by Roger Weston
“What?” Paul said.
“All visitors come to see their homes.”
“Whose homes?”
“The most famous is Mr. Laing’s. Everyone wants to see his. He was the first man like you to come to my city. He was a very brave man.”
“Yes. I’ve heard of him.” Paul reached into his pocket. “I would like to see his home, but not now.” He pulled out another five dollar bill. “I will go tomorrow. Which way is it?”
Once again the little girl pointed the general direction and he thanked her for her help. “Now go home,” he said as he set the bills in her hand.
The little girl turned and limped away.
Entering the hotel, Paul requested a room. The innkeeper led them to the top floor. They were shown into a small black box of a room that had access to the roof. Paul spread his blanket on one of the beds and closed his eyes. Marwan reluctantly laid down on his. Once Paul was sure that Marwan had fallen asleep, he closed his eyes and drifted off. After the punishing hike through the desert they were both exhausted. It seemed like only minutes had passed when Paul awoke suddenly in a sweat. His eyes still heavy with sleep, he got up, amazed that it was still light out. With sand squeezing between his bare toes, he set out through Timbuktu as the sun began to set. Groups of people either stood in doorways or out in the streets. They chanted and sang in somber overtones. As he walked down the road he heard men reciting the Koran. Candles began to glimmer in doorways. In one open door, Paul saw a woman as wrinkled as an old fig doing a black magic ritual over a group of moaning followers. Paul looked back over his shoulder. He carefully scanned the growing crowd. He walked to the outskirts of town where the homes were mostly ruins. He came to a group of huts where a woman tended a fire. Several families danced and sang around the flames, clapping and shouting. Children played, some running circles around him.
Paul shooed them away and turned to return to the city. He walked down the road the little girl had shown him earlier in the day. After a few minutes he came upon a simple two-story rectangular dwelling with rough mud bricks and two stick gutters thrusting out in symmetrical opposition. A huge wooden door with ornate metalwork marked the entrance and a bronze plaque christened the doorway to where Gordon Laing had lived while in Timbuktu.
“During the 14th and 15th century,” a woman’s voice said behind him, “Timbuktu was a great center of Islamic learning. Arab scholars came to the city from as far away as Spain.”
Paul turned around and saw a gaunt woman with sunken eyes.
The woman smiled and began speaking again, “When I was young I had lots of money. My mother and father were Taureg, and before the great drought, they were wealthy and had many Bela slaves. The prosperity left my mother and me with nothing to do, so she taught me history and language. She died during the drought along with all the livestock. Three years later my father died. I cherish my memories of my mother teaching me. What do you want to know about the explorer Gordon Laing?”
Paul told the woman that he was just passing by, thanked her for her time, and started to walk away.
The old lady sighed. “Everyone asks, where are his papers?”
Paul stopped and turned around slowly. “Do you know where they are?”
“When he was killed, his papers were swallowed by the sand. Laing was a great man not because of his papers, but because of his great love for his wife, that poor Emma. Laing loved her more than he loved even life. His love for her was so great that he suffered more being away from her than going a week without food. He told everyone that the horror of being hacked up with swords was nothing to the thought of not seeing his beloved Emma again.”
Paul nodded in sympathy, then squinted his eyes, “Swallowed by the sand? Surely someone knows where they are.”
The widow shrugged. “Some say the papers were spread among desert people, but this is not true. Maybe Sheikh Labeida used them to start camp fires. For Laing to have reached Timbuktu alive was a miracle. He would have failed if not for his desire to be reunited with his young wife. That poor woman suffered as much as Laing. Her heart was crushed when she learned that they had murdered him. She could not go on without her dear husband. Within two years she died of a broken heart.” The old widow stopped talking and her gaze drifted out across the dusty town. Paul could feel the sadness that weighed upon her.
“Who was Sheikh Labeida?”
