I was asleep when the noise started. I was not confused at all. As soon as I woke, even before I opened my eyes, I knew that shooting was going on. I thought: bandits. Kalash had said all along that there might be bandits. The first shots were not very loud. Then there was a tremendous amount of firing. The flap of our tent was open and I looked out. All up and down the hillside were muzzle flashes, flickering in the darkpink and blue, like the flame of a gas stove. Also yellow, all mixed together. Kalash was running in his white robes with a gun in his hands. He fell full length and I thought he was killed. But then he began to shoot again. Nigel and Tadeusz came out of their tent on their hands and knees, also shooting. Beside me, Ilona kicked away her sleeping bag and reached up for the pistol. “We have to get out of the tent,” she said. “They’ll shoot into the tents.” She was a quick thinker— she stopped me from crawling out the front of the tent. She ripped open the back and we crawled out that way. She was naked and I might as well have been, in my T-shirt. It was terribly frightening for a woman to lie there with her body exposed. We huddled on the ground together, in a little depression in the dirt. Ilona held the pistol in both hands.
Up to now I had not seen Paul. I wondered if he had been shot. Bullets were flying all through the camp. Sparks flew off the cars as the bullets hit. It seemed quite impossible that any of us would live through all this. Nigel and Kalash were under the Land Rover, firing. Now Tadeusz had vanished as well. I was filled with a peculiar feeling—I don’t know how to describe it. That my brother should have gone through all he had gone through in order to be murdered in the middle of nowhere by a bunch of illiterate tribesmen. Oddly enough, I thought of that English officer Kalash told us about, the fat one. I understood his rage. How dared these savages kill us, who were so intelligent, so cultured, so civilized?
Kalash and Nigel kept shooting. All of a sudden, there was much more firing on the hill, machine guns. The bandits began to yell to each other, Kalash and Nigel got on their feet and ran out toward the hill. They fell down side by side and shot again.
Then the firing stopped. It was very sudden. The sound persisted. There was a kind of ringing in the air—the memory of the guns going off. Kalash leaped into the Land Rover and started it up. Nigel got in, too, holding Kalash’s machine gun. They went tearing off into the desert with the lights blazing, and pretty soon, a few hundred meters away perhaps, I heard them shooting again. While they were gone, Paul and Tadeusz came running into the camp. They were wearing only their shorts, carrying their guns.
Paul’s face was covered with blood. The lower half of his face. They were calling our names. Ilona and I stood up, and although Paul and my brother were only a few feet away from us, we both waved. Ilona and I stood up on our tiptoes, as if we were standing in a crowd on a train platform, and waved. Remember, she was completely naked and I was wearing only that shirt that came down to my hips. Paul stopped in his tracks and laughed. He roared with laughter. Of course, it was a funny sight—Ilona with that big pistol in her hand and me beside her, waving. Paul just thought it was awfully funny. It was the tension, and the relief.
All I could see was Paul’s blood. I thought he’d been shot, naturally. So—this will seem strange, perhaps, but at the time it seemed so obvious—I pulled off the T-shirt and pressed it against his face, to try to stop the bleeding. He let me do it. All he had was a nosebleed—he fell or something and hit his nose and it gushed blood all over him.
So when Kalash and Nigel came back with the Land Rover they found us like that—two nude girls and their friends standing by with hot machine guns. They hardly glanced at us. Kalash had gathered up the bodies of the bandits they had killed. They had thrown three of them into the back of the Land Rover. A fourth was only wounded, but very badly. All were dressed in white robes, with great stains of blood on them. Kalash tried to question the wounded one. He was not gentle about it. He pulled the man into a sitting position and shouted at him in Arabic. The man’s head kept rolling onto his shoulder. Kalash gripped his chin and held the head upright. The man was breathing very loudly and blood was pumping out of his body. Spurting. Nigel wanted to put a tourniquet on him, but Kalash kept shouting at the dying man. He was very young. I don’t think he heard what Kalash was saying to him. Certainly he never answered. His eyes rolled back in his head and he died. I suppose you know that the bowels and the bladder empty at that moment. I didn’t. What I remember is the sudden, rotten stink. Kalash stood up and held his hands in front of him, fingers rigid and spread out wide, in a gesture of disgust.
