The Khufra Run. Jack Higgins

said, ‘So what are you going to do now?’

      ‘I don’t know. Look for him, I suppose.’ She hesitated, glanced at me rather shyly, then looked down at her hands. ‘It’s a great imposition I know, Mr Nelson, but I was wondering whether you might be persuaded to help me.’

      ‘To go into the Khufra Marshes?’ I demanded. ‘You must be joking.’

      She held up a hand defensively. ‘Of course not. I simply want to find Talif, that’s all, and it occurred to me that with your local knowledge, you might be able to help.’

      The face, framed by the white band of her hood, was as guileless as any child’s. I sighed heavily, got to my feet and gave her a hand up.

      ‘All right, Sister, I’ll find Talif for you. It should be simple enough. Algerians aren’t exactly thick on the ground in Ibiza. But that’s all - understood?’

      ‘Perfectly, dear friend,’ she said with that calm, radiant smile of hers, turned and led the way back to the jeep.

      I followed a trifle reluctantly, I admit, but when it came right down to it, I didn’t really seem to have much choice - or did I?

      The hotel she was staying at was decent enough. Little more than a pension really and it was certainly no tourist trap. Quiet and unpretentious. I could see why Talif had chosen it. There was no one behind the desk in the tiny entrance hall and when I rattled the brass handbell it sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet.

      ‘I tried to make some enquiries about Talif this morning,’ Sister Claire whispered. ‘But I didn’t get very far. The proprietor only seems to speak Spanish and half a dozen words of English.’

      A door at the back opened and a fat, amiable man appeared in a straw hat and green baize apron. From the trowel in his hand it seemed a fair assumption that he had been gardening.

      He removed his hat instantly, not for me, but for Sister Claire, a slightly anxious smile on his face. It seemed more than likely that the language difficulty had been a great worry to him.

      ‘Ah, senor,’ I said in Spanish. ‘Perhaps you could help us?’

      The relief on his face was intense and he bobbed his head eagerly. ‘At your orders, senor.’

      ‘The good Sister is anxious to contact her friend. The one who booked the room for her. Unfortunately she has mislaid his address and as her time is strictly limited …’

      ‘Ah, the Arab, senor.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say? He left no address with me.’

      I turned to Sister Claire who waited anxiously, ‘It’s no go, I’m afraid.’

      And then the proprietor added, ‘Of course, I have seen this man on many occasions, senor.’

      ‘And where would that be?’

      ‘Pepe’s place at the other end of the harbour by the breakwater. You know it, senor?’

      ‘My thanks.’

      We went out into the heat of noon. There was a small cafe next to the hotel, tables and chairs spilling across the sidewalk.

      ‘Did he tell you anything?’

      ‘Only that Talif’s been in the habit of using a certain bar at the other end of the waterfront. I’ll go and see what I can dig up there.’

      ‘Can’t I come with you?’

      I shook my head. ‘Not your style at all, Sister. The sort of place stevedores and sailors use. They’d run for the hills if a nun walked in. You have a coffee and admire the view.’

      I steered her firmly towards a table under a large and colourful umbrella, snapped my fingers for a waiter and was away before she could argue.

      She was on her second cup when I got back, the waiter hovering, anxiously a table to two away, for Ibizans, like all Spaniards, have enormous respect for anything to do with the Church.

      She looked up eagerly. ‘Did you get anywhere?’

      ‘I think you could say that.’ I told the waiter to bring me a gin and tonic and sat down. ‘The man who owns the place, Pepe, had arranged to hire Talif a thirty-foot sea-going launch and he was trying to find him a diver.’

      ‘And Talif?’

      ‘Pepe hasn’t seen him for the last couple of days, but he was able to tell me where he’s been staying. It seems Talif wanted somewhere cheap and quiet so Pepe arranged for a cousin of his to rent him an old cottage in the hills near Cova Santa.’

      ‘Is it far?’

      ‘No more than half-an-hour.’

      She didn’t even ask if I would take her, simply pushed back her chair, stood up and waited for me to make a move with obvious impatience.

      I swallowed the rest of my gin and tonic hurriedly. ‘Don’t I even get to eat, Sister?’

      She frowned in obvious puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand, Mr Nelson.’

      I sighed as I took her elbow. ‘Take no notice, Sister. Just my warped sense of humour. Lead on by all means and let us be about the Lord’s business.’

      We drove out of town following the main road to San Jose. As was to be expected at that time of day, we had things pretty much to ourselves, the locals having the good sense to get in out of the fierce noonday heat.

      She didn’t say a word until we were through Es Fumeral and then she said suddenly, as if trying to make conversation, ‘This Cova Santa you mentioned. What is it? Another village?’

      I shook my head. ‘Some underground caverns. A big tourist attraction. The mugs roll up by the bus load during the season to see the stalactites by electric light. Then they’re invited to take part in a barbecue, for which they’ve already paid handsomely. Roast sucking pig and plenty of cheap wine. And I mustn’t forget the exhibition of folk dancing in national costume. They’ll even allow you to take part. A wonderful chance to experience something of the simple joys of peasant life.’

      She turned to look at me and I kept my eyes on the road. ‘You hate life then, Mr Nelson, or just people?’

      I was angry, touched on the raw, I suppose, and showed it. ‘What in the hell is this supposed to be - confession? Three Hail Marys, two Our Fathers and be a good boy in future.’

      She turned to look at me, no anger in her at all, only a slight frown of enquiry and then she sighed, the breath going out of her in a dying fall.

      ‘Ah, I see what it is. Now I see. It is only yourself you hate. Now why should that be?’

      But now we were close to the dangerous edge of things - too close for comfort.

      I said warmly. ‘I’ll go to hell in my own way, Sister, like all men. Let’s leave it at that.’

      I put my foot down hard and took the jeep away at the kind of speed which made any further conversation impossible.

      About a mile up the Cova Santa road and still following Pepe’s instructions I turned left into a cart track and climbed into the hills.

      On the lower slopes there was a farm or two, terraces of almonds and wheat still in its young growth, but we climbed higher into a wilder terrain of jagged peaks and narrow, tortuous ravines, stunted pines carpeting the slopes.