by L. J. Martin
It's almost an hour before Abby swings off into the desert, due west, and only a few mikes before the green of a half-acre of palms appear in the distance.
"Sanusi are there," Abby observes. "They will be no trouble."
"Will they know anything?"
"Sanusi know all that goes on in the Sahara...the ocean of sand. They are said to have eyes in the back of their heads."
"You speak their dialect?" I ask.
"They speak Badawi. That was my aunt's native language."
"Good, we will invite the leader to supper with us."
"And he will accept as it would be rude to refuse and likely will bring a goat to roast."
Sheik Ali Hassan does not partake of liquor, but he is inclined to use the demon cocaine and the occasional Turkish water pipe, of hashish.
As he wishes to stay alert, this evening he’s cut a few lines of cocaine.
When his SAT phone rattles again, he’s travelling a thousand miles an hour and snaps. “Do you have it? Have you recovered it? It’s been hours, hours, hours.”
“I am sorry my Sheik,” Al-Wakim says. “We tried to climb to the load one way and reached a spot we could go no farther, we…”
“You are cowards, that is the reason you have not reached the gold. You will suffer. I will call Musa and we must begin killing women again.”
“My Sheik, the load is there. I was close enough to see much of it in the distance. We will reach it another way. Do not be eager to bring death to us from the infidel’s drones. That would not get the gold for you.”
Hassam sighs deeply, then snaps, “I will give you a few more hours. Call me when you reach it.”
“Yes, my Sheik.”
Hassam disconnects, looks at three more lines of cocaine, then decides he must switch to hashish. He unlimbers his water pipe and loads it.
Then after two pipes, decides he must sleep. There are two dozen young infidel women coming to please him. He will need his rest.
54
They observe us from a distance as we erect two lightweight tan ten-by-ten-foot sunshades and spread some small tarps around a fire pit, then Abby and Waddy wander over to their small tent camp. Like the other group we saw, these have a few camels, sheep and goats.
In moments, they return with two men in white robes, both carry old Lebel World War 1 rifles, at least one hundred years old and pretty-exhausted. Both weapons, however, are well oiled and the stocks, if scarred, finished nicely. They are followed by a woman with both hindquarters of a goat on her shoulders and a teapot hanging from an elbow, as well as an iron device with legs and a rotisserie bar in a sling on her back. We’d built a fire from the stubs of palm fronds and some wormy wood from sparse shrubs resembling our Mojave and Sonoran Desert greasewood. After our introductions, to the men who place hands over hearts, a gesture we return. But we are not introduced to the veiled woman. She’s busy heating the tea and preparing the meat, and the hindquarters are soon turning. She leaves the roasting to another woman she waves over. The first woman fades away but shows one more time with several pieces of unleavened flat bread and a clay vat of some yogurt mixture, I presume from goat or maybe camel milk. We throw in some canned peaches and a box of Hershey bars.
We’re soon around the fire sitting cross-legged and eating, while making nice talk with Abby and Waddy doing the interpreting.
Abby turns to me after dabbing his mouth with a neckerchief, “Now we will see what they know.” And turns back and jabbers, gets answers, jabbers again, gets answers, then turns to me again. “We should reward them.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Do you have Algerian dinar?”
“No, I have American dollars and some Swiss gold francs.”
“Gold. A tenth will do?”
“Then a full ounce will do better as it’s all I have.”
He smiles. “We should get a camel and information for that.”
“I’m happy to pay it, if it’s actionable and accurate.”
“Then that is as it is.” He turns back to the two Bedos and jabbers, and I get a tight smile and nod from each. In a heartbeat, both are seated and drawing in the hard earth. The good news is what they draw agrees closely with what Sa’id has drawn.
