Eventually he stepped from the water, let the sun dry him off, dressed, and walked over to where the two tribesmen watching the animals were having great difficulty keeping their eyes open. With sign language Jake showed how he had slept on the camel and then offered to take their watch so they could sleep. The astonished tribesmen bolted for their tents before Jake could change his mind.
That evening, Jake sat with his back resting against a date palm and watched as night descended. The easy day had done much to restore both his body and his spirits. He looked out beyond the scrub and palms to the great golden emptiness, a land ruled by heat and dust and hardship. It made their tiny island of green and water a jewel of incredible value, something to be treasured, a place of restoration and peace.
The tribe was preparing for a feast. Gradually all the tribe approached to sit or sprawl in a great circle. In the center, an entire sheep turned upon a great spit. One of the women prepared semolina in the time-honored manner, drying the ingredients in wooden bowls, mixing them by hand and stirring, stirring constantly. Her arms flashed a blurring motion, her tribal tattoos of vines and fishes denoting one who had been married into the Al-Masoud from some place closer to the sea.
The sea. Jake leaned back comfortably, tried to take his mind from the fragrances that crowded the night, and wondered what it would be like to see the sea again.
Jake observed the gathering tribe. He had come to see the desert folk as a closed lot, suspicious of all outsiders, even those who were granted entry by custom. Hospitality was offered only within the tight barriers of formality. The more he came to know the world in which they lived, the less he found himself minding their ways. The desert was a harsh teacher, yet he found himself valuing the few lessons he had already learned.
Tonight, though, there was a difference. Tribesmen stopped to offer him faint greetings before dropping to their places. Some even granted small smiles. Jake found himself treasuring them, knowing they were neither common nor lightly given.
Pierre and Jasmyn pushed their way into the circle, supporting Patrique between them. Like Jake, the French officer wore the tribal clothing of voluminous white desert trousers, embroidered white-on-white shirt, and light blue cloak. Jasmyn wore the royal blue djellabah of the desert women with elegant ease. With Pierre’s dark, expressive features and her exotic, black-haired beauty, they made a striking couple. Their good looks accented the fragile condition of Patrique, whose sunken eyes and hollow cheeks made him a shadowy copy of his twin. It was hard to think of this emaciated, dozing man as the former bold member of the French Resistance in Marseille.
They eased Patrique down on a cushion, then took up places to either side. “The tribe is calling you a hero,” Jasmyn said, settling down beside Jake.
“If I had taken the time to think,” Jake replied, “I would have never grabbed for that camel. Not in a thousand years.”
“I have often thought that is what separates the coward from the hero,” Pierre mused. “Just one split second of hesitation.”
To change the subject, Jake looked over to offer greetings to Patrique, only to discover that Pierre’s brother had already fallen asleep. Not a good sign. Jake asked quietly, “How is he doing?”
“The stop forced on us by the storm has not been altogether a bad thing,” Pierre replied worriedly. “He is not improving as I would hope. His ankles and his feet are hurting him.”
“And he has a fever,” Jasmyn said softly. “I suspected it before, but today I am sure.”
Jake examined Patrique more closely, saw a pallor that not even the fire’s ruddy glow could erase, and felt the chill of one who had seen war wounds fester and turn gangrenous. “This is not good news.”
“I fear he will not make the trip without better medical treatment than Jasmyn and I can give him,” Pierre agreed.
Jake mulled this over as the meal was served and eaten. At Jasmyn’s urging, Patrique woke up and ate, but as soon as his meager appetite was sated, he forced himself to his feet. Jasmyn was instantly there beside him, even before Pierre could rise. Patrique motioned for Pierre to remain seated, bid Jake a quiet good-night, and with Jasmyn’s help stumbled back toward his tent. Pierre watched him go, an enormous frown creasing his expressive face.
Eventually, Jake admitted defeat to the challenge of eating an entire sheep by himself and set his platter aside. He eased himself back, belly groaning, and smiled his thanks when a glass of tea was passed his way. He then turned to Pierre and said quietly, “It may be a good idea if you wrote down everything he knows about this traitor in the French government. Make sure the evidence is clear enough to stand without him there to back it up.”
Pierre looked over and replied fiercely, “My brother will survive.”
“Just in case our ways split up,” Jake soothed.
Pierre examined his friend. “You have a plan?”
Jake nodded. “Just the bare bones is all.”
“I find that reassuring,” Pierre said, subsiding. “Myself, I have been far too worried to come up with anything.”
Jasmyn returned to the fireside and eased herself down. “He is resting as well as can be expected.”
“Tell me again about this guy in the French government,” Jake said, “the one Patrique thinks is a traitor.”
“He does not just think,” Jasmyn murmured. “He knows. You have not sat with him, listened to him speak for hours about this man. Even his fever dreams are filled with the urgency of his mission to expose this traitor and bring him to justice.”
“Monsieur le Ministre Jacques Clairmont looks like a snail without his shell. He made a name for himself as a politician, even when he was in uniform,” Pierre said bitterly. “Adjunct to de Gaulle’s military staff, rich, from one of France’s oldest families.”
