Sandstorm

by Asher, Michael

  Five hundred yards away, at the Delim camp, Von Neumann and Wohrmann seated themselves cross-legged at the hearth next to Reuth, Von Neumann’s second signaller, and Franz, his driver, both of them ex-Waffen SS. Seated across the fire from them, Amir doled out glasses of tea. ‘It is almost time,’ Von Neumann said to Amir. ‘After we have eaten, your men must get into position.’

  Amir made a gesture of impatience. ‘The enemy are so few,’ he said. ‘Why do we need to hide from them?’

  Von Neumann smiled indulgently. ‘They were few on the Ghaydat al-Jahoucha,’ he said. ‘But still they managed to escape.’

  Amir glared at him, then lit a dry twig and blew on it. He put a filled brass pipe in his mouth and lit it with the spill. ‘You told me not to kill them,’ he snapped. ‘If not for that, I would not have lost so many men, by God. This time we shall kill them all.’

  ‘No,’ Von Neumann growled more harshly than he had meant to. ‘No. There will be no killing. Our intention is only to capture, not to kill. Besides, one of these men is working for us.’

  Amir regarded him quizzically. ‘How will we know him?’ he demanded.

  ‘He will identify himself as Wolfgang,’ Von Neumann said. ‘You should know him — he is one of those you captured on the Ghayda. One of those who escaped.’

  Amir scowled.

  ‘These Arabs you have captured are our hostages,’ Von Neumann went on. ‘Once the boy has shown us what we are looking for, and we are sure it is all there, then you can dispose of his people as you wish.’

  Amir rubbed his chin. ‘The name of our people is already accursed for what we have done,’ he said. ‘But no matter. It is too late now. All that matters is to repossess our rightful lands from the Ulad al-Mizna. As for these worthless Reguibat, the men are forfeit in revenge for those of us their people killed. The women are our prizes. I shall personally take Taha Minan Nijum’s wife. She is a beautiful one. I shall enjoy taming her.’

  He puffed out smoke, and at his shoulder Wohrmann coughed.

  Von Neumann glanced at him. The signaller’s pink face looked out of place framed by the dark head-cloth. ‘Is the wireless fully operational?’ Von Neumann asked.

  ‘I will check it now, sir,’ Wohrmann said, gulping down his tea. ‘But there shouldn’t be a problem. Steppenwolf is due to cross the Moroccan border tomorrow with the transport column.’

  Von Neumann clenched his fist. ‘Just one more day,’ he said. ‘And it will be within our grasp.’

  *

  Taha had been deafened to the night-sounds by the roar of the engine, and blinded by the headlights, the speed and the dust. His liking for iron chariots had not improved. For the past half-hour they had been driving by moonlight only, and therefore much more slowly. Taha knew it would make no difference whatsoever to the Delim — they would be watching.

  As Churchill cut the Jeep’s engine a hundred paces from the canyon that led to the interior of the Guelb, Taha squatted among the sedges and tamarisk thickets trying to reorient himself, letting the night come into focus. It was clear, with a three-quarter moon and the familiar constellations twinkling above. The stars gave the sky a soft silken blueness, against which the outlines of the Guelb were starkly visible. Taha waited silently, letting his senses reach out to the night, feeling the tremors of small desert creatures, hearing the flap of an owl’s wings. He was suddenly suffused by the same feeling he’d had the night he’d shot the Twisted One — the knowledge that there was something dangerous hidden beyond his vision, waiting to attack. It was as if the whole landscape was waiting. The missing part of his little finger pained him.

  He picked his way casually back to the Jeep, his bare feet dislodging no pebble, making no sound. The vehicle smelt evil, a hostile, chemical smell that was out of place in the desert. ‘I don’t like it,’ he told Churchill in a whisper. ‘They must know we are here, yet I sense no movement at all.’

  The big man shrugged, but his face, wan in the starlight, betrayed nervousness.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I know they’ll have an ambush set up somewhere in the canyon. They’d be stupid not to. The point is to go through them like a dose of salts.’

  Churchill sprang out of the driving seat and went round to the back. Sterling got down and Churchill slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’re at the wheel now, George,’ he said. ‘The whole thing depends on you.’

  Sterling grinned in the darkness. ‘So,’ he said. ‘No pressure at all!’

