Biggles and the Plot That Failed

by W E Johns

  ‘Charming, I must say,’ sneered Bertie. ‘Why, I ask you, do we have to come to such a beastly place?’

  Which brings us to the point where the reason for the airmen being where they were must be explained.

  * * *

  1 This is true. The author has seen the huge stone cairn called by the Arabs ‘The tomb of the Christian Maid’. But nobody could tell him who she was or anything about her. Another is said to be the tomb of Cleopatra Selene, daughter of the famous Cleopatra and Marc Antony, who married Juba, who ruled the region once called Mauritania.

  CHAPTER 2

  A FATHER SEEKS ADVICE

  The assignment had begun three weeks earlier when Air Commodore Raymond, head of the Special Air Police, had called Biggles to his office. With the Air Commodore was a tall, well-built man of perhaps sixty years of age, clean shaven, hair going grey at the temples.

  ‘This is Brigadier Mander, an old friend of mine,’ introduced the Air Commodore. ‘He’s in trouble and thinks we may be able to help him.’

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ promised Biggles. ‘What’s the worry?’

  ‘The Brigadier has lost his son — his only son.’

  ‘I’m sorry—’

  The Air Commodore broke in. ‘No, not that. I’m afraid I put it badly. Naturally, you assumed I meant his son was dead. He may be, but we have no proof of it. What I should have said was, the Brigadier’s son is missing, missing in our sense of the word. That is to say, two months ago he took off in an aircraft and has not returned.’

  ‘Has nothing been found — on the ground? Wreckage?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Is it known where he was going?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t make a secret of his proposed objective.’

  ‘Then provided he didn’t get off course it shouldn’t be very difficult to track him.’

  The Air Commodore shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t as easy as that.’

  ‘Then what was his objective? One of the Poles?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘Worse! I can’t imagine anything worse.’

  ‘He set off, with a companion, to look for a tomb which, according to native gossip, is supposed to exist in the southern part of the Libyan Desert.’

  Biggles grimaced. ‘You’re right, sir. I agree, that is worse. Much worse.’

  The Brigadier spoke for the first time. ‘You talk as if you know what conditions there are like. Have you seen the desert?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Most RAF pilots who served in Egypt or North Africa must have seen it. Most of them I imagine would take care to keep away from it. That area of the earth has a sinister reputation.’

  ‘Why sinister?’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘A pilot flying over it is trusting his life to a mechanical contrivance and even the best can go wrong. A pilot landing in the sand hasn’t much hope. Even on the fringe prospects are not too good. The natives, the Tuareg and the Sennusi, have been pretty well tamed by now, but I wouldn’t care to trust them very far. To put it bluntly, too many aircraft that have flown out over the southern part of the Libyan Desert haven’t been seen since. That also goes, of course, for any other form of transport. It’s a good place to keep away from.’

  ‘But there have been reports of oases and ruins even in the heart of the desert.’

  ‘I know, sir. But that has yet to be proved. Most of the people who set off to get proof haven’t come back; or if they have they haven’t lived long. That may be coincidence, but you won’t get the natives to believe it. They say it’s the work of the devils who live in the desert.’

  ‘Poppycock. Superstition.’

  ‘No doubt, sir. This talk, apart from native rumours, about oases in the desert, was started by a French civil pilot, in, I believe, 1925. He was blown off his course by a haboob, as sand-storms are called locally. He reported sighting an oasis not marked on the map. He was killed in an accident before he could give more detailed information. Sir Robert Clayton flew out to look for this oasis. He found what from photographs he took appeared to be a fertile wadi. He was making arrangements to go back when he died. It’s very strange, but that has been the story all along the line. Whatever the answer may be, it isn’t surprising the place has got an evil reputation. I have an open mind about it. What on earth induced your son to tackle such a dangerous proposition?’

  ‘I’d better tell you the story from the beginning,’ answered the Brigadier. ‘It’s rather a long one, but by sticking to the essential facts I’ll make it as brief as possible.’

