“You killed Qasim,” she said.
The words slipped out. He could kill me now. The knife is in his pocket.
Klaus turned and stared at her. His lips moved as if he was about to speak, but he said nothing. The fire flared and crackled as it died down.
“And I guess you slipped the scorpion into Hamud’s robe,” she said, careless with indignation, unable to stop.
“I had to.” He spread out his hands. “Gerta told me to make sure your guide was someone who would report your plans to her.”
His answer was calm, careful, as if it were rehearsed. Lily was revolted. “Have you no conscience?”
He waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. “Qasim and Hamud were only Bedouin.”
You’re no better than the Nazis, she thought. And said, “So was Ibrahim. You seemed sorry that he was dead.”
“Ibrahim was a fool. These Bedouin,” he swept his arm toward the desert. “They have wars of their own that we don’t understand.”
“And we have wars that they don’t understand?”
He nodded and sighed. “They have no mercy.”
He pulled up his knees, wrapped his arms around them, and began to rock back and forth.
“And the message for Gideon about the Rashidi. You overheard it?”
“It had to do with young Faisal, king of Iraq.” He paused, took a deep breath, and looked toward the eastern horizon. “They plan to kill him.”
“Who’s they?’
“Gerta knows.”
“And you. Do you know, too?”
“He’s only eight-years-old,” Klaus said. “Same age as my son.”
For Klaus, a king might matter, but not a Bedouin.
The fire had died down. There was no moon and Lily couldn’t see his face, but his voice was choked. “He’s disappeared. I think Gerta has him.”
“And the man from Wadi Rajil? You knew him.”
Klaus turned away. “His name was Obersturmbannführer Dieter Erhard, a lieutenant colonel in the SS. He gave the orders to Gerta Kuntze.”
“You have a conscience, don’t you?” Lily asked.
“Of course I do.”
“Then use it.”
She climbed into her sleeping bag and turned her back to him.
If he’s going to kill me, it will be now. Or in my sleep. I’ll take my chances. I’m not a Bedouin. I’m a western, educated woman, and that matters to Klaus.
Maybe.
Besides, he saved me from the storm trooper in Wadi Rajil. That should count for something.
But her heart beat faster, and she had trouble falling asleep.
And in the morning, Klaus was gone.
Chapter Twenty-six
Hamud was already awake, sitting cross-legged by the campfire, tending the coffee pot, baking bread on a heated stone, preparing their breakfast of coffee, Bedouin bread, and dates.
No one seemed to miss Klaus, or seemed surprised that he was gone again, until over breakfast Lily filled them in about her conversation with Klaus the night before. She told them that he confessed to working for Gerta Kuntze.
And that he had killed Qasim.
Gideon held a piece of Bedouin bread in mid-air, halfway toward his mouth. Hamud, slurping his coffee, nodded over and over, as if it confirmed his suspicions.
“You confronted Klaus?” Gideon said at last. “Accused him of killing Qasim?”
“He admitted it.”
“If someone kills once, they’ll kill again. He could have murdered you, too.”
“But he’s gone.” She leaned back, resting her hands in the ground behind her, remembering how angry she had been last night. “He said Qasim was only a Bedouin.”
Hamud nodded again, this time more vigorously. “I knew he did it all along.”
“How did you know?” Jalil asked. “You saw him?”
“Laa, laa. But he put the scorpion inside my galabiah.”
“You knew that? Why didn’t you tell us?” Gideon asked.
“You wouldn’t have believed me.” Hamud tossed his head to challenge him, and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “And what would you have done? He was one of you.”
“One of us?”
“A Franji like you.” He put down his cup and looked down, hiding the bitterness in his eyes, but not in his voice. “As you say, I am only a Bedouin.”
“He told me that he was following orders,” Lily said. “That he had to save his wife and son, that they lied. He was distraught, devastated.” She looked over at Glubb. “He said there is a plan to kill young King Faisal, that it distressed him.”
At the mention of the plan to kill Faisal, Glubb became as alert as a bird dog on point. When Jalil leaned forward to say something, Glubb put an impatient hand on his arm to silence him.