“From the tone of your voice,” Jake observed, “I get the impression you don’t much care for the gent.”
“There were rumors,” Pierre replied. “Even an officer in the field heard such things. Of orders that made little sense to those who had to carry them out. Of decisions taken that cost too many men’s lives.”
“I know the feeling,” Jake said. “Only too well.”
“He stayed on in North Africa long after the remainder of the staff followed the European campaign northward. There were sound reasons for this—needing to hold someone there, especially when ground forces in Algiers were cut to the bone and all possible resources flung at the enemy in Europe.”
“Which would have given him the perfect opportunity to line his pockets,” Jake said.
“Patrique says he is both greedy and ruthless,” Jasmyn confirmed. “A man who would do anything to increase his wealth and power. Anything.”
“What is he doing now?”
“Deputy Minister of the Interior,” Pierre replied, the growl in his voice drawing attention from all sides. “And adjunct to the President’s cabinet. Perfect for a man such as this. Responsible for all transport, all distribution of supplies, all economic contact with the colonies.”
“Powerful,” Jake said.
“Dangerous,” Pierre agreed. “He will do anything to protect his position.”
“But is his position,” Jake demanded, “great enough to warrant the American and the British taking such an interest in our getting back safely with Patrique’s information?”
“Of this I had not thought,” Pierre admitted.
“It’s been on my mind,” Jake said, “ever since we received that telegram from Admiral Bingham. If the army taught me anything, it’s that the brass wouldn’t go to all this trouble just for the sake of two officers. No matter how much we might think our own skins are worth.” He shook his head. “I’d give you thousand-to-one odds there’s more to this than we think.”
Discussion halted about the campsite as Omar stood and signaled for silence. He spoke at length, gesturing from time to time in Jake’s direction. Jasmyn’s gaze turned with the others toward him. “I did not know you saved Omar’s life.”<
br />
“That’s blowing things a little out of proportion,” Jake protested, but already her attention was turned back to the tribe’s leader.
“What is he saying,” Pierre demanded.
“That Jake threw himself on Omar and put out the fire burning Omar’s robes with his own body.” She looked round-eyed at him. “Is this true?”
Jake shrugged. “I tripped over the carpet I was holding.”
Omar continued speaking.
Jasmyn went on, “Omar says that afterward as he stood blinded and deafened and helpless in the storm, a string of the tribe’s best camels thundered past. One moment you were there beside him and the next you had disappeared. It was only when he realized you had risked your life to save the tribe’s wealth that he himself was forced into action. He managed to hold the remaining staves in place while other tribesmen erected shelter around the cave.” Her gaze rested solemnly upon Jake, as did those of the others gathered about the fire. “To have saved the animals in the midst of such a storm is the stuff of tribal lore.”
Omar motioned to a man standing beyond the fire. The tribesman stepped forth and deposited two cloth-wrapped bundles at the chieftain’s feet. Omar then turned his attention toward Pierre.
This time it took a long moment before Jasmyn was able to speak. “He says that all the tribe have witnessed the love with which you accept a daughter of the desert and the wind and the wild reaches,” she said, her gaze fastened upon Pierre. “No one could see this love and remain untouched. He says that you have done the tribe, and their daughter, great honor. This too should be rewarded.”
Omar picked up the first bundle and passed it to Pierre. He unwrapped the oil-stained cloth to reveal a gleaming rifle. Pierre hefted the weapon and breathed, “A mitraillette.”
“It is not fitting for a man to walk these reaches armed only with a revolver,” Jasmyn continued, translating Omar’s solemn words. “All who are accepted by the tribe have a responsibility to guard and protect.”
Jake asked, “You know the gun?”
“Ah,” Pierre sighed, checking the action, stroking the stock. “This weapon and I are old friends. Look, no safety. Instead, a trigger that folds up and out of the way. Ingenious, no?”
“Fascinating,” Jake said, smiling in spite of himself.
“No single-shot mechanism, and wild as a frightened recruit beyond fifty paces. But it has the muzzle velocity of a lightning bolt, and a steady touch can hold the bullets to one at a time.” Pierre hefted the weapon toward Omar and said, “Tell him that I am honored to carry such a weapon on behalf of the tribe.”
But Omar did not wait for the translation. Instead, he reached down and hefted the second bundle. He held it a long moment and said through Jasmyn, “These were the weapons of my father, a great leader of the Al-Masoud tribe.”
A murmur rose from the tribe as he walked around the fire to set the bundle at Jake’s feet. Jasmyn interpreted, “My father would be pleased to see you so armed.”
With numb fingers Jake undid the leather thongs, rolled out the covering, and felt the whole world focus down upon this instant. A dagger as long as his forearm rested in a leather sheaf dressed in silver, its haft formed by woven silver wire.
“These are on loan only,” Jasmyn said. “They are part of the tribe’s heritage and wealth. Still, this is an honor, Jake. A very great honor. I have never heard of an outsider being granted such a boon.”
Omar squatted down in front of Jake, showed him how to lace his cloth belt around the sheath and then knot it through the silver loop before tying it about his waist. The dagger rested snug against his belly, angled so that it would not get in the way when he sat or ran, rising so that the haft pressed against the muscle over his lower rib.
