Desert Hostage

by Diane Dunaway

  At first the young sheik had said nothing, though every muscle of his face tensed. Then he demanded to see the body, and, when he had seen it bloated, ghastly as it was, he shut himself in his most private room and spoke to no one.

  His ministers took up a vigil at his door then, and for three days nervously drank coffee and ate nothing as they conferred in low voices. It was two more days before the young sheik appeared again, and there seemed nothing left of youth in the hard warrior's eyes that looked back at them.

  "Is this not the leader we have prayed for?" the ministers whispered. And one by one, they fell to their knees before the new Sheik of El Abadan.

  Later, Karim cursed the days of ceremonies necessary by tradition for the inheritance of his father's titles. If he had attacked the fort at Sevit immediately, he might have had the opportunity to capture Clayton. But as it was, Clayton was gone when his warriors overran the fort a fortnight later; taking the soldiers by such surprise they were killed without resistance.

  Karim supposed he had gone back to England, but no one knew for sure, and no prisoners were taken who could tell. So when the fort had been burned to the ground, Karim al-Sharif stood in the rubble circled by the elders of the five tribes, his face carved of stone as he raised his father's sword and spoke clearly to the heavens.

  "I, Karim al-Sharif, swear to avenge the wrongs committed against my people, to free them from the greed and power of the whites, to kill the Englishman Clayton, and to sell his women and children as slaves. Before Allah, this I swear!"

  Chapter 13

  As heir to the throne of El Abadan, Karim had been carefully trained by his father in matters of strategy, trade, warfare, and the Holy Koran, and this education was enlarged by his mother's knowledge of the outer world and the languages of the-whites. But Karim's enemies wasted little time in testing the young sheik's skills. He had hardly come to power before an ambitious cousin raised a rebellion against him, the Hussar began a series of raids on his caravans, and crop failures which, in the past, had signaled a year of famine, were reported in the south.

  But the sheik of El Abadan, undaunted and with skill beyond his years, rallied his loyal forces and put down the rebellion in a single swift, bloody purge, then defeated the Hussar in a stealthy ambush, chasing them back to their mountain stronghold. And in the early spring that came to the south that year, the sheik ordered new crops planted and opened the city's granaries and rationed the grain so the people would not starve.

  Yet this was only the beginning. Next the sheik met with the leaders of other tribes beyond the five of his existing alliance, and persuaded many to join with him. Though some still refused, fearing retribution from the Hussar, he strengthened his forces to twelve tribes, making him more powerful than any lord had ever been in the great desert.

  In the south he purchased more land for crops and a gold mine. To the east, he enlarged his circle of spies, placing them in the Hussar camp. And with the new, most modern weapons made, including the rapid-fire Gating gun, he defended the trade routes even more mercilessly than his father had.

  So prosperous years followed, and El Abadan grew to be the capital of African trade, a distant outpost known only remotely by outsiders, a conduit of riches from the Mediterranean to the African interior and source of those plumes, wine, diamonds, gold, and ivory so treasured by Europeans. And on those traders who used his trade routes, the sheik levied a tariff so his coffers grew. But the English soldiers came ever more often, and the French and Italian were more numerous than before.

  With their gold they corrupted the governments in the cities, so they dominated not only business there, but politics as well. Finally then, saying they were invited; they established a military presence, an army that Arabs could join only as servants and grooms.

  And with this army they entered the interior, this time better equipped than ever, and marched along the trade routes to guard goods bound for European traders. Often they left small detachments behind, slowly spreading their influence even into the desert. And when the time came that they could no longer be ignored, it took all Karim's will power to bargain with his hated enemy now that they were too well armed, too organized simply to attack as before. And even as he sat across the table from the English captain and his two lieutenants, hatred burned in Karim's heart. But while he knew they would stop at nothing to have access to the trade routes, the sheik had a bargaining chip of his own.

  "Why not pay for the use of these trade routes as Arabs have paid tariffs for centuries to those who protected them?" he suggested, sipping tea in the English fashion. "Already my men guard these routes. They know the land, and its dangers, and protect the goods I myself buy and sell. Would this not be less costly than to deploy English troops to protect English goods? So much simpler for me to punish these bandits when they dare attack than it is for you. And there are many bandits in the desert. Have you not already discovered this?" His strong teeth showed in a smile. "And many of these bandits particularly prefer to attack whites, whom they consider their enemies."

  The veiled threat in the sheik's words did not escape the three English soldiers. But aside from the chill they all felt whenever this young man fixed his black eyes directly into

  theirs, the English officers were impressed by the civilized way in which he conducted business-like a gentleman seated at a table instead of like most of these savages, squatting on cushions.

  They had heard he was ruler of a desert city, and leader of a powerful alliance far to the south, but he had avoided all questions concerning this. And while his manner was intimidating, he inspired confidence, and strangely, while they feared him, they believed the promises he made. Anyway, they told themselves, they were grateful to him for keeping them from equipping yet another vulnerable outpost far into the desert. And who wanted another disaster like Khartoum?

