The tribesmen showed themselves to be a marvelous audience. They drank in the story with the rapt attention of a people raised on stories, a folk bereft of books and film or any entertainment save what they made for themselves.
Pierre, too, became caught up in the telling, filling the spaces created by Jasmyn’s translations by using his wiry body and expressive face to describe the things of which he spoke. Quietly Jake lowered himself down on his haunches so that he too could enjoy watching his friend act out the spectacle of two terrified assassins tied to hospital beds in a Gibraltar cave, with great Barbary apes glowering and screaming down at them. Jake took great pleasure in joining their delighted roar of approval.
But the desert people’s strongest reactions were saved for the scenes that took place in Telouet, for here was a place they knew. When Pierre threw himself into a parody of Jake’s saluting the diminutive official Hareesh Yohari, the entire camp howled. They silenced only long enough to hear of how Jasmyn had directed the search to the palace dungeon. But when Patrique stood on shaky legs to display the festering scars remaining on his wrists and ankles from the dungeon’s chains, they roared like a pack of hungry lions. All had seen or heard of Patrique’s injuries by then, yet now the story lived for them.
Pierre next described Jake’s attempt to pull out the dungeon’s window bars by means of ropes attached to the sultan’s antique Rolls Royce. At that point, one of the elders became so excited that he sprang to his feet, grasped Pierre’s robes, and began shaking the grinning Frenchman back and forth, jabbering at the top of his voice.
Omar himself had to stand and lead the old man back to his place before Pierre could describe the grand finale, which occurred when Jake finally lost his temper and crashed the car into the palace walls. The image of him throwing caution and silence to the wind and using a Rolls Royce as a battering ram against the palace wall had the audience rolling about the fire in helpless convulsions. And they laughed even harder at the notion of hundreds of sleepy traders being transformed into pole vaulters and high divers as a car suddenly flew down an otherwise empty street, before the sultan’s own guards saluted Jake and Pierre as they drove through the gates and off to freedom and safety.
Jake watched the people gathered about the fire, saw the hands raise to wipe tears from leathery faces, and knew an astonishing pleasure. With the sharing of their tale, they had entered into the tribe’s living history. He stood with the others, content beyond measure that they would now remain long after their paths and their duties had taken them elsewhere.
Chapter Ten
They came in silence and in stealth, just after dawn. They chose their moment well, arriving when the camels were being inspected. This was a normal procedure at every longer halt and was a monstrously noisy affair. Whether unloading or loading, feeding or watering, rising to their feet or lowering to their knees, sick or healthy, camels responded to every command with great complaining bellows. In the desert stillness, their bellows were audible for more than two miles. Here in the confines of the caravansary, their noise was deafening.
Jake followed Omar along his slow inspection, watching him give each hoof a careful examination, then talk long and seriously with the tribe’s chief drover. They were alone. The rest of the tribe had placed as much distance as possible between them and the camels’ cacophony. Occasionally Omar turned and showed something to Jake, but not often. The issues were too technical to be communicated well with hands alone. Jasmyn was busy elsewhere, fashioning Pierre’s uniform to Patrique’s more slender frame—an important part of their plan. Jake did not mind. Not even the camels could disturb his pleasure at walking and watching and learning.
The Tuareg’s arrival caught them all by surprise. One moment, Jake was watching Omar kneel and use his knife to inspect a sensitive swelling on one hoof, while the camel punctuated their work with aggrieved bellows. The next, another knife suddenly jabbed toward Jake’s ribs.
Jake’s war-honed reactions took instant control. In one lightning motion he spun and grabbed and wrenched forward. Jake’s lack of hesitation caught the mercenary by surprise; the Arab was pulled forward and off balance enough for Jake to force the dagger from his grip, sweep one leg out to trip him, and strike the base of his skull with a iron-hard fist.
Jake spun about in time to see Omar leap backward, avoiding the knife thrust of another Tuareg. Omar’s hands were empty, his own knife lost somewhere in the dust kicked up by their struggle and the frightened animals. The drover was rolling in the dirt, fighting a third Tuareg while the camels bellowed and danced to avoid stepping on the fighting men. The remainder of the camp was blocked from view by the milling animals and the dust.
