Assignment Zoraya

by Edward S. Aarons

  "You will see and remember nothing of this, naturally."

  Durell watched the second dhow drift alongside. A line was snaked from one vessel to the other. The stench of the slaver was overpowering in the heat. A constant wail of misery came from the other ship. Zoraya stood beside Durell. Her lips were pale.

  "I am sorry this has to be seen."

  "I know that slavery exists here," Durell said.

  "We have tried to abolish it, but it is a lucrative business. The tribal sheiks inland, who have no oil holdings, would rebel if they could not act as middlemen in the slave traffic."

  The towline was made fast, and the slaver proceeded. Motion was resumed at last off the barren coast. In twenty minutes the shoreline changed, became indented with rocky coves that were terminal points for deeply gullied wadis carved in the face of the cliffs. Amr stirred himself and began to talk in undertones to the nakhoda. Durell noted that the nakhoda's replies were prompt and respectful. The Prince of Jidrat then came across the hot deck to join Durell and Zoraya.

  "We will go ashore in a few minutes," Amr said. "The village of Al Murra is the terminus for the usual caravan route across the Rub 'al Khali to Riyadh, in Saudi Arabia. Nowadays, trucks are used instead of camels, so there will be transportation for us. It is only another twenty minutes to Jidrat from Al Murra. There will be no difficulty, once we are ashore —unless, of course, the local sheik becomes alarmed at having Western eyes see his business. Lately, there has been some sensitivity about it."

  "The nakhoda seems to be your man," Durell said. "Are the Al Murra tribesmen also loyal to you, Amr?"

  Amr smiled strangely. "I had almost forgotten what it was like, this blind obedience. When we are ashore, Durell, you will no longer be in command. I shall give the orders."

  "As you say."

  "And it is possible," Amr said slyly, "that I may order your death."

  "Ill take that chance."

  "I have no reason to love you, you know. But I shall decide your fate later. Now we must land."

  There was no dock or harbor that Durell could see. Only a cove with a wadi reaching inland beyond it; a tumbled waste of rock and sand in the blinding afternoon heat. Combers crashed and battered against the nearby shore, and there was a long line of spume betraying a reef across the mouth of the cove. The towline snapped taut as the slaver dhow increased speed. The deck lurched uneasily. The high prow swung around in the slaver's wake and Durell saw an opening in the basalt reef ahead, wide enough for the boats to run through. The passage was quick, expertly made. Ahead, to the left of the wadi entrance, was a beach of stony shingle. They entered between the jaws of the red sandstone cliffs. It was like entering the mouth of a furnace. From the slaver dhow came wails of muffled terror.

  The nakhoda ran forward, beating at his men with a small thonged whip, and drove them to cast off the towline. Then he ran back—a giant panting figure—and lurched against the sweep of the tiller. Their vessel slowly swung out of the slaver's wake. The other dhow, engine-driven, backed off and lost way, but their own vessel had no such control. It surged toward the beach, lifting in high swells that quickened by the moment. A comber crashed, burst, heeled them over. They threatened to broach to in the surf.

  "Ya Allah!" Abdhuahram grunted. The muscles rippled, crawled, and bunched along his giant torso. The mast creaked. The tattered sails broke loose and fell in a tumble of salt-stiffened canvas. The next moment the deck trembled as the keel ground into the stony beach. There were two more jolts, a long, groaning noise, and then they came to rest.

  Durell helped Zoraya ashore. Amr ignored her. They waded through lime-green tepid water, waist-deep, some distance from where the slaver dhow had moored just outside the line of breakers. There were calls and shouts and jeering comments from one crew to the other. Durell struggled out of the surf, helping Zoraya, and then saw Prince Amr coming ashore. He rode astride Abdhuahram's giant shoulders as if the nakhoda was nothing more than a beast of burden.

  In a matter of moments they were all ashore.

  The heat struck at them. Silence surrounded them.

  Durell saw the nakhoda uneasily survey the barren, rocky scarp surrounding the cove. Sweat poured off them. Heat rolled down from the cliffs like a waterfall. Nothing stirred. The air tasted metallic. The second dhow rolled offshore, her engine idling.

