“Faster.”
“How is she called?”
“Basbusa,” Youssef grinned.
“But not so sweet, I think,” the Scorpion retorted. It was the name of a syrupy-sweet dessert tart.
“Do you still remember how to ride?” Youssef teased, gesturing at a jumble of double-poled saddles off to the side.
“Well enough,” the Scorpion smiled. “After all, I don’t have to win. I only have to be at the right place at the right time.”
“If you don’t fall off as you used to,” Youssef laughed. The Scorpion could feel Youssef dying to race and felt the challenge rise up inside himself too.
“A race?” he suggested.
“To Wadi Hunnay,” Youssef agreed, springing at the pile of saddles. Grabbing one, he ran over to Jiddha, his favorite riding camel, to prepare her for riding.
The Scorpion yanked sharply down on Basbusa’s headrope, calling a guttural “Gehrrr, gehrr” from deep in his throat. The she-camel dropped to her knees, then swayed backwards. She folded her hind legs beneath her till her hocks were resting comfortably on the cool sand. Then she slid her front knees forward till her chest touched the ground.
Immediately, the Scorpion threw a riding pad over her hump, then fitted the wooden saddle on the pad and began tightening the cinches across her withers and girth. As soon as she was saddled, he pulled her head down, put a foot on her neck and felt himself sailing upwards as she raised her head. He swung himself into the saddle and yanked her head sharply upwards to make her rise. She lifted her hindquarters first, tilting him precariously forward, then with a sudden jerk, she was up.
The Scorpion looked around. Youssef was already well away. His dark form receded in the pale light, the whisper of the galloping camel’s strides fading into the sand. The Scorpion called “Hat-at-at” and touching Basbusa’s neck with the whip, kicked her into a slow run.
Her stride was very long and at first jerky, as if she were bucking underneath him. He let her get used to his weight, swaying easily to her sudden movement. Then, balancing on the balls of his feet like a gymnast, he struck her smartly with the whip and crooned from deep in his throat, spurring her into a full gallop.
Now she stepped out, lengthening her giant strides and stretching her long neck forward as they chased after Youssef. The dark sands sped by underfoot. The wind pressed against him, sending his headcloth and bisht streaming behind him like banners. The only sounds were the camel’s breathing and the soft padding of its steps on the firm sand. The desert was flat as a table and stars filled the sky above the horizon, giving him the feeling of racing among the stars.
Ahead was Youssef, rocking eagerly with every stride, his robes and tassels flying, his camel galloping in a high-stepped ground-eating stride, at once clumsy and yet oddly graceful. Youssef glanced back over his shoulder and seeing the Scorpion gaining, he waved gaily, then spurred on his camel with the whip.
Basbusa had a tendency to veer left, the Scorpion noticed. He shortened the right rein to compensate. Also she had a tendency to prance her hindquarters a bit and he made a note to check her udders when he dismounted. He whispered endearment to her and like the finest-bred mugathirs she responded even better than to the whip, stretching out her neck and lengthening her stride by extra precious centimeters.
Youssef was only thirty meters ahead. Both riders flew across the pearly sands. The ground was firm and flat and it felt as if they could race like this forever. Far ahead the Scorpion could see faint wavy undulations in the sand, the first intimations of the distant boundaries of the wadi. Youssef’s arm was like a piston, flailing his camel with his whip as Basbusa drew closer. Now Youssef was only twenty meters ahead.
Softly cursing Basbusa with mange and a thousand other plagues as though they were endearments, the Scorpion decided to risk it all. With his last curse, he let go of the reins and balancing like a dancer, let her run free, guided only by the pressure of his feet.
She drew up to the other camel’s flanks. Now they galloped for what seemed like eons, matching each other stride for stride. Yet because of the extraordinary length of her stride, Basbusa began to inch up until the two camels were even. White slime caked the two camels’ mouths and Jiddha began to show signs of fatigue, almost breaking stride as Basbusa surged ahead.