  Sterling climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusted it, tested the gearstick, felt for the controls with his toes and twiddled with the light switch. It was a familiar drill, remembered from scores of dark, fearful nights like this one, but with the boom of guns, the rattle of small arms, the thunder of bombs, the sirens of diving Stukas, instead of this silence.

  Churchill took the Bren out of the canvas bag, clipped it onto the weapons-bracket behind the seats and cocked the mechanism with a jolt. The clack of metal on metal startled everyone.

  ‘Christ!’ Sterling said. ‘If they didn’t know we were here before, they do now!’

  Churchill frowned and checked the Smith & Wesson in his belt holster. Fahal took up a position behind him with his Colt .45 at the ready in his good hand. Taha swung into the passenger seat next to Sterling, riding shotgun. Sterling smiled at him. This can’t be real, he thought. I am driving into battle with my son Billy armed to the teeth beside me, to rescue his wife and children, whom I have never seen.

  Taha cocked his rifle and the snap brought Sterling out of his thoughts.

  ‘All right,’ Churchill said from behind. ‘Take her forward, George, right into the canyon. When I give the green light, put the lights full on and stick your foot right down on the accelerator. Nobody shoot till you see my tracer, all right?’

  There were grunts.

  ‘And darkling they went,’ Churchill growled. ‘Under the lonely night.’

  ‘Winston?’ Sterling asked, reaching for the starter.

  ‘Not quite,’ Churchill said. ‘Virgil.’

  Sterling gunned the engine. It stalled and he started it again, then began to inch the vehicle across the flat gravel towards the canyon opening, guided left and right by the keen-eyed Taha. There was no sound but the low purr of the engine and the crunch of the tyres on gravel. The gates of the canyon loomed darkly over them, and suddenly they were within it, enclosed on two sides.

  To Sterling it was like entering a great railway tunnel. If they were ambushed there would be no chance of turning round. He hoped Churchill’s predictions about the way the Delim would behave were well founded.

  Time seemed to run on endlessly as the Jeep crept forward at no more than ten miles an hour. Sterling felt every muscle in his body tense, and his breath came in stabs. He did not need Taha’s experience to tell him something was wrong. He slowed the Jeep, his senses screaming, wondering when Churchill was going to give the order to put on the lights. At that moment there was a dull plop sound that was anything but threatening, and a second later a brilliant corona of light filled the canyon, scarlet and crimson rills spreading in concentric rings like the tail of a painted peacock.

  ‘Flare!’ Sterling hissed, crossing his eyes with his forearm, but too late. Taha, momentarily blinded, jumped up in his seat and opened his eyes to see a host of dark figures scuttling like demons across his vision. He raised his rifle to shoot, but found it snatched suddenly out of his arms from behind. Sterling blinked. The red flare was fading, but the Jeep was already surrounded by dozens of bobbing men in dark head-cloths, pointing their rifles at him, grabbing at him like demented beggars. He put his hands up, just as there was an ear-splitting crack from Fahal’s Colt .45 behind him, and a yell of ‘Wolfgang! Wolfgang!’ from Churchill.

  Taha lashed out at the grabbing hands with his fists, and turned to get his weapon back, only to find Churchill holding it in one immense hand, wrestling Fahal’s revolver from him with the other. Taha reached for the dagger that wasn’t there, the
n hit out at Churchill’s leg. The big man bellowed and kicked him, and quickly the Delim grabbed him from behind.

  Two Delim swarmed up on the back of the Jeep to help Churchill subdue Fahal, and Taha heard his brother scream as one of them twisted his injured arm. Churchill made a tut-tutting sound and jumped down, pushing his way through the jabbering, truculent tribesmen, until he was face to face with Taha and Sterling. He sloped the M1 over his shoulder, and for a moment starlight played on a gallery of white teeth, bared in triumph. ‘All right, boys,’ he said. ‘We’re here.’

  *

  By the time they had been marched into the Guelb, the moon had risen fully and the night was light enough to read by. The Delim had tied their arms behind their backs, and Churchill strode before them nonchalantly, rifle slung over his shoulder, like a big-game hunter leading porters carrying his trophies. Von Neumann and Amir were sitting at the hearth and rose to greet him. ‘So,’ Von Neumann said, shaking hands. ‘You’re Wolfgang?’

  ‘I am he,’ Churchill said. ‘And you are Friedrich.’