While this was going on, my brother crawled into one of the tents and came back with two blankets for Ilona and me. We wrapped up in them and Ilona—this will show what people will do under stress—lit the camp stove and made tea. We stood about drinking tea with sugar and tinned milk in it with four dead bodies on the ground at our feet. Kalash and Paul searched the bodies. They found something that interested them, but I don’t know what it was. They didn’t discuss it with the rest of us.
It was a miracle none of us was even hurt, except for Paul’s bloody nose. The bandits had attacked too soon. Kalash couldn’t understand why the bandits had been so stupid. He seemed offended that they had opened fire from such a distance instead of sneaking into the camp and executing us in our sleep. Paul said the bandits probably did not realize we had firearms. Perhaps they thought we would surrender, or run into the desert. Maybe all they wanted was to steal the cars and the equipment.
There were five or six bullet holes in the Cadillac, and one of the windows was smashed. I don’t think the Land Rover was damaged at all. Both cars ran all right. When I went back to the tent to get my clothes I saw that there were several holes in the canvas. Ilona was right about that, and so it’s true that she saved my life, just as Nigel said to me later on.
We didn’t sleep anymore that night. The men went out into the desert a little way and waited with their guns—set up a perimeter, as Paul said. Ilona and I lay near them in our sleeping bags. The bandits didn’t come back.
The next morning, when we went away in the cars, we left the dead men where they were, lying in the sun. Kalash walked from one body to the other just before he got in the car. He spat on the face of each corpse. For just a moment, while he did that, one could see that his people had not always been gentlemen from Oxford.
71. REPORT BY CHRISTOPHER.
I was still awake when I heard Kalash speaking to me through the wall of the tent. He said, in his ordinary penetrating tone of voice, that he had spotted a half-dozen men moving toward the camp from the hill that lay to the west of us. “Silly fellows are crawling along on their stomachs in the moonlight and dashing from shadow to shadow,” he said. “They have guns.”
I pulled on my boots and picked up the Sten gun and the extra magazines. The camp could not have been in a worse defensive position. The tents were pitched in a shallow canyon, with four low hills lying all around it and only a narrow track of firm ground leading out. There was no cover, except for the vehicles. It was obvious that somebody would have to get around behind the attackers, and I told Kalash that I’d try it. The moon was full, but fairly low on the horizon, so that there was a strip of shadow behind my tent. I cut the canvas and crawled out. Kalash stuck his head around the end of the tent and gave me what I believe is called a wolfish grin. He seemed to be looking forward to whatever was coming.
I heard him waking Miernik and Nigel as I crawled off to the right as fast as possible. The ground was flinty and I was sorry I hadn’t taken time to put on my clothes. I could feel the skin peeling off my knees and elbows and the blood oozing. It was about twenty yards to the shoulder of the hill, which was really just a hillock. Fair-sized boulders, the color of sand in daylight but now as white as eggshell in the moonlight, were scattered over the face of the hill. Each rock threw a puddle of shadow big enough to conceal a man. As soon as I got under cover of the hill I stood up and ran along its base until I thought I was due north of the attackers and a lit
tle behind them. Then, crawling again, I went up the hill.
When I got to the top I found a rock to hide behind and looked around. There was no sign of movement in the camp. Kalash lay on his back in full view in front of the tents. About ten yards below me, lying behind rocks, were the bandits, six of them abreast. The light was very good and I could see them plainly. They were wearing white robes with U.S. Army rifle ammunition belts around their waists. Five had M-l rifles and the other, probably the leader, had a submachine gun slung across his back. They were about fifty yards from the edge of the camp. I thought they’d try to get closer before attacking.
I decided to move off to the right and downhill a little, so as to be out of the line of fire from the camp, and also to get into an enfilading position. I backed away from my rock, stood up in a crouching position—and fell over a walkie-talkie radio. When I went down I smashed my nose with my own Sten gun. By some miracle, the fellows down below didn’t hear anything. I got around on their flank with no trouble, except that blood was running off my chin. I pinched my nostrils but I couldn’t get the blood to clot. My vision was slightly blurred, though it cleared in a minute or two.