  So it was agreed, and hands were shaken all around. And in the months after, the English didn't regret their decision as the sheik faithfully carried out his part of the bargain, protecting the English goods with the same care, and swift retribution, as he protected his own. For their part, the English paid the tariff, pulled their troops back to the cities and occupied themselves with struggling with the French and Italians over control of the riches they were able to extract from those they could. Karim quickly took advantage of this, making similar trade arrangements with the French and Italians as well, taking their gold for protecting their shipments while he used their payments to buy coffee and tobacco fields in east Africa, diamond mines in the west, and land producing black oil, a substance with a growing market in Europe.

  But even as he kept his promises to the whites, Karim spoke to his ministers of uniting all the tribes in the desert into a true nation free of English or French or Italians-an independent nation where all men would be free. And when it was so, he told them with gritted teeth, their voices would speak as one and they would be heard throughout the world. And to this his ministers nodded their heads. Indeed, they thought, this young sheik was even more cunning than the old one.

  So the reputation of Karim al-Sharif grew along with his riches, and by the time Karim reached twenty-six, all twelve tribes were prospering beyond all the times before, and a time of peace came when the need to take arms against bandit or rebel came less often, and then not at all. The whites became occupied with their own squabbles and ventured into the desert less often.

  The time had finally come when Karim could safely leave the governing of El Abadan in the hands of his ministers and embark on his mission of vengeance. Though years had passed since his father's death, Karim's memory of that cursed day had not dimmed. He would kill Clayton and destroy everything the Englishman held dear. Now, at last, he could begin.

  The first thing he must do, Karim told himself, is learn to move comfortably in the Englishman's world. Hadn't his father always warned him to know his enemies well?

  "Keep your enemy close to your heart," the old sheik had tutored him. "Then how
can he draw his sword without bringing your attention?"

  .

  As he thought and planned, Karim grew more and more curious about the lands of the whites beyond the Mediterranean. What might France, the country of his mother's birth, be like? He asked himself during the nights when he could not sleep. And what riches could the white lands hold for his Arab brothers?

  After all, Karim reasoned, if the French, English, and Italians could purchase the goods of Africa, pay tariffs, and transport them across the Mediterranean, couldn't he do the same? And wouldn't that give him more gold, more power for the eventual uprising against them? So, in the spring of the year 1890, Karim al-Sharif set out alone for Paris.

  "An Arab," one middle-aged woman remarked to her friend as together they leaned out a window high above rue, des Martyrs and pointed to the white-robed figure below.

  Her friend's head turned to look. "Humph!" she exclaimed, pausing to nibble a small pastry. "Certainly is a haughty one if you ask me. Just look at the way he carries himself proud as Lucifer, and just like the whole quarter is here for his personal benefit."

  The first woman nodded, cocking her curly head as she continued to squint at the young man continuing down the street. "Funny how a man can still look so manly when he's wearing those robes instead of pants. Just take him for example. Now you'd always know he was a man."

  The friend nodded, and both women continued to watch as the Arab strode down the cobblestone street and turned at the corner of rue des Abbesses, disappearing from view.

  Now Karim found himself on a more crowded street lined with small cafes whose tables and chairs spilled out into the street. A crowd of people were sitting at the tables sipping wine and chatting, and Karim had walked only a short distance past them when a girl suddenly fell into step behind him.

  This was not the first time Karim had been solicited in the two days since his arrival in Paris. Each time before he had impatiently waved the woman away. But now he allowed this one to stay, and when he didn't rebuff her, she quickly increased her stride to walk beside him.

  She was not beautiful, though passing pretty, and the skintight blue dress which branded her for exactly what she was, was made of spotless poplin, revealing the tops of breasts tanned cafe au fait, and glowing with health.

  In Islam, such women were considered to be without souls. But this one seemed different than others, as if a spot of light still glimmered beneath the surface where she was, as yet, undefiled. And watching her smile up at him, Karim noticed her expression was not forced and lacked the brittle quality typical of her kind.

  What would she bring in the slave market of El Abadan, he wondered idly, a thousand dinars? Two thousand, perhaps?

  Maria, too, from behind her smile, watched with an evaluating eye. He was obviously an Arab, and a devilishly handsome one, and the confidence in his stride was not the way of a poor man. How did he like his women? She wondered, sucking her lower lip, and already feeling him between her legs in her lusty imagination.

  Even if he wasn't rich, Maria decided, he would be someone more interesting than my regulars, and besides, I might have something interesting to tell the girls at Quintet's tomorrow.

  Her mind made up then, Maria ignored any further misgivings, and acting as if they had already been introduced, pointed an arm up the street and said, "Look! There's the Cafe de la Vache Bleue. Let's go in!"

