Sandstorm

by Asher, Michael

  ‘My uncle is coming,’ Rauda said. ‘I think he wants to talk to you.’

  Rauda was Belhaan’s niece and a famous beauty of the Reguibat. Taha could still hardly believe that she was his wife. Belhaan had chosen her for him soon after he’d returned from the north, having completed his successful quest for the bezoar stones. Rauda, whose name meant The-Pool-That-Gathers-After-The-Rain, had been agreeable — she had been intrigued by the fair-skinned boy who’d fallen from the stars. But as she travelled with her family as part of another clan, Taha had been obliged to ‘abduct’ her in nomad fashion, riding into her family’s camp on his best camel, leaping out of the saddle, grabbing her and fighting off her brothers with his stick. They had given him some nasty bruises before he’d ridden off with Rauda bundled across the saddle.

  The worst part of the marriage-ritual had been the consummation, when Taha had had to deflower his wife in a small tent of thin cotton specially erected for the purpose, while members of their respective families had stood about outside, making obscene cracks, beating on the tent with their camel-sticks and occasionally even peering inside. Nine months later, Rauda had produced Dhaalib, a miracle that had astonished Taha, and convinced him finally that the Ulad al-Mizna were right: there were powers at work in the universe that could not be comprehended by mortal man.

  Taha told Rauda to light a fire for tea and turned to welcome Belhaan, a thin, hunched figure wearing a black cloak thrown over his blue dara’a. Taha still remembered vividly the day Belhaan had taken him from near the iron bird. At the time he’d thought the man had been out to kill him. He’d realized only later that Belhaan had been determined to save his life.

  He ushered his wife’s uncle to the fire in front of the tent, where they sat down together on an esparto mat. While Taha began the tea ceremony, Belhaan filled an ornate brass pipe, as straight and as long as his index finger, with powdery tobacco from an equally ornate pouch. He took a clean spill of wood from his bag and lit it from the fire; to have taken a brand already burning out of the flames would have been to invite the evil eye. He proceeded to light the pipe, taking quick, deep puffs. After five puffs the tobacco was finished and he put the pipe down, feeling a warm glow spreading through his body. They sat there in silence for a while. Taha poured tea into a glass, tasted it, and tipped the remainder back into the kettle. Both knew what the other was thinking, but were aware that such subjects must be approached tentatively.

  ‘You still have it?’ the old man asked. ‘The afrangi paper? The one called Son-nen ...?’

  ‘Sonnenblume,’ Taha said.

  He got up and entered his tent. He returned a minute later with an old tin box and sat down again. He unlocked the box with a key he wore round his neck next to the bezoar stones, and took out the map. It was the one he’d found so long ago near Craven’s body — in a different world, a different life.

  He handed it to Belhaan, but the old man didn’t look at it. He had simply wanted to reassure himself that it was still there. Taha replaced it in the box and locked it. ‘You think this is what the Delim came for, Father?’ he asked.

  Belhaan eyed him inscrutably. ‘God is all-knowing,’ he said. ‘But I fear it. Since the day I found you I have feared that someone would come in search of you and this paper. But time passed and no one came, and I began to hope that you had been forgotten, and to sleep more soundly at night. God alone knows that danger always comes from the direction where it is least expected. The Delim have come into our territory after five years, and they visit the flying machine, they fall on defenceless Znaga, and they torture them to get information about you. This has never happened before, not in my memory, nor that of my father or grandfather, or any of the ancestors whose memories were passed down to me. My inner voice tells me the Delim have sold themselves to the Devil.’

  Taha tasted the tea again, nodded to himself, then poured out the first glass for Belhaan. The old man sipped it, then finished it in two more mouthfuls. Taha poured a second glass, but Belhaan did not take it at once. His eyes were focused somewhere far off, and Taha guessed he was thinking of Asil, Fahal’s brother. Taha had often thought that Belhaan had adopted him to fill the gap created by his son’s death. Fahal and he had taken it on themselves to track down Asil’s murderer, Agayl ould Selim, who had been driven out of his own tribe and lived alone in the desert. Twice they had come close to catching him, but had learned that he had finally fled to the capital, Layoune, where he would be under the protection of the Spanish police.