“What did he say about the plan to kill the king?” Glubb asked.
“He said his son is the same age as Faisal,” Lily said.
Glubb waved her answer away. “What else did he say? This is important.”
“Only that Gerta Kuntze has a hand in it somehow.”
Glubb rubbed his hand across his chin, concentrating. “There’s a rumor that Rashid Ali has been seen in Syria.”
“Syria?” Gideon asked. “Not Iraq?”
“That’s what bothers me. He knows that if he kills young Faisal outright, the country will be thrown into chaos. If he gets rid of the Hashemite regime, he’ll get nothing. Sunni and Shiite religious factions will be at each other’s throats. Rashid Ali is cunning. He won’t risk that. He’ll think of a better way.”
“Is it more than just an Iraqi matter?” Gideon said. “Iraq isn’t in the war.”
“We need oil for the war effort. If he takes over, he’ll block the pipeline through Trans-Jordan to Haifa. All Iraq’s resources will go to the Axis.”
“We have plenty of oil,” Lily said. “From Texas, and California.”
“That has to be shipped to the European Theatre by convoy. Ties up ships and personnel. And oil. And half the time, the convoy doesn’t make it. U-boats are still on the prowl.”
“Is that the reason Faisal is in danger?” Lily asked. “What do you think Rashid Ali will do?”
Glubb shook his head. “He wants power. He staged a coup once, last year. Ended in turmoil. We had to go in to establish order.”
Jalil gave him a sardonic smile. “That wasn’t the only reason you went in.”
“Maybe not. But it was a damn good excuse. Rashid Ali doesn’t want to give us that opportunity again.” Glubb turned to Lily and spread out his hands. “You want to know what I think will happen? Young Faisal will disappear. Rashid Ali will probably kill him, but he’ll use his propaganda machine to spread the rumor that Faisal’s uncle, the regent Abd al Ilah, is responsible. Rashid Ali will arrive in Iraq to save the day, kill al Ilah, and take over.”
He wiped his hands against each other, Arab style, to indicate a fait accompli, and Lily gave a shudder.
“Have to get back to Amman,” Glubb said.
After a hasty end to their breakfast, they returned to Azraq by midmorning. As soon as they unloaded the Jeeps, Glubb left for Amman, and Jalil went inside to radio news of their successful raid at Tadmor.
When Jalil emerged from the fort, he looked worried.
“What is it?” Lily asked.
“Young Faisal has been kidnapped.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Kidnapped?” Lily thought of the sad-eyed child with the sweet smile. King or no king, he was just a frightened child, and in danger.
“He was gone when his uncle went to wake him this morning,” Jalil said. “There were signs of a struggle. A torn bed-sheet and some overturned chairs.”
Gideon raised an eyebrow. “Seems feisty for a child.”
“They could have used the bed-sheet to bundle him up,” Lily said.
Jalil nodded “And deliver him to Rashid Ali in Syria.”
; “If Glubb is right,” Lily said. “We have to find Faisal before they hand him over to Rashid Ali.” She looked over at Jalil. “Klaus knows what’s going to happen. He knows where they’re taking Faisal.”
“It’s a big desert out there.” Gideon waved his arm toward the stark desert expanse. “First, we have to find Klaus. All we know is he’s somewhere east of here.”
“The Bedu have eyes that penetrate the hills.” Jalil squinted at the eastern horizon. “Some one has seen him. There are oases. There are wadis. There’s even the Euphrates.”
“So we go from camp to camp, looking for him?” Gideon asked.
“No time for that,” Jalil said. “We must find Faisal before Rashid Ali gets to him. Otherwise, it’s too late.”
Lily tried to recall last night’s conversation with Klaus. “Klaus told me he knew that Faisal was in danger from Gerta Kuntze. I don’t know what else Klaus knows, what she told him.” What else had Klaus said? There was something else about Gerta Kuntze. She couldn’t remember. “I think he went to look for her.”
It was Glubb, not Klaus, who said something about Gerta. In Amman. She remembered watching the fountain in the rose garden outside, Glubb speaking. She remembered young Hussein following them, and then she remembered what Glubb had said.