  The Arab's eyes penetrated hers for a moment, sending a shiver of unfamiliar excitement and a little fear up her spine before he nodded. Then together, they moved off.

  The thick-bellied Italian who owned the cafe, acknowledged Maria with a curt nod as she came in. Earlier in the week she had arranged with him to receive a tenth of everything her "customers" spent. He was glad for the business that Maria and a number of other "working girls" brought in, but, as he told the cook, he had no respect for her kind, and he didn't bother to personally seat them now, but rather indicated an available table with a jerk of his double chin.

  Maria led on. She had hoped that the cafe would have the intimate atmosphere it sometimes did in the late afternoon. But unfortunately, it was crowded with a boisterous group of habitués that made it louder than usual.

  One member of this group was particularly drunk, and foul language and cigar smoke drifted from the corner where he sat leaning his chair back against the wall and gesturing widely to his cronies.

  Some things can't be helped, Maria thought with an imperceptible sigh. And in spite of the men, she resolutely walked the young Arab between tables of laughing couples to finally seat herself at the only vacant one, unluckily, near the unpleasant men.

  A garcon appeared in a crisp white waistcoat, nodding perfunctorily and scribbling down Maria's order of an expensive wine, and sharing her look of disappointment when her "patron" ordered only coffee. Then, flourishing his round tray overhead, he was gone again through the swinging kitchen doors.

  While they waited, Maria chatted affably, moving from one topic to another with hardly a pause, trying to find a subject to interest the young man. But his expression remained serious and tinged with boredom, and running out of things to say, Maria felt awkward by the time their drinks arrived. The garcon indifferently set their order before them, then straightened up, his eyes glancing to the ceiling as he rolled on the balls of his feet with an air of expectation.

  It took a moment for Karim to realize what was expected, and when he did, he reached inside his robes, pro¬ducing a heavy gold coin that he set on the waiter's tray with a dull tap. Maria's red mouth formed a soft "0" before spreading into a smile.

  The waiter looked from the coin to the young Arab and back again before he took it and left, returning several minutes later with a large stack of paper francs as change. The transaction was apparently noticed by one of the men at the next table, and taking his cigar from his mouth, he spoke loudly out one side of it to no one in particular.

  "No wonder these bloody niggers are so thieving poor. Even when they get a little money they spend it all showing off for a whore."

  Coarse laughter followed along with several other comments too low to be heard.

  Maria looked from the Arab to the men, forcing a laugh at their words and startled to see a deadly flame leap into the Arab's black eyes.

  "How can you be insulted and laugh?" he asked, ominously quiet, reaching into his robes and rising from his chair.

  Maria grabbed his arm, frightened words suddenly spilling from her so rapidly that Karim had difficulty understanding. Only the words "jail" and "foreigner" were clear, but they were enough to make him pause and remember suddenly he was not in El Abadan where he ruled, but in Paris. And this wasn't the first lesson he'd learned about the way the whites preferred to treat Arabs.

  Don't be a fool, he told himself, staring murderously at the man who now turned away, choosing to ignore him. Now it would draw too much attention to himself and destroy his plans. So sitting down again in his own chair, Karim expelled his breath slowly.

  "Have some coffee," he heard Maria's voice through the receding waves of fury. "Don't pay any attention to them. They're drunk.’

  She was shaken by the incident and, at the moment, was asking herself why she had solicited this barbarous young man in the first place. This is a lesson for me, she thought. If I get out of this I'll be more careful.

  "Who are those men?" Karim asked coldly, still looking at the back of the one who had insulted him.

  "They seem English to me," Maria answered, relieved to see the explosive look ebbing from his face so now he seemed only very angry. "A votre santé," Maria toasted him with her wine before sipping it.

  But Karim still ignored her, the fury of years redoubling within him now-a canker bursting with poison. English! How he hated this particular breed of white. Now he could do nothing-but one day . . . one day!

  Turning back to the girl then, he regarded her silently, a plan forming in his mind before he said, "Take me to where you live," in the tone of a command rath
er than a request.

  Maria, who had been thinking about bringing up this topic, bounced up from her chair, all her gaiety returning. Walking so the cheeks of her buttocks jiggled against her tight skirt, she led the young Arab back between the crowded tables and out into the street.

  "This way," she said motioning. And together they started up the old cobblestones the way they had come.

  Home for Maria was a small basement flat beneath a sweets shop, which, upon entering, Karim found clean and tidy, and decorated simply but with a warm comfortable quality that he found appealing. He walked its length, looking with interest at the number of small pictures, the little couch with needlepoint cushions, and the kitchen with its wooden spoons and gadgets so common to a French home, but totally unfamiliar to him.

  "That's a nutcracker," Maria explained as Karim lifted a carved wooden man with a wide painted grin down from a sideboard. Then taking the wooden man-from him, she placed a walnut in its jaw and squeezed the handle. A sharp snap followed and a piece of shell fired out and ricocheted off the table top.