by Niv Kaplan
“He has bitten his tongue,” he stated to Ibrahim who translated. “His teeth look OK”.
Faraj took the rag from Clair and stuffed it into Jack’s mouth. “We need to stop the bleeding.”
Black Jack looked around. In the afternoon glow of the setting sun he saw they were in an enclosed alcove secluded by granite walls. Trickles of water were coming down the walls from several directions converging into the pool.
He sat up and saw they had been lodged on a wide ledge, the open side of the pool trickling down a sheer cliff drop to a gorge below. The shoot they had come down through was a natural duct along the rock face made by the trickling water from invisible springs spurting along the rocky facade.
It seemed there was no way up or down.
He felt a sudden pain shoot in his mouth. He pulled out the rag and felt his tongue. His fingers came out bloody.
“Wash it in the water,” Clair suggested, taking the rag and washing it clean.
He rolled over and put his face in, bloodying the water. He kept his faced submerged for several minutes, the blood slowly trickling with the flow of the water over the cliff then pulled out and allowed Clair to stuff the rag back in his mouth.
A few minutes later he was able to talk.
“We can’t stay here” he said lamely, his tongue swelling in his mouth, Clair and Ibrahim translating to Faraj. “We need to put a good deal of distance between us and this place or they'll catch us in the morning.”
Faraj looked around.
“We stay here tonight,” he declared. “No one can see us.”
Jack looked around noting it would be impossible for the helicopter to spot them. Even if it hovered directly in front of the alcove’s open side they still had plenty of rock face to hide behind.
“We’ll be trapped,” he contended. “They’ll know we’re here somewhere. They’ll just sit and wait.”
“We leave tomorrow,” Faraj said decidedly. “They will not be here. No one has ever reached this pool. We are the first.”
The pain was distracting Jack’s thoughts. He probed in his mouth again. The tongue was swollen but the blood had ceased. He could not continue discussion.
“How do we climb down?” Clair asked.
Faraj smiled as if keeping a secret. “There are many legends regarding this spring no one had ever reached. It supplies water to tribes far below. This pool has never been visited though many claimed to have seen it. According to the legend there’s a secret passageway which should lead us not down but rather back up to the ridge.”
“Looks like sheer rock face to me,” Clair remarked, looking around.
“Look closer,” Faraj said. He turned and scooped something off the ground. They all stared at his palm as he revealed small round brown droppings.
“Goats come here,” he said knowingly. “Their trail will lead us out.”
They prepared for the night, keeping as far away from the ledge as possible. Two blankets for padding, two for cover. Jack and Faraj on the ends, Clair and the boy in the middle.
Jack could not sleep. He turned and tossed on the hard surface, his mouth ablaze. He finally went to the pool hoping the cool water will help sooth his pain. When he returned, he found Clair awake, staring at him. She looked concerned. When he slid between the blankets next to her, she silently reached for his hand and weaved her small fingers within his, snuggling with her back against him. He hugged her, feeling her small body relax then her breathing become regular before falling asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Egyptian patrol approached the Bedouin camp trailing sand and dust. They parked their two Jeeps and went to join the men around the central campfire where tea was being served in small clay cups.
They paid no mind to the Bedouin women who sat at arm’s length bunched together, Christine among them. She did not dare move, eyeing the Egyptians from under her hood, her pulse quickening.
For five days Ahmed had led her down the Katarina ridge through a maze of canyons and slopes only goats ever climbed. They traveled in the relatively cool mornings and evenings, resting at night and during the blistering daytime heat. It was impossible to manage such landscape in the dark.
The Black Canyon presented a challenge all its own. It was a narrow gorge of black granite that traversed steeply down long sections of sheer rock face that could not be overcome but for a foundation of ropes and metal ladders planted by previous climbers. Having no climbing experience and no ancillary climbing equipment left them exposed to extreme danger as they carefully descended the notorious canyon, known to have taken the lives of more than a few hikers.
On more than one occasion Christine felt her arms and legs no longer supporting her and had to take long rests hinged on ledges high above the ground. To her amazement she found she was not afraid of heights but her body was not conditioned to such prolonged strain. Ahmed was patient with her, supporting her where he could and conforming to her slow progress. When they finally reached safe ground she needed several hours of rest before she could go on.
Further down was the Red Canyon, a gorge not as steep as the Black but hazardous nevertheless. Formed from clay type sediment, giving it its red appearance, it had a series of steep narrow chutes, which had to be negotiated. These chutes were dark, tunnel like shafts, several meters long, extremely slippery and barely able to contain a person. It had no slits or hinges to grip and one had to simply slide through and hope to grab on to something at the end so as not to let the momentum carry through and propel a person further down to hit boulders and rocks.
Ahmed hurt himself through the very first tunnel. He was barely able to stop himself, hitting his head on a rock and cutting a gash, which bled for quite a while. Christine found the dark chutes terrified her and had to overcome claustrophobic fears to dare enter them. The first was at least five meters long and by the time she shot out of there she could have continued another fifteen but for Ahmed stopping her forward progress.