“Omar!” As he shouted, Jake tossed the knife he found in the dust at his feet. Omar flashed a swift glance, caught the knife by its haft, blocked the next parry, and shouted something back. Jake caught the tone of warning and spun in time to meet the attack of a fourth Tuareg.
The mercenary snarled a curse as Jake slithered out of the blade’s reach and drew his own dagger. The hook-nosed Arab crouched and weaved, the dagger blade before him. Jake willed himself to watch the eyes and not the blade, for it was there that the first signal would come. The mercenary was skilled, however, and used his polished blade to flicker sunlight into Jake’s eyes. Jake blinked at the blinding brilliance, saw the Tuareg ready for the pounce, and knew a heartbeat’s quavering that he faced a more experienced foe.
Then the camel came to his rescue.
Clearly the animal had endured all the jostling it was willing to take for one day. Whether it were because the Tuareg was a stranger, or simply because he was within closest reach, the camel reached down and gripped the Tuareg’s shoulder with its great yellow teeth.
The man howled, dropped his weapon, and struggled to free himself. The camel responded by lifting the man clear of the earth.
Jake sheathed his dagger, stepped forward, and put every ounce of energy he had into one solid blow to the Tuareg’s midsection. The camel obliged by choosing the next moment to unceremoniously drop its cargo. Before the Arab could fold, Jake planted both feet in the prescribed manner and hammered a right to the Tuareg’s chin. He felt the impact all the way down to his toes. The Tuareg lifted clear of the earth a second time before collapsing in a defeated heap.
Omar shouted a second time. Jake spun, saw that the chieftain was busy tying up his defeated foe. Omar tossed a rope and pointed back to where Jake’s first attacker was stirring. Swiftly Jake knelt and bound the man’s hands and feet, dragged him over, and tied him and the second Tuareg back to back. The drover hauled his own unconscious adversary over and attached him to the others, as did Omar with the fourth man. Cloths were stuffed in each mouth and the ropes were carefully checked. Omar motioned that the attackers should be left where they sprawled, blocked from view by the animals, until the remainder of the camp had been patrolled. He ordered the drover to stand guard over them, then led Jake back toward the camp.
They skirted the animal paddocks, and the tents came into view beyond a sheaf of towering palms. Something caught Omar’s eye. He held up one hand, searched, then crouched and drew Jake down with him. His hand signals were so complex Jake did not understand at first. Again the hands rose to fix an imaginary cap upon his head, then down to straighten an invisible tie. Jake nodded. He was to go put on his uniform. Something was bringing the plan into action long before they had expected.
Jake skirted the outer tents, dropped to his knees at the back of his own, saw Omar rise and carefully dust himself off and straighten his clothes, then march solemnly forward, every inch the tribal chieftain. Jake lifted the back flap and rolled into the tent.
He dragged out his satchel from the tent’s back corner, dug down and extracted his uniform. His actions speeded by the rise and fall of voices outside, he undressed and dressed. The uniform was heavily creased from weeks of heat and hard travel, but there was nothing he could do about that. He wiped the dust from his boots, op
ened the satchel’s side pocket and extracted his papers, straightened his jacket, set his cap at the proper angle, then hesitated. He reached down and slid the tribal dagger into his belt, and walked from the tent.
And faltered.
He could not help it. There before him stood a sudden mystery, a Pierre shrunk and yet still the same, a Pierre made fragile by the fever that glittered in his eyes. Jake forced himself forward, nodded at Patrique standing there in Pierre’s uniform, and asked as calmly as he could, “What’s going on?”
Patrique gestured toward the official standing before him. “This gentleman is here on behalf of the sultan of Raggah,” he replied, and Jake could see that he was holding himself erect and calm only with the greatest effort. “They have received word that the Al-Masoud tribe was harboring two thieves. Foreigners.”