  Taha hoped only that he had lived up to the old man’s expectations.

  A moment later Belhaan took the glass, drank the tea noisily and replaced the glass on the tray. Taha handed him his third, sweet glass, and Belhaan drank it with relish. Then he put the glass back with gestures of refusal when Taha offered more. To drink more than three was unheard of, but it was equally impolite not to offer.

  Belhaan gritted his teeth. ‘Do not discuss the afrangi paper with anyone,’ he said. ‘Hide it. Bury the box in the sand under your tent. I am calling a yama’a.’

  *

  The council met at Belhaan’s tent, all twelve men of the clan, young and old. Belhaan sat cross-legged before a wood fire at the door-gap, listening as Fahal and Taha related the story of the Znaga camp again. The men listened, open-mouthed, to the tale. Taha finished by describing how Latif had died in his arms, and how they had buried him on the ridge next to his wife and children.

  Then Belhaan spoke quietly, explaining clearly for those who did not know, or had forgotten, the tribal lore in respect of raids. ‘No woman or child may be touched,’ he said. ‘A woman’s own property is inviolable — her tent, her jewellery and her camel-saddle. Raiders may take carpets, a spare tent, coffee pots, kettles, and food if it is abundant, but they must leave enough for the family to live on, and at least one camel to fetch water. Water-skins may not be touched.’

  He raised his slender hand to emphasize the next point. ‘This tradition applies only to warrior-tribes,’ he said. ‘In the case of Znaga, who are noncombatants, neither men, nor women, nor children may be harmed, nor any of their possessions taken. Since Latif and his family were under our protection, and they were herding our camels, this attack is a direct insult to us and our honour. We are bound to avenge this attack to restore our honour, and also to retrieve the stolen camels from the Delim. What have you to say?’

  Minshaaf ’Al-Fajur, Seen-At-Sunrise, was the youngest adult of the clan. He jumped up and waved his camel-stick, fulminating against the raiders. He pointed out that they could not have got far, even if they were travelling fast, and suggested that the clan should set out on the best racing-camels, cut them off and take their camels back, killing at least one raider for each Znaga who had died.

  Fahal agreed with the sentiments but not the plan. He did not mock Minshaaf’s suggestion, but he reminded him that they were only a dozen. ‘The Delim are nineteen,’ he said. ‘And besides, we cannot spare everyone. Most of us must stay to tend the herds. The women cannot do it alone.

  ‘That doesn’t matter, by God!’ Minshaaf yelled. ‘We are Reguibat and each of us is worth two of them!’

  ‘Four of them, by God!’

  There were shouts of assent, and the meeting became a battle between those who thought the clan should send a pursuit party at once and those who disagreed.

  Saqr Tayaar, Eagle Flying, held up his hand to speak. The voices subsided. He was an old man and known to be cautious, though he had been a renowned warrior in his younger days, and no one would have dared question his courage. ‘There is one thing that no one has yet considered,’ he said. ‘Pursuing the Delim means going into their territory, something which is forbidden by the treaty—’

  ‘But they have broken the treaty!’ someone objected. ‘So we can do the same ...’

  ‘Maybe,’ Saqr said. ‘But let us consider this carefully. Once we enter Delim territory, it means war. By tradition, a war between tribes must be declared, either by a letter wr
itten by the marabouts, or by a verbal message.’

  ‘But they themselves have flouted that!’

  ‘True, but lack of honour shown by the Ulad Delim does not itself exempt us from honour. If we behave like them, then we are ourselves dishonoured. No, we must follow tribal custom. Send a messenger to the marabouts, have them declare that the treaty has been broken. It is then the duty of the marabouts to call an assembly of the whole tribe before we declare war. Once we have done that, we will be ready to act.’

