Flyaway / Windfall by Desmond Bagley Page A

place, and I noted that Mokhtar had somewhat unobtrusively put a rifle aboard. He also had a sword, a thing about three feet long in a red leather scabbard; what the devil he was going to do with that I couldn’t imagine.
    We drove north along a rough track, and I said, ‘Where are we going?’
    It was a damnfool question because I didn’t understand the answer when it came. Byrne stabbed his finger forward and said briefly, ‘Atakor,’ then left me to make of that what I would.
    I was silent for a while, then said, ‘Did you get a permis ?’
    ‘No,’ said Byrne shortly. A few minutes went by before he relented. ‘No fat bureaucrat from the Maghrebis going to tell me where I can, or cannot, go in the desert.’
    After that there was no conversation at all, and I began to think that travelling with Byrne was going to be sticky; extracting words from him was like pulling teeth. But perhaps he was always like that in the early morning. I thought of what he had just said and smiled. It reminded me of my own reaction to Isaacson’s treatment of Hoyland. But that had been far away in another world, and seemed a thousand years ago.
    The country changed from flat gravel plains to low hills, barren of vegetation, and we began to climb. Ahead were mountains, such mountains as I had never seen before. Most mountains begin rising gently from their base, but these soared vertically to the sky, a landscape of jagged teeth.
    After two hours of jolting we entered a valley where there was a small encampment. There was a bit more vegetation here, but not much, and there were many sheep or goats—I never could tell the difference in the Sahara because the sheep were thin-fleeced, long-legged creatures and I began to appreciate the Biblical quotation about separating the sheep from the goats. Camels browsed on the thorny acacia and there was a scattering of the leather tents of the Tuareg.
    Mokhtar leaned forward and said something to Byrne, who nodded and drew the truck to a halt. As the dust drifted away on the light breeze Mokhtar got out and walked over to the tents. He was wearing his sword slung across his back, the hilt over his left shoulder.
    Byrne said, ‘These people are of the Tégéhé Mellet. Mokhtar has gone to question them. If a Land-Rover has been anywhere near here they’ll know about it.’
    ‘What’s the sword for?’
    Byrne laughed. ‘He’d feel as undressed without it as you would with no pants.’ He seemed to be becoming more human.
    ‘The Teg-whatever-it-is-you-said…is that a tribe of some kind?’
    ‘That’s right. The Tuareg confederation of the Ahaggar consists of three tribes—the Kel Rela, the Tégéhé Mellet and the Taitoq. Mokhtar is of the Kel Rela and of the noble clan. That’s why he’s gone to ask the questions and not me.’
    ‘Noble!’
    ‘Yeah, but not in the British sense. Mokhtar is related to the Amenokal— he’s the boss, the paramount chief of the Ahaggar confederation. All you have to know is that when a noble Kel Rela says, “Jump, frog!” everybody jumps.’ He paused, then added, ‘Except, maybe, another noble Kel Rela.’ He shrugged. ‘But you didn’t come out here to study anthropology.’
    ‘It might come in useful at that,’ I said.
    He gave me a sideways glance. ‘You won’t be here long enough.’
    Mokhtar came back, accompanied by three men from the camp. All were veiled and wore the long, flowing blue and white gowns that seemed to be characteristic of the Tuareg. I wondered how they kept them so clean in that dusty wilderness. As they came close Byrne hastily adjusted his own veil so that his face was covered.
    There were ceremonial greetings and then a slow and casual conversation of which I didn’t understand a single word, and I just sat there feeling like a spare part. After a while Byrne reached into the back of the truck and produced a big round biscuit tin. He took out some small packages and handed them round, and Mokhtar added his own