1965 - This is for Real Read online

  “What are you doing here?” Malik demanded.

  Dieng, his eyes rolling fearfully, told Malik of the failure of the ambush.

  Malik restrained his fury with difficulty.

  “How long have they been gone?”

  “Some time ... an hour perhaps.”

  “What were these other two men like?”

  Dieng described Borg and Schwartz.

  “If it had not been for them, we would have succeeded sir,” he said, aware of Malik's restrained fury. “It was not our fault.”

  “Get in the car!” Malik said.

  The African with the scar on his face whose name was Daouda. joined them and he and Dieng got in beside the driver who glanced at them and wrinkled his nose.

  Malik got in the back.

  “Diourbel and fast!” he told the driver.

  As the Cadillac began to move, Malik considered what he had to do. Fantaz had vanished. He had had word from Ivan that Fantaz had not returned to his villa. He had told Ivan to come back as fast as he could and they would meet at Diourbel.

  Girland must be on his way to meet Carey. Fantaz must have told him when they had met in the cafe where Carey was hiding.

  These black fools had let Girland slip through their fingers. The situation was bad. but not hopelessly bad. Girland would be going into the bush where Malik had thirty men who knew the bush backwards, watching for him and for Carey. Even if Girland found Carey, it was unlikely he would be able to get Carey out of the bush without being caught.

  They reached Diourbel ten minutes after Borg. Schwartz and Gomez had driven into the bush. The Cadillac pulled up outside a small villa set back from the main road that Malik had rented and used as his advance operations headquarters.

  Leaving the car, and followed by the two Africans, Malik climbed the steps to the front entrance of the villa. He knocked three times on the door. A judas window opened and eyes stared at him, then the door was opened.

  “Smemoff here?” Malik asked the broad-shouldered African who had opened the door.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Motioning to Dieng and Daouda to remain where they were, Malik walked quietly down a passage and into a room where a man sat at a desk, headphones clamped to his ears. His fingers turned the dial of a walkie-talkie set. an expression of concentration on his flat Slavonic face. This was Boris Smemoff, a man of forty-five, thickset, dark and squatly built, who was the most persistent and ruthless hunter of men in the Soviet Secret Service.

  He looked at Malik, gave a warning shake of his head, and went on moving the dial of the radio.

  Malik pulled up a chair and sat down. He reached for a bottle of vodka that stood on the desk and poured himself a drink, using one of the number of glasses on a tray. He sipped his drink while he watched Smemoff who was now consulting a large-scale map that was spread out before him.

  “You will wait for further orders,” he said into the microphone and then switched off. He looked at Malik. “The net tightens. The lights of a car were seen just now ten miles from our nearest lookout. He was in a tree otherwise he wouldn't have seen the lights. The car is heading east. Probably it is taking supplies to Carey.”

  “No, taking Girland to Carey.” Malik got up and went around behind Smemoff to look over his shoulder at the map. “Where was the car seen?”

  “About here.” Smemoff pointed. He picked up a pencil and began making little crosses on the map. “Here and here and here are our men. The car is moving in this direction” He drew a line with his pencil. “You will see our men form a half circle to this line. So somewhere here.” the pencil tapped the map, “Carey must be hiding.”

  Malik studied the map and nodded.

  “You have enough men to complete the circle?”

  “Widely spaced, they could complete the circle, but if Carey moved out at night, he could still slip through.”

  “Can we get more men?”

  “I have already arranged for that. They should be in place by tomorrow morning.”

  Malik returned to his chair. He finished the vodka and poured another.

  “So Girland knows where Carey is now?” Smemoff said, “Girland is a dangerous man. He could fight his way through. These Arabs have no stomach for a fight.”

  “I'm waiting for Ivan. As soon as he arrives we'll go into the bush. You'll come too. We mustn't leave anything to chance.”