  Biggles sat down, lit a cigarette and prepared to listen.

  ‘My son, Adrian, is twenty-one,’ began the Brigadier. ‘That is important because he is no longer under my control. He is of age, and a legacy left by his mother, who died some years ago, makes him independent. In plain English he can do as he likes.’

  ‘Which, from the way you said that, I take it he does,’ put in Biggles dryly.

  ‘Not always. Don’t mistake me. He is a good boy. He respects my wishes; but when our ideas are in conflict he is in a position to go his own way.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Naturally, as we have always been a military family I had assumed he would be a soldier. And so I believe he would have been had not certain events deflected him from that course. It is often said that a man’s life is what he makes of it, and up to a point that is true. But as often as not his actions are dictated by the people he meets; by incidents which, small in themselves, have consequences that could not have been foreseen. So with my son. He was always inclined to be influenced by others. It was meeting an RAF pilot, who had made a forced landing on my property in Surrey, that turned his ideas to aviation. This man stayed a few days at my house and the conversation was of nothing but flying.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘There’s nothing unusual about that.’

  ‘The upshot of it was, Adrian told me he had decided to make the RAF his career, not the army. I raised no objection, but I said I thought he should finish his last year at Oxford, which in fact he did; but that did not prevent him from qualifying as a pilot at a flying school. He spent all his spare time in the air, and as soon as he came of age he bought a plane of his own.’

  ‘May I ask the type of machine?’

  ‘I never saw it except in the air over the house, but it was quite small with one engine. I seem to remember him calling it a Cub.’

  ‘And was this the machine he flew to North Africa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Biggles frowned.

  ‘Why? Is there anything wrong with it?’

  ‘Oh no. It’s reliable enough. But a light plane of any sort isn’t what I’d choose for exploring the Libyan Desert. I’m sorry I interrupted. Go on, sir.’

  ‘This is where I come to the second part of the story,’ continued the Brigadier. ‘During my service in the Middle East I got to know, and became friendly with, Sir Cedric Goodall, the archaeologist. You may have heard of him. He came home for the hot season from where he was digging up some old ruins in Jordan and accepted my invitation to stay with me for a few days. It was at my house that Adrian met him. Goodall is enthusiastic about his work, so, as you might imagine, the conversation now was about the things he had dug up and what he still hoped to find. Adrian, always impressionable, listened to this, fascinated. The upshot of it was, when Sir Cedric returned to what he called his ‘dig’, Adrian had accepted an invitation to go out and see the site. You see what I meant a moment ago when I said a man’s life can depend on the people he meets. Adrian flew to Jordan in his plane. He thought it was a good opportunity to try a long overseas flight. All went well. He stayed in Jordan for three weeks, long enough for him to become infected with this craze for digging up old pots and pans used by people thousands of years ago. When he flew home he brought with him a new friend he had met there; and so we come to the third man to have a marked influence on my son. By this time, you must understand, this archaeology bug had really got into Adrian’s blood.�
��

  ‘So this new friend was, I suppose, an archaeologist?’

  ‘Yes. Or he claimed to be; and I must admit he could talk as if he knew all the answers. Adrian had met him in Jordan, but in exactly what circumstances I don’t know. His name was Hassan Sekunder — the surname being, so I am told, Arabic for Alexander. I’d put his age at about thirty. He spoke English fluently and claimed to be an Egyptian. I hope I’m not doing the fellow an injustice when I say that in my opinion he could have been anything from a Turk to an Indian.’

  ‘I gather you didn’t like him,’ said Biggles.

  ‘There was really nothing you could put a finger on, but I wouldn’t have trusted him a yard out of my sight. He was a bit too suave, too oily, if you know what I mean.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I know the type. Are you sure this wasn’t colour prejudice?’

  ‘Oh no. Actually, there wasn’t much colour about him. His skin was that pale olive brown one so often sees in the Middle East. I haven’t spent all my life with men without learning to weigh them up.’

