Sandstorm Page 3

  The name meant nothing to Sterling. ‘What’s this about, Mr Corrigan?’ he said.

  Corrigan sighed and let smoke out through his nose. He coughed.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I know what happened to your kid and where the Rose of Cimarron went down. I can give it to you chapter and verse.’

  Sterling’s eyes widened. He felt anger simmering inside him; all the old emotions that had been dammed up seemed set to overflow. He swallowed hard to control it and balled his fists under the table. For a moment he glared at Corrigan. ‘Are you trying to tell me Billy’s alive?’ he demanded.

  Corrigan raised his eyes. ‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ he rasped. ‘I ain’t saying the kid’s alive. I’m only sayin’ I know what happened to him and the kite.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Sterling said. ‘I might have been taken in by this sort of thing once, but not any longer.’

  Corrigan’s dark pupils behind the glasses dilated to fiery pinpricks.

  ‘Look,’ Sterling went on. ‘What you may not know is that I scoured every corner of Morocco looking for the Rose of Cimarron. I went over the route time and time again. I even learned to speak Arabic. My father-in-law and I spent a year searching—’

  ‘Oh yeah. That Hobart character. I know all about him. Him and Ravin’ was big buddies.’

  ‘The point is we went everywhere and talked to everyone, and we didn’t hear a damned thing about a downed plane or my son.’

  A triumphant, slightly mocking smile played on Corrigan’s lips. ‘You wouldn’t have,’ he said. ‘See Rose never went down in Morocco. She dumped in Spanish Sahara: ‘the Spic Zone’, we used to call it. The Spic Zone’s a damn big place — as big as Britain with only a handful of Ay-rabs trolling about in it. That’s why she wasn’t found. But she dumped there all right.’

  Sterling was tempted to get up and walk out, but something stopped him. It was the shock of realization that Corrigan could be right — they had never even bothered to search beyond Moroccan borders. His grip on the table tightened.

  ‘And how the hell do you know that?’ he said.

  Corrigan paused for a moment, as if striving for maximum effect.

  ‘I was there,’ he said gravely. ‘I was on the damn plane.’

  Sterling saw red. For a moment the whole room went out of focus, and he felt sick. He wanted to claw Corrigan’s head and beat it against the wall. The impudence of the man. The impertinence. The sheer lying audacity. He opened his mouth to say something, but Corrigan again held up a wizened hand.

  ‘Lemme finish,’ he snapped. ‘You wanna hear it or not?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘’kay. It was summer ’46. A routine flight over the Atlas — Casa to Zagora. Craven was the pilot — Ravin’ Craven, they used to call him. A Dakota normally takes a crew of three — pilot, navigator and radio-op — but on this one there was just me and him. Craven took the kid along as a treat. Some treat. Ravin’ was a good pilot, but he didn’t know diddly-squat about maintenance. I know Dakotas — crewed them in the war. The whole instrument panel needed overhauling. I told him a million times, but he was a real Clever-Dick Brit. All went smooth till we passed Ouarzazate, then suddenly the navigation gear went down. I wanted to turn back, but Ravin’ said Zagora was nearer. Next thing you know we hit a dense fog, and then we was in deep shit. It was too late to turn back, too late to do anything.

  ‘So we go on for an hour and a half, two hours, and by that time the fuel-gauge needle was in the red. Another half-hour and we’re losing altitude and we knew we’d have to ditch. Ravin’ panicked. It was me that saved Billy. I hooked his chute up myself and kicked him out. I jumped last, did a rivet inspection — head hit the fuselage, which sent me into spins. Canopy developed twisted. By the time I kicked the twists out, I was miles away from Rose. To cap it all, I landed heavy and bent my ankle.

  ‘I just lay there till dawn came, then hobbled up a dune. I could see something shiny in the distance and I knew it had to be Rose. I decided to walk over there, see if I could find Billy or Craven; maybe the wireless would still be intact. My ankle was swollen so bad I had to take my flying-boots off and walk barefoot. Anyway it took me till the next morning to get to Rose and I was too late. I found Craven’s body strung up on a jagged rock, still in his parachute-harness, dead as a doornail. He’d piled into the rock and broke his back. I looked for Billy, and found signs he’d been there — his parachute was still billowing not far from Craven’s body, and there were tracks leading to the wreck. Trouble was, there were other tracks intersecting with Billy’s: camel tracks and human tracks. It didn’t take a genius to work out what had happened. Billy got hisself shanghaied by Ay-rabs.’