  The radio crackled into life and Smemoff again adjusted the dial. He listened and Malik saw him frown. “Hold on.” he said into the microphone. “Another car's been sighted,” he went on to Malik. He studied the map. “It is heading southeast. It passed one of the lookouts about ten minutes ago. It's an old Buick with three men inside.”

  “That's Girland!” Malik said, jumping to his feet. “He stole Dieng's car.”

  “Well, if it is, he's heading the wrong way. Then who is in the other car... going the right way?”

  “Could be as you said ... supplies going in for Carey.”

  “What do we do about Girland?”

  “Leave him. If he hasn't a guide, he'll get lost and that'll save us the trouble of getting rid of him.”

  Just then the door opened and Ivan came in.

  “You're in time,” Malik said. “We're going into the bush.”

  “And Fantaz?”

  “We can forget him. We now know within ten miles where Carey is. By tomorrow morning, we'll have him.”

  Smemoff had finished speaking into the microphone and now he picked up the set and carried it out to a waiting jeep.

  Malik and Ivan followed him.

  “You'll both come with us,” Malik said to Dieng.

  Their eyes rolling uneasily, Dieng and Daouda followed them out into the hot dark night.

  ***

  Tessa had been driving now for some two hours. The springs of the little car were scarcely adequate to cope with the dips and holes in the sand they crashed through before she could avoid them and the car behaved like a small boat in a wild sea.

  It was a nightmarish journey for Girland who was not used to driving in the bush. Although he hung on, he got thrown about in his seat, and soon his body was aching and bruised.

  Several times they got stuck in the sand and had to get out. He and Momar lifted the little car out of the sand and pushed until the car was moving again. It was exhausting work in the humid heat.

  “How much further have we to go?” he asked as once again the rear wheels of the car sank into a patch of deep loose sand.

  “About eighty kilometres... another hour.” Tessa said, getting out of the car. She stretched, trying to ease her aching muscles.

  With Momar’s help, Girland heaved the car, onto harder ground, then he came around the car and joined Tessa.

  “Our headlights are worrying me. If Malik's men are as close as you think and on the lookout, they could spot us a kilometre away. I think we should stop right here and wait until it gets light enough for us to drive without lights.”

  “But I can't leave father alone all night,” Tessa protested.

  “Safer to leave him than to lead these boys to him, and that's what we are doing right now. Up in a high tree, a lookout could see a long distance over this flat ground.”

  Tessa hesitated, then nodded.

  “I hadn't thought of that. All right, we'll wait.” She peered at her wristwatch. “It won't be light for another six hours.”

  “Then we'll wait six hours.” Girland sat down on the sand.

  “Phew! I could do with a drink!”

  Tessa said something to Momar who brought from the car a large vacuum flask and glasses. Leaving them, the old African moved to the other side of the car, settled himself on the sand and almost immediately fell asleep.

  Tessa sat beside Girland and poured ice cold orange squash from the flask.

  “Pity there's no gin in it,” Girland said, after he had sipped from the glass, “but it's a lot better than nothing.” He leaned back and regarded her. “How did you learn to drive a
car like this?”

  She smiled, pleased with the implied compliment.

  “I lived in Diourbel until I was eighteen. I was always driving into the brush with Momar. You soon get used to the technique of driving in sand.”

  “Were you out here with your father?”

  “No. My father had gone back to France three months before I was born leaving my mother here. The war had started and he wanted to be in it. I've only known my father to speak to these past few days. After the war, he went to America.”

  She picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through her fingers. “We didn't have much money. Enrico managed father's business here, but without father, it didn't prosper. The next thing we heard of father was, he was a spy and had defected to Russia. That came as a horrible shock. My mother died soon after, and I went to Paris. I always kept in touch with Enrico and he knew where I was in Paris. I didn't have any money, but I did all kinds of jobs, including selling the Tribune. I had really a lot of fun. Then suddenly out of the blue. Rosa Arbeau turned up at my one room apartment. She and I went to school together. I knew she was Enrico's mistress. She gave me a letter from my father. This was the first time I had heard from him since I was born. Rosa acted mysteriously. She wouldn't tell me anything. She just gave me the letter and went away.”

