The Killing Ground

Hussein thought about it. Private planes like the Citation were used only by the rich and always received preferential treatment. They should be safe enough.

“All right.”

So Oran it was. He used the British passport and Khazid a French one in the name of Henri Duval. They got out to stretch their legs. Ahmadi took their passports to the office for them, but he was waved away.

“So simple,” Khazid said.

“Yes, but not to be taken for granted,” Hussein said. “There could be a time when they’re all over us.”

“As Allah wills.”

“Perhaps, but what if it’s all actually in our own hands?”

“I am a simple man, my friend. I accept what I know and do what I’m told.”

“And I prefer you that way.” Hussein climbed back in the plane, Khazid followed, then they soared again into an evening sky, climbing to no more than ten thousand feet. Later, they saw the marshes of the Khufra sprawled on the desert below, the creeks stretching out to the sea, here and there a dhow, sails bulging in the wind, and sometimes, motorboats and the odd freighter.

They descended to not more than a thousand feet, and Selim saw the runway to the left of them, the control tower and two hangars, but oddly there was no contact from the control tower. Selim circled again and passed over the town and small harbor. There was a jetty at one point, an old Eagle floatplane tied up beside it.

Selim said, “An Eagle Amphibian. You can lower the wheels beneath the floats and taxi out of the water onto a shore. Years old, but sturdy. They were built for bush flying in places like Canada.”

He slowed right down and they almost seemed to hang there suspended. “Strange, still no response from the tower.” Hussein pondered, every sense alert. “This is what you do. Land, go to the far end of the runway and turn for your takeoff. We’ll get out. Ahmadi closes the hatch and we wait. If the right people are here, they’ll come for us. If there is a problem, I fire a shot and you get the hell out of here.”

Selim immediately protested. “We can’t leave you. It would be a great shame.”

“I order it, my friend. This is our business.” He put an arm around Khazid. “We’re very good at it.”

“Then I obey you with deep regret,” Selim said.

They circled the runway but nothing moved. It was strange, great reeds piling in higher than a man and getting darker by the minute, the two hangars with doors open but no sign of life.

“Down we go,” Hussein said. “You take both flight bags.”

“Good thing we travel light.” Khazid smiled.

“You need a suit, you buy a suit, that’s my motto. Here we go again, little brother.”

The Citation dropped in and rolled along the runway, and it started to turn at the far end, the reeds turbulent in the jet stream. Ahmadi came and turned the handle, thrusting the hatch out as the steps fell. Khazid went down, crouching in the blast. Hussein followed, turned to glance up at Ahmadi, and there was a roaring and two Land Rovers emerged from one of the hangars at full speed and turned onto the runway.

“Close it!” Hussein called, and Ahmadi did as he was told, slamming the hatch shut. Hussein pulled out his Walther, firing into the air, and Selim boosted power and roared down the runway and the Land Rovers swerved to each side. The Citation rose, lifted at the end of the runway, and Khazid was already turning.

“Into the reeds-go now. Keep in touch with your mobile. I’ll hold them off.”

Hussein turned, took careful aim and shot the front offside tire of the leading vehicle. It swerved violently, throwing the man next to the driver out. The other swerved past and came on, four men in some kind of khaki police uniform.

Hussein fired again, this time at the second Land Rover, splintering the windshield, and he turned and plunged into the reeds and immediately fell foul of a rusting cable, hidden in the undergrowth. He went headlong and they were all over him, boot and fist everywhere. He was pulled to his feet, and someone found his Walther but not the Colt. He had left that in his flight bag with Khazid.

An overweight, bearded captain appeared to be in charge. One of the men gave him the Walther. “Nice one. I appreciate your gift.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“Ah, a cool customer. You are here to see Major Hakim Mahmoud of the Algerian Secret Police?”

“If he’s available.”

“Oh, yes. You must be an important man. That was a wonderful plane.” One of his men emerged from the reeds. “Any sign of him?”

“No, he’s gone, Captain.”

“Never mind.” The three men in the other Land Rover were fitting the spare tire. “I’ll be in the office, but hurry up, I want to get back to the fort. They say it’s going to rain.” He turned to Hussein, “I am Captain Ali. I’m sure we’ll get along.” He patted his face. “You are a handsome young man.” Hussein got in the Land Rover between two policemen and they drove away.

BEHIND THEM, well hidden in the reeds, Khazid had heard everything and watched them go, leaving the three men wrestling with the damaged tire. One of them was a sergeant, the one who had been thrown out of the vehicle. Khazid got his Walther out, unzipped his case and found a Carswell silencer. Quickly he screwed it in place just as the two men on the tire had it fixed.

“Good,” the sergeant said. “Let’s go.”

Khazid put down the flight bags and stepped out of the reeds, Walther in hand. He whistled, they all turned, and he shot the sergeant between the eyes. The other two were completely shocked.

“The captain said he was going to the office. Where is that?”

“The bottom of the control tower,” one man said.

“Excellent. Now this fort he mentioned?”

The second man was shaking with fear, so it was left to the other again. “The old Foreign Legion fort a half a mile down the road to the left.”

“Thank you.”

Khazid shot both of them dead, not because of any conscious cruelty, but because he had no choice in the matter if he was to rescue his friend in one piece. He put the flight bags in the passenger seat, pausing only to pull up the canvas roof of the Land Rover because it would give him some sort of cover. He drove away along the runway toward the control tower, taking his time, but when he got there, the other Land Rover had gone.

It was dark now, with no need for caution. The door was unlocked. He opened it and found a light switch. It was a reception area. He went behind a counter, opened the door marked OFFICE and turned on the light.

The man behind the desk was seated in a swivel chair, and from the state of him had obviously had a bad time of it, his hands handcuffed behind his back. His final end had been a bullet in the head. He was presumably Major Hakim Mahmoud. Khazid looked around him. There was a large flashlight on the table, which worked when he tried it. He left it on, switched off the light and went out to the Land Rover. Now for the fort.

IT WAS COLD, surprisingly cold, and Hussein shivered as three of the policemen manhandled him out of the Land Rover. There was a fort, he could see that. The green and white flag with the red crescent and star, the flag of Algeria, flared in the lights from the battlements over his head, and there were two lighted braziers on either side of the gate they passed through, a sentry with a rifle beside each brazier.

They paused at the bottom of some steps leading up to the battlements and got Hussein out. Captain Ali was seated on a stone bench drinking whiskey. He was obviously that kind of Muslim. Hussein felt only contempt. The man resembled a disease you wanted to stamp out.

“Major Hakim Mahmoud was a bad man-an evil man. He traded with drug dealers, all things evil, always his hand out for money. So, if you dealt with him, you must be both very wicked and very rich.”