  ‘Did you tell Adrian how you felt about this man?’

  ‘Yes. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He thought he was wonderful. He could do anything and everything. I seem to be a long time coming to the point of all this, but I haven’t much farther to go. I wanted you to have a clear picture of the situation from the start. I must say that on his favourite subjects, archaeology and the history of the Middle East, he knew what he was talking about. He claimed that he had at one time worked for the Egyptian Archaeological Society. One of his jobs had been to go to an oasis called Siwa to report on some relics that had come to light. While there he had cured an old Arab of some disease, and for this was rewarded with the story which, eventually, was to take Adrian to the Sahara. I could see that coming a mile off, even before Sekunder put forward his proposition.’

  ‘Which was that Adrian should fly them both somewhere to find something?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What was the proposition?’

  ‘According to Sekunder the story the Arab told him was this. In the Sahara, somewhere south of a place called Siwa, there was an oasis that had not yet been put on the map. It was at the foot of some mountains that rose from a big depression that had once been a lake. In these mountains were the ruins of an ancient, unknown civilization. If such an oasis exists it was certainly not shown on any map that Adrian was able to procure. But there was more to it than this. This place was the tomb of a once great king of the Tuareg people named Ras Tenazza. Close by was the mine from which he obtained a fabulous collection of emeralds. These, by the way, were buried with him. The tomb was marked by a cairn of stones. It was at the foot of a tall, leaning, pinnacle of rock. It was put there so that when the rock fell it would hide the tomb for ever. At this place, too, there were many other tombs, some with inscriptions carved on the rocks. Adrian swallowed the story, hook, line and sinker, but I didn’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘I’d have an open mind about it. Queer things crop up in the Sahara from time to time. Was this place in Egypt or Libya?’

  ‘Sekunder, not having seen it, and unable to find it on the map, didn’t know. He said Siwa was just on the Egyptian side of the frontier, and the oasis was between two and three hundred miles south, or south-west, of it. I asked Sekunder, if he was so sure the story was true, and if he was convinced the oasis was there, why hadn’t he been there and so got the credit for the discovery? His answer was, such an expedition by camel caravan would be a costly business and he had never been able to afford it. I pointed out that, had he reported what he knew, either the Libyan or Egyptian government would have financed an expedition.’

  ‘What did he say to that?’

  ‘He said if he did that he’d get nothing out of it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t get anything out of it anyway — if he was honest — because by law he would have to hand over anything he found to the government of the country in which the discovery was made. That applies everywhere today.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. Nor, I am sure, did Adrian.’

  ‘Sekunder, if he had worked for the Egyptian government, or as a genuine archaeologist, would know it. It sounds to me as if he intended to keep anything of value.’

  ‘From the way he talked I’m sure of it. He offered a half share to Adrian, although I must say that my son, who was wildly excited about the whole thing, was more concerned with the adventure than making a profit out of the undertaking. Anyhow, to come to the point, Sekunder claimed it would be an easy matter to fly to the place. They would fly first to Marsa Matruh, on the coast, then on to Siwa where there was a landing ground.’

  ‘That’s true. Our fellows used it in the war.’

  ‘He also said he would be able to pull the strings to get visas and permits to fly over the desert — which I must admit he did.’

  ‘So they went.’

  ‘Yes. I was all against what looked to me like a foolhardy and dangerous business, but I couldn’t forbid it.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Two months.’

  ‘And you have heard nothing since?’

