Three Wrong Turns in the Desert

by Neil S. Plakcy

  Liam shot off first, but Aidan followed only a moment later. They stayed in position for a few minutes, each of them cleaning the other with his tongue. Aidan’s dick was so sensitive by then that each swipe of Liam’s tongue was an exquisite torture—he couldn’t stand it, but he couldn’t stand for it to stop, either.

  Aidan turned himself around once again, so that he could rest his head on Liam’s chest, and Liam wrapped one big arm around him. They drifted off to sleep.

  23 – Leaving Tataouine

  When Aidan woke the next morning, Liam was already up, his reading glasses perched on his nose, and he was poring over the map and the guidebook. “It says here that the only way to Remada is by car or truck,” he said. “The taxis only go back and forth to the ksour.”

  Aidan sat up in bed, yawned and stretched. “So what do we do?”

  “I’m not sure. The tour group is going north, so we can’t stay with them. We’ll look for a taxi driver who’s willing to make some extra money.”

  They ate breakfast in the hotel restaurant, and Liam told Belghasem that they would not be continuing with the group. “You will be careful?” he asked. “The desert is dangerous place for those who do not know it.”

  “We’ll try,” Liam said.

  They packed their bags and took them up to the roof of the hotel to watch the bus depart. Brisk gusts blew sand at them, and Aidan put on his windbreaker. From there, they had a broad view of the city and the highway north. Before the bus had traveled more than a few blocks, a police car pulled out behind it with sirens and flashing lights.

  “Something’s up.” Liam pointed a few blocks in the other direction, where another bus had been pulled over. “That Libyan agent has some clout. I’ll bet they’re stopping every bus out of town.”

  “Good thing we’re not on one.”

  “But we’re still here,” Liam said. “If they’re stopping buses, they may be stopping taxis and searching hotels, too.”

  “There’s one thing that bothers me.” Aidan leaned back against a parapet. “If this Libyan guy has so much clout with the police, why didn’t he get them to arrest Carlucci? They didn’t have to shoot him down on the street.”

  “Because the Libyan must be after the money,” Liam said. “I don’t know what he’s got on Desrosiers, the police captain, to get all this help. Maybe he’s promised him a cut.”

  Aidan shivered and put his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, where he found the piece of paper Abbas had given him as they checked out of the Hotel Sidi Driss. “Oh. Abbas gave me this—it’s the name of his cousin.”

  He handed Liam the paper.

  Liam scanned it. “We need to find this Nailah,” he said. “This word, soora. It means picture. And hina means here.”

  “Could she be a photographer?” Aidan asked. “Someone who takes pictures?”

  Liam pulled a tiny pair of binoculars from his duffle and surveyed the area. He’d looked about three-quarters of the way around when he said, “There. A photography shop.” He pointed down an alley.

  “I’ll take your word for it. Let’s give it a try.”

  Aidan followed Liam down the stairs and out the hotel’s back door, where they paused as Liam surveyed the alley. It was empty except for couple of bags of trash and a pair of feral cats skulking past.

  They paused once again where the alley met the main street. A dark-skinned police officer in black slacks and robin’s egg blue shirt strolled down the street pausing at the hotel entrance. His white gloves hung from his utility belt, along with a white leather holster from which a pistol’s grip protruded. He wore a black tie, with black epaulets at shoulders.

  The officer looked at his watch, then continued down the street. “Coffee break,” Aidan whispered, watching him step into a storefront café.

  “If they’re checking all the hotels, they’ll find us quickly.” Liam pointed down the street. “There’s the photo shop. We’d better hustle while the cop is still in that café.”

  Liam looked left and right. There were a few people on the street, but none seemed to be paying attention to them or the store. As he struggled to keep pace with Liam, Aidan scanned the street. Was the young couple out there somewhere, looking for them? The Libyan agent? Knowing that their pursuers had the power of the police at their disposal made things that much more dangerous—there was no chance that they could look there for help.

  The dusty shop window announced that cameras were repaired, film sold, and photos developed. A new sign even promised you could download photos from your digital camera and print them there.

