.
“Do you think we should turn back?” he asked.
Tessa got out of the car and looked around the flat endless waste.
“We might have missed it by a kilometre or twenty kilometres. If we go back we might run into that gunman.”
Girland looked at his watch. The time was half past ten.
It didn't seem possible so much had happened in so few hours.
“Think there's another village further ahead?”
“There are villages all over the bush. We might be lucky.”
“Okay, then we'll go on. Let's have a drink first.” He got out the water skin and carefully poured a little of the water into the cap of the vacuum flask. They both moistened their parched mouths. “Hell!” Girland went on. grimacing, “I would settle for that orange squash without the gin now.”
He put the water skin back in the car and got under the wheel. Tessa got in beside him, and once again they drove over the uneven ground.
A further ten minute drive brought them to a circle of Baobab trees.
“This is where they used to practice black magic,” Tessa said. “When you see these trees in a circle you know what they were used for and are still sometimes used for. The trees are hollow. When they die, witch doctors are buried side the trees as they believe they will foul the land.”
“As long as no one buries me in one of them,” Girland said.
He glanced again at the petrol gauge, then felt a cold chill run up his spine. The needle of the gauge showed they had now only a quarter of a tank of petrol left. Tor God's sake, look at that! We couldn't have used all that gas!” He pulled up. “Maybe we're losing gas.” He went around to the back of the car and inspected the petrol tank. He swore under his breath when he saw the neatly drilled hole in the lower part of the tank. The last rifle shot he had heard had been devastating effective.
Tessa joined him.
“We're in trouble,” he said. “A quarter full. How far do you think that'll take us?”
“Thirty kilometres,” Tessa said, watching Girland as he plugged the hole with a .45 bullet covered with his handkerchief.
“We might find a village by then.”
He looked sharply at her.
“You're not frightened?”
She smiled at him.
“It's no good being frightened, is it? We have food and water. When the gas runs out, we must get in the shade and wait for the sun to go down. We can't walk in this heat.”
He nodded.
“Okay. Well, let's get going.”
They climbed into the car and drove on into the burning waste land that seemed to have no ending.
Malik with a map on his knees sat beside Smemoff who was operating the walkie-talkie. Dieng was at the wheel of the jeep with Ivan at his side. Daouda sat on the roof in the full glare of the sun, a rifle across his knees They had been driving some time and now the walkie-talkie crackled into life.
Smernoff listened to the excited voice that buzzed and hummed through the headphones. Whoever was calling had a lot to say and Malik kept glancing impatiently at Smemoff.
Finally, the voice ceased and Smernoff said, “Alert Post Three,” and took off the headphones.
“A girl, a man and an African, driving a Deux Chevaux reported on square ten of your map.” He leaned against Malik and pointed. “That would be about forty Kilometres from here. They were shot at and the African was killed. It is unlikely the girl and her companion will get far without a guide. The African came from a small settlement on square nine of your map. Carey could have been hiding there. The girl and the man are heading towards three of our best snipers. They've been alerted. What do we do now... follow after them?”
“Who's the girl?” Malik asked frowning, “Would the man be Carey?”
Smemoff didn't say anything. It was Malik's job to make the decisions.
“We'll go to the settlement,” Malik said. “We must be certain that Carey isn't there still.” He leaned forward and gave Dieng a change of directions. Once again the jeep increased speed, tearing through the bush and sending clouds of sand rising in the air in its wake.
“Get Post Three,” Malik said suddenly. “Tell them the man isn't to be killed. If it's Carey I want to talk to him.”
Smemoff raised Post Three on the walkie-talkie and gave the operator Malik's instructions.
“Cripple the car and take them alive,” he concluded. “I don't care how you do it... do it!”
A ten minute drive brought them in sight of the three huts with their surrounding straw and bamboo wall. The jeep pulled up at the gate. Gun in hand, followed by Ivan, Malik walked into the small compound.
Three Africans faced him uneasily. They made a protective circle before one of the huts where their wives and children tried to hide themselves in the semi-darkness.
“We are looking for a white man,” Malik said to Momar's eldest son Cheickh. “Where is he?”
The green evil eyes frightened Cheickh. Monsieur Carey was beyond the reach of these men now. He saw no reason to antagonise them.
“He is dead, monsieur. We have just buried him.”
Malik's mouth tightened. “Where?”
Cheickh moved forward and pointed through the gate.
“Under the tree.”
Malik snapped an order to Dieng who walked over to the tree and picking up a shovel that leaned against the tree, he reluctantly began to dig.
Ivan had gone into the big hut. After some minutes, he came out and joined Malik.
“That's where he's been hiding. There's a small hole in the ground as if something had been buried there. It's not there now.”
Malik turned away and walked over to where Dieng now helped by Daouda had opened the grave. He stood looking down at Carey's dead face. Ivan came over.
“Shot himself.” Malik said. “Damn him! He was always one move ahead.” He leaned forward and spat in the dead man's face.
