As Edward FitzGerald might have put it, 'Djanet was Paradise enow'. Four days later Byrne saw me settled comfortably in a hotel room, then went away, probably to see Atitel and to tell him that his broken leg was worth ten camels, after all – delivered to Bilma at the beginning of next season. I wondered how much a broken arm was worth.
When he came back he had done that, and more. He had also gone to the telegraph office and cabled Hesther Raulier. I don't know exactly what he'd put in the cable but it was enough for Hesther to promise to send a chartered aircraft to Djanet to return Paul and me to Algiers. 'I'd like for you to get that arm fixed,' he said. 'But not here. Hesther knows the right people in Algiers – it can be arranged quietly.'
I nodded. Then we've got things to do,' I said, 'Is there such a thing as a Commissioner for Oaths in Djanet?'
'Huh?'
'An American would call him a Notary Public.'
His brow cleared. 'Sure there is. Why?'
'I want to put down in writing everything we found wrong with Flyaway – all about the compass and the stuff in the bottom of the main fuel tank. And I want you to sign it before an official witness. I'll sign it too, but we'll keep Paul out of it. Do you think you can find a typewriter anywhere?'
'There's one in the hotel office,' he said. 'I'll borrow that.'
So I spent half a day typing the statement, with many references to Byrne to elucidate the more technical bits. I did it one-handedly but that was no hardship because my typing is of the hunt-and-peck order, anyway. Next morning we went to the notary public and both of us signed every page which also had the embossed seal of the notary public. It didn't matter that he couldn't understand the content; it was our signatures he was witnessing.
Then I brought out my plastic shaving-soap container and that was put into an envelope and sealed and Byrne and I signed our names across the flap. I watched Byrne laboriously writing his name in an unformed handwriting, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth like that of a small schoolboy. But it came out clear enough – Lucas Byrne.
As we left the official's office Byrne said, 'You got ideas?'
'Some – but they're pretty weird.'
'Could be nothing but. It figures. If you find any answers let me know.'
'I'll do that,' I said.
The three of us lunched at a restaurant and inhaled a few beers and then Byrne drove us back to the hotel to pick up our bags and then the few miles to In Debiren where the airstrip was and where a Piper Comanche awaited us. Paul, who once didn't have the grace to thank anyone for anything, positively embarrassed Byrne, who adopted a 'Shucks, 't' warn't nuthin'' attitude.
I said, 'Paul, get in the plane – I want a couple of last words with Luke.' Once he was out of earshot I said, 'He's right, you know; thanks aren't enough.'
Byrne smiled. 'I hope to God you're right.' He produced an envelope, sealed and with my name on it. 'This is for you. I told you I'd bill you. You can settle it with Hesther.'
I grinned and tucked it in the pocket of my gandoura unopened. 'What will you do now?'
'Get back to the Air and my own business – go back to leading the quiet life. Give my regards to Hesther.'
'I'll give her your love,' I said.
He looked at me quizzically. 'You do that and she'll laugh like a hyaena.' He took my hand. 'Look after yourself, now. From what I hear, the big cities can be more dangerous than the desert.'
'I'll bear that in mind,' I promised and got into the Comanche.
So we took off and, as the plane circled the airstrip I saw that Byrne hadn't waited. The Toyota was trailing a cloud of dust and heading south to Bilma and, from there, to the Air.
At first, during the flight north, I was preoccupied with my own thoughts and gazed sightlessly at the vast dun expanse which flowed below. There were too many damn loose ends to tie up and I couldn't begin to see where to start.
Presently I took out Byrne's envelope and handed it to Paul. 'Can you open that for me?'
'Of course.' He ripped off the end, shook out the contents and gave it back to me.
As Byrne had promised he'd billed me, and it was all set out clearly, payable in pounds sterling. His own services he had put down as a guide at?30 a day; at thirty-three days that came to?990. Then there was the purchase of gasoline – so many litres at such-and-such; oil and new tyres; camel hire – and the purchase of five camels at ?100 each. He also added in half the cost of a new Toyota Land Cruiser which seemed quit e steep until I remembered how Kissack had shot Byrne's truck full of holes in the Ten6re. Altogether the bill came to a little over?5000.
There was no charge for saving life. Byrne was one hell of a fellow.
As I put it away Paul said happily, 'I'm looking forward to seeing that editor's face again.'
'Um – Paul; do me a favour. Don't go off pop as soon as we get to London. I don't want you to tell anyone a damn thing until I give you the word. Please!'
'Why not?'
I sighed. 'I can't tell you now, but will you believe me when I say it's for your own good? In any case, you can't tell anyone about Lash and Kissack.'
Again he said, 'Why not?'
'Jesus!' I said. 'Paul, you killed a man! Shot the top of his head right off. You don't want to open that can of worms. Look, you can tell the newspapers about finding Flyaway and your father's body, but just give me time to find out something will you? I want to discover what the hell it was all about.'
'All right,' he said. 'I won't say anything until you say I can.'
'And you won't do anything, either. Promise?'
'I promise.' He was silent for a while, then he said, 'I don't remember much about my father. I was only two when he died, you know.'
'I know.'
'About the only thing I can remember was him bouncing me on his knee and singing that nursery rhyme; you know, the one that goes, 'Fly away, Peter! Fly away, Paul!' I thought that was a great joke.' So would Billson. Paul rubbed his chin. 'But I didn't like my stepfather much.'
I cocked my eye at him. 'Aarvik? What was wrong with him?'
'Oh, not Aarvik; he came later. I mean the other one.'
I said, 'Are you telling me your mother married three times?'
That's right. Didn't you know?'
'No, I didn't,' I said thoughtfully. 'What was his name?'
'Can't remember. He wasn't around much, and I was only a kid. After I was about four years old he wasn't around at all. It's all a long time ago.'
Indeed it is, Paul; indeed it is!
He didn't say much after that revelation and neither did I. We lapsed into silence and I was still mulling it over when we landed at Algiers.
The big Mercedes with the Arab chauffeur was waiting by the hangar as the Comanche taxied up and we were soon wafted luxuriously to the heights of Bouzarea overlooking Algiers. If the chauffeur was surprised at carrying a Targui he didn't show it.
We stopped at the small door in the wall which opened as silently and mysteriously as before, and Paul and I walked towards the house. Hesther Raulier was still lying on the chaise-longue and might never have moved but that she was wearing a different dress. As we approached she put down her cigar and stood up.
Suddenly her monkey face cracked into a big grin and she laughed raucously. 'Jesus, Stafford! What in hell do you think you're doing? Auditioning for The Desert Song?'
She put me to bed fast and summoned the doctor who, apparently, was on tap immediately. She said, 'Luke put a couple of words into his cable that meant something bad -stuff I hadn't heard since the Revolution – so I got in Fahkri. He's used to gunshot wounds and knows how to keep his mouth shut.'
Dr Fahkri examined my arm, asked how long ago it had happened, and then told me the bullet was still in
