This is For Real Page 18

  Borg’s eyes bugged out.

  “You mean they know who you are?”

  “They know that all right, and they know I’m working for Radnitz. And another thing, Dorey’s got a man out here too. He’s on to me as well.”

  “So you’re having fun, huh?”

  “You can call it that. The set-up is tricky. I’ve found Carey’s contact: a Portuguese. He imagines I’m working for Dorey. Tonight, I have a date with him and I think he’ll take me to Carey.”

  “That’s something!’’ Borg said excitedly. “That’s what the boss wants, isn’t it?”

  “But I’ve got to handle this alone, Borg. If Fantaz sees you two, he won’t play. As it is, he’s suspicious of me. As soon as I’ve talked with Carey and got what Radnitz wants out of him, I’ll contact you two.”

  Borg hesitated.

  “I don’t know about that. The boss said …”

  “We stay with you,” Schwartz said. “The boss said from now on, we work together and we stick together.”

  “Well, yes, that’s right,” Borg said. “That’s what the boss said, palsy. We’ll keep out of sight, but we’re sticking with you.”

  “How do you do that and keep out of sight?” Girland asked impatiently. “If Fantaz spots you, he won’t play.”

  “Then I’ll persuade him to,” Schwartz said.

  Girland thought for a moment, then shrugged. Maybe these two might be useful, he told himself. If Malik moved in, he might not be able to handle him on his own.

  “Well, okay,” he said. “I have a date with Fantaz at nine o’clock at Diourbel. It’s about an hour’s drive from here. If you come with me, you’ve got to keep out of sight when I meet him. Is that understood?”

  Borg nodded.

  “Well, I’m hungry,” Girland said. “We have time for a quick snack. There’s a place just around the corner.”

  The three men left the hotel and made their way to a café bar.

  A thin African, wearing a shabby European suit watched them enter the café, then he walked down a narrow street to where an old, dusty Buick was parked.

  Samba Dieng sat at the wheel, a cigarette drooping from his thick lips. Two other Africans, also in European dress sat in the back of the car, also smoking. They all looked at the thin African as he poked his head into the car and began to talk rapidly to Dieng.

  “Three of them?” Dieng looked startled. He turned to the other two sitting at the back. “He has two others with him.”

  “What’s it matter?” The African who spoke had a knife scar down the side of his face. The expression in his black eyes was vicious. “We can handle them,” and his black hand rested lightly on the machine gun he had across his knees.

  “Get in,” Dieng said to the thin African and started the car engine.

  The thin African obeyed, slamming the car door. Dieng drove past the cafe, glanced in, catching a glimpse of Girland as he leaned against the bar, eating a sandwich. Dieng was aware of two other men with Girland but he had no time to see them properly.

  He found a parking space further down the street and stopped. The thin African got out and walked back until he was opposite the café. He lolled against the wall and waited.

  At a quarter to eight, Girland paid for the sandwiches and nodded to the other two.

  “Let’s go. I have a car across the way.”

  As the three men walked over to the Citroen, the thin African returned to the Buick. He climbed in and Dieng started the engine. He watched the Citroen pull out and turn the corner and he followed. There was a certain amount of traffic on the road and he had no fear that the men in the Citroen would suspect they were being followed. The time to worry about that would be when they were in open country.

  Girland drove in silence, but when they reached the Autoroute, he said, “Watch out behind. We don’t want to be tailed.”

  Borg shifted around in his seat and stared back at the long stretch of dark road.

  “Three cars and a truck behind us.”

  Girland reduced speed.

  “We’ll let the cars overtake.”

  A few minutes later, two cars roared past.

  Borg said, “The truck and a car. The car is keeping behind the truck.”

  “Watch it,” Girland said and once again increased speed. “The car’s coming out now from behind the truck. It’s coming after us.”

  Girland continued to drive fast for the next ten minutes, then he began to slow down.