“What do you know about the Rashidi?” she asked Jalil.
“Their territory is east of here. They move back and forth across the Euphrates at the Ramadi Bridge, into and out of Iraq. Pasturage, not national boundaries, decide where the Bedu move.”
“Do they have enemies?”
Jalil lifted his hands, palms up. “Only horses and hedgehogs don’t have enemies.”
“Gerta Kuntze lives among the Rashidi.”
Jalil’s eyes widened. “They range back and forth across the Iraqi border,” he said. “If anyone could spirit Faisal out of Iraq, it’s the Rashidi.” He tapped his thigh, shifted his foot, looked east again. “If they still have him.”
He turned to Hamud. “You stay here. Monitor the radio. You know how to get in touch?”
“With a radio?” He clicked his tongue, shook his head no. “You can show me?”
“Inshallah. Come inside.”
While Jalil was busy with Hamud, Lily and Gideon reloaded the Jeep with fresh supplies: tinned food, extra ammo, water for their canteens. Gideon was filling the canvas water bag when Jalil emerged from the fort, this time carrying the suitcase with the portable radio, the field glasses, and the training rifle.
Smiling, he handed the rifle to Lily. “Your weapon.”
She put it on the floor of the front seat while they hastily stowed the rest of the supplies and climbed into the Jeep.
“Somewhere east of here,” Gideon commented as he started the motor. “All we can do is go east.”
***
They raced eastward along the road to H5, jarred from their seats as they bumped over dips and rocks in their path. Jalil sat in the back of the Jeep, sporadically surveying the horizon with field glasses. When they passed the place where they had gone off the road to the cave of Ibrahim’s dog, he signaled Gideon.
“Over there,” he said. “The cave with Ibrahim’s dog. Someone’s been there. See for yourself.” He passed the field glasses forward. “I replaced the stone at the entrance myself. It’s been pulled away.”
“I don’t have to look.” Gideon veered off the road and bounced the Jeep toward the cave. “I believe you.”
***
They stood on the hillside watching the swarms of flies buzzing around the entrance to the cave, attracted by the smell of rot, the smell of blood that emanated from inside.
“I can’t go in there,” Lily said.
This was more than Ibrahim’s dog, and that was bad enough.
“Neither can I,” Gideon looked relieved. “Opening too narrow for me. Can’t get my shoulders through.”
Jalil gave him a scathing look. “Someone has to.” He unstrapped his bandolier. “I’ll try.”
A few moments later, Jalil pulled out of the cave and moved toward the Jeep. He flicked a maggot off his right hand and wiped his hand on his cloak. He sat cross-legged on the ground, staring straight ahead, leaned over and retched. In his left hand, he held a watch. He rinsed his mouth with water from his canteen, wet the end of his kafiya and wiped his face.
He sat silently, catching his breath, swabbed off the watch with his damp kafiya and handed it to Lily.
“It’s Klaus,” he said.
Lily cupped the Schafhausen in her hand. The watch crystal was smashed, but the second hand still marched on, slower now, clicking forward, hesitating, clicking forward again, each time slower, winding down like Klaus’ life. Last night, Klaus wept for his wife and child. And now, none of them is left, and there was no one to weep for Klaus.
“He bought the watch in Switzerland,” she said.
“His camera?” Gideon asked.
“Smashed.”
“How was he killed?”
Jalil looked up at him. “Difficult to tell. It must have been…” He nodded his head, rocked back and forth with his hands on his knees. “During the night some time. Time enough for the creatures of the desert to be at him. From what’s left, it looks like his throat was cut.” He wiped his face again with the wet end of his kafiya. “His gold tooth is missing.”
Lily nodded.
“Gone.”
“He was looking for Gerta Kuntze,” Lily said. “Looks like he found her.”
“But where is she now?” Gideon asked.
“Somewhere in Syria?” Jalil said. “Holding Faisal?”
Somewhere in Syria, Lily thought. Something nagged at her, something she couldn’t quite remember.