“Never has a man survived such an attack. Any other man would have died after so many saber cuts. That he lived and continued on the back of a camel for 400 miles with such injuries can only be attributed to his love for Emma. When he finally arrived in Timbuktu he stayed thirty-five days in this house studying our ancient manuscripts. Then Sultan Bello made him leave. Sheikh Labeida was the man who volunteered to escort Mr. Laing back to Morocco and back to his beloved Emma.”
Paul shuddered at the thought of being hacked nearly to death.
“Sheikh Labeida burned Gordon Laing’s papers because they contained black magic. They are no more.”
Was it true that the papers didn’t exist? Maybe Marwan was mistaken. Maybe Abu Bakr was in the Sahara for some other reason.
He thanked the woman once again, then asked her one more question. “I’ve heard the Taureg have a camp nearby. Can you tell me where it is?”
“You must not go there. They are not as kind to foreigners as I am.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that. If you would be so kind as to tell me where the camp is, I will be sure to avoid it.”
She told him the area to avoid, but Paul planned on going directly to their camp when he and Marwan set out again. When he got to the camp, he would try to buy some guns—or if that wasn’t possible, then he would steal them even if it cost him his life in the attempt. Thinking of the things he had learned from the old woman and of what he needed to do in the morning, Paul walked back to the hotel.
Darkness was now overtaking the city and in places Paul had to zigzag through bodies that were sprawled along the streets asleep for the night, all seeking relief from the unrelenting heat of the desert.
When Paul entered the hotel room he saw that Marwan was still asleep. The room was stifling, so Paul headed up to the roof and lay down to sleep in the open air like the people on the street had done. He listened as groans, screams and laughs drifted across the city. As he laid there on the rooftop in Timbuktu he thought about his plan to go to the Taureg camp in the morning to acquire the guns he would need for the battle that was to come. He would take Abu Bakr dead or alive if it was the last thing he did.
As he was dozing off the strange sounds that roamed the air and the bats that fluttered above him in quick, sharp circles lulled him into sleep.
***
As the sun rose, Paul stirred from his restless slumber. A minute later, Marwan’s head appeared from the hole in the roof. “We must hurry,” he said. “We must leave and go into the desert. Abu Bakr is there.”
Paul nodded in agreement and after a quick breakfast provided by the innkeeper of millet porridge and green tea, Paul and Marwan set out through Timbuktu to find a Jeep for hire.
CHAPTER 36
In the early morning hours Paul and Marwan scoured the town to get the supplies they needed. While Paul rented a Jeep, he sent Marwan to the medina to buy food for their trip. When Marwan returned, Paul explained his plans to provide for their other needs--fire power. He spread a map out on the hood of the Jeep and pointed at the X he’d made with his pencil.
“This is where the Taureg are camped,” Paul said, “and that is where I’ll get the weapons we will need.”
“That’s where they were two months ago, but now they’re here.” Marwan said as he pointed to a different spot on the map.
Paul shook his head. “I spoke with a Taureg woman last night and this is where she said that they are camped. It is half a day away. If we leave now we can be there before it is too hot to travel.”
“She is wrong,” Marwan said. “You forget that I know the desert around here
well. She gave you old information.” Marwan pointed at the map again, “There is no question. This is where they camp.”
“That’s a day away and to the south of where she told me.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“Okay, we will head in that direction, but if you’re wrong we will have lost valuable time.”
“You will see. This is where you will find the Taureg.”
They started the trek once again across the desert. Eight hours later, on an endless wasteland of flat, hard-packed earth, Marwan told Paul to pull over. He said that they should stop for the night. He assured Paul that they would approach the Taureg camp the next morning.
After a course bowl of millet soup for dinner, Paul crawled into his tent and fell into a deep sleep. Early the next morning, he was awakened by voices. As he opened the flap door of his tent, a tall, lean Taureg in Indigo-blue desert robes put the barrel of an AK-47 to his head. Two other Taureg seized him by the arms and pulled him out of the tent.