She dressed his head wound, tearing off part of her Bedouin robe and they waited until the bleeding ceased. They had to slide through three more shafts, shorter but steeper than the first, Ahmed fearlessly leading the way. By the time they were through the clothes on their backsides were streaked and torn.
Two days past the Red they reached a sandy plateau, which guided them to the coast. The Bedouin encampment was a short distance from the coastal road and vehicles could be heard going by now and again.
The six Egyptian soldiers took their time drinking their tea. Nothing was ever urgent in the Sinai, Christine observed as she kept eyeing the men, praying some fool would not give her away. There was small talk between the men, whom she could not understand and it was an anxious hour before they finally left.
The Bedouin men remained in their place long after the Egyptians had left and it was another hour before Ahmed came over. She was helping the women prepare salads when Ahmed tugged at her clothes and signaled for her to follow him. They stooped near two men. One spoke decent English.
“The soldiers bring bad rumors,” the Bedouin said, taking a lungful of smoke from his cigarette.
Christine studied him attentively.
“They say a foreigner died in Dahab.”
“Died how?” Christine asked.
“They did not say.”
Christine went silent, not sure where the discussion was leading.
“They say the man was involved with kidnapping a boy.”
Christine felt an inkling of panic grip her conscious. She took a quick peek at Ahmed who was crouching next to her, seemingly unconcerned, his eyes half shut.
“We took the boy,” she said bravely.
The Bedouin smiled. “I know. The man was looking for you.”
Christine’s heart skipped a beat. It had to be Sam, unless they recruited someone else. She had to know.
“Did they say who he was? Where he was from?”
“No,” the Bedouin said evenly.
“Could we find ou
t?” Christine pleaded.
“We could try.”
“Please, I must know.”
“Ahmed will take you to Nueba tonight. There are people there who could help you find out.”
He gestured at Ahmed and blurted some words in Arabic. Ahmed nodded remaining crouched. The two Bedouins strolled over to join the crowd of men by the central campfire. Christine went back to join the women.
She and Ahmed set out after dark. They walked east crossing the main road and walked parallel to the road in the stretch of land between the road and the gulf waters sometime getting very close to the beach, other times touching the highway, being careful not to be out in the open, in view of passing cars. Along the beaches they gave wide berths to any settlements or resorts peacefully nestling by the waters. They walked all night covering roughly half the distance to Nueba and found refuge in a secluded beach, surrounded by cliffs and boulders, empty of human presence. Ahmed found a shady spot on a patch of sand among the rocks and went to sleep. Christine waited a while then stripped bare and waded carefully into the water. The morning waters were cool and refreshing, engulfing her, waking her. She swam out reaching the coral reef observing the band of colorful fish and plants, wishing she had diving gear. Careful not to step on corals and risk being nipped by sea urchins, she swam along the reef as far as she could without losing sight of the beach, then swam back and lay in the emerging sun feeling energized yet concerned.
A hand was caressing her and she woke up with a start. Ahmed was standing over her, her nakedness exposed at his feet.
“You will get burned,” he said matter-of-factly, eyeing her with interest. She lurched up realizing she had dozed and went to fetch her clothes. Ahmed crouched where he was and looked out to sea.
“Thank you,” she said to him after she had dressed and came to crouch by his side. The Bedouin did not respond. He kept staring through half-closed eyes out to sea.
She was angry with herself for letting her guard down that way, knowing she had put him on the spot. He could have interpreted her motives differently and done her harm. She had thanked him for remaining gracious.
They intermittently slept the rest of the day, continuing their journey at sunset. Several times they had to cross the main highway or walk along it, at places where it went adjacent to the waters, but managed to remain unseen.
They reached the seaside Bedouin village of Nueba a mere hour before sunup and took refuge in a row of huts along the beach. The huts were wooden structures with bamboo roofs, closed on three sides with shades of woven fiber, the open side touching the waters, equipped with colorful rugs, cushions and pillows, with low coffee tables spread about. The entire village belonged to the Tarrabin tribe of which Ahmed was a proud member so it was not difficult to remain hidden from the Egyptian presence in the area.
They were treated to warm pita bread with Labaneh spread, a fresh salad, pickles and potatoes, followed by baklava and sweet tea. It seemed to Christine the tastiest meal she had ever eaten. She was worn out, tired to the point of collapse, her feet blistered, her joints aching, her body filthy. She fell asleep, on her side, right by the low coffee table where she and Ahmed had taken their meal and did not wake up until late afternoon at which time a Bedouin woman showed her to a warm bath in a tin shack. There was soap there and hot water, amenities she had not enjoyed in weeks. She took her time there, scrubbing herself clean, enjoying the luxury and came out refreshed, ready for another meal, which was again generously served.
Ahmed had been gone the entire day but as night fell he came by with a man who sat himself cross legged across from Christine and looked her up carefully as he was served dark coffee. He took out a bag with some tobacco and slowly rolled a cigarette, offering it to her. When she declined, he lighted it for himself and sat back.
“We had a serious incident last week,” he declared in excellent English, probing her face for any reaction.
Christine remained silent, searching for Ahmed who had sat himself on the cushions a short distance away.