The bandits were exactly where they had been before. The leader got up on his knees, unslung his machine pistol, and gave a hand signal. His troops unlocked their M-1’s: I heard the safety catches clicking. The bolt on a Sten gun is very noisy. I figured if I pulled mine to put a round in the chamber I’d have five M-1’s shooting at me from a range of ten yards in about four seconds. In less time than that, they opened fire on the camp. At the first shot, Kalash stood up in the moonlight in the middle of the open ground and began firing at the hillside with his Sten gun. He certainly was a lovely target. I lost a little time watching this scene. As Nigel and Miernik came rolling out of their tent, I began to fire.
No one but the leader, whom Kalash apparently inspired to stand upright and match testicles, was a very good target. He fell almost at once. It took the others several moments to realize that I was behind them.
When they did, they all turned around and started shooting in my direction. There was no way to move from behind my rock: rounds were slamming into it and throwing dirt all around it. There was a lot of fire coming from the camp, but it was doing the attackers no damage as they were all in the prone position behind boulders of their own. I fired a few bursts around the sides of my rock, but I’m sure I got no results. The bandits were firing whole clips at me. I could hear the M-1’s bang out eight shots as fast as the trigger could be pulled, and then the clang of the empty clips being ejected.
I thought I was a dead man. Then I heard another Sten gun and, looking up the hill, I saw Miernik. He was down in the kneeling position, firing just as he had done at the paper target a few days before—methodical bursts of two and three rounds. The bandits, screaming in panic, began shooting at him. I was able to start firing again. Almost as soon as I did, they began to run. The only way for them to go was straight into the rising moon. They were perfect silhouettes. I stood up and fired a burst. One of them fell. Miernik came down the hill, reaching me as I was putting another magazine in the Sten gun. He put his hand on my arm and said, “Let them go. We’ve done enough.”
Miernik walked over to the men we had shot and turned them over. Idiocy,” he said. “Idiocy.” He uttered a loud sob. He picked up their weapons by the barrels and flung them into the darkness. Then, without another word, he began to run down the hill toward the camp. I followed. The Land Rover, with Kalash at the wheel and Nigel standing up in the front seat with a Sten gun in his hands, went tearing out of the camp. Ilona and Zofia were unhurt, and very calm. For some reason neither of them had any clothes on. The sight of them filled me with joy. I was, after all, alive against all my expectations of a few minutes before. But I felt not even a fficker of sexual desire. Zofia tried to do something about my bloody nose. Both girls stood there, completely unselfconscious, making no effort to cover themselves, until Miernik went and got them a couple of blankets.
Kalash brought back the three men Miernik and I had killed, as well as one who was still alive. He sorted through the bodies and pulled the wounded man out of the Land Rover by the feet. Kalash tried to question him, but the man was too badly shot up to speak before he died. There was blood all over the place. Miernik moved away while Kalash worked on the wounded man, but the girls did not flinch.
Kalash and I searched the bodies. In a wallet carried by the leader we found a thick wad of Sudanese money and a photograph of Kalash. It was a perfect likeness. Kalash was wearing European clothes, and he was seated at a table in an outdoor café that I recognized as the one on the Ile Rousseau in Geneva. Kalash handed me his picture without a word, then took it back and tucked it away in his robe. The money he scattered over the ground. Kalash gazed thoughtfully at the hills for a few moments, then took my arm and walked me out of earshot of the others. “What do you make of all this?” he asked.
“I don’t like their having your picture,” I said.
“No. I wonder where they got it. I’ve never seen it before, and I didn’t notice anyone creeping about the Île Rousseau with a camera while I drank my lemonade. Ilona’s always clicking away, but one wouldn’t think any of these corpses ever knew her.”
“Did she ever photograph you on the Île Rousseau?”
“My dear Paul, she has photographed me everywhere except in bed. A lot of people have taken pictures of me. Total strangers snap me on the streets of Geneva—Germans and Japanese, usually. I find this whole episode very annoying. No sooner am I approached to be a spy by Qasim than a lot of buffoons begin shooting at me. If it weren’t for you I might well be dead.”
“The man to thank is Miernik,” I said. I told him about the firefight on the hillside.