The so-called palace is atop a cap rock plateau, covering nearly all the south end of the half kilometer long, quarter click wide flat top. The mosque, a much smaller structure, occupies the far end, smaller and centered. A double row of planted palms creates a two-hundred-yard walkway between the two structures. The edges of the cap rock are twenty to forty feet of nearly vertical basalt, with another twenty to forty feet of rough rock escarpment sloping away below the cliffs. A two-track trail that will likely accommodate the Rovers has been carved out of the south side, steeply rising to massive timber gates. I’m pleased to see a more easily breached human passthrough door near the huge ones. The palace is walled by twenty-feet-high stone with little fenestration, partially collapsed in a few spots, only a few slotted openings for shooters. They are only six inches wide by three feet tall, reminiscent of those I’ve seen in castles to accommodate archers. Sa’id has drawn the interior, which is a half-acre building only partially roofed. The rest collapsed. Two outbuildings consist of a barn and a water-well building. A few palms are scattered at the base of the escarpment. Lots of spindly brush resembling greasewood and mesquite is spotted around the escarpment. A small grove of ancient olive trees is a scraggly change from sand at the south, and two cypress grace the edge of the two-track trail halfway up the slope.
The good news is there are two smaller caprock basalt edifices flanking the larger, one only ten acres or so, the other only fifty feet wide and slightly longer. The smaller is almost tower-like and at least fifty feet taller than the palace walls. With luck, a shooter atop it will see into at least half the palace courtyard. Lots of loose rock and the same spotted brush will offer a plethora of sniper hidey-holes on both secondary caprock islands in the sand.
I dig a coin from my bugout bag and the Bedos excuse themselves, happy with their reward, as we are more than happy with the info they’ve provided.
More than happy if it’s accurate. It seems they know of a tunnel leading from a nearby wadi under the walls of Ma’an Helu and into the main building.
The so-called palace itself is reported to be a wreck, as would any untended building be after ten centuries in the Sahara sun, and wind; Sahara simooms, as the storms are known. The Mosque, a separate building, is in better shape as it has been used by passing Bedos off and on for the last centuries. Abby informs me that ma’an helu means sweet water in Arabic.
If necessary, we’ll turn the water salty with blood.
It’s time for a planning meeting.
They flew for an hour, landed at an airport near a small town, and were fed and given water while seated in the plane. Four men in military uniforms, driving a military vehicle, were stationed nearby. The vehicle had a machine gun mounted in a top turret, and one of the soldiers sat nearby while the other three played some game. Then, three at a time, the women were taken to a nearby building and, even though the plane had a small toilet, allowed to use the toilet and wash up, escorted there by the pilot and the female guard, Alia.
They slept in the plane, then again were fed and taken to the toilet.
Connie has been torn. Pull the .380 and shoot it out with the four bogies on the plane as soon as it touches down or wait and see what transpires. She’s sure the plane will be met by other soldiers, but if not, she’s decided to make her play.
She dozes a little on the trip. Then the throttling back of the engines awakens her. Then one of the guards yells, in English, to tighten their seatbelts. They are obviously on a glide path, and soon the plane rocks and bounces as it touchesd down on a rough strip. Then she is thrown forward as the pilot violently applies the brakes. It is obviously a short strip they’re on. The plane rolls to a stop, then the plane reverses direction and taxis back to near touchdown.
; Connie studies those awaiting. Seven vehicles—three Toyota trucks, three Toyota SUVs, and a Mercedes limo. The bad news is at least another half-dozen armed men are scattered among the vehicles.
As the stairway is dropped, a robed man of generous girth exits the limo and strides forward, his robe flowing behind. He’s sandal-wearing, and a sash holds a large carved dagger in a jeweled sheath. His scraggly beard scatters below his receding chin. He’s flanked by two men with more sophisticated arms, small automatic pistols with thirty-shot magazines as long as the weapons. Much smaller than the AKs the others carry.
The fat robed man stands with hands folded behind. Another man in a military uniform exits the limo and strides up but stands slightly behind the first.
The man in uniform is an ominous sign. Could the Algerian military be involved?
“Do not forget your belongings,” the guard on the plane announces. Then adds, “You are about to meet Sheik Ali Hassan, who will be your host. He will explain more to you when you arrive at the harem.”