  Liam opened the door, and they ducked into the shop, where a tiny young woman stood behind the counter. She wore a T-shirt with the name of an American band, Vampire Weekend, and her ears had been pierced in multiple places. She had a puffy cap on her head, and looked like she’d have fit in just fine in New York’s East Village. “Good morning,” she said in barely accented English. “How can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for Nailah,” Aidan said. “Her cousin Abbas sent us.”

  “You know my cousin?”

  “We stayed at the Hotel Sidi Driss the night before last,” Aidan said. “He gave me this paper with your name on it.”

  He showed it to her. She read it, then looked up at them and smiled. Aidan realized that perhaps the Arabic wasn’t exactly a translation of what Abbas had written in Roman script.

  “You are in danger?” she asked, her attitude turning businesslike. “How can I help you?”

  “We need to get to Remada,” Liam said. “But there are roadblocks, and they are stopping buses and taxis.”

  She thought for a moment. “They are looking for you? Two American men?”

  They both nodded.

  Then she smiled again. “I have a solution for you.”

  24 – Motorcycle Matters

  “You say the police are looking for two American men,” Nailah said, leading them into the back of the shop. “But they will not notice a Tunisian man and a woman in a burqa.”

  Aidan started to protest. He didn’t do drag. He never had. In the first place, he was too hairy, down to his fingers and toes, to ever pass as a woman without a lot of painful hair removal. In the second place, it had never appealed to him. He didn’t want to be a woman, and he didn’t want to dress like one.

  But he did want to get out of Tataouine, and get that account number to the Tuareg tribe who would use the money for schools and health care. “Since I doubt they have women as tall as you in this country, I guess that puts me in the dress,” he said to Liam.

  “I’m sure you’ll look lovely,” he said.

  “That is not the point,” Nailah said. She handed Aidan what looked like a polyester funeral shroud, though it was a hideous shade of light blue, brassier than the color of the iron railings in Tunis, darker than the policeman’s shirt. “You may have to, how you say, bend down.”

  She gave Liam a cloak like the ones they had seen men wearing in Matmata, and a scarf to wind around his head. With Nailah’s help, Aidan climbed into the burqa. She was so tiny that she had to step onto a stool to reach his head. The inside of the burqa was claustrophobic, with a narrow slot for his eyes and a filmy veil over his nose and mouth.

  It was oddly comforting at first, reminding Aidan of hiding under the covers as a kid with a book and a flashlight. But as he experimented walking around, he realized he had no peripheral vision. He kept catching the voluminous cloth on doorknobs and the edges of cabinets, and Nailah criticized his walk.

  “You walk like an American,” she said. “See, look at me.”

  She minced slowly, as if she was a small, wary creature. Her whole posture changed. Gone was the little New York gamine; in her place was a woman who looked like property. Aidan tried to mimic her, without much success. “Your shoes are wrong,” she said, standing with her hands on her hips. Aidan was wearing a pair of battered Nikes. “Wait here.”

  “I see why Arab men like their women to wear those th
ings,” Liam said, when she’d disappeared out the back door. “You look sexy.”

  “Get out of here,” Aidan said.

  “No, really. I’m imagining you naked under there, parading around. And I’m the only one who gets to see what you’re hiding.”

  “You are seriously deranged,” Aidan said, but he laughed. They flirted for a few minutes, putting aside the problems that faced them, until Nailah returned with a pair of black slippers.

  “My cousin has big feet,” she said. “Here, you try these.”

  Aidan couldn’t bend over to take his shoes off or put on the slippers, so Liam had to do it. He tickled Aidan’s instep and Aidan squirmed, but Liam got the slippers on. With the burqa hanging down as far as it would go, no one would notice Aidan’s big American feet.

  Aidan practiced walking some more, attempting to channel his inner woman, until Nailah was satisfied he could pass.

  Then she appraised Liam, hands on hips. “Your scarf is wrong,” she said, climbing back on her stool. She unwound the scarf, tried it one way, then another, until she was satisfied.

  “This still doesn’t solve our problem of how we get out of town,” Aidan said.

