“ ‘Tribute,’ madame. And but a modest one at that. Five million francs.” He had discussed the amount carefully with Jubar Pasha. Together they had settled on four. El Hussein had increased the amount upon seeing the château. The pasha would not miss the extra million any more than the deVries family would. Such a fortune in the desert, yet a pittance against such wealth.
“Five million—!” Elisabeth nearly choked on her brandy. “You call this ‘modest’? Evidently, monsieur, modesty costs more in your country than in mine.” “Forgive me, madame, but we are talking about a member of the nobility, are we not? Your own nephew, the lord of this great estate? It seems a small price to pay for his safety. Surely the furnishings in this room alone are enough—”
“You presume far too much,” Elisabeth snapped. She seethed in quiet turmoil. How hard she had labored toward her object! How many sacrifices she had made! She deserved the estate as much as Paul deserved the title! And now this smelly little thief brought her news of her wretched nephew, who could ruin everything. It was all at risk. Why now, when things were so close to being finished? Not now! And ransom? Out of the question. She would let him languish in captivity. If he died everyone would be better off.
But what if he didn’t die? How clever could any desert sheikh be? They were ignorant, all of their sort. Everyone knew it. What if Moussa escaped? Then what? As long as he lived he was a threat to her.
It was maddening. She couldn’t leave him where he was. She certainly wasn’t going to pay this ruffian a fortune to see to his safe return. What was left? She took a drink.
And then it came to her, and it warmed her inside like the brandy.
It always came to her, when she needed it most.
She looked at El Hussein. His eyes had narrowed. She hoped she had not misjudged him. She needed a man as contemptible as she was certain he was.
“You say you can intervene with the sheikh on behalf of my nephew. That does not suggest the level of influence that I require. I need a man with more than influence. I need a man with control.”
“I can do whatever is necessary, madame, in the circumstances.”
“Do not play games with me. I must know how far your influence reaches with this sheikh. If you persist in being coy I shall terminate this discussion immediately and you can return to the filth from which you crawled.” She set her glass on the table and moved as if to stand, indicating it was time for El Hussein to leave. Quickly he relented.
“I assure you, madame, my influence is more than extensive. I have control.”
“Very well,” she said, nodding. “I thought as much. You are a relation of this sheikh, I suspect, if not the sheikh himself.”
El Hussein smiled. “His brother-in-law, madame. You are—”
“I am prepared to pay your price. All of it.”
“Allah be praised! A wise decision, madame. It is clear you have the best interests of your nephew at heart.”
“As a good-faith measure I will pay you five hundred thousand francs. Today, before you leave.”
El Hussein was astonished. It was more than he had expected. More than he had dreamed possible. He changed his mind about her. She was not so clever as she seemed. “That is quite generous, madame. Very wise indeed.”
She held up a hand. “I will pay you the balance in full when our business is successfully concluded.”
“Of course. You can see him for yourself if you wish.” Elisabeth appraised him coldly. “You misunderstand me, sir. I have no wish to see him. The balance is payable only when you can prove to me that my nephew is dead.”
* * *
As El Hussein was leaving the château in his coach his mind raced with it all.
A beautiful woman. And she was dangerous. It made her all the more attractive. He had had an erection throughout their meeting. Most distracting.
He wondered what had made her reach such an extraordinary decision. Of course he would complete his end of the bargain. With pleasure. The Count deVries – or whatever he was – would be dead within a fortnight.
It was what happened just before he left that still had his heart pounding. She had told him to wait and had gone into the next room. As he savored the forbidden brandy he had noticed her reflection in a pane of glass in the hallway. She had moved to the far wall and removed a painting. There was a box mounted in the wall. She opened it and withdrew a large bundle of paper. It had taken him a moment to realize what he was seeing. He watched intently as she took the money she needed and put the rest back. She had made no attempt to hide, but then she hadn’t known he was watching. His breath came more quickly. The deVries family was richer by far than he had imagined. It was beyond rich. His mind was in turmoil with all the possibilities.
His coachman drove him through the Bois de Boulogne toward the heart of the city. He decided to rent a more expensive room for the night than the one he currently occupied – a much more expensive one. At the Hôtel du Louvre.
Paris was such a beautiful city.
* * *
“Where the devil is deVries?” thundered Captain Chirac to his adjutant. “He was supposed to report three weeks ago!”
“I don’t know, mon capitaine. I heard he was near El Golea.”
“El Golea!” The captain’s face raged red with anger. “That is far beyond his orders!”
“Oui, capitaine. So it is.”
“Merde! I’ve unleashed a rogue officer! The commandant in Touggourt will have my head!”
The adjutant smiled inside. French officers in these parts were not known for restraint or the overly careful reading of orders. Chirac was making theater. Practicing, perhaps, for his appearance before the colonel. He cleared his throat. “I understand, sir, that he has given up his horses as well.”
“What?”
“Yes, sir. He traded them for camels.”
“Mon Dieu, a French officer upon a camel in my command? It is unspeakable! Against all orders! Has the man no shame?” At this news the captain was truly aghast.
“Apparently not, sir. But he seems to have lit a fire under Tamrit. There are reports everywhere.”