Not waiting for Jake to respond, he stood and strode back to his position at the head of the fire. Jake forced his hand to reach out and take the rifle. It molded to his hand as though it had been made for him and him alone.
Pierre demanded, “What is it?”
“A Springfield .30-.03. One of the finest guns ever made.” Jake worked the bolt, so smooth it almost slid on its own. The stock was layered with filigreed silver that shone in the firelight. “I’ve read about them. Never held one before.”
He raised his eyes to meet Omar’s gaze. “Tell him thanks. I don’t have the words just now, so please say it for me.”
When Jasmyn had translated, Omar said something with mock severity, which brought a chuckle from around the fire. Jasmyn explained, “Now that you are one of us, Omar says you should begin standing watch. Pierre has his brother to look after, but you have already shown your first concern lies with the animals.”
“I’d like that,” Jake replied.
“He was only joking.”
“But I want to,” Jake protested. “Tell him.”
The announcement silenced the camp. Omar examined him, then shook his head. “Standing watch once in a while is disruptive,” Jasmyn translated. “The routine must be maintained with discipline.”
“Fine with me,” Jake said, meeting the chieftain’s gaze.
“Watchkeepers hold their position every third night,” Jasmyn translated. “Punishment for any who sleep through duty is fierce.”
“I want the dawn watch,” Jake replied.
That brought yet another murmur from all who watched and listened. “That is usually the duty assigned to the youngest,” Jasmyn said.
Jake could not have explained it, but for him the desert sunrises were very special. A quiet time, when the world belonged to him and to God. There often came a moment so precious and so fragile that even to speak of it might shatter the experience. So he simply replied, “Seeing as how I’m the newest man on duty here, I’d say that fits me down to the ground.”
“It means a day two hours longer than all the rest of us,” Omar warned. “There will be no time for rest between end of watch and breaking camp.”
“Even so,” Jake replied, “that is what I want.”
Across the fire from where he sat, a suspicious old goat of an elder, the man who had remained most hostile to their being taken in by the tribe, rewarded Jake with a single curt nod.
Jasmyn told him, “You are fast building friends here, Jake Burnes.”
Omar spoke at length, directing his words to Jasmyn. When he finished, there was another chorus of quiet approval from the gathering. Jasmyn said, “Omar has requested that I spend a part of every day translating, so that he may speak with you. He sees that your interest in the tribe and our land is genuine and wishes to reward you by teaching you of the desert way.”
Jake searched for something to convey his thanks. “Tell him his gift has a value beyond measure.”
Strong black eyes held him from across the fire. Jasmyn translated his response, “As does friendship between brave men.”
* * *
Jake scrambled up the hard scrabble rise that separated oasis and camp from the cliffs. He had been awakened for his watch by a guard who had planned to step up quietly and then feign alarm. Jake’s wartime reactions had served him well, and before the man could approach he had already rolled free of his cover, weapon in hand. The man had grunted approval and walked away, assured the camp would be safe in Jake’s care.
Jake had stopped by the campfire to bolster himself with a glass of tea. After simmering on a rock close to the coals all night, the beverage had the consistency of liquid cement. The tannin was so strong the first few swallows sent shudders down Jake’s frame and threatened to remove the first layer of skin from his tongue. But it succeeded in kick-starting his reluctant heart and guaranteeing that his eyes would not sink shut.
He chose his position well, far enough below the peak that he would not be silhouetted against the night, yet high enough to capture all the camp with one glance. He settled himself down on the flat escarpment, set his gun within easy reach, and began a slow, steady sweep of the entire area. A savvy old sergeant with whom he had served in Italy had taught him
that good infiltrators were hard to catch moving, because they knew to keep their movements small. Night creepers, the sergeant had called them. The best way to catch one was to commit the vista to memory, and then if a boulder or shrub or hillock suddenly appeared from nowhere, to go and inspect. Cautiously.
Jake was not by nature an early riser. Under most circumstances, he listed dawn patrols just a notch or so above getting caught by crossfire. But twice already he had awakened in time to step beyond the camp and become captivated by the unfolding desert dawn. The memory was bright enough for him to seek out the experience yet again and even to look forward to its being part of every third day. Strong enough to stay with him for the rest of his life.
He released the cloth button sealing his vest pocket and took out his small New Testament. The moonlight was strong enough for him to read the tiny script with ease. The silence was so powerful the words rang through his heart like thunder.
Every minute or so he raised his head and scanned carefully. The oasis was a sharp-edged shadow staining the silvery, moonlit plain. Animals shuffled and bleated quietly, their every sound carrying clearly across the distance.
Jake raised his Bible once more, then took another glance upward. He searched the vast river of stars, savored the brilliant clarity of the almost-full moon, breathed in the air’s bracing chill, listened to the wind’s gentle whisper, and counted the night as his friend. The desert world was vast and endless and alien. He felt enthralled by the vista, captivated by the night on display.
Jake sighed and wished once more for Sally, aching to share the moment with her. As Jake watched the first glimmers of dawn take hold he wondered if this almost constant yearning was a sign of true love.
Sahara Crosswind Page 3