  ‘Yes. Adrian promised not to be away for more than a month and would keep in touch with me as far as this was possible. He wrote to me from Marsa Matruh saying they had arrived there without trouble. They were pushing on to Siwa the next day, and from there would take a course south, following a line of mapped oases for as far as they extended. Since then I have heard nothing. After a month of silence I began to get worried. When five weeks had passed I went to the Egyptian office in London and asked if they could help me. They were most co-operative and made urgent inquiries; but all they could tell me was, an aircraft had been seen at Siwa. It had stayed there for three days and then flown on without naming its destination. From the Egyptian office I learned something that increased my anxiety. Sekunder had said he had worked for the Egyptian Archaeological Society. It now transpired they had never heard of the man. That confirmed my suspicions that he was a liar, if nothing worse. What could I do? I thought of chartering a plane and flying out to Siwa myself. Then I remembered my friend the Air Commodore and decided to ask for his advice. That’s why I am here.’

  The Air Commodore spoke, looking at Biggles. ‘I’ve told him you know something about flying conditions over the Sahara. What do you think of Adrian’s chances?’

  Biggles looked dubious. ‘Without knowing exactly where he was making for and what preparations he made that’s a difficult question to answer. The Sahara covers a lot of ground. Even what they call the Great Sands, that is, the big dunes with no known oases, embrace thousands of square miles without a caravan track. From Siwa in the north to the Gilf Kebir Plateau in the south is something like a thousand miles. For five hundred miles east of the Khargah Oasis the map shows nothing except a water-hole on the fringe called El Arig. If Adrian is somewhere in that area where does one start looking? If he’s on the ground, unable to get off, it might be a hundred years before the machine is spotted.’

  ‘Adrian’s objective must have been within reach of Siwa. That was to be the final stopping place before heading out into the blue,’ stated the Brigadier.

  ‘Siwa is a biggish place, as oases go,’ explained Biggles. ‘Actually, it’s a long rather narrow string of oases, always getting smaller as they fade out in the desert. It would be the obvious jumping off place in the north.’

  The Air Commodore came back. ‘I’ve told the Brigadier that without authority there’s nothing we can do about this. But still, as Adrian is a British subject, there’s just a chance that the government would sanction a rescue party if he was prepared to finance it. This, of course, would mean getting permission from the Egyptian and Libyan governments to fly over their territory. It’s unlikely they would raise any objection as long as they were not involved.’ The Air Commodore looked at Biggles. ‘If I put the proposition to the Higher Authority tha
t we send out a search party would you take charge of it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Very well. We’ll leave it like that for the time being. No doubt if the Brigadier gets any news he’ll let us know.’

  Biggles returned to his own office and told the others what was in the wind.

  It was a week before he heard any more. Then his Chief sent for him again to tell him that, as the Brigadier had still heard nothing of his son, permission had been given for the Air Police to make a search using their own equipment provided Brigadier Mander was prepared to defray expenses.

  That nearly brings us to where we came in. It took another week to make the necessary arrangements and get the permits to fly over the North African territories. Biggles had chosen to use the Merlin1 brought on the strength of the Air Police for the operation narrated in Biggles’ Special Case.

  The Merlin had landed at Siwa. Learning nothing there that was not already known, the party had gone on to El Arig, the oasis nearest to the region to be searched. Before them now lay the Great Sand Sea.

  ‘Now we’ve had a rest, tomorrow we’ll start on the real job,’ said Biggles seriously. ‘The only way to tackle it, as far as I can see, is to take the desert section by section, wedge by wedge using this as a base and sticking rigidly to the golden rule of flying over unknown country: which is never to go beyond the point of no return.2 Two or three days should be time enough to cover the area of desert for which, to the best of our knowledge, young Mander was making. The trouble may be, in the absence of landmarks, to keep a check on what ground we have covered and what we have not. It would be easy to miss out a slice.’

  ‘What do you think are the chances of Mander being alive?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Pretty small.’

  Then what are we going to look for?’

  ‘Frankly — we might as well face it — what I expect to find, if we find anything at all — is an aircraft with two dead men lying under it. It might be intact or it might have crashed. It wouldn’t make much difference. With what water it could carry, only by a miracle could Mander and his friend have survived for two months. Of course, miracles do happen, but not so often that you notice them. There’s one angle about this show, outside the obvious physical dangers, that disturbs me.’