  No one could deny that this suggestion was level-headed, and there was general assent from the clan. Young Minshaaf agreed to take the message to the marabouts and to raise the clans. When everyone had nodded agreement and there were no more dissenting voices, old Belhaan called for more tea, and began to pass the tobacco around. ‘It will take a long time to gather the clans and form a large enough raiding party to enter Delim territory,’ he commented, blowing out smoke. ‘God alone knows, but I have a feeling the raiders will be back before then.’

  4

  A week later and a hundred miles away to the west, a man with a V-shaped scar on his cheek watched the Delim couch their camels in the crumbling courtyard of the Ribat.

  Both men and camels were covered in dust and looked exhausted. Yet still they were a spectacular sight, he had to admit, in their uniform blue robes and black head-cloths, with their antique one-shot rifles slung across their backs. The Delim had been the ideal people for the job, he told himself. Having once been the masters of the desert here, they had lost their ascendancy to the more powerful Reguibat, and they resented it. Their resentment had made them bitter and vindictive, a savage and merciless fighting machine ready to kill almost anything that moved. These were qualities Von Neumann could use.

  Von Neumann was standing at the door of the Ribat or Islamic Monastery, which lay on the banks of the Wadi Seluan at Smara in the Spanish Sahara. It had been built by a Muslim saint called Ma al-Ainin back in the 1890s, but had long been disused. Von Neumann had chosen it as a base from which to launch his search for the boy. It was only a couple of days now since he had set up his wireless and antenna on the roof, and none too soon. Only this morning he had received a message from Steppenwolf that Sterling would very soon be on his way. Von Neumann’s orders were clear. He must find the Rose of Cimarron and the boy if he were alive. If not, he must find out what happened to him and to Craven’s map.

  Sterling was only useful in that he might be able to identify the boy for them — after that he was expendable. ‘Wolfgang’ had been assigned to ensure that the Englishman didn’t get lost or killed by bandits on the way. Von Neumann didn’t know who Wolfgang was, but he didn’t need to know. All that really mattered was Sonnenblume. Very soon, after eight years of waiting, Sonnenblume would be avenged.

  Viktor Von Neumann accepted now that the dreams of a reconquista they had nurtured in 1945 were further from fruition than ever. Sonnenblume was the only ambition he still had.

  The son of a salesman for Mercedes-Benz, he had not had a deprived childhood compared with many, though few in Germany had been well off in the 1930s. But his mother had been fickle and flirtatious, entertaining boyfriends when his father was away, which was frequently. His father had lived for the job — he’d been almost a stranger to young Viktor, who’d grown up without any true figure of authority in his life. Tall, blond and blue-eyed, he’d been the ideal ‘Aryan’ type, and when a friend already serving in the SS had suggested he should apply, he’d done so, swearing his oath of allegiance to the Führer. It had been the best move he’d ever made. In the SS he’d found the family he’d always craved, a cure for depression and alienation; something decent and solid in which he could finally believe. Despite Hitler’s death, despite losing the war, he had never quite given that up.

  The code of honour he’d learned in the SS, and the rigid hierarchy with its relationships, obligations and privileges, had suited him. In 1941 he had volunteered for the Fifth Airborne Division under General Student, and had taken part in the drop on Crete — the first major airborne operation ever mounted. He’d been proud to be part of history, but it had been a terrible fight, which the Germans had only won by the skin of their teeth.

  Von Neumann’s reputation for efficiency had got him noticed, and in 1943 Otto Skorzeny had recruited him as adjutant for his operation to snatch the Italian dictator, Benito Mussolini, from Gran Sasso in the Italian Alps. The operation had worked like a dream, and the only casualties had been sustained when one of the gliders carrying the assault party had crash-landed. Von Neumann had been on that glider and had narrowly escaped death; a piece of twisted fuselage had pierced his right cheek, leaving the distinctive V-shaped scar. Koerper, the sergeant whom Sterling had bashed with a phone-box door back in London, had saved his life by pulling him clear an instant before the glider had plummeted down the mountainside.

