This is For Real (24 page)

“Lay off” he whined. “Girland nearly bust my jaw.”

Schwartz spun around, looking into the dark bush. He could still hear the car, but he no longer could see it.

“Where did he go?” he demanded, grabbing Borg and shaking him.

“I don’t know. He had a girl with him. I caught them getting into the car, and then Girland went for me.”

“A girl?”

“Couldn’t see much of her … a girl all right”

“You slob!” Schwartz was beside himself with rage. “He’s going after Carey and we’ve lost him! We haven’t a hope in hell to follow them in the bush.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“You should have shot him.”

Borg leaned against a tree. He was still feeling dizzy and his jaw ached.

Schwartz turned and stared at the white house. He could see a light coming through a chink in the shutter covering one of the windows.

“Someone’s in there,” he said, lowering his voice. “We’ll see who it is.”

Without waiting for Borg to argue, he went around to the front of the house and moving like a black shadow, he crept into the garden and then up the steps to the front door.

Borg followed him, his gun in his sweating hand.

Schwartz gently turned the handle of the door and pushed. As the door swung open, he paused to listen. He could hear voices. He looked back over his shoulder at Borg and nodded, then he crept into the dimly lit hall.

He let Borg pass him, then he silently shut the front door.

He heard a man say, “I don’t like them going off like that alone, uncle. I should have gone with them.”

“I’ve done enough for Carey,” a husky voice replied. “I was crazy to have helped him in the first place. If I’d known the risks, I wouldn’t have done it. Now the girl’s here to look after him, we’re going to keep out of it.”

Schwartz nudged Borg, nodded and silently stepped to the half open door. He moved into the room, his gun threatening the two men who faced him.

Fantaz was in the arm-chair. He was in the act of stubbing out his cigar. Gomez was sitting on the edge of the table.

At the sight of Schwartz and Borg, Fantaz dropped the cigar butt on the floor. His fat face sagged, turning a yellowish green. Gomez stiffened, his eyes going to his gun on the table near him.

“Don’t move!” Schwartz barked. “Get the gun,” he went on to Borg who moved to the table and snatched up the gun which he stuffed into his hip pocket.

“All right,” Schwartz said, staring at Fantaz, “now we’ll talk. Who’s the girl who has just left with Girland?”

Neither Fantaz nor Gomez said anything. They remained motionless, staring at Schwartz.

“You want me to soften you up, fatso?” Schwartz asked and began to move towards Fantaz, sliding his gun through his fingers until he was holding it by the barrel. Fantaz watched him, horror growing in his eyes.

“Wait!” he gasped. “I will tell you. She is Carey’s daughter.”

Schwartz stood over him.

“Carey’s daughter? Have they gone to him?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?” “In the bush.”

“I know that, you fat fool.” Schwartz hit Fantaz on his knee with the butt of the gun. Fantaz groaned, but didn’t move. “But where?”

“I know,” Gomez said. “Leave my uncle alone and I’ll take you to Carey. You’ll never find the place on your own. It’s a three hour drive into the bush.”

Schwartz and Borg exchanged glances, then Schwartz nodded.

“Okay, you come with us.” He turned to Fantaz who was clutching his aching knee. “You stay here. If you want to see your boy friend again, don’t do anything smart. Understand?”

Fantaz nodded. He looked at Gomez whose dark face was expressionless.

Borg gave Gomez a shove.

“Come on. You got a car?”

“Yes, but I’m low in petrol.” Gomez seemed calm and at ease. “There’s nowhere here to buy petrol until tomorrow morning.”

“We’ll take the Buick,” Schwartz said to Borg. “Go and get it.”

Borg nodded and went out of the room.

Schwartz moved away from the other two and leaned against the wall. They waited in silence until they heard the Buick pull up outside the house, then Schwartz jerked his head at Gomez who gave Fantaz a fleeting smile before he walked out of the room.

“Watch it!” Schwartz warned, staring stonily at Fantaz. “You start something and you won’t see him again.”

He went out and joined Borg and Gomez. He got in the back seat of the Buick, motioning to Gomez to get in the front seat beside Borg who was to drive.

“Which way?” Borg asked, starting the engine.

“Three kilometres up the main road and then you take the first on the left,” Gomez said, settling back in his seat.

Borg looked at him suspiciously.

“That’s not the way they went.”

“We have to use the bush road. Their car is light. If we go through the sand as they did, we’ll get stuck.”

This made sense to Borg. He reversed the car and drove onto the main road.

Schwartz touched Gomez’s neck with the barrel of his gun. “You try anything funny, Buster, and I’ll make a hole in your head.”

Borg drove through the crowds that were wandering in the road. Several smiling Africans hopefully tried to thumb a ride, but Borg kept the car moving. At last they were through Diourbel and once again on a clear road.

“Just ahead to the left,” Gomez said. “You’ll have to drive fast. Don’t drop below sixty or we’ll get stuck.”

The headlights picked out the narrow road that seemed to Borg to be a track of loose white sand. On either side of the road, the flat bush spread out in wastes of sand and scrubby shrubs.

As Borg drove, he felt the rear wheels of the car slipping occasionally. The night air was stifling and his hands were slippery with sweat. It was a drive he wasn’t enjoying.

As kilometre after kilometre disappeared behind them into the darkness, Borg began to experience the uncanny feeling that, in spite of the speed at which they were travelling, they weren’t moving at all. It was like being on a fast moving belt on which he was running but because of the speed of the belt, he could make no forward progress. The sand, the shrubs, the trees and the flatness of the terrain were identical: the scenery never changed. It began to worry him.

