by David King
The squeezed-in one-way passage below was littered with refuse. It was nothing but a common garbage can for the buildings backing on it, a contained areaway piled with the detritus of life. Crawling over the moldering debris were hordes of savage, snarling, skittering rats. The stench of the vermin and offal and rot lay in visible layers in the dusty air. To the left, down the passageway and across a thin street, lay the shuttered shops of the bazaar, corrugated iron frontings armorlike in the bluish light. The roofs to his right, some tiled, mostly coarse clay brick sprinkled with sand, lay like parched rice paddies separated by dykelike walls. Where the cul-de-sac resulted from the blank wall, roofs twisted around providing an open but hedged field that extended back over dozens of walls to the palms about the waterhole and common well.
The oasis would bear investigation, he thought, looking over his shoulder at the nylon line that trailed from the cistern lid, and then down at Tully's dark robe lying with the other discarded and useless rags at the end of the way. The trail was marked and the Jerries would follow it. If he was lucky, he had them off the scent. First they would investigate his own robe near the entrance, and finding nothing, push on with the search. But when they discovered the nylon line and Tully's robe, they would think they had uncovered the start of the trail and return to intensify their investigation of the area near the entrance. He grinned; he hoped they would.
He leapfrogged from roof to roof at the backs of the buildings, always wary although there was no indication that patrols had started to prod through the town. The inactivity disturbed him. The Jerries with their methodical, almost machinelike, thought processes were usually predictable, but Dietrich did not always fit the pattern. The Jerry captain was capable of extreme measures to gain his end and Troy did not think Dietrich incapable of razing the walled village, reducing it to rubble to regain the rich prize Wilson represented. Or—and the thought lifted the hairs on his suddenly chilled arms—had they captured Moffitt and Hitch?
He flattened on the roofs and moved like a leech.
It was perhaps a thousand yards to the waterhole in a straight line from German headquarters. Over the contorted tops of the buildings, it was more nearly a mile. The roofs, as he crept back from stores and warehouses onto the huts, became a squalid obstacle course, strewn with rags, with washings, with discarded implements of life, inhabited by chickens and dogs and on one a goat that resented the invasion of his arid pasture by a foreigner and protested in a plaintive bleat.
Among the scabrous trunked palms that opened their umbrellas above the muddy waterhole, a dozen goats were tethered, some horses and mules chafed at the meager fodder and an Arab family had crawled from a striped awning and squatted about a dung fire. More one-room huts lay beyond, their white walls lavender in the cloud-filtered light of morning.
Sidi Abd was awakening and a murmuring of voices became a babble. Robed Arabs squatted in the alleys to relieve themselves and Troy started back toward German headquarters on his belly over the middle of the dusty roofs where he hoped he would be seen from neither front nor back.
It was going to be another gray day and the dismal threat of rain nagged like a shrewish wife. If there were a deluge in the desert, the Rat Patrol would be mired and at the mercy of the Jerries even if they eluded capture in the town and broke through the walls.
An angry outcry, many voices raised in a wail of enraged complaint lifted in a minor chorus from the direction of the gateway, and scanning the roofs in all directions for posted sentries, Troy reversed his direction and twisted toward the principal alley of the town, the in-and-out route. He had precious little time, he knew. A thought had suddenly struck him that he had not considered before. German headquarters was the tallest building in the community. The Jerries were certain to man an observation post atop it where constant watch could be maintained on every roof.
The first Jerry patrols were in the town and soldiers in pairs with bayoneted rifles were rummaging through the houses and buildings. The outraged Arabs were massing in the tight streets, plugging them with their bodies, crowding the Jerries back. Troy grinned. It was not unlikely that Dietrich would have a native uprising on his hands before the day was over. But patrol after patrol was pushing through the entrance, and the Arabs yielded foot by foot to the bayonets. When an Arab lagged, he was shorn of his burnoose. Troy's eyes narrowed at the German procedure. The Jerries were driving the Arabs out of the buildings so they could be inspected without interference. When the Arabs had been herded into a compound, probably at the waterhole, each individual would be stripped of headpiece and examined.