Jake turned toward the slender man with swarthy skin and darting eyes. His robes were rich, his cloth-topped boots long and curled and decked with silver threads. He also appeared very nervous. Clearly, the situation here in the camp was not at all as he had expected.
Jasmyn stood at his side, quietly translating everything that was said. Jake strived to hide his surprise at her appearance; even though they had discussed it, still it was a shock to see her in a long beige skirt, pumps, blouse, and headkerchief—the only Western clothes she had carried with her. As calmly as he could, Jake shook his head and replied, “Not here. The only foreigners traveling with this tribe were us.”
The official spoke, his voice very high and nasal. Jake found himself relaxing. It was hard to be afraid of somebody who sounded as if he were still on the wrong side of puberty. Jasmyn translated, “The official wishes to examine both your papers.”
Together they unbuttoned their shirt pockets and proffered their passes. Jasmyn pointed to each line in turn, patiently translated everything that was written there. The official made a pretense of listening, yet all the while his eyes nervously scanned the camp. The trio of swarthy guards flanking the official were equally puzzled and far less secretive in their search of the perimeter. Jake kept his face set but thought to himself, sorry, chumps, your buddies aren’t going to make this party.
The official persisted with his charade of questions about who they were, where they had come from, what they were doing with the tribe, how Jasmyn had come to be their official interpreter, and so on, and so forth. But clearly his instructions had included nothing about arresting two Allied officers in uniform, their chests decorated with medals, and their papers all in order.
Reluctantly he handed back Patrique’s papers, and Jake permitted himself a full breath. Home free. For the moment.
The official turned to Jake, who already had his hand outstretched, his palm itching, then stopped. A sly glint appeared in the prince’s eyes, and Jake felt the band tighten around his chest. The official withdrew the hand holding Jake’s papers and spoke again in that high nasal voice. Jasmyn said, “He does not think the sultan has ever had the honor of meeting an American officer before. He wishes to invite you to the palace, where the sultan himself will return your documents and perhaps entertain you for tea.”
“What can we do to stop him?”
“Nothing,” she said, her melodious voice urging Jake to remain calm. “He is being an Arab, nothing more. He wishes to have the final word and show that he, too, has power.”
The prince saw the spark in Jake’s eyes and smiled like a well-fed cat. He spoke again, vastly pleased to have this final moment of control. Jasmyn said, “The sultan will be delighted to see you anytime tomorrow afternoon.”
Jake yearned to reach over and throttle the whining little voice right out of the prince’s head. All he said was, “I’ll be there.”
Omar stood and watched until the official was out of sight, then said through Jasmyn, “Our choices have just been taken from our grasp. We must take the injured one to safety and then, papers or no, move to safety ourselves.” He looked first at Jake, then the others. “You are ready?”
Pierre stepped forward, still dressed in his desert garb. “What happened?”
Swiftly Jake recounted their attack in the camel paddock. “They planned it well. They waited until we were split off from the main camp and attacked only with knives. Swift and silent and almost deadly.”
“If they left any friends watching and waiting in reserve, our escape route may already be cut off,” Omar pressed. “We must hurry.”
Pierre squared his shoulders. “We go.”
A tremor passed across Jasmyn’s lovely features. She raised a hand toward Pierre, who stepped forward and took her in his arms. He lowered his face close to hers and spoke words meant only for Jasmyn. Tears gathered and cascaded down her cheek as she nodded once, raised her head, and returned a soft and lingering kiss before allowing Pierre to step back, take a shaky breath, and say, “Let us proceed while we still are able.”
Chapter Eleven
There is no longer any need for subterfuge,” Omar said as they walked toward Raggah, their pace set by Patrique. “As soon as we accomplish our task here, we shall leave all our tribe but a chosen few with the M’Barek tribe. They are an honorable folk and can be trusted to treat our people well. Then we shall proceed with all haste across the northern reaches for Melilla.”
“If this works,” Pierre said quietly.
When the translation was made, Omar shook his head. “We no longer have a choice. It must work.”