“We heard a foreigner died in Dahab looking to kidnap a boy,” the man continued.
Christine looked again at Ahmed for help but none came.
“He was looking for me,” she blurted in a hoarse voice, not sure if he was for or against her but too desperate to care. “I took the boy to bring him back to his mother.”
“And where is the boy now?” the man asked.
“Somewhere in the mountains with Ahmed’s people.”
The man suddenly smiled, his white teeth flickering against the dark background. “Don’t be alarmed. We will try to help. Ahmed is my nephew.”
Christine relaxed, feeling her body go limp from the tension.
“Who was the man?” she asked, eager to relieve what was preying on her mind.
“There was a boy involved; one of ours. He saw it happen. He will be here soon to tell us.”
*****
Sam and Kessler met Natasha at the Eilat airport and the three of them drove to the Queen of Sheba Hotel where Sam was staying.
“We’re having a hard time locating your man Ortega,” Kessler said a while later as they all gathered in the lobby lounge over tea and coffee.
“How long has it been since he crossed over?” Natasha asked. She had showered and replaced her winter gear from cold Eastern Europe to light airy attire fitting the hot weather of Eilat, looking quite out of place, her skin glistening white.
“It’ll be six days tomorrow morning,” Kessler replied. “We have not been able to make contact with him or any of our Bedouin contacts since he went in there.”
“Black Jack and Christine have been there over two weeks,” Sam remarked. “We’ve heard nothing from them either.”
“This is quite irregular,” Kessler continued. “We normally are able to contact our people there at will.”
“Could I go in there?” Sam asked, avoiding Natasha’s gaze.
“I would not recommend it,” Kessler said. “Not until we find out what happened to Ortega and the others.”
“Could we use diplomatic means?” Natasha asked. “US or Spanish ambassadors?”
“That’s an option. Question is, do you want to publicize your operation?”
Sam and Natasha looked at one another.
“Yes, if it’s a matter of life or death,” Sam said. “Plus, it doesn’t necessarily have to be publicized. They can make quiet inquiries.”
“Are you absolutely certain you want to involve diplomats with whatever went on down there?” Kessler insisted. “You’ve got three people who went to free a mother from prison and hopefully get her child back, all missing. Diplomats do not like to be embarrassed.”
“I prefer to embarrass them than to lose any one of my people or the people we’re trying to help.”
“Fair enough,” Kessler said. “If that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do. I was hoping to get you some more information tonight, but I can’t promise. I’ve been wrong about this case more than I care to admit.”
“What did you have in mind for tonight?” Natasha asked.
“We’ve got Bedouins going across and back all the time. I’ve sent someone with specific instructions, which she’s to relay back to me, hopefully, late tonight. If she doesn’t make it through, we know there’s big trouble.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s a prominent figure, a chief’s daughter, who normally gets easy access in both directions. If she’s stopped anywhere, then they must be putting a lid on something really important.”
Natasha eyed Sam.
“There’s not a whole lot we could do tonight with the embassy,” she reasoned. “We might as well wait and see what happens. If by tomorrow we have nothing, we go to them.”
“We may have to go to them anyway,” Sam said thoughtfully. “My gut tells me we’re in over our heads this time. Whatever comes out of there, may, in any event, need diplomatic attention.”
They were all silent for a while, before
Sam, ever practical, summed the meeting up. “I’ll be on the first plane out to Tel Aviv tomorrow. Natasha, you stay here and keep an eye on things. I’ve rented two cell phones so we can keep in close contact. David, what’s your schedule look like?”
“I have a couple of things to do tonight before I go to Taba to wait for my contact. I can pick you up on my way over there. Meanwhile you can rest.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Sam said. “Natasha, you must be exhausted.”
“More anxious and hungry than anything else but I can use some rest after we’ve had some dinner.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it,” Kessler said, getting up and shaking Sam’s hand. “I’ll call your rooms half an hour before I show up.”
“Thanks for everything, David,” Sam said, getting up to return the handshake.
Kessler nodded humbly, shook Natasha’s hand and disappeared toward the lobby entrance. Natasha and Sam relocated to the hotel restaurant to bring one another up to date over dinner.
*****
Jamal arrived at Christine’s hut two hours before daybreak, accompanied by an impressive young Bedouin woman. Christine had fallen asleep on the cushions where she had the conversation with Ahmed’s uncle. Ahmed woke her up and made the introductions. Jamal had been Ortega’s escort. The woman, Kasuma, daughter of a prominent Bedouin leader, was dressed in modern clothes with no head cover, the dim lamp light accentuating her large dark eyes, high cheekbones and delicate mouth. She looked in her thirties and spoke with authority.
“Jamal is taking a big risk meeting you at this time,” she said in fluent French after settling down next to the boy who looked quite frightened and confused. “He witnessed the unfortunate fate of your colleague and now he’s a marked boy who’ll be hiding with our people in the mountains for a long time.”
“What happened to him?” Christine asked, preparing for the worst.
Jamal spoke in lame English, but it was enough. Ortega was dead; killed by the Egyptians, execution-style and everyone in the Sinai Peninsula was trying to cover it up.