Ivan said, “These other two must have the films.”
“Tell Smemoff to raise Post Three again. They are to stop them at all costs,” Malik said. “If they can't stop the car, they are to shoot them. Hurry!”
As Ivan ran over to the jeep. Malik returned to the compound.
“Who is the white woman who was here?” he demanded, walking up to Cheickh.
The African shuffled his feet.
“I don't know, monsieur.”
Malik hit him across his face with the barrel of his gun.
Cheickh staggered and recovered his balance.
“Who is she?” Malik repeated viciously.
“I don't know, monsieur.”
Malik turned to Dieng.
“Go in there and get one of the children. If this man doesn't talk, cut the child's throat.”
The women in the hut began screaming. Dieng had to fight his way through them to grab one of the crying children.
Momar's youngest son whose child it was, rushed forward, swinging his fists. Malik shot him through the head.
There was a long pause and silence, then the women and children began wailing. One of the women threw herself on the fallen African, pulling at his clothes in a frenzy of grief.
Malik paid no attention: his eyes were fixed on Cheickh.
“Who was the woman?”
Dieng was holding the struggling child, a short bladed knife in his hand.
Cheickh hesitated, then said, “The daughter of Monsieur Carey.”
“And the man?”
“They called him Girland.”
Malik signed to Dieng to release the child, then he walked
out of the compound and breaking into a run reached the jeep.
“It's Girland and Carey's daughter,” he said to Smernoff.
“Anything from Post Three yet?”
Smemoff was twiddling one of the dials. He raised his hand for silence as he listened to the crackle coming through the headphones. Then an excited voice began speaking.
He listened and then said, “Shoot them. They must be stopped.”
Taking off the headphones, he said to Malik, “They've been seen. They are about two kilometres from Post Three and driving straight towards it.”
Malik snatched up his map.
“Where are they?”
“Square eleven. About thirty kilometres from here.”
Malik looked at the gate leading into the compound.
“We don't want trouble with the police,” he said and walked back to where Ivan was standing. “Get rid of this lot. They could make trouble. Hurry!”
Ivan grinned. This was an order he liked and could execute efficiently. He drew his gun and moved into the compound.
Malik returned to the jeep. Dieng was already sitting behind the wheel. Daouda was perched on the roof.
The two Africans flinched when the shooting began. One skinny child, his black eyes rolling in terror, darted out into the hot sunshine and began running frantically away from the jeep Malik lifted his gun and squeezed the trigger.
“Good shooting.” Smemoff said as the child rolled in the sand. “That gun of yours throws a little to the left, doesn't it?”
“I make allowance for that.” Malik returned and slid the gun back into its holster.
Ivan, smoking gun in hand, ran out and climbed into the jeep. There was a relaxed, satiated expression on his fat red face.
The jeep moved off, gathering speed.
A lone vulture swooped out of the sky and settled its heavy body awkwardly on the branch of a tree. It surveyed the scene with its beady eyes. Other vultures appeared circling in the sky.
Then one after the other they dropped to the ground and began to move slowly and awkwardly towards the compound.
***
Tessa was driving and the going was bad. It needed all her skill and experience to keep the car moving. At her side.
Girland stared through the dusty windscreen. From time to time, he glanced at the petrol gauge. The needle kept flickering to 'Empty. Any moment he expected to hear the engine cough and stop.
He had no doubt that they were completely lost, but at least, he was sure they weren't driving in a circle. Although they had changed their direction and were heading east, he was certain they were miles and hopeless miles from Diourbel and safety.
The hawks that floated motionless overhead worried him.
They must know that sooner or later there would be a feast to share with the vultures and they kept circling the car, waiting with sinister patience.
The little car lurched. The rear wheels spun and the engine stopped.
This was the seventh time they had had to lift the car out of the loose sand.
They looked at each other, then wordlessly, they got out of the car and walked around to the back. Girland paused to glance up at the circling hawks, then he caught hold of the rear bumper and with Tessa's help, heaved the car onto more solid ground.
“Want me to drive?” he asked, trying to moisten his dry lips with an ever dryer tongue.
“It's all right. We'll be walking soon.”
“How about a drink?”
“I think we should wait. In this heat the water will evaporate. We may need every drop before we are out of this.”
He caught a note of despair in her voice and he forced a grin.
“We'll get out of it.”
“If we could only find a village...” She paused and stared into the distance. “I thought I saw something move out there.”
Girland followed the direction in which she was looking.
The flat waste land with its trees and shrubs shimmered in the heat.
“It's the heat,” he said and opened the car door.
“No! Something moved!” Tessa excited, shading her eyes with her hand, “to the right of that tree.”
Girland stared and this time he caught a glimpse of something white move and then disappear.
“Get behind the car!” he said sharply.
Tessa moved back, putting the body of the car between herself and the distant tree. Girland crouched down so that he could look along the bonnet of the car. He pulled his gun from its holster.