As the Scorpion approached the scrub which marked the beginning of the wadi exhilaration surged through him like electricity. He could feel his skin tingling. It was one of those magic moments which shine like shooting stars across the drab years and as he began to rein in the camel, he felt so overwhelmed for love of this harsh unforgiving land that he wondered why he had ever left.
As Basbusa slowed to a stately walk Youssef came bouncing alongside, grinning from ear to ear.
“Not bad for an old man, ya,” he said.
“Old and out of shape,” the Scorpion replied, catching his breath.
“I meant myself.”
“So did I,” the Scorpion grinned.
They turned the she-camels around and began to walk them back, letting them cool off. A faint mist of cooling perspiration rose from the camels’ hides. For a time, nothing was said.
“Why did you leave us? I never understood that,” Youssef asked at last, not looking at the Scorpion in order not to embarrass him.
“I didn’t fit any more. Oh, I could look like a Bedu and do everything a Bedu can do. But I wasn’t a Bedu.”
“We loved you. When you left, my father never said a word of reproach, but I know he mourned as if he had lost a son.”
“I know. That only made it worse. The more I cared, the worse I felt I was betraying you.”
“Was it better in America?”
“Worse. It is almost the mirror image of Arabia. Here we always had either too little or too much money, so it never seemed to matter. We care about the price of something only when we buy it. There it is considered bad manners to ask someone what he paid for something, but they think of little else.
“And because money is the measure of all things, they define themselves by their work. An American never wants to know who you are, but only what you do for a living. They approach everything as if it were work, even pleasure.”
“What of the women?”
“Ah, the women. They have learned how to complain. One wonders what would suffice for them,” the Scorpion smiled.
“Why did you stay so long? I thought you would never return.”
“They educated me. And then there was the war in Vietnam. That was an education too.”
“Was it very bad, the war?”
The Scorpion shook his head. “Worse. It was stupid.”
“How could this be? The Americani send us experts, miraculous technologies … I thought they were so clever.”
“They can be very clever at being stupid,” the Scorpion replied.
They rode on in silence, each of them lost in his own thoughts. Their dark forms were like shadows against the starry dome of night.
“This thing you do. It will bring much trouble, will it not?” Youssef asked finally.
“Of a certainty. And much trouble if I don’t,” the Scorpion replied.
“Truly. From the highest mountain to the deepest wadi, trouble is never hard to find.”
The Scorpion knew Youssef was thinking of Bandar and Aisha. He nodded.
“This is more than revenge, or helping the Americani, my brother. It is a matter of survival.”
“I hear you, little Scorpion. But if the lion becomes a jackal in order to survive, has he truly survived?”
Wadi Haradh
“THEY MAY TRY to ambush us in the wadi at Haradh,” the Scorpion said, shading his eyes from the windshield glare as he drove west towards the sun. Youssef, hanging on for dear life as the four-wheel-drive pick-up truck bounced across the desert floor, handed him the sunglasses. A plume of yellow dust and sand kicked up by the tires obscured their rear view of Faisal and the others spread out behind them in a roughly organized convoy.
Although they couldn’t have used the rear-view mirror in any case. The view was blocked by the majestic figure of Basbusa, kneeling in the truck-bed, facing rearward. Her head, neck and hump towered above the cab as she sat imperturbable and immobile, hobbled and tethered by a head-rope, girth and neck-ropes. There were camels riding in the back of each of the Toyota pick-up trucks behind them.
Ahead, the road stretched flat and endless. The sky was the bleached blue characteristic of the desert. The sun was relentless. Although it was late afternoon, the temperature was still above 120 degrees and the metal skin of the truck was too hot to touch. As always when driving in the desert, despite the absolute flatness of the road the Scorpion had the sensation of forever driving uphill towards a horizon so straight that were it reachable, it could have been used as a carpenter’s level.
“What makes you so sure?” Youssef shouted above the roar of wind pouring into the cab through the open windows. His face was powdered white with dust. The air was so hot that the window was like an opening to a blast furnace.