Marwan trained an AK at Paul. “Bind his hands and bring him,” he said to the Tauregs as he motioned towards Paul. “He is dangerous.”
Paul’s mouth fell open. He was unable to close it. Finally he said, “You betrayed me.”
“I followed orders.”
“I saved your life,” Paul said.
Marwan spit on the parched sand, abruptly turned his back to Paul and started toward a Jeep that was parked a quarter mile away across the hard pack desert.
***
The camp consisted of twelve camel-skin tents and two small, decrepit, one-story buildings. The largest tent was shaped like an insect and a veiled, blue-robed guard stood at the entrance with an AK47 strapped around his shoulder. Sandbag fortifications ringed the camp, and beyond them Paul saw a makeshift shooting range. The Taureg led him into one of the old structures, which turned out to be a small jail, the last thing he’d have expected to find in the middle of the Sahara Desert.
The old hinges creaked, and the lock clanked. Paul pounded on the steel door. “It stinks in here.”
The guards didn’t respond.
The cell was dim. Even his hotel room in Tetouan compared favorably. Luckily, a square beam of light poured through the high window, offering some fresh air and casting shadows of bars on the floor.
Fire-blackened bedsprings lay naked on a swayback frame. Paul lay down and closed his eyes. He couldn't believe he had come so far just to be thrown into a third-world jail cell that stunk of death and smoke.
A voice pierced the silence of the cell. He opened his eyes and looked toward the door but . . . nothing. He lay his head back down, but again a voice pierced the void of silence.
Paul sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He looked all around but couldn't see where the voice was coming from. The third time he narrowed the sound down to a hole in the wall, no bigger than a quarter.
Kneeling down, he looked through the hole, seeing an eyeball in the next cell.
“You are English?” the voice said.
“American,” Paul said.
“Go and check your door.”
“What?”
“Sometimes the lock doesn't hold.”
“They latched it,” Paul said.
“Just check. The last one shook it free and got out.”
Paul considered it for one intoxicating breath of stagnant heat. He stepped to the door and shook the handle, but there wasn't a lot of play. He stepped back to the eye-hole.
“They must have fixed it.”
“I would've heard them.”
“Well, it's not opening.”
“Sometimes it catches. Just be patient. One day it won't hold. You remember I told you.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Basha Hadid. What is your name?”
Paul told him.
“Okay, you listen to me. You wait thirty minutes, then start screaming. The guards will come to see what is wrong. Tell them you are thirsty and at least give you water to keep you alive. Don't worry if they won't give you the water. Maybe when they close the door again the lock won't catch. This is what the last man in your cell did and it worked.”
“You mean he escaped?”
“Yes, but he didn't wait till dark and they caught him. If he'd waited till dark he would've gotten away.”
“Where is he now?”
Silence fell thickly upon the cell. “What happened?” Paul said.
“If he would've waited till dark—”
“Tell me.”
Basha cleared his throat. “They tied him to the bed, poured gasoline on him and lit him on fire.”
Paul glared at the naked black bed springs he'd been lying on. So it wasn't dead rats he'd been smelling after all. At least they took the bones out.
“Why do you think I'm telling you all this?” Basha said.
“Why?”
“Because there's nothing to worry about. If he would've just waited till dark like I told him-- We were going to go together, but he was a fool. You listen to me and we'll get out of here alive. Why are you here?”
“A friend of mine disappeared. I think Abu Bakr is involved.”
“What was your friend doing in the desert?”
“He was in Madagascar.”
Basha's voice got excitable. “Was he a prospector?”
“What do you know about it?”
“About your friend? Nothing. Except I heard Abu Bakr has done away with a few down there. I never heard any details, just rumors.”
“Why are you locked up?” Paul said.
“Dailia is a devil,” Basha said, his voice cracking. “She betrayed me.”
“Who is Dailia?”