  Abdhuahram grunted. "This is the meeting place. I am sure my brothers of the Al Murra are here. But why do they not show themselves?"

  "Perhaps because of me," Durell said.

  "Or the woman."

  Durell looked at Zoraya. She had walked over to the shadow of a giant black boulder and was standing there. Amr was with her, surprisingly. Then Abdhuahram gripped Du-rell's forearm with strong brown fingers.

  "There. There are the Al Murra."

  Silently, almost furtively, like a pack of ragged hunting dogs, the tribesmen appeared; first one, then two, then more, leaping and sliding down the face of the cliffs by way of a dozen faint paths. Most of them wore tattered turbans of rags over their shoulder-length, greasy black hair. They wore skirts and sandals and dirty robes. A few had old British Army berets. They were armed with all sorts of weapons—from long-barreled rifles to Sten guns. All had knives tucked in their belts. They looked wild and barbaric and dangerous and unpredictable as they streamed in thickening numbers from the mouth of the wadi.

  "No man can tell what the Al Murra will do," murmured the nakhoda. "Do not move. Are you afraid?"

  "Not yet," Durell replied.

  "It would be wise if you were."

  Now there was a shout from the slaver dhow and a quick, ululating response from the Al Murra. Someone fired a rifle into the air. The single sharp report echoed back and forth in the cup of intolerable heat between the red sandstone cliffs. From up in the wadi came the grinding sound of a truck's motor starting, and then several old vehicles appeared, bumping and rocking over the ground. They were obviously going to load up with the slaves—poor devils transported by treachery and greed from the African Sudan and the Sahara.

  From the first truck came a wild shout, and the vehicle rocketed across the beach toward them. From the cab jumped two armed men who shouted a challenge to the nakhoda. Then a third man with a white beard and an immaculate white robe stepped down. The old man was obviously the sheik of the tribesmen. He stared at Durell and rapped a gutteral question at Abdhuahram, who, for all his giant strength, seemed suddenly servile and anxious to please. The nakhoda fell to his knees, pointed to the stout figure of Prince Amr, said his name, and bowed his head in the dust.

  There was an abrupt silence.

  The tribesmen turned and stared at the prince.

  The old man sucked in a deep breath of surprise and walked around the prostrate figure of the nakhoda to the prince. To Durell, it seemed as if Amr, the young man he had known at Yale so long ago, struggled to emerge, in this distant barren place, from under the fat of dissipation. The prince seemed to stand straighter and taller for a moment as the old white-bearded sheik salaamed and murmured the age-old Arabic greeting.

  "Wallahi! Peace, by the mercy of Allah."

  "And to you, friend of my father," Amr said.

  "Ibn Ibrahim remembers his sworn oath," said the old man. "Command us, and we follow you."

  "In a moment," Amr said.

  Again there was a subtle change in the atmosphere on the sun-baked beach. A hail came from the slaver dhow offshore. Ibn Ibrahim made a quick inquiry of the prince. Amr nodded. A hatch was opened, and curses and yelps followed sharp orders hurled at the unfortunates below. In a moment, a thin stream of black and brown men, women, and children climbed miserably to the dhow's deck, staggering in their rags, dazed and crushed by the afternoon sun.

  Durell turned as Amr walked across the shingle toward him. The Al Murra—wild and eager—ringed him in with their varied weapons. A sharp word from the white-bearded Ibrahim brought half a dozen of the fellows closer, grinning. Their teeth were irregular; worn and broken,
with many gaps. They suffered from trachoma, and there was more than one blind white eye among them. Their lank, greasy hair hung in long curls from under the rags of their turbans. But for all that, fhey were tough and wiry men, reckless of human life.

  "Cajun, we are now in my country," Amr said. "Do you remember what I promised you. You did not choose to believe my demand for revenge. I did not want to come back. You forced me to come here."

  "You would have been killed, on Elba."

  "But I was not. You took advantage of my temporary panic. You forced me to return. But now the tables are turned, eh? You gambled on the wrong hand, you see. We do not play poker now. The game we play is watched by the whole world. You may think I am a poor speciman of a man, but here I am important, and I know the importance of Jid-rat. Yes, you have bet on the wrong side."

  "Tell me plainly what you mean, Amr."