“It’s obvious. I’ve come at them three times now, in Bahrain, Qatar and Riyadh, so they know I’m around. From the condition of the eunuch’s body, Abdul Sa’ad has to assume that I know his plans. And with Braithwaite still alive and potentially active, not to mention any other double agents the Russians might have, we have to assume they know who I am and that I’m going to try to interfere with the assassination. Therefore, the element of surprise is gone on both sides,” the Scorpion replied, his eyes never ceasing to scan the way ahead in a full 180-degree arc.
“But what makes you so sure about an ambush, specifically at Haradh?”
“Because Abdul Sa’ad and the Roosees will want to get me out of the way before we arrive at the Race. An incident there might alert the king and abort the coup. They’ll try to minimize the fuss as much as possible by coming at us in the desert. There’s only one road from Hofuf to Riyadh, so it has to be along here somewhere.”
“But why Haradh?”
“Because of who Abdul Sa’ad and the Roosees will have to use for the ambush. Abdul Sa’ad probably won’t want to use his own men, or elements of the Royal Army for fear of betrayal or starting a tribal blood feud. As for the Roosees they couldn’t possibly train and infiltrate KGB or GRU killers into an environment so alien to them, particularly when time is so short. Besides, a Roosee would have a hard time sneaking into Arabia and even if he did, he’d stand out like a polar bear in the desert.”
“So?”
“So, they’ll have to use outsiders who can go relatively unnoticed in this environment, such as Shiites, Yemenis or Palestinians. None of these are well-trained agents or soldiers. The Palestinians come the closest and the PLO has extensive connections to the KGB, so they’re the most likely candidates. However, most of their training reflects terrorist and urban hit-and-run, as opposed to true military training, nor are they a desert people, so they’ll want some kind of cover for an ambush, like hills or dunes. And the only hills between here and Riyadh—”
“Are at Wadi Haradh!” Youssef exclaimed.
“Just so,” the Scorpion grinned.
“Allah be praised. This is most ingenious,” Youssef said glancing sideways with approval at the Scorpion like a proud father at a son who has just won a prize.
The Scorpion shrugged. “It’s just a skill acquired with practice. The whole art of the soldier is to put yourself in the enemy’s place and try to think like him. All the rest is just logistics and training.”
“Fascinating, my brother. War is most instructive.”
“Oh yes,” the Scorpion replied.
“So how will they attack us?”
“Assuming they don’t have access to anything heavy, like a tank, or the training on Americani equipment, which is the only kind available inside Arabia, they’ll probably try to stop us with light stuff they’ll have smuggled in from Syria or South Yemen. They’ll probably use an MA to make the ambush, then hit us with RPGs, LMGs and maybe a few AK-47S depending on how many of them are out there.”
“Surely, you said something just now, my brother, but in the name of Allah, it had no meaning for me,” Youssef said, rolling his eyes heavenward in exasperation.
“Asfa, my brother. When speaking of such matters, my thoughts slip into the language we used in Vietnam. To make the ambush, they’ll have to stop the lead vehicle and then try to destroy the rear vehicle to block our way out in both directions. A moving target is always difficult, so they’ll probably try to stop the lead truck with a so-called ‘mechanical ambush.” Given the Palestinians’ experience in guerilla tactics I suspect they’ll use either a pressure mine or a remotely detonated electronic mine. Then they’ll try to destroy the trucks with rocket-propelled grenades (probably B-40S) or mortars while laying down light machine-gun and small-arms fire from Russian-made RPDs and Kalachnikov 7.62-mm assault rifles.”
“Allah forbid! It sounds like a deadly trap,” Youssef cried, his brown face turning pale under the layer of dust.
“It can be—in fighting there is always the unknown,” the Scorpion said with a nod.
“What would you have done in Vietnam against such an awesome attack?”
“Stayed low and called in a Cobra helicopter. With its rockets and mini-guns it would have shot the living excrement out of them.”
“Mini-guns?”
“Electric 7.62-mm Gatling guns. They can fire a hundred rounds a second.”
“Ya Allah,” Youssef breathed. “But we don’t have such a machine. What are we to do?”
“Oh, we’ll just have to be creative,” the Scorpion said, a boyish grin creasing his face in a way that made Youssef smile despite his apprehension.