Chirac nodded. Secretly he was delighted. The lieutenant’s legend was growing as rapidly as that of the man he chased. There were unconfirmed reports of “excesses,” reports of civilians – even some women and children – killed in unfortunate incidents. But such incidents were the price one paid for order. Besides, they were followed by reports that local support for the rebel Tamrit was drying up, that he was spending more time running than killing. The gun of France was proving mightier than the sword of Islam.
The captain dismissed the adjutant. “I only hope he reports in sometime this year,” he sighed. “I will be embarrassed to say I have no idea where he is. And when he does I hope he isn’t riding a camel.”
CHAPTER 32
Thunk Thunk. Scrape.
Sweat. Shiver. Freeze.
Thunk thunk. Scrape.
The mattock chipped at the soft stone in the blackness as the tunnel progressed.
Moussa labored with a practiced swing. His arms had grown accustomed to the work, his muscles rippling with the motion. His skin had grown used to the constant trickle of moisture in which he lay as he worked. But he would never get used to the dark, or to the cold, or to the damp walls pressing in on him. Instead he lost himself in the slow steady rhythm of his work, finding that in its repetition he could forget everything else. Abdulahi was at the other end of the rope. They worked well together, he and the little Ouled Nail, as they fed the hungry dragon. They moved more earth than any other two men.
Thunk thunk. Scrape.
Thunk thwack—
He heard and felt it at the same time, the danger telescoping itself through his mattock into his arms, his brain registering the peril as he scooted back instinctively.
Water!
First a spurt, up in the air where it shouldn’t have been, water mixed with bits of earth and sand that stung his face, then stronger, a spo
ut that slammed into him with incredible pressure. Then it burst through with all its fury, driven by a hidden reservoir on the other side of the rock. How many thousands or millions of liters backed up behind it no one knew. Water waiting for release, waiting to overwhelm him, waiting to flood the tunnels.
Abdulahi had promised he would have plenty of warning. There had been only one stroke of the mattock. Abdulahi was wrong.
He screamed at the top of his voice, trying to warn his companion, but his voice was lost in the roar of the rushing torrent. He tried again and took a mouthful of water and gagged. He coughed and managed to suck a lungful of air.
The water rushed to fill the tunnel, sweeping away the precious pockets of air that would give him life. Instinctively he tried to rise above it, but there was nowhere to go. The water hurled him back, banging him like a toy against the walls. He slipped back down onto his stomach, and the water propelled him furiously backward, feet first, down the side shaft toward the main tunnel, the torrent raging through the blackness. All the way he tried to catch hold of the sides, to brace himself as Abdulahi had told him to do, but it was useless. He wasn’t strong enough.
Don’t try to fight. Ride with it!
He fought the desperate impulse to take another breath. There was only water. How far to the end? How far to the main tunnel? Twenty meters? Thirty? He held his breath, lungs raging, arms groping, as he tried both to go with it and to gain some semblance of control. It was impossible. The water’s force banged him against the sides of the tunnel, shredding his skin as it scraped along. He felt himself beginning to panic.
I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!
He fought back the terror, forcing himself to think.
Float to the main tunnel. Maybe there you can find air.
He was moving fast now, still facedown, feet first, when he hit the main tunnel. His feet smashed against the wall, his knees buckling as the torrent turned the corner and raged violently down the main shaft. The impact stunned him, nearly knocking what little breath he had out of his tormented lungs. Still completely submerged, he fought the impulse to draw a breath. The burning was awful.
He thought about the tunnel. There was a slight elevation in the ceiling, midway between the area where he’d been working and the shaft to the surface. Part of the ceiling at that point had collapsed in a minor cave-in. He thought there might be an air pocket there. It was his only chance.
Get on your back. Your back!
He used his arms with the current and turned over, trying to judge the distance. He would be close now. He spread his arms and legs and tried to stop himself. The little toe of his right foot caught something. The toe snapped and he went on. There was no pain; he pushed harder. Little by little he slowed, and then stopped. The water raged around him, but he had gotten some control. He edged himself upward, his nose searching for air.
There!
It was tiny, precious. He spit and gasped and drew a sweet breath, his face in a space not much bigger than the breadth of a man’s hand. Another gasp, and another. His lungs ached deeply. He knew he had little time to decide what to do. Wait? Perhaps the flood would recede quickly. He’d heard they often did. But some went on for hours, depending upon the size of the underground reservoirs waiting for release. If he waited he would run out of air. If he let go he might not find more.
The decision was taken from him. He felt his grip slipping and before he could stop himself the current wrenched him away once again and propelled him into the black hole. He had time to draw more air before he went under. Now on his back, he felt the water going in his nose. Again he forced himself not to give in to the instinct to blow air out. He needed every bit. He had a fleeting thought of Abdulahi. Had he drowned? He would have been standing at the shaft when the rock gave way. Perhaps he had pulled himself up in time, or perhaps he had stayed down, trying to pull on Moussa’s rope, to help save him. It wouldn’t matter if he had. Moussa had lost his end of the rope.
