Another Job For Biggles Read online

  Again Biggles stared. “By aeroplane,” he echoed.

  “Allah will bear witness to the truth of my words,” said Zahar simply.

  “Then there is a place for an aeroplane to land?”

  “There is much sabkha, such as surrounds the Wadi al Arwat. Also there are places that were made for this purpose in the war, some by the Italians and some by the English.”

  “Such as surrounds the Wadi al Arwat,” breathed Biggles, thinking fast as the significance of this remark struck him. And there would, of course, be old war-time air-fields, now abandoned. “And this aeroplane of which you speak! To whom does it belong?” he asked.

  “To the Sultan.”

  “Who flies it?”

  “I do not know, for I have not been near the man. I only know that he is a ferengi.”

  “Have you been to this wadi where the hashish is grown?”

  “Many times.”

  “How far is it from the coast?”

  “Two days’ march.”

  Visualising the atlas Biggles saw that the place must be near the border of, if not actually in, Ethiopia. Could you show this wadi to me?” he inquired.

  “Without question; but if we are found there by the Sultan’s Arabs, or the Danakils, who are paid by the Sultan for their silence, it would be death for both of us.”

  “Then we must see to it that we are not caught,” answered Biggles. “How many men does the Sultan employ at this place?”

  Zahar looked vague. “Many,” was all he could say.

  Biggles looked at his watch. “The hour grows late. We will talk more of this tomorrow. Can you find a place where you will be safe until the morning? For make no mistake, the Arabs of Ambrimos will soon be looking for you with daggers in their hands.”

  “And for you, too, by Allah,” asserted Zahar, making it clear that he had now grasped the situation. But fear not for me, Sahib.”

  “Then meet me at the aerodrome at the hour of sunrise,” ordered Biggles.

  “It shall be as you say,” confirmed Zahar.

  With that Biggles left him and strode away towards the Club well-satisfied with his evening’s work, for it had borne a heavier crop of fruit than he had expected. Not only was the Sultan in the hashish racket but he was actually growing the stuff in the wild hinterland on the other side of the Red Sea. If it was true, he thought, as Zahar had averred, that the terrain was similar to that of the Wadi al Arwat, it might well be that he intended to grow the new drug there, if in fact the plant was not already in cultivation. And Ambrimos, it seemed, although he had not advertised the fact, had decided to go in for air transportation after all. One thing with another, he felt that the pattern of the gurra racket was beginnning to take shape.

  Chapter 6

  The Enemy Hits Back

  AT dawn the following morning Biggles was at the airfield, sitting on a chock, with a map spread on his knees, just inside the hangar in which the two machines had been parked. Ginger and Bertie, on empty oil drums, crouched near his shoulders, following with interest the point of his pencil as from time to time it moved across the map to support his observations.

  Biggles had, of course, narrated to the others the events of the previous evening, and conveyed to them the gist of his enlightening conversation with Zahar, who, hunched up in his gumbez—for the early morning air was crisp—squatted on the concrete floor gazing with inscrutable eyes across the barren landing-area, hard-baked in the everlasting heat. Except that he was still very thin he showed few signs of his recent ordeal. Nothing of consequence had occurred, except that Biggles had sent a signal home, in code, asking for instructions.