“This is her jail. She’s the mother of Abu Bakr and she leads an organization of Taureg and fanatical Islamic women. I’d heard she was involved in terrorism, but I was hired for a legitimate enterprise. This, my friend, is a terrorist training camp.”
“How did she betray you?”
“Stinking lies.”
“What about?”
Basha hissed into the eyehole. “I am a scholar; I am not one of them. I should never have taken this job, but she promised lots of money.”
“For what?”
“Research. So why did they kill your friend, anyway?”
“What were you researching?”
“Yes, well, you see, that's why I'm curious about your friend. I was working on something related to Madagascar. I don't mind telling you after what that devil has done to me. Dailia heard an old legend about the explorer Gordon Laing. He was Scottish, you know.”
“I've heard a little about him.” Paul lay on the floor by the eyehole.
“Dailia has been searching for the lost papers of Gordon Laing ever since word got out that a prospector in Madagascar found the world’s largest sapphire and nobody knew where. Dailia consulted with me on this, first to get a historical opinion on Laing’s papers, then to search for them among the numerous collections of ancient manuscripts in Timbuktu.”
“Go on.”
“There’s a connection to Laing's account of his journey in the nineteenth century.”
“What do you know about it?”
Paul heard a strange sound through the eye-hole. He couldn't tell if Basha was snickering or weeping.
After a long hesitation, Basha said, “I know nothing of it, I mean, of course I know the historical record.” He paused. “All right then. Gordon Laing set out in 1825 to be the first westerner to reach Timbuktu of his own free will and return home alive to enlighten the world about the mythical city. Many believed it was a city of gold. He was an ambitious and foolish man. After months in the desert, he was attacked and left to die by Taureg. Some feel he was betrayed by Sheikh Babani who was his guide.”
“So what does that have to do with Abu Bakr?”
“Well, you see, Laing didn't die. It was a miracle. He was hacked up with swords; his wrists and neck were slashed. His face was slashed up horribly. No man could have survived th
at in the Sahara and lived, but Laing did. A young man, Sidi Mohammad, took pity on poor Laing and cared for him.”
“Where did he come from?”
“Part of Laing's expedition. Laing's aids were mostly killed in the attack, but the Tauregs left the Muslim part of his caravan alone. And one of Laing's aids escaped unharmed into the desert.”
Paul rolled over and lay on his back. “So that's why they think this Sheikh Babani betrayed him?”
“Babani had been blackmailing him and lying all along, claiming falsely to be governor of Ghadames. There was no proof Babani sided with the Taureg, but just before the attack, he sold Laing's gunpowder to the Taureg protectors and Babani tried to get Laing to disarm.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Exactly. After the attack, Babani abandoned the severely-wounded Laing, claiming he was unwilling to take the risk of letting the Taureg catch him again. He probably never expected Laing to live long enough to catch up, but as I said, it was a miracle. Laing caught up daily. A journey like that could kill a man without any of the critical wounds that Laing had. But nothing could stop him.
“Then one day, Sheikh Babani suddenly died. Laing, who was a Christian, called it a visitation. Maybe it was. Right now I can almost relate to Laing's agony and betrayal. Dailia is my Sheikh Babani.”
Paul rolled over on his side. “What happened next?”
“What?”
“To Laing.”
“Oh, yes, listen. Dailia's planning to have me executed. She's sentenced me to death, you hear me?”
“For what?”
“So I've got to get out of this place. You're the only chance I've got. When that lock fails, you let me out, too, you hear me?”
“I'll take you with me.”
“You won't forget? After all, if I hadn't told you about that lock, you'd have never had a chance. You owe me your life.”
“I'll remember.”
“Thank you.”
“What about Laing?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Let me see, where . . . Oh, yes. After Babani died, Laing got the plague. He should've been dead even before he got the plague, so this disease should've finished him off. Yet in another miracle he survived even the plague. This is a man who had already survived twenty-five severe wounds.