  Suddenly Amir froze and grabbed the hilt of his dagger. ‘You!’ he hissed. ‘You killed Barahim!’

  With astonishing speed Churchill whipped the M1 off his shoulder, brought it to bear on the Arab and cocked it with a sharp metallic clack. A Garand weighed almost nine pounds, but in Churchill’s hands it looked like a toy. ‘Be careful, Sheikh,’ he growled. ‘This thing fires eight bullets auto-loading, as you well know. You will be dead long before you get that blade out. And by the way, I haven’t forgotten that whack on the leg you gave me. I still have the scar.’

  Amir stood poised like an acrobat, his body ready to spring, his hand still on the dagger, his hard eyes fixed on Churchill’s face. ‘Don’t be too sure,’ he said slowly. ‘I have been throwing knives since I was a baby.’

  The big man settled his features into a mask of contriteness. ‘Look,’ he said sincerely. ‘I’m sorry about Barahim, but he gave me no option. He shouldn’t have jumped me like that.’

  Amir was unconvinced by the rhetoric. ‘You must pay,’ he said. ‘A life for a life.’

  Von Neumann put up a pale hand. ‘Come now, Amir,’ he said. ‘Mistakes are made in the heat of battle, and you will recall I told you explicitly to capture the afrang alive.’

  ‘He must pay.’

  Von Neumann sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You have my word that you will be paid blood money in full — for all of the men you lost. But please do not touch Wolfgang, he is one of us.’

  Amir spat on the ground, but he stepped back and dropped his hand from his dagger. For a moment his eyes remained fixed on Churchill, glowering, then they swung towards Taha. ‘This one, too,’ he said. ‘He took at least three lives.’

  Taha drew himself up and returned the hawkish stare haughtily. ‘You dishonour the name of your tribe,’ he said. ‘Dog and son of a dog, chief pig of all pigs, whoreson of the great whore. You slaughtered children, you butchered unarmed Znaga, you—’

  Amir grabbed Taha’s hair, but Von Neumann pulled him back by the arm. As he did so the Arab struggled, and the German’s head-cloth was knocked askew.

  Suddenly Sterling’s eyes fixed with horror on the V-shaped scar on Von Neumann’s cheek. ‘It’s you!’ he gasped. ‘You were at Corrigan’s flat.’

  Von Neumann pulled off his head-cloth completely, revealing the stubble of blond hair. ‘Indeed, Mr Sterling,’ he said. He made a sign to the Delim, who forced the prisoners down to their knees by the fire. A large ring of armed Delim tribesmen sat down behind them. Taha stared at the flames, breathing deeply, trying to master himself, knowing that his wife and children and his father depended on him still, and that he was ready to give his life in their defence.

  Amir made tea sullenly, handing the first glass to Churchill as a sort of peace offering. The big man took it and sipped. Sterling glared at him. ‘You lying piece of shit,’ he spat. ‘You and your patriotic crap and your bloody Churchill speeches. You’ve been in on this from the start. You knew they weren’t policemen. You’ve lied and cheated every step of the way.’

  Churchill put the tea glass back on the tray and waved his big hand, as if accepting a tribute. ‘As I have already told you, old boy, I have been a jump ahead of you all the way. Now, I have no doubt you’re a brilliant chemist, George, but you’re incredibly gullible — what Winston would have called “a sheep in sheep’s clothing”.’

  ‘Why did you try to persuade me to take Taha home?’

  Churchill squeezed the small glass as if he wanted to crush it. ‘I had to reinstate my credibility after the Mickey Finn business. Had to try to persuade you that I was working in your best interest, but there was no way Taha would have left this country.’

  ‘You gave your word,’ Fahal spat.

  Churchill sneered at him, and passed the glass back to Amir. ‘Only a fool believes in someone’s word,’ he said. ‘What do I care about your schoolboy “code of honour”, or whether my name is cursed or not cursed? I couldn’t give a monkey’s. You think yourself so clever. Look at you, mister one-armed bandit: too scared even to ride in a motor car!’

  Sterling stared at the German, the Arab and the Englishman, and decided that it was Churchill he despised most.

  ‘You’re a damn traitor,’ he said. ‘A disgrace to your country.’