  “You will come with me,” Nailah said. She opened the back door of the shop to a narrow alley. Aidan was reminded of the street in Tunis where he’d nearly been mugged. It seemed like he couldn’t stop getting himself in trouble.

  A sleek black Japanese motorcycle with yellow accents leaned against the back wall of the shop. Aidan found it hard to imagine the tiny Nailah perched on it, zooming around the narrow streets of Tataouine. “You know how to ride?” she asked Liam.

  He nodded.

  “There is only one road south,” she said. “But if you are lucky, they are only stopping tourists.”

  “And if we’re not?” Aidan asked.

  “We don’t have any choice,” Liam said. “The longer we stay in Tataouine, the greater the chance that they will look here in town for us. We have to get out.”

  He straddled the motorcycle, and Aidan tried to get on behind him. It was comical as he struggled with the long burqa. He tried to hitch it up around his waist, but Nailah shook her head. “No woman would ride like that,” she said. She made him sit side-saddle, and pushed and tugged at the cloth around him, draping it down so that his legs were covered.

  She stacked Aidan’s backpack on the shelf at the bike’s rear, with Liam’s duffle on top of it, then covered the lot with a ratty sheepskin and tied it all down with bungee cords striped in bright colors. She added a pair of tin cups and a leather canteen full of water.

  Aidan caught their reflection in a mirror through the open door of the photo shop. With the scarf wrapped around his head, Liam looked like a typical Tunisian man. And if Aidan hadn’t known he was inside that burqa, he would have assumed the woman behind Liam was his wife.

  “Good luck,” Nailah said. “When you reach Remada, leave the motorcycle with Ifoudan. He will get it back to me.”

  Liam pulled out his wallet and handed Nailah a sheaf of dinars. “No, no,” she said, trying to back away, but he insisted. She took the bills and folded them into her pocket as Liam gunned the motorcycle. They took off, Aidan clutching Liam’s back, the hem of the burqa flapping in the wind. It took Liam a few blocks to get his bearings, and a feel for the cycle, and then they found the road south.

  The soldiers at the road block were occupied with a tour bus packed with foreigners. Aidan saw the girl who had been with the pharmacist’s assistant standing with them, peering at the tourists. A single soldier moved the rest of the traffic along. He glanced at Liam and Aidan, and waved. For a moment, Aidan thought the girl had noticed them, but she turned back to the tourists, and they sped past.

  Even with the air rushing by, Aidan was sweltering inside the burqa. It didn’t help that he felt trapped between the bags and Liam’s broad back. Liam’s body heat radiated through to Aidan, as his hands slipped around Liam’s sweaty waist.

  Aidan knew they couldn’t stop until they reached Remada. Who knew what other roadblocks there might be? If he slipped out of the burqa, he’d be very conspicuous, an American man behind a Tunisian.

  The map said the trip was 80 kilometers from Tataouine to Remada, but it seemed like a lot longer. There was no break from the unrelenting sun, and even the river they crossed halfway there was no more than a trickle. Aidan had never been so uncomfortable in his life. The sweat drenched him, and he began to itch, under his arms, around his waist, at his groin. The burqa felt like a giant blanket, and his body chafed against the motorcycle seat and against Liam. He worried he’d end up with blisters on his thighs.

  A short while after they crossed the tiny river, a breeze picked up. But the relief was short-lived, because the wind continued to grow, whipping tiny grains of sand around us. Aidan realized what it was just as Liam shouted “Sandstorm,” over his shoulder. “We’ve got to find some shelter.”

  “Where?” Aidan asked. There was nothing around them. Not even a tall dune. The desert stretched around them as flat as a dinner plate. Within minutes, Aidan couldn’t even see more than a few feet ahead. “Pull over,” he called out.

  He thought Liam was about to; he felt the motorcycle starting to slow. But then they hit a sandy patch on the road and began to skid.

  25 – Wipeout

  Aidan was knocked out when he flew off the motorcycle, waking on his back, a few feet from the bike and Liam, sand in his eyes. He struggled to sit up, and every muscle and sinew in his body rebelled. It felt like someone had beaten him with a hammer repeatedly.

