This is For Real (23 page)

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.”

“I’m not waiting until tomorrow. Get me a hat and a burnt cork: that’ll do until you get me the dye.”

Gomez went out of the room and returned a few moments later with a straw hat, a cork from a bottle, a candle and matches.

“I’ll get this moustache off first,” Girland said. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Ten minutes later, wearing the straw hat, Girland was recognisable as himself.

“All right now?” he asked Tessa who had turned on all the lights in the big room and was looking at him.

“Oh yes. He’ll know you now.”

“We ran into a little trouble on the way out here,” Girland said. Tessa stiffened. “We? Aren’t you alone?”

“Dorey sent two of his men out here yesterday. He wants this job wrapped up quickly. You needn’t worry about them. They will keep in the background. Without them, I wouldn’t be here now,” and Girland told her briefly about the ambush.

He was quick to see Fantaz had lost colour and was sweating by the time he had come to the end of his recital.

“I don’t like this,” Fantaz said. “I shouldn’t have brought you out here, Tessa. None of us will be safe. I know these Russians.”

“Don’t let’s waste time. How long will it take to reach your father?” Girland asked Tessa.

“It’s a good three hours’ drive from here.”

“What are we waiting for?” He got to his feet. “Let’s go.” He looked at Fantaz. “You coming?”

The fat man shook his head.

“I’m staying here.” He glanced at Gomez. “You stay too.” Gomez hesitated.

“Perhaps I should go with them. Suppose they run into trouble? Three are better than two.”

“What about me?” Fantaz’s voice went shrill. “I’m not staying here alone! It’s your duty to remain with me. I have taken too many risks already.”

“Stay with him,” Girland said, then turning to Tessa, he asked, “Have you a car?”

“It’s at the back. I have an African guide waiting.” “Do we have to take him?”

“We’d be lost in five minutes without him. He used to be my father’s house-boy. It is he who is hiding him.” “Well, okay. Then let’s go.” “What about your two men?”

“They’re watching the main road. Better leave them there. If your father is as bad as you say he is, he won’t want them around. Come on, let’s go.”

She led him through the kitchen and out into the dark, hot yard, through a gateway to where a Deux Chevaux stood waiting.

A stooped, grizzled-haired African got out of the car and bowed to her.

“This is Momar,” Tessa said. “Momar, this is Mr. Girland. He is here to help father.”

Black suspicious eyes stared at Girland, then the old African grunted. He climbed into the back seat of the little car.

As Tessa was about to get in the car, a hoarse voice demanded. “Hey, palsy, just where do you think you’re going?”

Tessa spun around as Borg appeared out of the darkness. She stared at the fat man who was gaping at her.

“Who’s this?” Borg asked. “What’s all this about?”

“Where’s Schwartz?” Girland asked, moving up to Borg. He caught hold of his arm and began to lead him away from the car.

“He’s watching the front,” Borg said. “Wait a minute. What are you shoving me around for? What’s going on?”

“Keep your voice down,” Girland said. He kept pushing Borg further into the darkness. “I told you if you queered my pitch, I’ll tell Radnitz.”

“You’re running out on us,” Borg protested, coming to a halt. “Now look palsy; I like you but that doesn’t mean I trust you. We stick together … understand? Who’s the girl?”

Girland stepped back slightly to give himself room, then his fist flashed out in a crushing punch to Borg’s jaw.

Borg grunted and began to fall forward. Girland hit him again, then lowered him to the ground. He turned and ran back to the car.

“Let’s go!” he said. “Come on, come on, let’s go!”

Tessa started the car engine.

“What’s happened? Who is he? Did you hit him?”

“Never mind! Drive!”

The car moved forward; bumping over the uneven ground; then slowly gathering speed. There was no road, only shrub and loose sand. Tessa reached for the headlight switch, but Girland struck her hand down.

“No lights!” He peered back, but could see only darkness.

“I can’t see where I’m driving,” Tessa wailed. “We’ll hit a tree or something.”

“Keep going,” Girland said. “We won’t hit a thing.”

Tessa slowed the car and leaning forward to peer through the windscreen, she guided the car through the tall shrubs, avoiding the trees as they loomed out of the darkness until after a ten minute, nerve-racking drive, she reached the main road into the bush.

“There you are … not a tree damaged,” Girland said cheerfully. “You can put on the lights now.” Tessa stopped the car and swung around to face him, “Who was that man? I’ve seen him before somewhere. Who is he?”

“One of Dorey’s boys, and as useful as a hole in the head. Forget him. Come on, we’re wasting time.”

“But I’ve seen him before … in Paris.”

“So what? He lives in Paris. Get moving!”

A puzzled expression still on her face, Tessa drove the car through the loose sand covering the road and into the wastes of the bush.

Hearing the sound of a car engine, Schwartz, watching the front of the house, hesitated, then ran around the house to the back entrance. He was in time to see the car, without lights disappearing into the darkness of the bush. He lifted his gun, then paused. Maybe it was some crazy African driving home. Where was Borg?

A strangled grunt made him turn and he saw what looked like the body of a man lying in the shadows. He went over and found Borg slowly gaining consciousness from the two punches Girland had given him.

Cursing, Schwartz kicked Borg savagely.

“Get up, you jerk,” he snarled. “What’s happened?”

“Nearly bust my goddamn jaw,” Borg moaned, sitting up and nursing his face. “Never gave me a chance.”

Schwartz kicked him again and Borg hurriedly staggered to his feet.