Small squadrons of Omar’s men flanked them as they walked. They carried their weapons with deceptive ease, sauntering along before and after the group, far enough away not to grant a threatening impression to the city’s guards, yet close enough to defend at an instant’s warning.
Pierre said to Jake, “I had no idea you could handle a knife.”
“I can’t,” Jake replied. “That camel saved my bacon.”
“She was merely repaying your earlier kindness,” Omar said through Jasmyn.
“My what?”
“Did you not recognize her as one of those you led back to safety across the barren land?”
“They all look pretty much the same to me,” Jake confessed.
“Then be thankful that the camel was more discerning,” Omar replied, humor glinting in his dark eyes. “Nonetheless, I agree with you. The gift of good fortune has shone on you this morning. Let us hope it holds.”
The central streets of Raggah were shaded by tall trees whose desert-trained roots reached deep enough to tap the underground water. The lanes opened into great ceremonial plazas, dusty spaces with large central wells lined by palms. All commerce took place under the trees’ shade. Whole families gathered upon layers of bright desert carpets, living out their daily lives beneath the ancient trees. All conversation, all trade halted to watch the spectacle of two foreign officers in uniform and the beautiful woman in Western clothing. Only when they had passed beyond view did the desert city life resume.
Farther along, plastered alcoves had been cleverly built to melt into the line of trees, making for a covered market. Here men and women from all the tribes of northern Africa gathered to barter wares. Despite the numerous caravans camped alongside the lake, the display in the town’s market was disappointing. Omar watched Jake take note of the paltry wares and through Jasmyn explained, “Here is evidence of the city’s corrupt nature. Nowadays, everything of value is traded in secret. Not even the names of the traders are bandied about openly.”
The houses were buttressed and fortlike, with thick clay walls and windows too narrow for even a child to crawl through. The central mosque was built like a pyramid, with precious logs used to support its five-story structure. Upon the city’s sandy lanes walked wild-looking desert warriors, all armed with ancient rifles slung upside down over one shoulder and grasped by the barrels. The position of the rifles, according to Jasmyn, was a sign that they came in peace.
Water was delivered from house to house in goatskins. There was no electricity, no lights, no advertisements, and no motor v
ehicles in the central city, for the prince prohibited them all. Jake found the city unnaturally still for its size, as though beaten into submission and held in quiet despair.
The French outpost came into view just in time. Patrique crossed the heat-stricken square on legs that barely had the strength to hold him aloft. His breath rasped noisily, and his features were streaked with sweat. His gaze was blank, unfocused; all his attention was drawn to the struggle of putting one foot in front of the other.
With a single word Omar stopped his men from continuing with them. Silently they slipped into neighboring shadows and vanished from sight.
The outpost stood separate and isolated from its neighboring structures, with the only raised wooden porch Jake had seen in the entire city. A pair of flags hung limply in the dusty heat. A lone Arab soldier in puttees sweltered at guard duty. He eyed them with tired hostility as they approached.
As they arrived at the bottom stair, Omar gave an almost imperceptible motion to Pierre—they were to remain there. Jasmyn saw and understood, and a choked sob forced its way through her locked throat.
“No tears,” Pierre murmured. “Be strong for us all, my beloved, and look to when we will be united before everyone, for all our days.”
Jasmyn lifted her chin once again, her face set with tragic determination. Without looking Pierre’s way, she whispered, “My heart, my prayers, my very reason for living goes with you.”
Together they climbed the stairs. On the top step, Patrique faltered and would have gone down had Jake and Jasmyn not gripped his arms and held him upright. The Arab soldier took a hesitant step forward, then turned and shouted into the dark interior.
A bored Frenchman wearing desert uniform and corporal’s stripes stepped into view. His eyes widened at the sight of an unknown French officer being half carried toward him. He bolted forward, took Patrique’s arm from Jasmyn, and barked something at Jake. Jasmyn replied in a hesitant tremolo, which the corporal clearly took as worry over the officer’s state. Patrique moaned a brief reply of his own.
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