5. The helicopter landed a few hundred yards from the camp. The lieutenant-colonel I had met the day before was standing by a map table with a gaggle of staff officers. He touched his cap to Qasim, bowed to Prince Kalash, and gave me a fishy look. Bursts of automatic fire split the air, the unmistakable sound of British weapons. I heard no return fire, so I assumed that the troops were dealing with their prisoners. It was impossible to see what was going on, as a small hill lay between us and the site of the battle. I asked no questions. It was hardly necessary. The Sudanese obviously had located the main camp of the Anointed Liberation Front, and were destroying it. Qasim spoke to the lieutenant-colonel for several moments, leaving Prince Kalash and me to fidget in the heat. At the palace he might defer to the prince; here he was in command. As the firing died, Qasim approached us. “I’m afraid there is no trace of your friends in the camp,” he said. “That can be taken as a good sign. Perhaps Miernik is merely lost after all. Of course, it’s also possible all three have been murdered elsewhere. We have taken a number of prisoners, and naturally I will interview them. As soon as I have any sort of information, you shall have it as well.” I remarked that it was unlikely any prisoners of the bandits could have lived through this attempt to rescue them. Qasim shrugged and said to me: “I have brought you here on Prince Kalash’s personal assurances, Captain Collins. We have known for some time of the existence of this gang of bandits. They were the same ones who attacked you at Kashgil. Criminals of the worst sort, ruthless men-a rather atavistic phenomenon, I’m afraid. They were given every opportunity to surrender and submit to a fair trial. But Colonel Shangiti tells me they refused all appeals to reason. I’m afraid all but a handful of them were killed while resisting arrest. All well and good-a suitable end to a bad lot. If your friends have perished, they are the last victims of this scum. But we are trying to build a nation in Sudan. Publicity over brigands like these only encourages others of their kind. Also, it is, I will be frank, an embarrassment internationally that we should still have such elements in our country. Therefore I ask you to keep what you have seen to yourself, so far as the press and the idly curious are concerned.” Qasim smiled brilliantly. “I am sure you will be discreet, Captain Collins. If you must discuss this-and I know it is a temptation, perhaps even a duty to do so-be so kind as to discuss it only with men who are as discreet as yourself.” Qasim and Prince Kalash growled at one another in Arabic for a moment or two. Two soldiers accompanied by a shouting officer came into our area on the double, carrying a stretcher with a dead body on it. Qasim, Prince Kalash, and Colonel Shangiti inspected the corpse. Prince Kalash returned to me. “I came specially to talk to that chap, he was a brother of mine, but they’ve killed him,” he said. “The army wants you and me to clear out now.” We got back into the helicopter. The pilot apparently was as curious as I about the fate of the “bandits.” He hovered for a moment over the camp. Nothing remained of it except a few scorched places where the tents had been and a pillar of smoke from the burning motor park. The dead had been arranged in a long rank at the edge of the camp. I counted more than fifty corpses. There were no wounded; only the dead. Four men in native robes were being marched under guard towards Qasim. I expect they were later subjected to what Qasim calls “interviews.”
6. As we flew over the wadi, Prince Kalash told me there had been a cloudburst the night before. More than two inches of rain fell on the hills in the space of an hour. The guerrilla camp had been flooded. “Allah akhbar, “Kalash shouted with a grin, “God is great. These fellows were wringing out their stockings when the army dropped in.” The wadi had been transformed into a lake-shaped, as I’ve said, like a bird’s foot. From the tip of the eastern-most claw a long smear of mud ran along the bed of what was normally a dry stream. It was apparent that a crude earth dam of some sort had been taken out by the sudden weight of the water. For a few moments, the dry stream must have been a torrent; now it was empty again, its slippery surface already beginning to bake and crack in the sun. Christopher had not been captured by the guerrillas. Kalash was now convinced that he was alive and well. “Perhaps Paul tried to strike across the hills to the Maffia road,” Kalash said. “Keep an eye peeled.” We flew low over the glistening mud, nosing round hills. For a long time there was no sign of life. Then, in a steep defile between two brown cliffs, we saw Christopher’s Land Rover. It lay on its side in the mud with its bonnet open and the canvas roof ripped away. It was quite empty. Downstream was a trail of gear, scattered by last night’s flood-jerry cans, pots and pans, tins of food. We saw no human beings.
7. The pilot landed the helicopter and the three of us got down into the mud and poked aimlessly at the wreckage. The Land Rover was not damaged, apart from a soaked engine. It was obvious what had happened. The flash flood, roaring down the steep bed of the dry wadi, had caught the Land Rover from behind and turned it over, spilling Paul and Zofia into the water. “Probably it wasn’t raining here,” Prince Kalash said. “They would not even have heard the water coming along behind them over the noise of the engine. The sand deadens the sound-these floods come very quickly. The water can be six feet deep in a narrow place like this. Eventually it just subsides into the sand.” A few hundred yards downstream I found Zofia’s red rucksack, caked with drying sand. I took it with me back to the helicopter.
8. I sat in the rear of the chattering machine, staring at the back of Kalash’s head. I thought it impossible that Christopher and Zofia Miernik could have survived the accident. Death by drowning in the desert seemed a fitting end to this farcical adventure. It has been a waste of friends from beginning to end. Prince Kalash, without turning his head, reached back and seized my arm with his huge hand. The helicopter made an abrupt turn, the horizon revolving beyond its perspex cabin. When it resumed course I looked downwards and saw Paul Christopher and Zofia Miernik standing on a bald hill. They were holding hands, calmly watching the helicopter as it settled to the ground, raising dervishes of sand around them. I learnt that Miernik was dead. Christopher had found him with Ilona’s Exakta beside him. That discovery answered the question as to the purpose of the homing device. Prince Kalash and I were left alone on the desert when the helicopter left to take Christopher and Zofia back to the palace. We found Miernik’s body not far from the place where the helicopter had landed. Prince Kalash gazed stolidly at the abused and bloated body of his friend. I said: “Odd that they should have killed only Miernik, isn’t it?” Prince Kalash shrugged. “Miernik was the one they found,” he said. “With how much help?” I asked. The prince went still like the future amir he is. “My dear Nigel,” he said at last. “Miernik was bound to be killed by his friends. Be glad you didn’t have to do it.” He took my arm and walked me away from the corpse.