Still the Arabs poured out until it seemed every alley within sight was a congealing, bobbing mass of shouting, shrieking Arabs. A Jerry discovered Troy's discarded robe; the natives were shoved away by stabbing bayonets.
Teams dived into every building in the vicinity and a Jerry appeared on the roof of the building where the robe had draped on the window sill. He considered the empty roof briefly and dropped back into the building. Troy scrambled away.
The cacophony of the raddled village swelled in Troy's ears as he scuttled now in the gray but open light of day toward some refuge, a place where he could hide and lie undetected, at least for a while. It was futile to think he could escape the Jerry net for long. He wanted some place within sight of headquarters, but far enough away to give him a running start. He did not think the Germans would shoot at him, a solitary figure. They would want him at least alive enough to tell them where the others were.
Across the cul-de-sac passage behind headquarters and near the bazaar, he found a penthouse, a good-sized crate which had housed some piece of German machinery and which some Arab had purloined for its priceless wood. It was upended but he turned it on its side, crawled under and pulled it over him. With the kris, his only weapon, he enlarged cracks between the planks on all four sides, making the peepholes facing the headquarters building and the bazaar across the street larger than the other two. It was a temporary hiding place, he knew.
The commotion from the far side of town grew in intensity even within the warren the hare had found, but patrol activity had not yet reached headquarters or the bazaar. He turned his attention to the bazaar. Shutters were clattering up and merchants were laying out their stocks of fine brass pots and scurvy tin trade goods, strings of garlic, herbs and spices, beads and calico, American and English cigarettes and Italian wines, pillows, pipes and pistols. Troy considered the bazaar thoughtfully. Behind the shops must lie a maze of living quarters and storehouses. He hefted a leather pouch of gold coins from his shirt pocket. Mad money. Escape money. Bribes. It was possible that when the time came for him to run, he could buy more time across the street. And then again, an Arab might take the gold and merely re-sell him to the hounds.
With a rushing roar like the outpouring from an opened flood gate, Arabs flowed into the bazaar, infuriated Arabs who had been forced back by the relentless pressure of the bayoneted troops.
Troy returned to the peephole that looked at headquarters. A Jerry was on the roof. Troy caught his breath. He had not expected the Krauts to inspect their own back yard so soon. The Jerry marched directly to the reservoir and Troy got his fingers under the crate, ready to lift, shout and run. The soldier grasped the gutter trough, swung himself to the top and stood upright on the middle of the tank, right where the lid with the rope was. White against white, the line had not yet caught his eyes. He lifted binoculars and started a precise scrutiny of the rooftops.
Troy pulled his fingers back inside and started to laugh. Tully and Wilson were safe for the day with a Jerry observer guarding them. They would be miserable, scarcely daring to breathe with a Jerry on their lid, but they would be safe. The observer would soon enough zero in on the crate as worthy of investigation and Troy would have to bolt. And he would discover the rope and the robe. And that would be two leads to follow while the skin withered and whitened on Tully's and Wilson's feet.
The observer made a three hundred and sixty
degree cursory sighting of the town and returned to an object that apparently interested him. Troy's penthouse. He fixed his glasses on it and held them. Troy fought an impulse to pull away from the peephole. He had the feeling that the Jerry was looking straight into his eyes. Well, perhaps he was, because he put down a hand to jump from the reservoir and noticed the line dangling to the next door roof. The Jerry ran across the roof toward the stairway. Troy crinkled his eyes, slid his fingers under the edge of the crate and prepared to evacuate. The chase was about to begin.
8
The five gaunt, dark-faced Arabs reined their pawing, fawn-colored stallions in a tight circle about Moffitt and Hitch. Leaning from silver-chased, high-cantled saddles, they silently regarded the two robed soldiers like beady-eyed, cruel-beaked vultures. They were dressed alike in dark robes and burnooses with the exception of one whose headpiece was ornamented with threads of gold. He carried a Schmeisser machine pistol and seemed to be the leader. The others were armed with Mausers.
Hitch's eyes roved the circle and came back to Moffitt. "What do you know, Doc!" he said and popped a bubble. "Their robes and burnooses are exactly like ours."