  Girland lit a cigarette.

  “Sure it was from your father?”

  “Yes, there was also a letter from Enrico. My father said he had escaped from Russia and had important information he wanted Dorey to have. I didn't know who Dorey was. He said that Dorey might not trust him but that I should contact a man he had met years ago who could be trusted. He said this man's name was Girland but he couldn't remember his first name. He did live in Paris and I was to be careful I found the right man. In Enrico's letter, he said father was seriously ill. I didn't know what to think. I found your name in the telephone book. I followed you one night and ... well, you know the rest.” She smiled at him.

  “Your father said nothing else?”

  “He mentioned a man called Herman Radnitz. He warned me against him. One of my newspaper friends often talked to me about Radnitz. I knew he lived at the George V Hotel so I watched there one evening, hoping to see him but I didn't. I...” She broke off, her eyes opening wide. “Now I remember where I saw that fat man who you hit.” She turned to stare at Girland. “He was outside the George V with another thin, horrible looking man.”

  “That's likely,” Girland said mildly. “Dorey spent a lot of time having Radnitz watched. Don't ask me why. He never learned anything about Radnitz, but he was always hoping.”

  “There was also a young man with a beard. I remember them distinctly now. Who are they?”

  “They all work for Dorey.” Then changing the subject. Girland asked, “Did your father give you any idea what kind of information he has for Dorey?”

  “Oh no, he wouldn't discuss that with me.”

  “You have told him you contacted me?”

  “Yes, I told him that. He said you were the only one of Dorey's men he could trust.”

  “Now I wonder why he said that,” Girland said, frowning.

  She looked sharply at him.

  “He can trust you can't he?”

  Girland forced a smile.

  “Of course he can.”

  There was a pause then she said, “Tell me about yourself, Mark.”

  He looked at her and shook his head.

  “There's nothing to tell.”

  “There is. I want to know how you became an agent. Are you married?”

  “Me? My work and marriage wouldn't mix.”

  “I told you about myself. Why are you being so secretive?”

  He laughed.

  “Only because it’s so damned dull. I am the black sheep of my family if you must know. My mother was French and my father was a very learned American judge. As soon as I could leave home, I left. We lived then in Miami in a tiresome and enormous house full of stuffy and tiresome servants. I always wanted to live in Paris, so when I was eighteen, I packed a bag, got on a cargo boat and finally arrived in Paris. I had a very thin time trying to ape Hemingway, writing the most dreadful stuff and starving. My father died and left me thirty thousand dollars. I spent it all in two years and began starving again. Then Harry Rossland appeared and persuaded me to work for him. That was about six years ago. I've been an agent ever since.”

  “Do you like it?”

  He shrugged.

  “It's all right. No money in it of course, but I get around. Yes, it's all right.”

  “Do you like living alone in that apartment of yours? I should have thought you would have been lonely.”

  He thought of the very few times he had been alone in that apartment which now seemed to be very far away. There were always girls willing to share it with him: girls who stayed a night, a week, but never more than a month. After a month, he had grown tired of them.

  “I'm too busy to be lonely,” he said and stretched himself out on the sand. “Let's take a nap. We have a long day ahead of us.”

  She lay back.

  “What's going to happen tomorrow? Do you think you'll be able to persuade father to leave?”

  “It might not be safe for him to leave just yet.”

  “But he can't stay there much longer.”

  “Once he gives me the information for Dorey, he'll cease to be of value to the Russians or to Radnitz. Then he'll be able to come safely out of hiding. You go to sleep.”

  He shut his eyes, but his mind was too busy for immediate sleep. He wondered what Borg and Schwartz were doing. He wondered about Malik. He thought of Janine. There were so many things to think about. His final thought before he dozed off was of Carey and he remembered what Tessa had said: He said you were the only one of Dorey's men he could trust.