His mind focused on the shaft. He would be there in an instant. He kept his hands up, running his fingers along the top of the tunnel, planning to act the instant he arrived. The rope from the surface hung down there. He would have less than a second, but maybe he could grab hold of the rope and pull himself up into the shaft, where he could climb to the safety of the surface.
It came and went too quickly. He felt the rope but it slipped past his hand before he could catch it. He caught the edge of the shaft, his fingers clinging to the sandstone, but then it crumbled and gave way, and he was gone again, but not before he took a mouthful of water. There had been no sign of Abdulahi.
Once more he slowed himself, turning his heels outward, trying to find purchase on the sides, stiffening his knees so they wouldn’t collapse on him. He knew he was running out of air, that he had only a few seconds before he would let go, let his lungs do what they were desperate to do, take a deep breath, and then the blackness would come, and death would take him.
Suddenly he hanged into something softer than a rock. His bare foot felt a shoulder. Another man had jammed the tunnel. Abdulahi?
He hadn’t meant to push on the shoulder, didn’t want to knock the man loose, a man who had probably found his own small pocket of air and was gasping in the blackness as he himself was trying to do.
But it was too late. He felt a hand on his ankle and then the current won and the hand slipped away and the man disappeared. By then Moussa himself had slowed just enough to stop. There was another pocket of air. Once again, thankfully, he took quick deep breaths, trying to store up whatever oxygen he could before the mad ride began again. His muscles strained against the current that still pulled violently at him. He was exhausted. He didn’t know how much longer he could do it. The air was glorious, but each breath brought relief mixed with guilt, for each breath was taken at the expense of another man’s life.
He knew how Abdulahi feared the water, feared this disaster above all others, that he would drown in the belly of the dragon. The little man couldn’t swim. At least death would take him quickly.
I am sorry, Abdulahi.
And then, almost as suddenly as the flood had begun, it finished. He felt the force of the water subsiding, the level dropping a bit and easing the pressure on his arms and legs. Then the level dropped more, and soon he was lying on his back on hard ground, completely spent, listening as the flood still roared below him, making its way to the oasis. He wondered how many men had been caught in its path, how many slaves had died this day. And the danger was far from over. Cave-ins would follow. For another week the tunnel would be a hole of death.
But I am alive.
He shuddered, the tremor starting deep inside as his body reacted to the cold and the fear. He had to get moving. With difficulty he turned so that he could crawl down the tunnel to try to find whoever it was, to see if he could help. Each movement required an immense effort. He forced himself forward.
“Abdulahi?” he called out. There was only silence. He scooted down the tunnel as fast as he could move. He found him near the next shaft. Moussa banged into him, jamming a knee into his head as he crawled.
“Abdulahi?”
Nothing. He leaned forward and bent over, holding his cheek to the man’s mouth, trying to feel a breath.
Suddenly the man coughed, sputtering and spitting into Moussa’s face.
“Sidi?”
“Yes,” Moussa said, so relieved he wanted to hug the little man. “Yes.”
Abdulahi gasped for air. “A pity. If it is you then I know this is not paradise.” He rested, gathering his strength in the dripping blackness. “We have beaten the dragon this day,” he sputtered.
“We have. We have at that. Come, turn over now. Let’s get to the shaft before he spits again.” He helped Abdulahi turn onto his stomach.
“I thought that was you on my shoulder, Sidi. You were trying to ride me, perhaps?” He coughed again. “I thought we had agreed. In a flood, I was to ride you.”
In spite of
their pain and fear they collapsed together in laughter.
* * *
For the first time in nearly six months of captivity, Moussa allowed himself to feel despair. The flood had driven it home. He was trapped. There was no way out. At first he had refused to believe it. But he was beginning to see now.
Slaves lived in Timimoun until they died.
In all, six men had died that morning, men drowned beneath a harsh desert. They were the only ones free.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t kept alert. Each morning on his way up the hill to the foggaras he watched and listened. Each evening on his way down the hill he did the same. But life in the oasis was timeless and predictable. Caravans came and went. Guards patrolled with their swords and their spiked palm branches. Slaves worked and ate and slept and reproduced and died. The muezzin called five times each day, and five times each day men set down their tools and humbled themselves before their merciful God. The sun rose and set and rose again, and the waters flowed in the red oasis of Timimoun, fed by the great dragon.
Moussa thought of organizing a rebellion, but for the most part he found the slaves resigned, exchanging their bodies for the guarantee of food and shelter. Only a few, like himself, were confined to a hut at night. Even if they wanted to fight, the men had little strength for it, or for flight after. They lived on next to nothing. They managed from day to day; there was nothing more in them. They fed the dragon, waiting each day for it to turn on them. And even if they could fight, what would be gained in an uprising? If they killed every guard in the compound, they would be left holding one compound and nothing more. Sooner or later the pasha’s main guard would have its way. Men would die to win nothing.
Other choices were equally bleak. The only animals on which to escape were hidden behind forbidden walls. If one tried to sneak out to a departing caravan, its master would instantly find out and return him to Jubar Pasha, the valued client whose favor they all curried. There was no money for bribery. He thought about getting word out to the Tuareg. It seemed his best hope. But how? Who would treat with the Tuareg? Who would carry his message into the forbidden heart of the desert?
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