Six Bloody Summer Days

by Nick Carter

  "I wish you could, but the Colonel has volunteered to be my guide." The Colonel sipped his coffee, lids lowered.

  The wheels touched, squeeked and we were down in Budan. The airport did not have a busy look. However, as we taxied in I spotted a half dozen guerrilla types, standing in front of the terminal watching our approach. They were wearing bandoleers and carrying A-47 Kalashnikov rifles. There was also an official car parked on the flight line.

  "Is that an honor guard, or the regular guard?" I said to Hans.

  "Looks about usual."

  The pilot swung the plane around, the engines died, the props clanking to a halt. Hans had the door open and the ladder down before the pilots came out of the cockpit. Doosa gave them their instructions. I saw the co-pilot was puzzled by the fact that Hans and I were no longer sporting olive green. "Change of uniform," I said to him and winked. He got the message, gave me a grin and they departed.

  We sat in the plane in the early morning stillness. I had noticed an imperceptible change in Doosa's manner. It could have been the coffee had restored him, or he thought he saw an end to his captivity. He was looking beyond me over my shoulder through the port, observing some of the members of his honor guard who had straggled out on the flight line.

  "Les règlec de jeu — the rules of the game — Doosa, you'll play as I order or the game will be over. Don't get cute. You and I are leaving now. You, two paces ahead. You'll go directly to the car and get in. That's all you'll do. Let's go, now." I stood up, his .45 in hand.

  I let him watch me put my jacket over my arm to conceal it. "Apres vous, mon Colonel. Try to keep out of trouble you two," I said as we made our exit.

  The honor guard did not line up in proper military order as we marched to the car, a Citroen in need of a face lifting. They stood about, looking at the plane, eyeing us and generally giving the impression of aloofness. Their uniforms were not uniform, only their equipment matched. They were certainly not mercenary types, but as I followed Doosa into the back of the car, the alarm bells were ringing. They weren't on duty for his benefit, so what were they doing standing around guarding an empty airport? The answer could have been — simply as a precaution in view of what was going on. Too bad it wasn't the right answer.

  "Allons." I said to the driver and then to Doosa in English, "Ask him if he brought the requested information."

  The driver nodded, pulling out on the circular key-hole drive fronting the airport. "A contact has been made, sir," he spoke in French. "I am taking you to meet with him. He knows where Shiek Hassan Abu Osman is to be found."

  Doosa sat back, folding his arms across his chest. Again he had his eye lids lowered, showing no reaction.

  "Ask him how far we have to go?"

  The driver pointed in the direction of the mountains ahead. "Only twenty miles," he said.

  We were driving across the valley and not into Budan itself. There were widely scattered intersections amidst the field of wheat and cotton and soybeans. At the intersections there were units similar to the one at the airport. Some of the troops were equipped with AK-47s. Others had FNs and their heavier equipment was equally mixed. They made no effort to stop us, and I was willing to accept they were up and about, like their brothers at the airport, because this was the day of Mendanike's funeral, and Tasahmed was assuring that his rise to power was properly greased. Later, when I had time to reflect on my conclusion, I wondered what Hawk would have said had he been sitting next to me.

  "Osman will kill you," The colonel broke the silence, speaking in English.

  "I'm touched that you're concerned."

  "He hates Americans."

  "Naturally. What will he do to you?"

  "Besides, you're wasting your time."

  "If I am, I'll file a complaint against your office."

  "This man we are going to see, I know him. He's not reliable."

  "Colonel… be quiet. I'm sure our contact is the best your service can supply. No doubt old Hassan will hang you up by your balls to dry, but that's your problem."

  We crossed the narrow valley and began to climb a winding gravel track, the greenness thinning out fast. The heat had begun, but we left some of the humidity as we went up in a cloud of dust. It was not a long climb. We came around a curve facing a plateau with a stone structure at its edge. It had a high surrounding wall and the appearance of a 19th century fortress, with a square center and two chunky wings.

  The driver eased off the road on to a camel track and we bumped down it to the wall. There was no sign of anyone.

  The driver spoke in Arabic, looking in the mirror. "You are expected, sir."

  I got out of the car after Doosa, feeling the hot wind and the taste of dust in it. "Go on," I said, letting him hear the click of the .45's hammer.

  We went through the arched entrance gate into a wide stone courtyard where nothing grew. The place had slit windows and a let's-get-out-of-here feel.

  "What's our contact's name?"

  "Safed." The Colonel was staring at the stone-work. He looked long and stiff and pale around the gills.

  "Tell him to get his arse out here on the double."

  "Safed, you miserable camel thief," the Colonel sounded, "come out!"

  Like tar baby, Safed said nothing, did nothing. The door, a double iron affair, stayed shut. The wind woofed around us.

  "Try again." I said. The second try got no more reaction than the first.

  "See if it's open." I watched him move toward it, knowing the whole thing stank. The wind was mocking.

  Over it I caught a whisper of an alien sound. As I swung to face it, I knew the answer to the batches of irregular troops. I caught a glimpse of the driver's set face and with him four dandies with leveled Kalashnikovs.

  I got off two shots before everything in my head blew up in a searing wave of flame and swept me away to nowhere.

  Chapter 13

  At some undetermined time and place my head had been melted down and forged into a bell. I had been present at both events. I had enjoyed neither. I had suffered through them in silence. It's a matter of conditioning. But when some omnipotent bastard began beating on my new dome with a gong, I decided to protest, particularly when the count went past twelve.