  "You brought me back to use me for Washington's purposes, yes? However, I have always preferred to make my own choice in such matters. I have been told that revolution began in Jidrat today."

  "Yes."

  "You want me to control this thing and follow your suggestions?"

  "Just do what you think is right, Amr," Durell said. "You know what that is."

  "Do I? I am a reprobate, a debaucher of women, a drug addict, a besotted pleasure-hunter."

  "That's not all of it."

  "No. But the whole world thinks that. And so do you. Do not lie to me. I promised I would revenge myself for your behavior toward me. Toward my royal person. As my first act, I arrest you as an enemy of the state."

  "Don't be a fool," Durell said.

  Prince Amr slapped him. There was a murmur, like a shock wave, from the tribesman. A tall, hawk-nosed fellow stepped forward, lifted his rifle butt as if to brain Durell. Zoraya cried out. The prince looked at her and laughed.

  "Your turn will come later. I am sick of you. Sick of your following me, sick of your advice and hopes for me." He turned and gave an order to the eager tribesmen. Durell felt someone wrench his arm from behind. He began to struggle, then checked himself. It was useless to fight back now. There were too many of them. And there was nowhere to go, even if he could escape. He looked at Amr and saw all the sly evil, all the perverse cruelty in the man.

  It seemed to Durell, in that moment, that he had made his last and greatest mistake.

  Zoraya cried out again. He tried to duck away from the Al Murra who swung at him with the rifle butt, but he was held too tightly to escape. The weapon crashed against his shoulder and he fell to his knees. He tried to rise again. Through a dancing haze he saw Prince Amr grinning at him. The man's face was twisted in vengeful triumph. Then another blow landed on the back of Durell's neck. He fell forward, feeling the scorching heat of the flinty beach under his hands.

  And then everything whirled away into darkness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The room at the Hotel al-Zaysir was hot and airless. Esme Kenton stood at the window and stared at the Israeli girl on the bed. Naomi was asleep. It seemed to Esme that only deep phvsical and spiritual exhaustion could enable anyone to sleep here now. But she was glad Naomi was getting rest. The girl would need strength later, and the less chance she had to think about the immediate future, the better.

  Esme wished for Paul with a dull, aching longing. It was so difficult to go through these hours without him. It was as if a part of her had suddenly been amputated. She missed him and feared for him, and she told herself he could not be dead. Yet she knew there was little hope. Too much time had passed without word from him. If he were lost in the desert, the sun would have killed him by now. If a disabling sandstorm had stranded him somewhere, well, he might still be alive, but only if he had been prepared for it.

  The thud-thud of mortar shells bracketing an Army post below Faiz made her turn back to the window. The afternoon was waning. The sky looked ocherous and there was an unhealthy haze that made the sun a huge glowing spot in the western heavens. The day's fighting was confused. Nobody in the hotel knew what was happening. Even T. P. Fenner, the American consul, who'd been trapped here since early morning, knew it was too dangerous at this moment for any Westerner to appear on the streets of Jidrat.

  Paul, she cried soundlessly. Paul, wheie are you?

  The only others in the hotel were a few servants, a Greek couple, two Indian businessmen from Bombay, and an Argentinean. Captain MacPherson was in the bar with Fenner now. At noon, an Army captain with a squad of excited rebel soldiers had posted themselves in the lobby. All foreigners were to stay indoors. Further orders would come when the situation was clarified.

  The al-Zaysir had been built at the turn of the century, when the English established a protectorate under the Imam Yazid. The hotel was a short distance away from a central bazaar area. From the hotel's flat roof, equipped with tables and awnings for the European guests, one could see the harbor and the surrounding stone hills of the desert and the looming d/ebels of the interior. There were accommodations for only twenty guests.

  Esme suddenly remembered the Russian, Major Mikelni-kov, who had checked in while Naomi was sleeping. The Russian had arrived with Ta'arife, which surely meant that the hotel was safe. But then he'd gone out again immediately with the colonel. Apparently, Esme thought, the restrictions against foreigners did not apply to him.