  “Of course, as the job we came to do had been done for us, we could have packed up and gone home,” he was saying. “But I felt that it was leaving the job half done. At any rate, the burning of the stuff in the wadi didn’t achieve what the Air Commodore intended. In fact, the position is now more serious than ever, because I am convinced that the gurra would not have been burnt unless someone intended growing the stuff elsewhere. And that person now has a supply of seed. When we came here we knew where the stuff grew—or we thought we did. Now we don’t know, and our job won’t be finished until we do. All the same, I didn’t like to carry on without consulting Raymond, chiefly on account of the political angle. It looks as if we shall have to give this Danakil country the once-over. It’s the only clue we have. But this is a pretty wide territory, as you can see from the map. If we were sure that the Ambrimos hashish outfit was in British territory I wouldn’t hesitate. It may be in the Sudan. If it is, okay. But it’s just as likely to be in Ethiopia, in which case, we really have no right to barge in. The thing would have to be handled through normal diplomatic channels, and a fat lot of use that would be. The Sultan’s spies would soon let him know what was cooking. I imagine he is already thinking hard about last night’s affair. Anyway, I’ve switched the responsibility of what we do next, to Raymond. If he says come home, that’s all right with me. If he says carry on—well, we’ll do what we can to tidy up the business. It isn’t going to be easy, though. The first problem that sticks out like a sore finger is this: to march up and down the Danakil country looking for something which may or may not be there, is out of the question. We aren’t equipped for such a jaunt, and we should probably end up by being turned into pincushions by Danakil spearmen. For that, I believe, is. how they discourage tourists. On the other hand, If we fly over we shall certainly be spotted, in which case we might as well go and tell Ambrimos right away what we intend doing. Yet, as far as I can see, there’s nothing else for it.”

  “We could fly over and have a dekko at the beastly place—if you see what I mean,” put in Bertie. “No need to land, or anything like that.”

  “We should have to land sooner or later,” argued Biggles. “Goofing at the stuff from up topsides, even if we could locate it, wouldn’t do any good.”

  “It would be something to know just where Ambrimos has his dump,” suggested Ginger.

  “True enough,” agreed Biggles. “I was thinking of looking for it for a start. Zahar may be able to point the place out to us, but I wouldn’t reckon on it. It’s one thing to know a place from ground level, but another matter to recognise it from five thousand. However, we can but try. As soon as our arrival is reported to Ambrimos by his gang, as it will be, no doubt he’ll take steps to make things uncomfortable for us if we try to land anywhere near him. But there is this about it. He won’t be able to shift his plantation, or whatever it is. The hemp plant from which he gets his dope is green, so we should be able to spot it. As presumably the stuff requires water, it will probably be in the bottom of a wadi. I am assuming that where the hemp is, so will the gurra be—that is, if Ambrimos is the man we are looking for.”

  “What about this aircraft Zahar says he’s using?” asked Ginger.

  Biggles shrugged. “What about it? He’s within his rights in employing one if he wants to. Our only concern is the purpose for which it’s being used. Still, we can bear it in mind, and if necessary deal with it as occasion demands.”

  At this point of the conversation an airman appeared, carrying a small buff envelope. “From station headquarters, Sir,” said he, as he handed it to Biggles, who tore it open and read the message it contained.

  “All right; there’s no answer,” said Biggles.

  The airman departed, probably wondering what civil pilots were doing on the aerodrome. The station commander had of course been told in confidence as much as the circumstances required.

  Biggles folded the slip of paper and put it in his pocket book. “That’s all I was waiting for,” he remarked, getting up. “Raymond says: ‘Go ahead—case now top priority’; from which we may assume that more dope has arrived in London to addle the brains of the poor fools who use it. Let’s go and have a look at things. Zahar says he’s willing to fly so he’ll come with me and Ginger. Bertie, you can waffle along solo to keep an eye on us. If either machine has to land the other will stand
by for signals. It’s a comfort to know that at a pinch, the ground permitting, we can pick each other up. Okay. Let’s get along. By the way, in case we’re being watched, I shall first trail a red herring by heading east. As soon as we’re clear of the area, I shall swing north, and so round to the coast.”

  Within five minutes both machines were in the air, whispering along on an easterly course through an atmosphere as yet untormented by the sun, which still hung low over the horizon. Ginger, as usual, sat next to Biggles, with Zahar, looking somewhat incongruous, occupying the double-seat just behind him.

  Automatically Ginger’s eyes surveyed the scene ahead, and then dawdled round towards the north. In doing this they ran along the leading edge of the port wing. A slight movement, where there should have been no movement, arrested them. He stared. His expression changed and his face turned slightly pale. His right hand groped for Biggles’s knee and gripped it. “Put her down,” he said, in a tense, dry voice.

  Biggles asked no questions. “I can’t,” he answered. “ I’ve only trees and rocks ahead.”