After they had driven for over an hour, Gomez said, ‘We’ll have to leave the road now. You must be careful how you drive. Don’t accelerate suddenly. Keep a constant speed or we’ll get stuck.” He leaned forward to peer through the windscreen. “Turn off just here. Don’t slow down.”

Muttering, Borg swung the wheel and steered off the road into the bush. He let the rear wheels slide to the left. He steered into the skid, resisting the temptation to accelerate. The car shuddered, slowed, then picked up speed and began bumping over the knots of grass, shaking the three men about in their seats so they had to hang on.

Suddenly an enormous tree with spreading arms appeared in the beams of the headlights. Startled, Borg swung the car away from it, his foot automatically pressing down on the brake. The car slowed, the engine jerked and stalled. The car stopped.

Borg cursed.

“Well, get on!” Schwartz shouted at him.

Borg started the engine again and engaged gear. He let in the clutch and gently accelerated. The rear wheels spun in the sand, but the car didn’t move.

Schwartz opened the car door.

“Stay where you are. I’ll push.” He went around to the back of the car and put both hands on the boot. “Now!”

Borg again let in the clutch and Schwartz pushed with all his strength, but the wheels of the heavy car settled further into the sand and Schwartz’s feet sank into the sand up to his ankles.

“Go and help him,” Borg said to Gomez who got out and joined Schwartz who was panting and swearing.

But even Gomez’s added weight failed to move the Buick. The wheels now had sunk down to their hubcaps. Schwartz moved back, wiping the sweat streaming down his face with his shirt sleeve.

“We must collect wood and leaves,” Gomez said. “Then we must level the sand around the wheels and pack the wood and leaves around the tyres. In this way we will be able to move the car again.”

Borg joined them. He looked at the sunken rear wheels and felt a twinge of fear. The wheels looked as if they would never climb out of their twin, sandy graves.

“Come on!” Schwartz snarled at him. “You heard what he said.” And he began tearing up small shrubs and throwing them in a pile by the car. Borg moved further away and began to collect dead branches that were scattered over the sand. Gomez walked over to the big tree and began stripping leaves from the lower branches.

They worked for some ten minutes, then Schwartz straightened and looked around. He couldn’t see either of his two companions in the darkness and he became alert. He had been so occupied that he had forgotten the other two until now. “Hey, Borg!” he shouted.

Borg came out of the darkness, carrying a pile of branches.

“Where’s the punk?” Schwartz demanded.

Borg gaped at him.

“He was with you, wasn’t he?”

“He was with you, you slob!” Schwartz snarled. He peered towards the enormous tree some twenty yards to his right. “He was there.”

Throwing down the branches, Borg ran to the tree, but he could see no sign of Gomez. “Hey! Where are you?” he bawled. “Come back here!” Gun in hand, Schwartz joined him.

“He can’t have gone far. Come on!” and he broke into a run, his feet sinking into the hot sand, making progress difficult and slow. “I’ll beat that jerk to a jelly when I get him!”

Panting at his side, Borg kept stumbling over clumps of brown dried grass. The heat was like a smothering damp blanket. Sweat turned his shirt black.

Finally, exhausted, he stopped running and stood gasping for breath. In no better state, Schwartz ran on for a few more metres, then also stopped.

The two men listened, but they could hear nothing but the violent thumping of their own hearts.

“He’s got away,” Schwartz said and raised his clenched fists above his head. “We’ll go back to the house and I’ll cut that fat pig to pieces. Come … back to the car!”

Scarcely able to drag one foot after the other, Borg followed him.

The darkness worried Borg. He could only see a metre or so ahead of him, and he kept running into prickly shrubs that seemed to spring out of the ground before he could avoid them.

They moved past the tree, but after walking a few steps, Schwartz stopped and peered into the darkness.

“Where’s the car?” he demanded.

“It must be just here,” Borg said.

“Well, it isn’t!” Schwartz looked at the tree and then at the place where the car should have been. “You don’t think he came back and took the car?”

“How could he?” There was’ a quaver in Borg’s voice. “It was sunk up to its hubcaps.”

“Well, it’s not here now.” Schwartz put his gun back into his holster and stared at the tree again. “Think this is the right tree?”

“I don’t know. Looks like it, but the place is lousy with trees.”

“It all looks the same to me,” Schwartz muttered. “Did you notice that on the way here?”

“Yeah … think we’re lost?” Borg licked his dry lips.

“It’s the dark.” Schwartz refused to panic. He walked to the tree and sat down, resting his back against the tree. “We’ll wait until it gets light. I’ll bet as soon as it’s light we’ll see the car. Then we’ll go back and I’ll teach that fat slob to monkey with me.”

Borg joined him, settling his heavy body on the sand with a grunting groan.

“Even if we manage to dig the car out, think we can find our way back?”

“Of course, you fool. We’ll have left wheel tracks in the sand. All we have to do is to follow them back.”

“Yeah. I hadn’t thought of that.” Borg paused, then said, “Judas! I could do with some beer!”

“Shut up!” Schwartz snarled.

Around three o’clock in the morning, a brisk, hot wind got up. It blew steadily for the next two hours, smoothing and flattening the sand and obliterating the wheel tracks of the Buick.

The headlights of the Cadillac lit up a parked car by the side of the road and two Africans in European clothes, standing dejectedly beside it.

There was something familiar about one of them, and Malik snapped an order to his driver. The Cadillac slowed and stopped a few yards beyond the parked car and Malik got out.

One of the Africans came hurriedly towards him and he recognised Samba Dieng.

“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 café 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.