“You say that as if there were little to fear,” Youssef remarked. He tied the tail of his headcloth across his nose to help screen out the dust.
“In war there is always much to fear, my brother. But they think they will surprise us, so the surprise will be on them. In battle, this is very useful,” the Scorpion said.
“I wish I knew more about war,” Youssef said glumly.
“In the twentieth century that is an easy wish to fulfill,” the Scorpion replied.
When they were about ten kilometers from Wadi Haradh, the Scorpion motioned the others to follow him as he pulled off the road. After the last truck had pulled up and all were assembled, he went over his plan. Then the weapons were passed around, for the Mutayr were never without weapons. Mostly M-16s, although some still preferred the M-1S and Enfields of older wars. There was no shortage as more arms had been air-dropped in with the American radio technician.
They were now a war party, cartridge belts across their chests. The Scorpion showed them the flare pistol and they spoke with few words, as was appropriate before a raid. Then they unloaded Bashusa from his truck to another.
“God be with you,” Sheikh Zaid wheezed, shading his eyes as if from the sun, as Youssef and the Scorpion climbed back into the cab. But it was not the fierce sun that caused him to hold his hands over his eyes, the Scorpion knew.
“And with you,” the Scorpion said.
As Youssef drove off in a cloud of yellow dust, the Scorpion broke out his XM-203; a double-barreled weapon with an M-16 rifle mounted above an M-79 grenade launcher.
Just holding it brought it all back for a moment. The dripping jungle, the red dust, the sounds of motor scooters and helicopters, the sharp scents of nuoc mam and cordite. Nam.
He shook his head to clear away the memory. At least Macready had been able to supply him, he thought. It was something a control was supposed to do, but still, it couldn’t have been easy to coordinate the drop on an undefined desert location on such short notice, he admitted to himself. At least the old wreck was trying; God knows it was going to be murderous at best.
He couldn’t shake a feeling of dread. There was something else. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. The entry into Abdul Sa’ad’s plot had been too straightforwar
d. There was a nasty surprise waiting somewhere. But where?
Had there been anything in his phone conversation with Macready? He had called Doha from a solar-powered radiophone in the desert. Since the oil boom, there were radiophones in the remote areas. The conversation was guarded, cryptic. Macready had started by inserting the word “August” denoting the line might be bugged.
“Yes, it is hot, like last August, Mr. Ben Adam.”
“Things are warming up all over,” the Scorpion replied.
“I know. But you’ll be happy to learn that our parent company has agreed to your terms. The full amount has been paid in advance,” Macready said, his voice sounding nasal over the distance, as if he had a cold. Or else he was choking on the amount, the Scorpion thought.
Then the Scorpion told him what he wanted. Arms, communications all of it.
“That’s impossible,” Macready had sputtered.
“But you’ll do it,” the Scorpion had said and rung off.
At a word from the Scorpion, Youssef swerved off the dirt road and took to the sands, the wheels kicking up showers of sand like garden sprinklers. They would not return to the road until after they had traversed Wadi Haradh.
A sparse line of rimth scrub bushes too spindly to sustain even a camel marked the approach to Wadi Haradh. No doubt there was a trickle of ancient subterranean moisture deep beneath the sands. Youssef slowed the truck to a stop behind a rock outcropping. The Scorpion studied the terrain. Beyond this point they could be seen by anyone set up in the wadi.
The floor of the wadi was flat and sandy, its surface broken only by an occasional scrub bush. Probably mined, he thought. Low sandy hills lined either side and an uneven ridge ran along the hill on the left, near the crest. That would be a good place for them to hide, the Scorpion noted. On the right, the hill was rockier, steeper, the top flat. It was too visible for aircraft and it would require experienced troops to keep them in a cross fire and not wind up shooting at each other so they were probably dug in on the left side only. Still, maybe their commander was either very good or very stupid so he had to keep it as a possibility, he decided. In the center of the wadi, near the road, was a large arfaj bush near a sandy rise which might serve as concealment, if they were going to use an “L” ambush. The trucks would have to go alongside the right slope, if and when he found the mines.
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