  Corrigan shifted slightly and stared straight into Sterling’s eyes. ‘Now get this, Sterling,’ he said. ‘All I’m sayin’ is that Billy was alive when Rose came down, I’d lay my last buck on that. There were signs in the cabin, too: chocolate half eaten, water drunk — even found places near the plane where he’d pissed. I couldn’t get the wireless working, and there was no water left in the crate, so I knew I was going to have to bug out. It weren’t no joke, I can tell you. I walked for three days, travelling at night, resting up in the day, until I ran into a bunch of Ay-rabs. Cost me every cent I had to get back into Morocco. I asked these guys to put the word out about Billy, but that was all I could do.’

  Sterling’s eyes were riveted on Corrigan’s face, speechless now. He was gripping the edge of the table with both hands, his knuckles bleached. His mouth opened and closed, but no words emerged. ‘Why didn’t you get in contact before?’ he managed to say.

  Corrigan shifted awkwardly. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I had a little trouble with some guys who wanted a word in my ear. After I got out of the blue they were on my trail, and I had to lie low and get a new passport.’

  ‘And that took seven years?’

  ‘It took time.’

  Sterling looked down at his hands and took deep breaths. ‘Pull the other one, Mr Corrigan,’ he said. ‘You’re lying. You made this up.’

  Before he had even finished the sentence, he saw that Corrigan was holding up something shiny in his lean hand.

  ‘How’d I guess you’d say that?’ he said, gloatingly. ‘Here. Look at this.’

  Sterling took the object. It was a gold watch with a gilt expanding bracelet that was broken. It was not a very expensive watch, but the Gothic numerals on the face were quite distinctive. Sterling had given it to Billy on his thirteenth birthday. The words, To Sunshine Boy. Happy Birthday from Mum and Dad, were engraved on the back in italic script.

  ‘That Billy’s watch or not?’ Corrigan said.

  Sterling’s eyes fixed on him murderously. ‘Where did you get this?’ he said.

  ‘Billy fell into a bulkhead when the aircraft yawed. The watchstrap got caught in the seat-webs and was ripped off. I picked it up after he’d gone out.’

  Sterling heard something inside his ears go snap. Doubt, distress, confusion, helplessness, despair: all seemed to gush out of him at once in an overpowering torrent, and Corrigan was a twig in the raging waters. Before he knew it, he was on top of the American with the scrawny throat in his hands, trying to squeeze the life out of him. ‘You piece of shit!’ he spat. ‘That’s my son you’re talking about! You think I don’t know what you are? You’re a bloody deserter, that’s what you are! By Christ, I’ll report you to the US Embassy. I’ll see you swing, Corrigan!’

  He raised his fist for a smashing blow, but it was arrested in mid flight by a steel-like grip. He turned his head, dazed, to see the one-armed barman staring straight into his face. The broad fingers of the cripple’s good arm were tight round his wrist.

  ‘Not in here you don’t!’ the barman growled quietly. ‘I knew you was trouble the moment you come in!’ Sterling blinked and became aware suddenly that everyone in the pub was watching him. He felt himself shrinking, curling up with shame. It was the first time since his childhood that he had offered anyone
violence. ‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered to the barman. ‘I don’t know what came over me. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘It’d better not,’ the man said. ‘Because next time you’ll be out on your ear.’

  Sterling reddened and looked at Corrigan. The American’s breathing had become laboured and his complexion pale. He grabbed for his brandy and gulped it down, smoothing down his coat, trying to regain composure. The barman stalked off with a warning scowl, and after a few moments Corrigan leaned across the table. ‘You asshole,’ he whispered. ‘You try that again, you’ll never find out if your brat is dead or alive.’

  He stared at Sterling in disgust and took another gulp of brandy, his piercing eyes never leaving Sterling’s face. ‘Gimme a hard time,’ he mumbled, ‘when I’m here to help you. And don’t come that “deserter” shit. Tough guy, eh? I talked to your kid. I know you was a Conchie in the war. They even put you behind bars for it. What’s the difference, pal?’

  Sterling’s ears were humming with shock, and Corrigan’s words seemed to come from far away. He examined the watch. ‘You could have taken this from his dead body,’ he said. ‘How do I know you didn’t?’