“He’s a peculiar type, Miernik,” Kalash said. “I found him vomiting up his tea a few moments ago, over behind the tents. When I tried to speak to him he muttered something about being a murderer. ‘I have just done murder,’ he said, ‘murder!’ Better to do it than have it done, I should have thought. When he went floundering out of the camp I thought he must be running away. So did Nigel—he very nearly shot him. That’s what British officers do to cowardly privates, you know.”
I tried to leave the girls with the idea that the bandits had been only bandits. Zofia and Ilona seemed to believe that the attackers were interested in the cars (and possibly in white females). Neither Collins nor Miernik made any effort to contradict my theory. Neither of them believes it for a moment.
Kalash decided that we should post guards for the rest of the night. In the morning we will move out, and drive nonstop to El Fasher. It’s about 450 miles. At the rate we’ve been moving over these roads—which get worse from here onward—we should cover the distance in about twenty-four hours. We have four drivers, counting Ilona. (Miernik cannot drive, but we could hardly have a better man riding shotgun.)
I’d like to think about the events of this evening before trying to interpret them. Finding Kalash’s photograph on that body is a serious matter. If I were in charge of this operation, I’d lock him up in his father’s palace with armed men on all the doors. His value as a double agent, leading the ALF to destruction, is now questionable, to put it mildly.
There are so many possible explanations for Miernik’s behavior that I hardly know where to start listing them. Did he kill a couple of his own agents in order to protect his cover? Was his reaction after the shooting revulsion over the betrayal of his own people? Was it genuine horror over having to kill anyone at all? Was he really trying to save my skin—and, more likely, his sister’s?
Everything he does muddies the water. At this point I’m content to let you figure the whole thing out.
72. INTERCEPTED RADIO TRAFFIC FROM SOVIET TRANSMITTER IN DAR ES SALAAM (DECODED 8 JULY).
1. Message for Qemal’s (i.e., “Firecracker’s”) ears only. Qemal acknowledge with recognition sign.
(Qemal acknowledges.)
2. Messa
ge for Qemal follows. Ahmed is suspected enemy agent. Repeat. Ahmed is suspected enemy agent. Take standard action personally. Report results. Message for Qemal ends.
73. REPORT FROM FIRECRACKER TO THE AMERICAN STATION IN KHARTOUM.
Last night I received a personal message by radio from Dar es Salaam. They informed me that Ahmed is an enemy agent and instructed me to kill him. I carried out the execution personally, using one .45 caliber bullet in the head, about one hour after receiving the above message.
I have searched Ahmed’s body and his personal effects, but I have not found the names of those to be executed. I believe he had memorized the list. I do not know if he has passed on the names to the execution teams. It is possible the list will now be changed, owing to the treason of Ahmed. Any new list would come to me, as I am now in sole command of our headquarters.
I had much difficulty explaining Ahmed’s death to our followers. They do not believe him capable of treason. I explained that a traitor is always clever, and often is able to deceive his friends for a long time. They resent the fact that I killed Ahmed on the order of foreigners, without a trial, etc. My position is difficult. I do not know what hazards lie ahead. If there are any messages, I will leave them in the usual place.
(9 July)
74. INTERCEPTED RADIO TRAFFIC FROM SOVIET TRANSMITTER (10 JULY).
Message for Qemal follows. Standard action in case of suspicion is arrest and interrogation not repeat not summary execution. Most disturbed Ahmed’s death. You should have held Ahmed for Richard. You will explain your action to Richard on his arrival. Meanwhile recall assault teams white, green, yellow, blue. Golgotha suspended. Richard brings you new orders. Message for Qemal ends.
75. REPORT BY COLLINS.
We arrived at the palace of the Amir of Khatar shortly before dawn on 11th July after a twenty-four-hour drive through the desert. It was a nervous journey, but there were no incidents. After the events at Kashgil we kept weapons at hand, and during our one stop (at En Nahud to take on water and petrol) we attracted a certain amount of attention. A small crowd gathered to inspect the bullet holes in the cars and to gaze upon Ilona Bentley and Zofia Miernik in their shorts. We had submachine guns slung round our necks and I expected the local police to make inquiries (after all, there were four dead bodies behind us in that dry wadi). But none was forthcoming. Prince Kalash was recognized by all who passed by, and he spent a good deal of time exchanging blessings in Arabic.
The Miernik Dossier Page 18
