It was damp in El Djamila.
They made the trip in two cars. Chad Hill drove Lime in a Simca and there followed an old station wagon—the kind made of real wood—containing a six-man team. In the back of the station wagon was a UHF scrambler transmitter. Its range was limited but all communications were being funneled through the U. S. Naval Station at Kénitra in Morocco.
Last night’s sleep on the jet hadn’t revived Lime. He felt logy and glazed. Gilliams’ anger still buzzed in his ears; Gilliams had been very upset by the killing and the roust of Djelil and Sylvie and the two guards Djelil had downstairs in the hotel. Gilliams was one of those bureaucrats who pictured a fine balance in things and couldn’t stand having it upset.
They had to move fast because Djelil’s disappearance would be noticed soon. The thing was to find his contacts before they could go to ground.
“Turn right and go slow on the coast road. I think I’ll recognize the place.”
El Djamila was a beach resort where visitors enjoyed uncrowded cheap rates and the natives lived briefly and wretchedly. The moon was up, glinting off the Mediterranean whitecaps.
Djelil had given him a name: Henri Binaud. A pied-noir who had betrayed his own kind to spy for the FLN; now he ran a charter outfit—three boats and an amphibious plane—and was one of Djelil’s chief carriers.
Lime was a bit weak with delayed shock from the episode of the woman with the Luger. He suspected that Sturka had got a message to Djelil saying if any investigators got as far along the trail as Djelil it would be appreciated if Djelil got rid of them; appreciated in terms of substantial money. Lime wondered if Sturka knew the identity of his tracker. Not that it really mattered.
Nearly nine o’clock. Three in the afternoon in Washington. They had about sixty-nine hours.
A bar. Cinzano signs, an old rusty car up on blocks, its tires gone. Sandy vacant lots on either side of the square little stucco building. The charter pier across the road from it: several boats tied up, a twin-engine amphibious plane tied to a buoy and bobbing on the swell.
The bar was empty except for two men who sat at a table that was hardly big enough for their dinner plates and glasses and elbows. They were eating rouget, the local fish. Both of them looked up but kept eating. Chad Hill hung back and Lime spoke in French: “Monsieur Binaud? We understand the Catalina is for hire?”
One of them wiped the back of a hand across his mouth and reached for the wine to wash down his mouthful. “I am Binaud. Who sent you to me?”
“Houari Djelil.”
Binaud studied him suspiciously. He was bullnecked and florid. Cropped gray hair, a hard little potbelly. “And you wish to hire my aircraft.”
“Perhaps we could discuss it outside,” Lime suggested smoothly.
It was the kind of thing Binaud understood. He muttered something to his companion and stood up and made a gesture. Lime and Chad Hill turned, went outside and waited for Binaud; he came out right behind them and Lime showed his gun.
Binaud grunted; his eyelids slid down to a half-shuttered secretiveness and he flashed his teeth in an accidental smile. “What’s this then?”
“Come along.”
They shepherded Binaud around to the side of the building. The others were standing by the station wagon. Three of them pulled revolvers and they put Binaud in frisk position with his hands on top of the car while they went over him with care.
The search produced a pocket revolver and two knives. After they had disarmed him Lime said, “It’s a little public here. Let’s take him on board one of the boats.”
They walked him out onto the pier and prodded him down the ladder into the forward compartment of a cabin cruiser. The boat rode gently up and down against the old tires that hung on the pier as fenders. One of the men lit the lantern.
Lime said to Binaud, “Sit down.”
Binaud backed up slowly until the backs of his knees struck the edge of a bunk. Sat and watched them all, his eyes flicking from face to face.
“We’re looking for Sturka,” Lime said.
“I don’t know that name.” Binaud had a high wheezing husky voice. Gravelly; it made Lime think of “Rochester” Anderson’s voice.
“They came to you a few days ago—it was probably Wednesday night. They’d have wanted you to take them somewhere, by boat or by plane.”
“A great many people hire my boats and my plane. It’s my business.”
“These had a prisoner.”
Binaud shrugged and Lime turned to Chad Hill. “He thinks anything we could do to make him talk would be nothing compared to what Sturka and Djelil would do to him if he did talk.”
“Offer him money,” Chad said in English.
Binaud understood that; his eyes became crafty.
Lime said in French, “Two hundred thousand dinar, Binaud. The price of a good airplane.”
He had the man’s attention at any rate. He added, “You’ve nothing to fear from Djelil—he’s the one who sent us to you. As for Sturka he can’t come out of this alive. You know who his prisoner is.”
“No. I do not.”
“You mean they kept his face hidden.”
Binaud said nothing. Lime sat down on the bunk facing him. They were crowded into the small cabin; Binaud showed his distress. Lime said, “Two hundred and fifty thousand dinar. Call it twenty-five thousand pounds. In gold sovereigns.”
“I do not see any money in front of me.”
Lime spoke in English without looking up. “Get it.”
One of the men left, going up the ladder; the boat swayed when the man stepped onto the pier. Lime said, “We have it with us. There wouldn’t have been time to do it another way. You can understand that.”
“Can I?”
“The prisoner is Clifford Fairlie. If you didn’t know that already.”
No indication of surprise. Binaud sat silent until the agent returned. The leather case was very heavy. They opened it on the deck and two of the agents started counting out the big gold coins, making neat stacks.
Lime said, “Now what about Sturka?”
“I know no one by that name.”
“Call him any name you like then. Don’t you want the money, Binaud?” Lime leaned forward and tapped the man’s knee. “You realize the alternative. We’ll squeeze it all out of you. When it’s finished there won’t be much left of you.”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” Binaud told him, and met his eyes. “Why don’t you do that anyway? It would save you the money.”
“We haven’t time. We’ll do it if you force it, but we’d rather do it fast.”
“How do I know you won’t kill me and take the money back?”
“You don’t,” Lime said, “but what have you got to lose?”
The coins were counted out to the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds and the rest went back into the case. Binaud watched every movement until the case was shut; finally he said, “My information probably is not worth that much money you know.”
“If it helps at all, the money is yours.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“We’ll see.”
“I didn’t know their names. I didn’t know the man was who you say he was. The prisoner.”
“Where did you take them?”
“I didn’t. They had their own pilot.”
Lime felt a sour taste. “Describe him.”
“A Negro. Large, heavy, always chewing on something.”
“When was this arranged?”
“Ten days ago perhaps.”
“Who arranged it with you? Djelil?”
“No. It was a man named Ben Krim.”
“Benyoussef Ben Krim,” Lime breathed. “Again. What story did he give you?”
“None, Monsieur. He reserved my airplane for the night of the twelfth. It was to be filled with fuel. He said he would provide his own pilot. I only had to row them out to the plane.”
“Was Ben Krim with them when they came?”
“No.”
“How many were there?”
“Four,” Binaud said, and frowned. “No, five. The prisoner and four others. One was a woman, one was the Negro. The other two were dressed in burnouses, I did not see their faces.”