  A streak of pale light across the sky brought him awake and he sat up. There was a brisk wind blowing and he felt gritty all over.

  At his movement Tessa who was curled up near him blinked, raised her head, then sat up.

  “Time we got moving,” Girland said. He looked at his watch.

  It was a few minutes after four o'clock. He yawned and stood up. “I feel like hell.”

  Momar was making coffee on a small wood fire. He brought two steaming cups over to them and they drank gratefully.

  “Oh, that's better!” Tessa said. “A cigarette now and I think I'll survive. This sand! It drives me crazy!”

  They lit cigarettes and smiled at each other. In spite of her dishevelled appearance, Girland thought she still looked sensationally attractive. He rubbed the stubble of his beard and grimaced.

  “Not even a toothbrush.” he said. “Well, come on. Let’s go.”

  Momar was already in the back seat of the car and they climbed in. Tessa consulted the old African and he pointed in the direction she was to go. She started the engine and once again the car banged and bumped over the uneven ground, heading further into the bush.

  After a few kilometres, they saw in the distance a large village, surrounded by a bamboo and straw wall. A blue clad African was squatting at the gate of the wall. He stared indifferently at them as they drove past.

  “Do you often come this way?” Girland asked.

  “No. We never come the same way. I have only been to Diourbel twice since I came out. You're thinking the villagers might talk?”

  “They could, couldn't they?”

  “They just wouldn't be interested which way we were going. I think it is safe enough. It has to be. There are things we can't get along without and I have to get them in Diourbel.”

  They continued to drive further and further into the bush and Girland was struck by the variety of brilliantly coloured birds that flew out of the bushes and shrubs at their approach.

  Miniature parrots with blue, and yellow plumage particularly caught his attention and they sat in the sandy track and only flew away when they seemed about to be run over.

  During the next fifty k
ilometres, they got stuck four times and now the sun was up, the labour of lifting and pushing the car was exhausting. Girland was thankful that Tessa had had the foresight to bring two vacuum flasks of ice cold drink with her.

  “How much further is this goddamn place?” he asked as he climbed into the oven hot car for the fourth time.

  “Another five kilometres.”

  Eventually they saw ahead of them three bamboo and straw huts, shielded from the wind and sand by a wall of dried grass and bamboo sticks. To the right of the huts was a large mound of straw and brown shrubs.

  “Here we are,” Tessa said. “We hide the car under that straw. This is Momar's home.”

  As the car pulled up, three tall grinning Africans came out of the wall gate, followed by four excited children.

  Tessa shook hands with them all and they then turned to Girland, nodding and giggling, to shake hands with him. Momar curtly told them to unload the car and get it hidden.

  “I'll tell father you have arrived,” Tessa said. “Have a drink and sit in the shade. I'm afraid you'll find it all very dirty and smelly, but this is real Africa.”

  “That's all right,” Girland said doubtfully. “If you can survive, I guess I can.”

  He was disgusted to see the mass of flies that swarmed over the back of Tessa's shirt. There were flies everywhere and when he put his hand to the back of his own shirt, a great cloud of startled flies buzzed around his head before settling on his back again.

  He followed her through the gate. Two small huts stood to the left of the open space which was littered with rusty, open cans and other rubbish. To the right, further away, was a bigger hut.

  A fat cheerful looking African woman with a wrinkled face was pounding millet with a heavy wooden pole. Girland guessed she must be Momar's wife. Two young African women peered at him from the shelter of one of the huts and then withdrew, giggling into the darkness.

  He found some shade and squatted down, watching Tessa walk over to the big hut and enter. Momar came over to him carrying a glass of orange squash that Girland accepted gratefully.

  There was a long pause. Girland kept waving away the flies, wondering how long he would have to remain in this hellhole.