  “Then go back,” ordered Ginger, without taking his eyes off the wing. “Take it slowly.”

  As the nose of the machine began to come round Biggles asked: “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a hole in the leading edge, and the fabric’s trying to ‘balloon’.”

  Biggles did not speak again. He knew that Ginger would not make such a statement unless it were true. He also knew that if air was getting inside the plane, it would, under pressure, blow the wing up like a balloon and probably rip the entire fabric off.

  Having completed his turn he throttled back almost to stalling speed, and losing height gently, headed back for the airfield. Fortunately there was no wind, so it was not necessary to turn again, and a minute or two later he landed practically along the track from which he had taken off.

  As the machine ran to a standstill, Ginger drew a deep breath, closed his eyes and shook his head. “Phew!” he breathed. “I can’t stand shocks like that.”

  “What is it?” asked Biggles, preparing to get down.

  He glanced at the reserve machine now landing beside them. “Bertie’s all right, anyway.”

  “I don’t know,” replied Ginger. “First I saw the fabric bulging; then I saw a slit in the leading edge, opening and shutting like a mouth. I thought I was seeing things.”

  “Let’s have a look,” said Biggles briefly, and followed closely by Ginger, jumped down. He went straight to the damaged fabric, now plain to see, and examined it closely. “I’m a fool,” he said bitterly. “I’ve made the old mistake of underestimating the quality of the enemy. This fabric was cut. Look at it. Cut as clean as if it had been done by a razor blade. The man who did it knew nothing about aircraft or he’d have cut through the main spar. If he had, it would have been a different story. Good thing you noticed it.”

  Bertie walked up. “What’s the trouble?” he inquired.

  Biggles jerked a thumb at the sabotaged wing. “Somebody has been busy with a knife while our backs were turned,” he said grimly. “That’s no accidental tear.”

  Bertie whistled softly. “I say, that’s nasty,” he said earnestly. “Who do you think did it?”

  “Somebody who wanted us out of the way and was cunning enough to make murder look like an accident. When I say us, I mean me. Presumably your machine is all right? Only mine was sabotaged. Perhaps the rat who did it thought two crashes from structural failure within five minutes of each other might look suspicious. I’m not flattering myself, but I suspect he knew which of the two machines was mine. Which means that we’ve been watched more closely than I suspected. Let’s have a look at your machine.”

  They walked over to Bertie’s aircraft and examined it as closely as the circumstances permitted. They could find nothing wrong.

  Biggles lit a cigarette. His expression was grave, as it was bound to be, for if there is one thing more than another calculated to affect the nerves of a pilot it is the threat of sabotage which, carried out by an expert, is seldom revealed until the mischief occurs and perhaps not then. After a crash, when everything is broken, it is almost impossible to discover the original fracture that caused the accident.

  “Well, what are we going to do about it?” asked Ginger presently.

  “I’m going on with the job,” answered Biggles. “In future, we’ll mount guard over the machines. I shall have to take your machine, Bertie. You can taxi mine back to the sheds. You’ll have to tell the station commander what has happened. Get him to put a patch over the damage. It’s a simple fabric job and shouldn’t take long. If there’s any delay, you’d better wait here for me to come back; but if the job can be done within the next hour or so, you can follow on and try to pick us up. You know the area we’re making for. If you don’t meet me coming back you may find me in the vicinity of that old aerodrome I pointed out on the map, marked number 137. That’s if I decide to land.”

  “As you say, old boy,” agreed Bertie.

  “While they’re working on your machine, you’d better have a look round the airframe to make sure there are no more holes anywhere.”

  “You bet I will,” answered Bertie warmly.

  “All right, let’s try again,” said Biggles. “Get Zahar into this machine, Ginger. Don’t tell him what’s happened.”

  “He would probably say that it was done by the sword of God,” muttered Ginger gloomily.

  “I’d say it was done by the dagger of some dirty stinking Arab,” declared Bertie.

  “And you wouldn’t be far wrong,” Biggles told him.

  In a few minutes, the transfer complete, Biggles was in the air again, heading east. Behind and below, a trail of dust showed where Bertie was taxying the damaged machine back to the hangar.