She looked down at the Schafhausen. The second hand had stopped.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“There is an oasis near the Jebel Druze,” Hamud said the next morning. “Near enough to Damascus, but hidden and secret. If they hide Faisal, it could be there.”
“We can try it,” Gideon rubbed his face and blew out his cheeks. “Nothing to lose.”
“Nothing but time,” Jalil said.
They loaded up the Jeep and left, going north past the pipeline road and passing the border into Syria before noon.
They drove along faint tracks through a bleak Syrian countryside scattered with forbidding black lava cones, past Druze villages where woman in colorful garb stood gossiping in the streets, past fields worked by black-robed Druze with white turbans who saw them and looked away. The grim black massif of Jebel Druze hovered over them. They skirted east of it, coming at last to a dark plain beside a fetid overgrown waterhole.
Two camels stood hobbled on the plain. And perched on the shadowy cliff above them, black and foreboding, stood the remains of a castle, walled and turreted, with tumbling basalt ashlars.
“A castle of the Assassins,” Hamud said in a choked whisper, as if afraid of awakening their ghosts. “Even the great Salah edh Din feared them.”
He rumbled on in an anxious murmur, his hand on the hilt of the dagger at his belt. “Anyone who tried to take an Assassin castle was dead before nightfall. Anyone who spent the night there would have his throat cut before morning.” He took a tentative step forward, gripping the dagger. “Drunk on hashish and avarice. They killed or they were killed. Never captured.”
He moved forward again, and began a cautious climb up along the fallen stones of the castle. Jalil and Gideon followed. Lily clambered after them, searching for footholds, clutching the edges of rocks.
They finally reached an archway and the remains of a vaulted tunnel and moved inside, along a debris-strewn passage reeking with the stench of animal dung and stale urine.
The tunnel opened out into a roofless room filled with rubble. Matted hair plastered against his face, a grimy Bedouin dressed in rags and a greasy sheepskin cloak sat in the center of the room leaning against a fallen rock.
Hamud took a step
back. “He’s from Ahl al Jebal, the people of the mountain.”
The grimy Bedouin reached for his rifle, aimed at Hamud, shouted “Wesh entum? What tribe are you?”
Before Hamud could answer, the Bedouin fired point-blank. Hamud staggered backward. Silently, he dropped to the ground. His eyes, still wide with astonishment, had turned dull.
Jalil fired back. “He killed Hamud,” Jalil said, and fired again. “He killed him.”
Blood seeped from the grimy Bedouin’s mouth, his nose. He collapsed onto the pavement and his riffle clattered on the stones.
Lily felt the color drain from her face, moved unsteadily toward Hamud’s body. Gideon bent down to feel for his pulse, looked up at Lily and Jalil and shook his head.
“We’ll take him back,” he said. “Bury him in the military cemetery at Azraq.”
“You think they’re holding Faisal here?” Lily asked in a hoarse monotone.
Jalil looked down at the dead Bedouin, rolled him over with his foot. “Not these people.”
“For ransom?”
Gideon stood up. “No harm in looking. You go that way,” he said to Jalil, indicating the turreted area. “Lily and I will look there.” He pointed toward what might have been the castle keep, its walls with courses still standing and reaching upward toward barrel ceilings.
Lily and Gideon set out into the maze of ruins. They found nothing but trash and tumbles of broken basalt blocks in weed-grown room after room, and over all, the reek of mildew and animal waste.
Once they heard a rifle shot, then another. They paused and looked at each other. “Jalil,” Gideon said, and they kept going.
They found Jalil approaching them from inside a long corridor, carrying Hamud over his shoulder, fireman style.
“No one here,” he said. “Just the two Ahl al Jebel.” He shifted Hamud on his shoulder. “I took care of the other one.” He moved forward again. “Let’s get back.”
They climbed down to the Jeep carefully, Gideon and Jalil carrying Hamud between them, Lily sliding down part of the way across the larger tumble of basalt blocks. Jalil carried Hamud to the back of the Jeep and covered him with the tarp.
Gideon started the motor and they drove over the basalt field, past the hobbled camels that brayed in their wake, back toward Azraq. Jalil looked back at the castle, craning his neck until it was out of sight.
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