  He wiped the sand from his eyes and looked over at Liam. The big bodyguard wasn’t moving, and his left leg was bent beneath him at what had to be an uncomfortable angle. The bike lay on its side, its front wheel still spinning lazily. The sandstorm had passed and the sun had returned.

  Aidan looked in the other direction and was startled to find a camel staring back at him. It seemed to chew on its lips, and looked about to spit at him. He rolled away and tried to stand up, getting tangled in the folds of the burqa. Miracle polyester, it had survived the accident without a tear, though there was a smudge of motor oil near the hem.

  He looked over to Liam. Was the bodyguard still alive? Was he stranded in the desert with a dead bodyguard, a broken motorcycle, and a Swiss bank account number, and a Libyan intelligence agent on his trail?

  Looking up, he saw a dark-skinned man on the camel, wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans frayed at the knees. Though he had the slim, wiry body of a young man, his face was leathery.

  The man leaned down and said something to Aidan in Arabic. He tried to remember the few words of Arabic he’d picked up from his guidebook, and the phrase “Mish bakalum arabee” finally came back to him. He didn’t speak Arabic, though at that point he wished he did.

  The man didn’t seem surprised to find an American man inside the burqa. He nodded, then dismounted from his camel and walked toward Liam. Aidan struggled to his feet, though his legs felt like jelly, and limped after him. From a goatskin sack, the Tuareg dribbled a few drops of liquid onto Liam’s lips. He stirred, and looked up. Aidan let out a huge breath as he realized Liam was alive. He wasn’t on his own. Allah be praised. “Are you OK?” he asked, crouching next to Liam, his muscles crying out as he did. “Anything broken?”

  Liam tested his extremities, and they all seemed to be functional. He said something in Arabic to the Tuareg man, who replied, and helped him stand up. Holding onto Aidan’s arm, they followed the man to the motorcycle. Liam and the man spoke back and forth for a few minutes, peering at various parts of the cycle, and Aidan was impatient to know what was going on.

  The Tuareg man picked the bike up, and Liam straddled it. He tried to turn it on, but nothing happened. He and the Tuareg switched places, and Liam bent over to tinker with the engine. As he did, Aidan saw him grimace. Liam was hunching his shoulders over, as if he’d hurt his back in the crash.

  The camel stood placidly a few feet
away, chewing on its lip. They had slid a few feet off the road, but there was no traffic coming. After a few minutes of tinkering, Liam gave up. “It’s fucked,” he said. “This coping is twisted, and it can’t be fixed by hand. Until it gets back in its proper place, the engine won’t start.”

  The Tuareg began to speak rapidly in Arabic, and Liam listened, stopping him a couple of times for what Aidan assumed was clarification. “Bilal here says that his tribe is a short way behind him. His brother has tools and may be able to help us.”

  “That’s great,” Aidan said.

  “I think we ought to camouflage ourselves while we wait,” Liam said. “We don’t know who might come down this road.”

  Bilal had a goatskin and a couple of tent poles on the back of the camel, and he and Liam constructed a shelter, Liam stopping now and then to stretch or flex his shoulders. With the three of them sitting in front of the bike, it was well hidden. The camel sat down next to them once they were settled, adding to the illusion.

  “How are you, really?” Aidan asked. His own body ached, but already he was feeling better, more able to put pressure on his legs without limping. He had drunk from the canteen and rubbed a couple of sore muscles.

  “I’ll survive,” Liam said. “I’ve been hurt a lot worse on operations.” He dug in his pack and pulled out two tiny packets of aspirin. “Take these,” he said, handing two tablets to Aidan. “Don’t sit in any one position too long.”

  Aidan took the tablets with a little water, and sat back under the tent. A couple of cars and a truck passed by on their way to Remada while they waited. Bilal shared some dates, and Liam and Aidan dozed in the shelter of the tent. Aidan woke later in the afternoon to hear a buzz of Arabic voices. When he looked up, he saw several Tuareg men clustered around the motorcycle.

  The man with the wrench appeared to be Bilal’s brother. With Bilal and Liam, he managed to pry the damaged coping out of the way of the engine, and get the bike started up again. By then, it was late afternoon. Liam and Aidan thanked the Tuaregs.