  “We’re coming to the turn off.” He braked slightly and swung the car onto the Rufisque-Diourbel road.

  After a minute or so, Borg said, “Looks like a tail, palsy. The same car still with us.”

  Girland slowed down.

  “He’s slowed,” Borg reported.

  “We’ll stop at Rufisque. Let’s see what he’ll do then,” Girland said and again increased speed.

  When they reached the crowded main street of Rufisque, Girland pulled up, got out of the car and walked over to a cigarette stall. As he was buying a pack of cigarettes, he saw a dusty Buick drive rapidly past. He caught a glimpse of four men in the car before the car disappeared into the darkness.

  “That the one?” he asked Borg as he walked back to the Citroen.

  “That’s it,” Borg said.

  “We have a little time in hand. We’ll stick around here for five minutes. They were all Africans in the car as far as I could see. Maybe they weren’t following us.”

  He stood by the car, breathing in the hot night air while Borg and Schwartz remained in the car.

  Borg said, “This place kills me. Look at those people. What have they got in their mouths?”

  “Bamboo sticks,” Girland told him. “That’s how they keep their teeth so clean.”

  He got back into the car.

  “Watch out,” he said as he engaged gear. He drove slowly out of the town. When once clear of the horse-drawn carts, the swarm of unsteady cyclists and the slow moving crowds, he increased speed.

  “The next town is Thies, then Diourbel,” he said.

  Later, after they had driven through Thies, Borg said sharply, “We have our tail back.”

  “Then they know we are going to Diourbel,” Girland said. “You two got guns?”

  “What do you think!” Schwartz said. This was the first time he had spoken during the whole drive.

  “The car’s coming up,” Borg said and pulled a Colt automatic from his holster. “It’s coming up like a goddamn streak.”

  Girland kept glancing in his driving mirror. The Buick flashed on its headlights, and Girland edged off the centre of the road, his off-side tyres leaving the tarmac and biting into the sandy verge of the road.

  The Buick went roaring past. Borg saw the outlines of four men in the car. None of them looked their way, and then the Buick was ahead. Driving at well over a hundred and eighty kilometres an hour, its tail lights began to disappear into the darkness.

  “What do you make of that?” Borg said, putting his gun back into his holster. “False alarm, huh?”

  “Could be.” Girland flicked on his headlights. “Don’t relax. The road is straight and narrow for some kilometres. They could be going on ahead to fix an ambush.”

  “Then don’t drive so fast,” Borg said, hauling out his gun again. “We don’t want to run into them.”

  Ten minutes crawled by. Girland was now driving at a steady sixty kilometres an hour. Suddenly, the Citroen’s headlights picked out something in the road ahead of them.

  Girland’s sharp eyes saw it was a car parked across the road, forming a barrier.

  He slammed on his brakes and the car screeched to a standstill.

  “Out!” he exclaimed and opened his door. He rolled out of the car, hitting the sandy verge with his shoulder and then flattened down in the sand. His hand jerked his gun free from its holster.

  Both Borg and Schwartz also threw themselves out of the car, both darting for cover along the side of the road.

  They had scarce
ly dropped flat before there was a burst of machine gun fire. They heard the windscreen of the car shatter and the car heaved as bullets slammed into the back of the seats where the three men had but seconds ago been sitting.

  Schwartz’s .45 crashed into sound. There was a yell and a shadowy figure rose up from behind the bonnet of the Buick and fell forward.

  Girland heard the machine gun clatter to the road. He began to crawl forward. In the uncertain light of the moon, he saw something move and he took a snap shot at it, his gun barking spitefully. There was a howl of anguish and a tall figure straightened up, clutching his arm. Schwartz’s gun banged again and the man dropped, spreading out on the road.

  The other two men had had enough. They turned and ran, keeping low. Girland heard their pattering footfalls as they dashed for shelter, then he heard them crashing through the thickly growing shrubs. Cautiously, he stood up and with Schwartz, advanced towards the car. Borg remained flat in the sand, sweat running off his face, his breath coming in short gasps.