“Harem!” several of the women exclaim.
55
“Silence,” the guard snaps. “You will be silent unless the sheik asks you a question. Keep your eyes down, as is proper. Do not look him in the eye, even if he speaks to you.”
Simone has managed to get directly behind Connie as they stand to exit the plane. “What the fuck is this?” she asks, in a loud whisper.
Connie turns and hushes her with a finger to her lips. “Quiet, do exactly what they say.”
“I feel like shit. I need my shot. I won’t make it much longer.”
“Quiet. Just as soon as…”
“Who’s talking?” the guard shouts, and the girls shut up.
As they reach the bottom stair, each is stopped, then led forward by the hand to stand in front of the sheik, whose hands are now folded on his generous belly. He seems unsteady on his feet. As the first one is brought before him, he speaks loudly to his men in Arabic, but Connie can hear as he commands, “Divert your gaze,” and his men look away. Then he speaks to the girl who’s standing with eyes down. “Remove your niqab…your face cover,” and she unwinds the scarf she has wrapped around her face. He nods. She’s led to a Toyota truck and loaded in the small bed. He continues the ritual for each girl.
When Connie is led forward and he commands her to remove the scarf she’s using, she says, in English. “The young girl behind me is diabetic and needs insulin.”
“She may need insulin, but you should be less insolent.” His tone is harsh.
“I am so sorry, but my friend…”
“My sister is diabetic. We are not barbarians. She will receive what she needs in the harem.”
“Thank you, sir,” Connie says, keeping her eyes down.
The sheik looks to the side where the man in the military uniform stands and speaks in Arabic. “She has much mouth, maybe I’ll put it to good use.”
Both men laugh.
Connie shows no sign of understanding, merely stands with eyes down until she’s led away to an enclosed Land Rover. But she hears the sheik as Simone stands before him. “You are very lovely. You will be cared for in your new home.”
“Ukfa ouya,” Simone says, with a bit of sass in her tone.
Jesus, Connie thinks, I hope he didn’t attend school in the U.S. and understands pig Latin. A ‘fuck you’ likely would not be well received.
“I beg your pardon?” the sheik replies.
“Sorry, sir,” Simone says, “I feel very bad and need my medicine.”
Thank God, Connie thinks. The girl has a brain. A small one, but a brain.
The fat sheik starts to say something, then is distracted, digs in a pocket and pulls out a cell phone. He walks away a few steps and begins screaming into the instrument. “You fool, you fool, I will send someone else. You had best disappear into the sand!”
Then. He seems to calm down and says in a lower voice. “You will continue. I am sorry two of your men have fallen to their deaths. Be more careful but do not fail me.” Then he slips the phone back into his pocket and returns as if nothing was amiss.
Connie and Simone are in one vehicle, Patty and Gretchen in another, as they speed away from the airstrip. It’s nearly an hour and growing dark—and they’ve been on a dirt two-track for most of that time—when Connie sees what she thinks is an apparition in the distance. Atop a hill rising from the desert is a white palace with gleaming gold minarets. At the base of the hill is a grove of palms. The hill itself seems a kilometer wide, she has no idea how deep. As they near, they enter a wide road lined with palms and paved with brick-colored pavers.
The road winds around the hill as it rises, and Connie realizes the hill is almost a perfect bubble, as long as wide. The top is surrounded by a ten-foot-high wall, probably some kind of block but plastered and whitewashed. The gates are black iron topped with golden spikes, and open as they approach. Their caravan is led by the limo and it veers to the left while the vehicles containing guards and twenty-four young women go to the right. The entire courtyard is paved with the same brick pavers as the road leading there. A round fountain is centered twenty paces in front of double doors that appear to be sheathed in gold. The fountain is programed, sprays from five to twenty-five feet high, and dances with alternate sprays from several heads. Peacocks and Guinea hens roam the grounds.