  As Biggles swung round on a course that brought the aircraft facing the narrow sea which they were to cross, Ginger was not particularly perturbed by the fact that they were now alone. The passage of the Red Sea, where he imagined Biggles would cross it, offered no perils. It was in fact so narrow that he could already see the outline of the sterile African coast. His main concern was, the aircraft was behaving normally. Had it been interfered with, he thought, the damage would by this time have been revealed. As for Zahar, his face gave no indication of his thoughts. Flying, apparently, was merely another mode of travel. As he had said before the start, his reliance was in God. If they reached their destination, so well and good. if not—well, it was the will of Allah.

  Biggles did not cross the Red Sea at its narrowest point, which was somewhere to the south of where they struck it. Instead, he took up a new course to the north-west, which meant that he was flying almost straight up the long, narrow stretch of water, with the coast in sight on either hand—Africa on the one side and Arabia on the other, each protected by numerous outposts of islands. When Ginger remarked on the new course Biggles merely said that as it involved no extra trouble he was doing it to escape observation should Ambrimos have warned his agents to be on the lookout for him.

  A few native craft with lateen sails, types almost as old as mankind itself, dotted the glittering surface of the famous biblical sea. In strange contrast, far to the north, making for the Suez Canal and the Mediterranean, a big liner churned a snowy wake and sent aloft a trail of murky smoke to mark its passage.

  Biggles did not maintain his course for long. Zahar was asked to watch for, and point out, the minor port of Marsa Mekel, when they came to it. This he was able to do without doubt or difficulty, for he had often sailed along the coast in Arab dhows when in the service of the Sultan.

  With the port in sight, Biggles flew on a little way before turning to the left towards the land, thus crossing the coast-line some distance north of the area in which, according to Zahar, Ambrimos was producing hashish. The Arab had said that the place was two days’ march from the coast. Biggles took that to mean not more than forty miles; in other words, about twenty minutes of flying time. As to the port itself, the
re was little of interest to see. It consisted of a few shacks, mostly in ruins and apparently abandoned. Clearly, as a port, the place had seen better days. A dhow was lying, sails furled, just off the shore.

  Ginger regarded with interest the territory towards which they were now flying, although as far as he could see it differed little from the land they had just left. There was the same strip of white sand, washed by a lazy surf; the same sand dunes and occasional bluffs; the same monotonous camel—thorn and scrub, the same clusters of tired-looking palms, cacti and mimosa; the same twisting wadis and gorges; the same lines of whitened bones that marked the native trails. For the Arab never kills a worn-out camel or donkey. When its days are done a beast is just abandoned. The wretched animal wanders up and down the trail until it falls, to die eventually of thirst, soon to have its bones picked clean by those scavengers of the desert, the hyenas, jackals and vultures.

  Beyond all this was the empty desert, sabkha and stony steppes, backed in the far distance by the vague shadows of the Abyssinian Highlands.

  Ginger knew that Biggles had some scheme in mind, although he had not yet divulged it; so, thinking that the time had come for him to know what it was, he prompted: “Are you going to try to spot Ambrimos’s place from the air?”

  “That was the idea of coming here,” Biggles pointed out. “But on the way over I’ve been thinking about it. What I should like to do is to spot the exact position from the air without going too near it. In any case, there’s nothing we can learn about it from up here—except, of course, its position. Just what’s going on below we shall have to ascertain from ground level. So I think the best plan is, first, to locate the place without going too close to it, and then cast around for somewhere to land—not too far away—from which we might make a sortie on foot. I don’t necessarily mean that we shall land today. I shall be satisfied if we can pin-point Ambrimos’s place, and decide on a landing-ground. I’d like to have a look at that war-time air-field marked 137. With this information, and a mental picture of the country, we should be able to devise some scheme for a closer inspection. I’m keeping to the north of the area because that’s the direction from which the aircraft Ambrimos is using should come and go. I mean, we should cross its track if it’s operating to Egypt. There’s a chance we may catch sight of it.”