  The sudden crack of an exploding grenade made dust jump from the ceiling. Naomi's face had been relaxed in sleep, but with the sudden explosion her features convulsed and she sat up with a little cry of fear. Her eyes were still closed. Her dark hair was plastered to her cheek in damp curls. Then, still sleeping, she turned over again on the bed.

  A machine gun chattered. The sky beyond the window was black with oily smoke from the burning storage tanks. There was a quick, soft rapping on the louvered hall door.

  Esme turned quickly and crossed the tile floor. They were on the second floor and there had been no alarm from the lobby, where most of the guests had gathered. She had no fear when she opened the door.

  "Oh, it's you, Messaoud."

  The man was the al-Zaysir's bartender. He had often served Paul and her. He had untidy hair and an oddly dirty, white mess jacket.

  He spoke haltingly. "Mrs. Kenton, I am your servant."

  "What do you want, Messaoud?"

  The man looked at the sleeping girl on the bed and pulled at his long nose. He shrugged. "I have been sent for you. . . . To take you to your husband, lady."

  His words struck her like a blow under the ribs. She felt a surge of shuddering hope that was unbearable. "My husband? Paul? You know him? Of course you know him! Is he alive?"

  'Tes, Mrs. Kenton."

  "Oh, you must be lying," she whispered.

  "As Allah is my witness, I have just left him." Messaoud brushed a finger under his long nose. "It is dangerous on the streets, but I have the red truck—the Ford he always uses. You see? I am to drive you to him."

  "Where? In the city?"

  "No, lady. But it is not far. Just a little bit beyond." Messaoud looked different somehow. Perhaps it was just the excitement of the street fighting that made him seem strange. He had remarkably thick brows, she thought. He licked his lips and watched her.

  "You are to pay me one hundred American dollars/' he said.

  "One hundred—" Esme halted. "That's ridiculous. I haven't that much with me here. Certainly not today." "How much do you have?" he asked bluntly. She turned away, uncertain. Naomi Haledi still slept. It was just as well. She felt a tremor of insane hope that made her want to thrust everything into the Arab's long, narrow hand. She found ten pounds and several rupee notes in her bag. It was all she had—except for the little pearl-handled .28 revolver that Paul had given her long ago; long ago, in another lifetime ... in Yucatan-, she remembered. She did not let Messaoud see the gun. She felt safer for having it.

  "Here," she said, thrusting the money at him. "All I have." The Arab took it silently. He looked at the sleeping Naomi. "Your friend can come wit
h us," he said suddenly.

  "No, she must stay. Those are our orders." Esme felt suspicion strike her. "How is it you know about my husband and have his truck? How is it you can take me to him?"

  "It will be dangerous, lady." Messaoud smirked. "But I know ways out of the city that will not be guarded." "Just tell me if he is well," Esme begged. "Oh, yes, lady. Very well."

  "Then let's go before she wakes," Esme said, with a nod toward Naomi.

  Messaoud nodded and went out. He did not look back to see if she followed. She hesitated, her heart pounding. Should she wake up Naomi anyway? The girl ought to be told something. Esme herself didn't know whether she would return to the al-Zaysir, or stay with Paul, or what. There were other questions she wanted to ask, but Messaoud was already trotting down the back steps at the far end of the silent, hot corridor. A grenade blasted spitefully in the bazaar several streets away. It was clear that Messaoud would not wait for more questions. And after all, he was the bartender here, he had always been courteous, she and Paul knew him well. She turned and ran down the hall to the stairs. The hotel was so sparsely occupied that she met no one.

  The soldiers and other guests were all in the front lobby. Messaoud beckoned from the kitchen door, and she went that way.

  "Wait a moment. Please. Can't you tell me anything more?"

  'There is no time, lady," Messaoud said. "It is dangerous to wait. I was told to fetch you. That is all I can tell."

  She followed the tall Arab through the deserted, evil-smelling hotel kitchen and out through a back passage into a narrow alley. A flight of stone steps led up into an archway in a strip of sunlight. A thin dog slunk out of their way. She hurried, stumbling to keep up with Messaoud.

  "Come. This way."

  They went through a doorway and across a single room furnished with a primus stove, a rickety table, some wooden chairs, and two prayer rugs. Then down a hall and out through another doorway into the next street. Somewhere a baby wailed. There was no one in sight.