Shadows Out of Time

It had taken a week to get here after his flight had landed in the busy capital, Nouakchott. He’d been contacted and directed to the transport that had carried him here over the anonymous, dusty roads, a battered bus barely kept moving by a team of Arab mechanics. In the city, Phillips had made discreet enquiries at the offices of the British Consul, wanting to set up a meeting with Sir Conrad Alvington. At first he met with a brick wall, but then he was told by a nervous, unconvincing clerk that Sir Conrad had been sent back to England. That was all. No further information. The Mauritanians didn’t want anyone nosing about in their desert, other than genuine archaeologists. And they didn’t want them conferring either.

Phillips wasn’t too concerned. Freeing Alvington was one less task to deal with, but a closed avenue of information.

Inside the hotel the overhead fans whirred, churning the thick, humid air. Several men, not necessarily guests, clothed in desert robes, sat around the large foyer, talking quietly. Phillips knew they were weighing him very carefully. His presence here would be no secret, though his assumed identity as an archaeologist ought to be credible. A room had been reserved for him: he was given its key and he went through the back to a corridor. The door was not locked. He nudged the door open with his knee and leaned back. Sunlight slatted into the room from a grilled window beyond its single bed.

“Welcome.” The voice was accented, that of a native. The man had been seated and stood slowly, his hands spread so that he offered no visible threat. “I am Mamoudou Sidibe, your guide.” Phillips closed the door and set down his holdall. The man was of Berber descent, aged perhaps fifty, face partially hidden behind a black beard, eyes like flints. He’s trustworthy, they’d told Phillips. A rare ally, who won’t betray you. The two men bowed to each other.

“I won’t ask you if you had a pleasant journey.”

Phillips grunted. “I could never get used to the dust. Or the heat.”

“Wait until you go out across the dunes. That is heat.”

Phillips shook his head. “We travel by night. I know it’ll be cold, but we’ll be less exposed.”

“As you wish. There is food and drink waiting for you — and one of the engineers. The other is elsewhere, with their packs, waiting to begin the journey.”

Mamoudou took Phillips to a room where Phillips gratefully chewed the dry meat and drank cold water. Presently he was joined by another man, Garner, a hard-looking thirty-something westerner, who was dressed in a poorly fitting light suit: obviously he was a soldier, used to a uniform — they were all going to be playing parts on this trip.

“I’m Doctor Garner, and O’Reilly, my mate, is also a doctor.” He grinned. “Not sure how many mugs we’ll fool, but they won’t necessarily realize we’re the military. We’ve been told to take orders from you. We will do. We’ve got our special orders, and we’ll follow them, but apart from that, you’re running this show.”

“Does that bother you?”

Garner shook his head. “Nah. I’m not paid to get bothered.”

“You and O’Reilly are sappers? You know what we’re dealing with out there?”

“We’ve been briefed by the US and our own Army.”

Phillips finished his meal. “Okay. I want to leave before dawn and rendezvous with the rest of our party. We’ll set off by the early light. We’ll be watched, so we’ll behave like any other archaeological party. Mad dogs and Englishmen. Once the sun’s getting up, we’ll camp. After that we go by night. Less chance of being seen.”

“They told me you know about desert travel. And about this place we’re heading for.”

“It isn’t going to be a picnic, especially when we get there.”

“O’Reilly and me have both done tours in Iran, Afghanistan and Syria. We’re used to people trying to kill us.”

“We’re not welcome here. The Government doesn’t want to provoke what’s out there. They don’t understand what it is, or what it can do.”

“Yeah, we’ve been told. You just get us there, okay?”

Phillips and the two engineers rode by camel to the outer edge of Chinguetti by bright starlight, led by Mamoudou. Phillips had been provided with a sub-machine gun. He knew how to use it. The sappers were similarly armed, and both had a fat bag strapped to their camels. Phillips guessed they’d be guarding those bags with their lives. Explosives, mines, whatever the military had come up with.

Mamoudou guided them to a remote spot out in the shifting sands, and under a low ridge they met up with a dozen more Arabs, armed desert tribesmen. Mamoudou introduced Phillips and at once the warriors bowed to him and prepared to receive instructions.

“These are good men,” said Mamoudou. “They will die before failing you. They know something of what is out in the wilderness, and they fear it greatly. It speaks much for their bravery that they will go there with you and serve you.”