"I know," Moffitt said with half a smile. "I designed ours to be authentic and now we've run into members of the tribe whose peculiar dress I used. These are the men of Abu-el-bab. They dress different, think different, are different from any other people in the desert. They are savage fighters and feared by the other tribes." To the Arab in the richly embroidered burnoose, he said, "Sabah-el-Kheir. Ahlan wa sahlan."
Face impassive and emotionless as a chiseled brown-stone mask, the Arab considered Moffitt long before answering. When he spoke, he said harshly in his language, "Who are you who speak our tongue and wear the burnoose of our tribe but wander horseless in the desert, carrying bundles of old rags?"
"I am Hamam Gameel, the good pigeon," Moffitt said, touching his forehead and bowing his head. "I am blood brother to Ben-el-bab whose father, when I was no longer than a rifle, was the great sheik of Abu-el-bab. I speak your tongue because I have lived in your tents and I wear the burnoose of Abu-el-bab by order of the sheik."
The Arab's eyes closed suspiciously to slits. "There was such a one," he said. "A fair-haired child of a scholar who was a friend of Abu-el-bab and led us to the ancient lost city in the rocks that was our birthplace. I remember the ceremony of the mingling of the blood when this scholar from a distant island and his manchild clasped hands with the sheik and his son in a rare celebration not performed again in any of our lifetimes. If you be Hamam Gameel, we are honored and you are welcome, and your brother with you. These are strange times in our land when everyone is suspect. If you bear false testimony and are not Hamam Gameel but instead are of the thieving tribe of swine who now occupy the village of Sidi Abd, we shall bury you to your heads in the sands of the desert and annoint you with honey to draw the ants that will eat your eyeballs from their sockets."
"We have killed your enemy and stripped him of his clothes," Moffitt said, bending to unbutton the great coat and displaying the German uniforms. "Tonight we shall disguise ourselves as one of him and reenter this town from which he drives the rightful inhabitants to rescue our friends whom this enemy holds prisoners."
"Come," the Arab ordered impatiently. "We go to pray the judgment of the Ben-el-bab who is now the sheik of Abu-el-bab. If you speak the truth, you will eat and rest with us and have our aid in every way that we can help. I am Al Ombo Beni."
The leader of the Arabs lifted his reins, jerking the stallion's head to the right and the great animal danced and pawed the air as he wheeled. Rider and horse galloped in great clouds of dust into the desert. Two of the other Arabs raced away after him while the two remaining robed men rode slowly on either side of Moffitt and Hitch, not speaking but only pressing them in the direction they wanted to take.
"Well, how'd we make out, Doc?" Hitch said and adjusted the Mauser on his shoulder. "At least they didn't take our weapons."
"Sporting of them, wasn't it?" Moffitt said and laughed. "If we'd make a move, it would give them a chance to shoot us. They're not entirely convinced that I am who I claim to be. A lot is going to depend on the memory of their new sheik, the Ben-el-bab. He's supposed to be my desert brother."
"I just hope he places a high value on family ties," Hitch said.
Moffitt studied the morning sky that was a forebodingly dull pewter color. The weather worried him as much as geting into Sidi Abd and rescuing Wilson, along with Troy and Tully if that were possible. Desert rains are solid sheets of water that turn the sand to soup and he knew that if the jeeps were mired, the Rat Patrol was lost and the Jerries would not give them another chance to escape. Although the sky was thickly matted with gray clouds, the heat poured through and sweat drenched Moffitt's body. Suddenly he was very tired, thirsty and hungry. Both Hitch and he needed the daylight hours in which to rest and regain their strength for the coming night. He did not expect to enter and leave Sidi Abd without a struggle.
They had trudged without speaking in the slipping sands for perhaps half an hour when they climbed to the top of a rolling dune higher than the others and saw below in a rippled valley half a dozen pavilion-type tents, mauve in color with broad awnings at the entrances. Beyond the camp of Sheik Ben-el-bab's men—a raiding party, Moffitt was certain from their small number—perhaps two dozen magnificent Arabian steeds were hobbled. As Moffitt and Hitch entered the cluster of tents, Al Ombo Beni stepped out under the awning of a pavilion larger than the others and stood aside, indicating with an abrupt motion of his hand that they were to go inside.
