Assassins For Peace by Robert Charles

Author:Robert Charles [Charles, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-12-06T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12: DESERT FLIGHT

“What’s the name of this pilot?”

Larren asked the question as Chevalier hurled the Citroen back along the dusty road to Tangier, driving even more frenziedly than before. The flat vaudeville hat was tilted forward to shadow the Frenchman’s narrowed eyes, and he answered absently as he concentrated his mind on the car.

“His name is Gerry Powell. He’s an ex-R.A.F. type. He served eight years before his father died and left him with enough money to buy himself out and set himself up with the Argus. One of his tours of duty was at Gibraltar; he was stationed there for three years. That was when he first explored Tangier. He liked the town, the climate, and the people, and so he decided to come back. He’s only been out here a few months so it’s pretty much a shoestring business. Anyway, he’s happy — and I suppose that that is what counts.”

“How did you meet him?”

Chevalier shrugged. “The usual way. He came into my club one night, and as he was obviously a useful man to know, I made it my business to get to know him. He hires the plane out occasionally, and I have been able to steer customers in his direction. In return he has helped me.” He risked a brief smile over his shoulder. “It is a case of you scratch my fleas and I’ll scratch yours.”

Larren smiled, but said no more as Chevalier returned his attention to his driving, for once again they were entering Tangier. Chevalier veered to the right, skirting the outskirts of the town and then accelerating again as they raced around the curve of the magnificent bay. Tangier lay behind them as they headed out towards Cap Malabata, where the lonely sentinel of a lighthouse marked the point where the land ended in the sea.

Halfway round the curve of the bay Chevalier stamped hard on the brake pedal, causing the tyres to screech in protest as he pulled the Citroen to a stop. He turned on to a narrow, bare dirt track that led directly away from the sea, and the car swayed and jolted wildly as he revved the engine once again. Larren was thrown against Barbara Mallory, but apart from the slight gasp as he pressed against her she said nothing. She had remained silent and uncommunicative ever since he and Chevalier had scrambled back into the car. He had told her what was happening, but she had made no comment.

After almost a mile of the rough track Larren saw the airfield ahead. It was no more than a flat field, the emptiness broken by two one-storey wooden buildings, a windsock on its pole, and the plane itself, standing stationary in the centre of the field. A large, brightly painted board greeted them as they drew up with the words POWELL’S PLEASURE FLIGHTS.

Below was a list of prices for hour and half-hour flights, but Larren did not bother to read them. He was staring with a sinking heart at the old Fairchild Argus.

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