  Corrigan puffed at his Camel pensively. ‘You don’t,’ he said. ‘The only way you’re gonna find out if I’m on the level is by going out there. I’m the only one who can tell you where Rose of Cimarron went down, so you need me. That’s why I’m here.’

  Sterling put the watch away in his overcoat pocket. His breathing was steadying now, his thoughts becoming more lucid. He did not want to look at Corrigan, but he forced himself. ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘I get it. You want money. If I grease your palm you will tell me where the Rose of Cimarron went down, isn’t that it?’

  Corrigan shook his head. ‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘For all you know I could be lying, like you said.’

  Sterling gulped in surprise. ‘So what do you want?’ he demanded. ‘You’re not doing this for charity.’

  Corrigan threw his cigarette stub into the fire. ‘Charity begins at home,’ he said. ‘Least that’s what my momma always told me.’ He leaned closer to Sterling, elbows on the table. ‘No, it ain’t charity,’ he said. ‘But I don’t want nothing on the nail. You go out there to look for Billy, you take me with you, that’s all I want. You take me with you, all expenses paid. The kid could still be alive. If he ain’t, you’ll at least be able to bring his remains back. If you find Billy, or find his body, you can make it worth my while. Strictly cash on delivery — but you take me with you is all.’

  Sterling shivered. ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘Either I go, or nobody goes: that’s the deal.’

  Sterling shook his head, trying to make some sense of the confusion spinning in his mind like a carousel.

  ‘I’ll give you a coupla hours to decide,’ Corrigan said bluntly. He brought a soiled card out of his pocket and pushed it across the table to Sterling. ‘This is where you can contact me. No phone number. You’ll have to come in person.’

  Sterling examined the card, noting the address written on it in pencil. ‘I’ll be at that address till midnight,’ Corrigan said.

  ‘But wait a minute,’ Sterling gasped. ‘That’s impossible ... I need time.’

  ‘OK,’ Corrigan snapped. ‘Noon tomorrow at the very latest, but that’s the cut-off time. If you ain’t there by then, the offer expires. You won’t see me again.’

  Sterling put the card in his pocket, only half aware he was doing it. ‘But wait a minute,’ he said. ‘This is ludicrous. First of all, even if I agreed, how will you find the Rose again? You say the desert is huge. If no one’s found her by now, it’s not going to be easy. Second, you say Billy was taken by Arabs. Even if you find the aircraft, that doesn’t mean you can find my son.’

  Corrigan finished off the brandy, belched, set the glass back hard on the table and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I’m a navigator by trade,’ he said. ‘I made me a chart. As for finding Billy — like I said, I don’t guarantee sweet Fanny Adams. But you won’t get no help from the authorities — those tribes out there are in conflict with the Spics. You have to go it alone — start with Rose and fan out from there.’

  He stood up unsteadily, pulled the brim of his trilby over his eyes, and nodded at Sterling. ‘Come tonight if you can,’ he said, ‘but by noon tomorrow latest. I’ll be watching out like a hawk. If you bring or send anyone else, the deal’s off.’

  Corrigan turned on his heel and eased his way through the crowd by the bar like a phantom. Five seconds later, it was as if he had never been there at all.

  *

  In the afternoon, when the sun was already descending from its zenith, Sheikh Mafoudh took them outside to see the camels. There were ten of them, and they were couched in the lee of the kasbah’s broken walls, mewling, grumbling and gnashing their teeth as the Arabs loaded them with huge basketwork panniers and water-skins like bloated sea cucumbers. Sterling thought the animals looked decidedly underfed.

  Mafoudh pointed out the provisions he had brought along for the journey: dates, rice, couscous, flour, tea, coffee, solid cones of sugar weighing four or five pounds each, skins of liquid butter, flakes of sun-dried meat, called tishtar, in dirty goatskin pouches. The camel-men squabbled as they worked, bawling at each other and at the camels, packing and repacking loads, stringing and restringing ropes. The camels roared and lurched to their feet, only to be jerked down again amid streams of what sounded like curses. To Sterling it looked like pandemonium had broken loose — yet, despite everything, the loads seemed to go on quickly and efficiently.

  While Mafoudh took charge of the loading, shouting redundant orders at the men, Sterling took Churchill aside. ‘Are you sure we can trust these boys?’ he asked. ‘I mean, they look like savages. What did you mean they are ex-slaves, Znaga and outcasts?’