  In ’45, when they all knew it was going to pot, Skorzeny had asked Von Neumann to become quartermaster for ‘Werewolf’, a secret organization dedicated to reviving the Third Reich in exile. Von Neumann’s courage had been more of the ‘fight to the last ditch’ kind, but ever since Gran Sasso he had idealized Skorzeny as a father figure, and could not refuse him. Under the leadership of Skorzeny and Gehlen — intelligence chief on the Eastern Front —Werewolf had made plans to smuggle thousands of key Nazi personnel and billions of Deutschmarks-worth of treasure and cash out of the country.

  As ‘Q’, Von Neumann had been in charge of operations to move resources out of Germany. Sonnenblume had been one such operation. It had been under Von Neumann’s personal leadership, and he had been the sole survivor. When Skorzeny had picked him up afterwards, piloting the light plane, Von Neumann had felt so inadequate he’d actually wished he’d died with the rest. He’d vowed then that, Reich or no Reich, he’d one day set Sonnenblume right.

  Von Neumann had never seen Skorzeny since that day. The commando chief had been arrested by the Americans in 1945, and put in a de-Nazification camp. Von Neumann had skipped to Brazil. When he’d heard that Otto had simply walked out two years later, though, he hadn’t been surprised. Soon after, Von Neumann had received a telegram asking him to reopen investigations into Sonnenblume. The message had contained certain references to the Gran Sasso, and other operations known only to himself and Skorzeny, which had convinced him that his correspondent was none other than his old wartime chief. The telegram had been signed Steppenwolf, a code name that Skorzeny had used occasionally during the war.

  Von Neumann had been thrilled to hear from his master, and had begun work at once, painstakingly collecting such personnel from the old Waffen SS and Brandenberg Divisions as he could. He had worked with the Brandenbergers in North Africa after Crete, and still had many contacts among them. They were particularly useful for civilian ops, because most were expatriate Germans who could pass as Americans, Australians, British or South Africans. The work had been slow and circumspect — always a jump ahead of the British MI5 and American OSS agents who’d been on their trails, but Steppenwolf had passed him messages by various agents, had left him phone numbers and drop locations. To Von Neumann’s disappointment, though, they had never met.

  It had been Steppenwolf’s idea to pass themselves off as British plain-clothes policemen while in London, and it had appealed to Von Neumann and his men at first. It had been the perfect disguise, opening doors and silencing objections with an effectiveness that had astonished them. The British public seemed to have a faith and trust in their ‘Bobbies’ that Von Neumann thought naïve and ill founded. His men had all been Brandenbergers who spoke English more or less fluently. They had practised talking loudly in Cockney, calling each other by assumed ranks — ‘inspector’, ‘sergeant’ and ‘constable’ — and had had some laughs learning rhyming slang — Mickey Mouse, house; whistle and flute, suit; apples and pears, stairs. It had taken Munz and Koerper quite a while to understand that it was only the non-rhyming part of the phrase you actually used. Wohrmann, the signa
ller, who was mustard at codes and ciphers, had picked it up immediately, though. Steppenwolf had even supplied them with forged warrant-cards, which had proved extremely useful. But in the end it hadn’t delivered. Someone had got to Corrigan before them, and Sterling had escaped with the map.

  The same night, when his men were sound asleep in the hotel at King’s Cross, Von Neumann had walked a couple of blocks until he found a telephone kiosk. He dialled Steppenwolf’s emergency number with a black-gloved hand; almost at once, a woman’s voice said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is Friedrich,’ Von Neumann said. ‘I have to report that the mission failed. Someone got to the American before us. We found the Englishman there, and I am certain he found the map. He got away. That is all.’

  The voice on the other end was ice-cold and the accent so neutral that he couldn’t tell if the woman was English or German.

  ‘Steppenwolf is not pleased,’ the woman had said. ‘You should have contacted this number before, Friedrich. The situation has changed. Another cell took care of the American, and he talked. He did not have all the information we wanted, but enough. The map is no longer a priority.’

  ‘But how can Steppenwolf be sure?’ Von Neumann cut in. ‘The Englishman has—’

  ‘The map is no longer a priority,’ the woman repeated.