  Reaching the Buick, Girland kicked against the machine gun which he picked up. Schwartz was bending over the fallen men. He grunted and straightened. Girland joined him.

  “They’ve wrecked our car,” he said. “We’ll take theirs. Let’s get going.”

  Satisfied it was now safe to move, Borg scrambled to his feet and ran up.

  “Jeeze! That was close,” he panted. “What do we do now?”

  Girland got in the Buick.

  “Hurry up! They may come back.”

  Borg got in so quickly, he hit his head on the frame of the car half stunning himself.

  Schwartz was already in the back seat, his gun in his hand, peering through the open window at the darkness of the bush.

  Girland straightened the car, then sent it surging forward.

  “Well, they tried,” he said. “They can’t follow us now,” He looked at his watch. He had ten minutes in which to reach Diourbel and he squeezed down on the gas pedal.

  Rubbing his head, Borg said, “Think there is going to be any more of it? Goddamn it … a machine gun!”

  “You ought to have thought of that,” Schwartz said. “Why didn’t you fix it we had one?”

  “Yeah? We’d have looked pretty crummy trying to smuggle a machine gun through the Customs, wouldn’t we?”

  Girland wasn’t listening. He was thinking that there were no means for the two men who had got away to alert Malik the ambush had failed … anyway, for some time. With luck, he would now reach Carey without having to worry about any opposition.

  Ahead of him, he could see the street lights of Diourbel, and he slowed down.

  “You two stay with the car. I’ll handle this on my own.”

  “You’re welcome,” Borg said. “You could walk into a mouthful of slugs.”

  Schwartz said, “I’m telling you, Girland. You try to lose me and you’ll end up dead.”

  “Do what you like, but keep out of sight.” Girland pulled up between street lights and got out of the car. “Just remember, Radnitz will love you two if you queer my pitch.”

  Leaving the car, he walked quickly down the road until he came to the open space on the left as described by Fantaz. In the shadowy moonlight, he could make out a parked car.

  His hand slid inside his coat and his fingers closed over the butt of his gun. He walked slowly towards the car, a little tense and very alert.

  Whoever was in the car saw him. The car door swung open and a man got out. It wasn’t Fantaz. This man was short and slim and looked youthful. He came towards Girland who kept moving and the two men met in the open space away from the trees.

  Girland could see now that this man was dark and swarthy. He had black curly hair and seemed less than twenty years of age. He smiled at Girland.

  “My uncle told me to meet you,” he said, offering a lean, hard hand. “I am Gomez.”

  Girland shook hands, relaxing.

  “Had a little trouble on the road. I’m a little late.”

  “Trouble?”

  “I’ll tell your uncle about it. Where is he?” Gomez glanced around.

  “Excuse me. I don’t see your car. Are you alone?”

  “Fortunately, no,” Girland said. “If I had been, I wouldn’t be here now. I have a couple of men with me. They’re waiting for me just round the corner.”

  Gomez stood for so long in silence, staring at Girland that Girland asked sharply, “What are you hesitating about?”

  “My uncle said you would be alone.”

  “Well, so I am alone. I’m leaving my men here.”

  He hoped Schwartz would have the sense not to show himself if he did follow behind.

  “Very well. Will you come with me?” Gomez turned and walked back to the yellow Fiat.

  “Is it far?” Girland asked, falling into step with him.

  “It’s no distance.”

  They got in the car and Gomez started the engine, turned the car and headed down the main street. Girland resisted the temptation to see if the Buick was following.

  “It’s hot here,” he said. “Much hotter than Dakar.”

  “It’s inland,” Gomez returned. He was driving slowly. The road was crowded with Africans, wandering aimlessly along and talking to one another. The acetylene lamps above the food stalls attracted the insects that swarmed and buzzed around the hard white light.