A rug, thick and rich in oriental color and design, covered the ground and on it were several low octagonal wooden tables and many pillows. A young man sat cross-legged on a pillow at the middle of the tent. His burnoose was similar to Al Ombo Beni's except that it was even more richly adorned with gold and silver. His nose was thin and hawk-shaped and his mouth above a sharp chin was straight and almost lipless. Moffitt felt Ben-el-bab's keen eyes appraising him before they turned first to one and then the other of two old men with lined parchment faces who stood on either side of him. It was difficult to tell whether there was question or decision in Ben-el-bab's eyes.
Moffitt touched his forehead and bowed his head.
"Greetings, brother of my blood which runs stronger in my veins since the day it was united with that of your brave body," Moffitt said. "I am Hamam Gameel, come once again to the tribe of Abu-el-bab to pray the favor of the invincible Sheik Ben-el-bab, to ask food and drink and a place to rest for my friend in battle and myself that we may regain our strength and carry the fight again tonight against the enemy who has invaded these wide lands of yours."
Ben-el-bab's mouth grew hard and cruel and his eyes were stony. He turned from Moffitt to Al Ombo Beni.
"I do not know this man," he said. "He is an imposter. Hamam Gameel is dead. The word was passed from tribe to tribe how Hamam Gameel with his father was captured by a band of infidels who sought to rob our ancient crypts of gold."
"That was true, brother of my blood," Moffitt cried, "but were you not told how my father was tortured and would not betray your hiding place? And how we escaped and the thieves who sought to pilfer you of your treasures were consumed in the explosion where my father trapped them in the crevices of the rock?"
"The patriarchs of the tribe have told me Hamam Gameel is dead," Ben-el-bab said to Al Ombo Beni without glancing at Moffitt. "I honor and respect the old ones and have no reason to doubt they speak the truth." His voice rose angrily. "Shall I now listen to the outrageous lies of an alien beggar who profanes the memory of my brother in blood? Take these treacherous dogs who would deliver us to the infidel enemy at Sidi Abd and bury them to their necks in the sands of the desert."
"I speak the truth, great Sheik," Moffitt said bravely, but chill fear touched his heart. Only Ben-el-bab could help and the Arab was wary of the enemy in his land.
Al Ombo Beni shouted an order and two of the fi
ve Arabs who had intercepted Moffitt and Hitch in the desert strode into the tent and seized the Englishman and the American, ripping the robes from their bodies and sweeping the burnooses from their heads. Rough hands stripped away their belts with canteens and pistols and tore the khaki shirts from their backs.
"What do we do now, Doc?" Hitch asked, grinding away at his gum but not popping any bubbles.
"If we remain calm, I still may think of some way to convince Ben-el-bab," Moffitt said. "There was something that impressed the Arabs at the time of the blood ceremony. I am trying to recall it but I was very young and it was many years ago."
"Think, Doc," Hitch said urgently. "We're in a worse spot than if the Jerries had us."
Moffitt and Hitch stood, bare to the waist, on the thick bright carpet in the middle of the tent and the Arab guard lashed their wrists with rawhide so tightly the leather bit into the flesh. The sheik, Ben-el-bab, had risen from his pillow and was staring curiously at Moffitt's left shoulder.
"The sign, great Sheik," Moffitt said excitedly, suddenly remembering.. He nodded his head at a crescent-shaped birthmark high on his arm near his shoulder joint. "It is the sign of good fortune your father remarked at the ceremony of the mingling of the blood. 'By this sign we shall always know you,' your father said to me before he cut our palms and we clasped our hands in brotherhood. Now, Ben-el-bab, you know I speak the truth and indeed am Hamam Gameel."
"Remove the thongs that bind my brother and his friend," Ben-el-bab said harshly. "Only the true Hamam Gameel would know the meaning of this sign to us."
When the guard had freed Moffitt and Hitch, Ben-el-bab stepped forward and grasped Moffitt's right palm in both of his hands.