  Churchill hooted with laughter. ‘Now that is funny,’ he said. ‘Coming from a yellow-belly like you. You know what Winston said: “Anyone can rat, but it takes a certain amount of ingenuity to re-rat.”’

  ‘It wasn’t Dakin you were talking to on the wireless, was it?’

  Churchill took another glass of tea and paused, studying it. ‘No, it was Steppenwolf,’ he said. ‘The one who killed Corrigan; the one who’s been controlling all this from the start. I nearly gave myself away when I was rambling in my sleep, didn’t I? That’s why you came up with the question about Hermann Hesse.’

  ‘Who is Steppenwolf?’

  ‘You will find out soon enough,’ Von Neumann cut in. ‘He will be here tomorrow, all being well, with the transport column.’

  Sterling’s eyes widened. ‘Transport column? For what?’

  Von Neumann and Churchill exchanged a glance, and Von Neumann nodded towards Taha. ‘Ask the prodigal son,’ he said. ‘He’s the one who caused all the trouble. If he hadn’t interfered, none of this need have happened.’

  Sterling looked at Taha, who was still staring into the flames. He lifted his head and his eyes suddenly caught the firelight, gleaming eerily.

  Amir shivered and made a sign against the evil eye. ‘The Twisted One!’ he muttered. ‘The spirit of the leopard is within him!’

  Von Neumann seemed unperturbed by Amir’s outburst. ‘Your people are here in the crater,’ he said. ‘And they will remain unharmed as long as you give me the map now.’

  Taha looked into his eyes and raised his chin.

  Von Neumann chuckled. ‘You don’t seem to understand, boy,’ he said. ‘What I am saying is that, if you don’t help me, this minute, I shall order Amir to have his men slit the throats of your sons, rape your wife, and then kill her. I shall not desist until all your family is dead.’

  ‘And if I give you the map?’

  ‘Then they will be spared. As soon as we have got what we came for, you will be free.’

  ‘Free for the Delim to shoot us like crows with the guns you gave them?’

  Von Neumann made a gesture of hand washing. ‘That is not really my concern,’ he said. ‘But you will at least have a sporting chance.’ He studied Taha carefully. ‘Eight years ago,’ he said, ‘I had a similar sporting chance not far from here. I was obliged to jump into a well a hundred feet deep.’ He shuddered involuntarily and took a glass of tea from Amir. ‘I admit that I wouldn’t want to repeat it but, as you see, I survived, against all the odds. Now, when you give me the map, my ordeal will all have been worth it. Where is it?’

  Taha glanced around at the stony eyes of the Delim guards, who wer
e silently enjoying his humiliation. Churchill was watching him keenly. Sterling and Fahal were staring at the ground.

  ‘Very well,’ Taha said. ‘You don’t have far to look. The map is in my bag.’

  Von Neumann seemed delighted. He nodded to Amir, who made a sign to two tribesmen seated behind Taha. They ripped off his leather satchel and brought it to the German. He rubbed his hands, his eyes shining in the moonlight, and was about to open it when he stopped.

  ‘Wait!’ he said. ‘This might be a trick.’ He glanced at Churchill. ‘You open it,’ he said.

  Churchill grunted, took the bag and delved into it, coming up with a rusted metal box. ‘Key?’ he asked.

  ‘In there,’ Taha said.

  Churchill rummaged once more and came up with a key that looked tiny in his large fingers. He opened the box with exaggerated care, and took out the folded piece of cardboard inside. He was about to unfold it when Von Neumann stopped him. ‘No!’ he said. ‘I have waited a long time for this. Let me!’

  Von Neumann switched on a torch and studied the map in silence while the tribesmen around them fidgeted and mumbled amongst themselves.

  ‘Most interesting,’ he said at last. ‘I trust we can work out the location without too much difficulty. Tell me, boy, have you been there?’

  Taha raised his head. ‘My father and I found the graves marked on the map,’ he said. ‘Nineteen graves. Afrang soldiers, all shot.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Von Neumann said. ‘Those were my less fortunate colleagues.’

  ‘Christ!’ Sterling swore softly. ‘What the hell is this all about?’

  Von Neumann looked at him. ‘Sonnenblume,’ he said. ‘It was an operation to conceal a very large amount of treasure belonging to the Third Reich here in the Spanish Sahara in nineteen forty-five, when things looked bad for us. The treasure, mostly gold bullion, had been collected from various sources ...’