They stop around a corner of the whitewashed building in a line twenty paces from a rose-colored door. The door is flanked by a white wall but covered with red bougainvillea. The exterior wall around the courtyard and on the face of the building has alternating red and yellow bougainvillea clinging to the whitewashed plaster.
The door opens as they exit the vehicles and the guards form a line as Alia leads the women past them and inside.
Most of the women gasp as they enter a courtyard of palms and well-tended flowers surrounding a twenty-by-forty-foot swimming pool. Plates of fruit, mostly dates, rest atop white iron tables surrounded by what, in the states, would be called veranda furniture, all rose colored.
Six women in black burkas are lined up and stand jabbering from side to side. Residents, Connie presumes.
Alia hands her AK to a guard who’s followed as far as the door, then he shuts it, remaining outside.
“Gather around,” Alia commands and stands atop a landscaping stone. As soon as the ladies are settled, she commands, “Listen closely. You will each have an individual room. Two rooms share a bath. You will bathe as quickly as possible then dress in the clothes provided. Attendants are available for anything you need…”
Simone interrupts, “How about a cell phone?”
Alia is not amused. “After you are here for some time, and should you please the sheik, you will be allowed to communicate with your family.”
“I have to have medicine, or I’ll not be here for ‘sometime’,” Simone says, and not in a kind tone.
“Your medicine will be provided after you are examined by the resident doctor. We have a fully stocked clinic on the grounds.”
“Quickly please,” Simone says.
“The ladies in black are your attendants and will assist you. Now, do as you’re told. Help yourself to the fruit. Then you will be assigned your room.”
Connie was wrong, she surmised, as the women in burkas were maids or whatever the attendants were called, not conscripts of the harem. As Connie and Simone dig into some grapes, Simone whispers to her, “Alibaba and the fucking forty thieves. Harem is horseshit. I’ll bite that fat fuck’s nuts off if he gives me the chance.”
“Let’s get out of here alive, kid.”
56
We drive to within a click of Sheik Ali Hassan’s depository of American women, Ma’an Helu. I’m pleased we have only a quarter moon, but it nicely backgrounds the three rock heaps rising out of the Sahara. The north one is about the same height as the main middle one, sixty to seventy feet or so, the south one well over a hundred.
Much to his chagrin, I leave Sa’id cable-tied to the
steering wheel of a Land Rover.
As planned, Pax takes one night-scoped .338 Lapua sniper rifle and heads south to the highest of the flanking rockpiles, one he can climb and, if he reaches the top, see at least partially into the courtyard of the wreck of a palace. As I want Skip and Bo with me, muscle and brains, I send Waddy, who claims to have been a marksman in the French Foreign Legion. He jogs to the other. I will give them two hours to get cuddled into a hidey hole. All of us have handheld radios and Skip has a SAT phone, as well.
Google Earth has shown us a brush-lined ravine that will take Bo, Skip, and me the last three hundred yards to a position in the moon-shade of the rock that should allow us unseen access to the base of the escarpment, or, hopefully, into the tunnel that has an entrance only fifty yards from the base of the escarpment. It’s said to be covered by planks, level for a hundred yards, then a long stairway ending in a stall in a stable building. If the tunnel is a dud, I plan to climb to a position only fifty yards from the road and the gates, move along the wall, and blow the passthrough gate if I have to. I have five pounds of C4 in my backpack, as does Skip. I pray I don’t have to set a charge as I want to know the exact location of the women before any firefight or threat to life takes place.
I’ve left Tobias and Abby—who claims proficiency with the mortars and the LAWS Rocket Launcher—with the vehicles in case we need them relocated or us recovered from some other location. Tobias has a SAT phone as well as a handheld and is also in charge of all communication between us. Ji Su, who’s now located with her rented Jet Ranger at a small strip only twenty clicks from us, Taj in Malta, and Sol in Las Vegas. All are standing by.
Bo, Skip and I are waiting in the ravine, no more than two hundred yards from the base of the escarpment, giving Pax and Waddy their prescribed two hours, when my SAT phone rattles.