  After a two minute drive, Gomez turned down a sandy road and pulled up outside a white house, surrounded by a wire fence on which was growing a dense creeper.

  They got out of the car and Girland glanced back in time to sec the Buick drive slowly past the entrance to the road.

  He followed Gomez into the small garden and up the steps. Gomez took a key from his pocket and unlocked the front door. He stepped into a dimly lit hall, then opening a door on his right, he motioned Girland to enter.

  Girland walked into a large room, lit only by a red shaded lamp that stood on the table. The far end of the room was in darkness.

  Sitting by the table, smoking a cigar, was Fantaz. As Girland came closer to the light, he was aware that there was someone else there: someone concealed in the heavy shadows at the far end of the room.

  “Well, here I am,” he said to Fantaz. “I had a little trouble getting to you.”

  There was a movement at the other end of the room and then a girl came into the light. She was a tall blonde, wearing a bush shirt and fawn slacks, and in her right hand, she held a .38 automatic which she levelled at Girland.

  “You idiot!” she said to Fantaz. “This isn’t the man … this isn’t Girland!”

  Then with a shock of surprise, Girland recognised her: the girl who had been wearing a New York Herald Tribune sweater when last he had met her: the girl who called herself Tessa.

  A gun jumped into Gomez’s hand and he moved around so he could cover Girland who was smiling at Tessa.

  “Hello, baby,” Girland said. “You certainly disappointed me, running out on me like that: I was expecting great things from you. Where did you spring from?”

  The girl peered at him, a puzzled expression coming into her eyes.

  “A pretty good disguise, isn’t it?” Girland went on. He removed the two cheek pads. “Take off the moustache and forget the blond rinse, and it’s your boy friend once again.”

  Slowly, she lowered the gun.

  “Why yes, I recognise you now.” She still seemed very suspicious of him. “Why are you wearing a disguise?”

  Girland wandered over to an armchair and sank into it.

  “Dorey thought it safer,” he said airily. “My handsome face is known to the Russians.” He lit a cigarette and leaning forward went on, “Pardon my curiosity, but exactly where do you fit in here?”

  The girl moved further into the light and sat down on an up-right chair by the table. She looked at Fantaz who lifted his fat shoulders in a shrug.

  “I’m Tessa Carey,” she said. “I am Robert Henry Carey’s daughter.”

  Girland let out a
whistle of surprise.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that when we first met in Paris?”

  “I had my reasons. I wasn’t ready to tell you.”

  “Why did you search my apartment?”

  “I wanted to be sure who you were. Then when I was convinced you were the man my father told me to contact, I had to leave. I had a cable from Enrico telling me to come here at once.”

  Girland looked puzzled.

  “Your father told you to contact me?”

  “Yes. He wasn’t sure Dorey would co-operate. He wanted you as a second string.”

  Girland thought of Malik.

  “Do the Russians know you are out here?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why have you come out here?”

  “I’m looking after father.”

  “One of the Russian agents working here is a man known as Malik,” Girland said. “He’s a character to be avoided. If he finds out who you are and gets hold of you, it’ll be too bad for you and your father.”

  “Someone has to look after father,” Tessa said.

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “He’s ill. He’s very sick.” She looked away, her lips trembling. Girland turned to Fantaz. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “We don’t know, but it’s something bad,” Fantaz said. “He keeps wasting away. We can’t get a doctor to him. He won’t hear of it.”

  “And he’s cooped up in an awful little hut. He can’t get out,” Tessa said. “There are a number of Arabs in Russian pay searching for him. They have been searching for him now for over a month. They keep getting closer and closer to where he is hiding.”

  Girland rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “Suppose you take me to him? We used to know each other … not well, but we liked each other.” “But you can’t go looking like this,” Tessa protested. “If I didn’t recognise you, how do you imagine he will?”

  “Get me a hair dye and I’ll be my normal self in five minutes.” “We can’t get that until tomorrow.”