The insufferable heat beat down on them. Again Girland saw the movement. This time he was sure a man had risen up out of the sand, advanced a few quick paces and then dropped down again.
“There's another to the left,” Tessa said who was peering around the side of the car. “And another further to the left.”
Girland saw the three Arabs now. They were carrying rifles and advancing in small rushes, but covering the ground. They were not more than five hundred metres away.
He took Carey's gun from his hip pocket.
“Can you use this?” he asked, and moving back, he offered the gun to Tessa.
“Yes. I can handle it.” She took the gun and slid off the safety catch. He was pleased to see her hand was steady and her eyes calm.
He moved back to his original position and in doing so, exposed his head and shoulders above the bonnet of the car.
A rifle shot rang out and Girland felt the bullet fan his cheek. He gave a loud, gasping groan, threw up his hands and dropped out of sight behind the car.
He heard Tessa scream.
“It's all right,” he hissed.
“Don't move!” Two of the Arabs stood up. They made perfect targets against the brilliant blue sky.
“The one on the left is yours,” Girland said, paused for a brief moment and fired. A split second later, he heard Tessa's gun snap spitefully. Both Arabs fell forward as the remaining Arab, hidden behind a shrub, fired.
Girland felt a searing pain in the biceps of his left arm. He moved further back. Blood ran down his arm and onto the sand.
He caught a glimpse of white as the Arab began to snake forward. Before he could lift his gun, Tessa's gun snapped again.
A small, wizened man in dirty white robes sprang up, clutching his shoulder and dropping his rifle. He started a mad rush towards the car as Girland's shot hit through the head.
Tessa came around the car. She was white and shaky, but she quickly pulled herself together at the sight of Girland's injured arm.
“Is it bad?”
He shook his head.
“If s nothing ... just a scratch.”
“I'll fix it.” She ran back to the car and came back carrying a First Aid kit. Quickly she washed the wound, using a little water from the water skin, then strapped up the cut the bullet had made.
Girland walked over to the dead Arabs and picked up their rifles. Each man had a cartridge belt around his waist. Tessa helped him collect the three belts
“Now we can hit back,” Girland said grimly. “Come on, let's get moving.”
They climbed back into the car and drove forward once again into the burning heat.
“I wonder how many more of them are ahead of us,” Girland said. He looked at his watch. The time was twenty minutes past three. He realised neither of them had eaten since daybreak but he wasn't hungry. His throat and mouth were dry and he longed for an ice cold drink. “The gas must be nearly used up,” he went on, looking at the gauge.
“Is your arm all right?”
“Getting stiff, but it's all right. You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You're quite a girl. When we get out of this, we'll celebrate. I'd like to get to know you a lot better.”
“Do you think we're going to get out of this?”
“We can but hope.”
She was silent for a long moment, then she said, “How will we celebrate. Mark?”
“We'll start the evening in the Plaza Athene bar. Vodka martinis,
very dry and very, very cold. Then we will take a taxi to the Grand Vefour and we will eat oysters and partridges with a 1949 Claret. We will then go to my apartment where I will show you my collection of Abstracts.”
“I've been to your apartment. You haven't any Abstracts.”
“I know but it won't matter. If you can't admire my Abstracts, at least, I will be able to admire you. It could be quite an evening.”
“But we have to get out of this first.”
“Yes.” He leaned forward to peer through the windscreen.
“Look what we are running into.”
They found themselves facing an endless waste of hard sand that seemed to stretch with the flatness of a yellowing, tightly stretched bed sheet to the distant horizon It was as if the trees and the shrubs had abruptly lost courage and had refused to advance any further.
“It looks like a dead sea,” Girland said. “We'll never get across that.”
“I remember Momar telling me about this place,” Tessa said, her voice excited. “On the far side is a watering place for cattle. If we can get across, we're certain to find a guide.”
“We haven't the gas.”
“We must try, even if we have to walk.”
Girland hesitated, then headed the car onto the hard solid plane of sand. The little car surged forward as its tyres found at last something concrete to bite on. They were no longer bumping and banging about in their seats. The ride had become miraculously smooth.
“You have no idea how far across it is?” Girland said. “It could go on forever by the look of it.”
She shook her head.
“I don't know. I do know there is a water hole the other side.”
Girland again looked at the motionless needle of the petrol gauge. How accurate was it? Did they have enough gas to get across? The heat of this exposed plane was scorching and relentless. A spark of panic began to grow in his mind. To be stranded in this shadeless death-trap could only end in one way.
Again he looked up at the metallic blue sky where the hawks circled above him.
He increased the speed of the car.
“Don't drive so fast.” Tessa said sharply. “The faster we go the more gas...” She stopped as the engine began to splutter.
Girland pushed the gas pedal to the boards, but there was no response. The engine spluttered again and then died. The car slowly rolled over the sand for a few metres and then stopped.
1965 - This is for Real Page 22