  Churchill gave a Cheshire-cat grin. ‘Slavery’s illegal in Morocco,’ he said, ‘but down in the Sahara it still goes on. You see the two black men — Hamdu and Faris? They got fed up with being slaves and left their masters to make their own way. In Sahara society slaves are a caste, so are Znaga — they’re Arabs, but from so-called ‘weak’ tribes, who aren’t allowed to carry arms or own camels. They work as herdsmen, looking after the camels of the powerful warrior tribes, like the Reguibat and the Delim. The warrior tribes are supposed to protect them. The chap with the long black hair who threw down his head-cloth — his name is Jafar. He’s a runaway Znaga who thought he could do better in life than look after someone else’s property. As for outcasts — they’re Berber villagers from the fringes of the desert, Ait Atta and Ait Kabbash, who committed an unforgivable sin and have been expelled from their own tribes. Usually involves some sort of treachery, like violating the hospitality laws or killing a travelling companion.’

  Sterling stared at him aghast. ‘And yet you’re willing to put your life in their hands?’

  Churchill shrugged his rounded shoulders. ‘They’re the best I could get,’ he said. ‘Sheikh Mafoudh worked for me when I was with Field Security in Casablanca — that’s where he learned his English. I sometimes needed to follow up leads in the desert and he was my guide. He never let me down.’

  There was a salvo of snorts and growls as the camels rose to their feet, finally loaded. Mafoudh called the Englishmen over and inspected them. ‘You travel in clothes like that?’ he enquired, in Arabic.

  Churchill and Sterling were dressed in broad-brimmed hats and army-surplus desert fatigues — khaki trousers, drill shirts, and chaplis, the Indian-style sandals that had been favoured in the war by the desert commandos. Both had greased pullovers and special-forces smocks stuffed in their kitbags for the cold desert nights. Both had equipped themselves with prismatic compasses, and Sterling had brought a standard French survey map. Both had army water-bottles — steel with felt covers and cork caps.

  ‘Why?’ Churchill said. ‘What’s wrong with this? I am an Englishman and proud of it.’

  The sheikh smirked. ‘Y
ou look like crazy men,’ he said. ‘But no matter.’ He turned and grabbed the head-rope of the first camel, which snapped at him. He tapped it smartly on the nose. ‘This is how we do it,’ he announced. ‘First we walk, maybe two hours, maybe two and a half. Then we ride till sunset. Then we make camp. In the morning the same — walk, ride, camp when the sun is high; the same every day. You have water. You drink when you like, but you don’t fill the bottles till I say. We all fill our bottles at the same time, all right?’

  Churchill nodded and looked at Sterling to see if he’d picked up the Arabic. Sterling nodded back.

  ‘In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful,’ Mafoudh chanted. ‘Let God be our agent.’

  ‘Amen!’ the camel-men chimed in.

  The caravan moved off into the hammada and the voices grew less strident and more reverent as the Sahara closed in around them by degrees, humbling them with the immensity of its silence.

  *

  As he tramped on behind the camels, Sterling remembered how he had stood in the rain outside the Marquis of Granby after meeting Corrigan. He’d felt confused and angry, just as he’d done when he had first heard the news of Billy’s disappearance. The wound had suddenly been opened up, just when he’d thought it had healed. Worse than the anger was the helplessness, the feeling of terrible uncertainty. Sterling knew he needed help. He needed to talk to someone, and the only person he could confide in about this was his father-in-law, Arnold Hobart. Billy had been staying with Hobart when he had gone for a trip in the aircraft with Craven, and the old man had never forgiven himself. He had spent a large amount of money that he could not afford on trying to find out what had happened to the Rose of Cimarron, but to no avail. Since Corrigan claimed to have been Craven’s co-pilot, Hobart might even have known him in Casablanca, and could testify at least that Corrigan was who he claimed to be. Sterling felt for change and hailed a passing taxi.

  The rain had stopped by the time he reached Hobart’s building in White Street. Sterling climbed the three floors up the polished stairs and knocked on his father-in-law’s door. ‘Come in!’ a voice said. Sterling entered and walked into the living room. Arnold Hobart sat contentedly in his favourite armchair by a blazing fire, puffing a Turkish meerschaum pipe, whose bowl was carved in the effigy of a bearded janissary. As he entered, the old man lifted his head amiably. ‘Oh, hallo, George,’ he said.