  I addressed the universe in Urdu because Shema was queen of the night, and it seemed only fitting. Whether it was the tone of my obscenities or the pounding gong or the combination of both that belched me up from the darkness of nowhere into the darkness of someplace, I'll never know. For the moment, all I knew was that I'd been willing to swap someplace for nowhere. Then the moment passed and my brain slowly picked itself up and started to shrug off the clobbering it had taken.

  I was lying on a mat of stinking straw. My hands and feet were tied. My head hurt like hell, throbbing as though something wanted to tear loose. I turned it carefully, which just put a lot of white lights in front of me where there weren't any lights. After a few more similar experiments I decided the worst I was suffering was a slight concussion. The driver hadn't "-shot me, he'd cold cocked me. My clothes hadn't been taken. Pierre was in place. Things had been worse in the life and times of Nick Carter.

  Something scuttled across my feet, and I knew I had company. A bit of fight filtered in from the cell door. But even without it, my location didn't require a course in architecture. The air stank powerfully. The rats had had previous tenants.

  After several tries I managed to sit up. Using my heels I edged across the floor until I had a stone wall at my back. When the white lights stopped flashing and the throbbing in my skull settled down to an acceptable level, I tested the ropes holding my wrists in a vise. Not a prayer.

  There was nothing to do but relax and wait. I'd come to see Osman. Now I figured the chances were pretty good that I would get to see him. I'd gotten the message a bit late. Had I gotten it sooner I might have saved a headache. The boys at the airport, like the boys at the intersections and the welcoming committee here hadn't been Mendanike's or Tasahmed's troops, they'd
been the Shiek's. Osman had taken Budan in all the upset over Ben d'Oko's death. The Chinese turn out Ak-47s as well as the Soviets.

  My having sent word of Doosa's arrival had alerted the reception department. We had not been taken to the center of Budan because obviously we would have seen signs of whatever fighting had gone on. We had been brought here instead. The question was, why hadn't Doosa recognized Osman's men at the airport? I thought I had the answer to that, too. At any rate, my failure to recognize the changing of the guard in Budan until I was trapped could still work out better than having to chase Osman all over the mountains to ask him a question.

  The clanging of a key in the lock and the unbarring of the door awoke me. The sleep had helped. The numbness in my hands and wrists was more uncomfortable than the throbbing in my head. I shut my eyes against the glare of the light, felt hands on my legs and a knife cutting the ropes at my ankles.

  I was hauled to my feet. The world spun round. The white flashes turned to bright neon. I sucked in my breath and let my pair of handlers hold me up.

  All the way down the stone corridor I played sick while taking in the layout of the place. It wasn't much — a half dozen cells on each side with a guard room on the left. I wondered if Erica and Hans had been given residency. There were four dim lights in wall brackets and the only exit was a flight of stone steps leading upward, making a right angle.

  The end of the right angle brought us up on to a semidark foyer. The slit windows offered the only light. The best that could be said for the place was the coolness. Off the foyer there were several doors. I was muscled toward the largest. There my right guard — and he could have used some — pounded on the door with a hairy fist and got the come in call.

  They launched me with the intention of putting me on my face before the assembled. I managed to remain upright. The room was better lit than the foyer but not by much. There was a table with three sons of the desert facing me, wearing black and white checked kefiyas. The one in the center had the face of an old vulture, hooked nose, hooded black eyes, a thin hard mouth and a pointed chin. There was a strong resemblance in the pair on either side of him. A family portrait — Osman and his boys. They studied me with all the charm of cobras intent on a strike.

  "Pahh!" Hassan broke the silence. "Like all yankee dogs, he stinks!"

  "A running imperialist dog," intoned the son on the left.

  "Let's teach him some thought reform," suggested the other.

  "If he could speak, what would he say?" Osman's eyes flickered with contempt.

  I answered him in Arabic, "Ayeesh, ya kdeesh, ta yunbut al — hasheesh — 'live, o mules, until the grass grows.' "

  That put out the nickering and shut them up for a minute. "So," the shiek put his hands on the table, "you speak the language of the faithful."

  "In the name of Allah, the merciful, the compassionate," I quoted, "I take refuge with the Lord of men, the King of men, the God of men, from the evil of the slinking whisperer who whispers in the breast of men or jinn and men."

  They stared at me, then the sons looked to the father for reaction. "You recite the Koran. Are you one of us?" There was a new tone of interest in his sandpaper voice.

  "I have studied your book and the prophet Mohammed. In time of need, its words give strength."

  "Let's hear such words." Osman thought he had me, that I might be good for a couple of verses and that would be all.

  I began with The Opening — "Praise belongs to Allah, the Lord of all Being." Then I went on to some verses from The Cow, the House of Imran, The Spoils and The Night Journey.

  Osman stopped me and began throwing out lines from the book of Mary and Ta Ha for me to match. My being able to respond comes with having a photographic memory. After a while he gave it up arid sat back to study me.

  "For a dirty rotten imperialist son of a camel dung eater, you know our book well enough. It is a credit to you. Perhaps it will get you into paradise, but it won't get you out of here. You are a spy, and we cut off the heads of spies. Why did you come here?"

  "To find you, that is if you are Hassan Abu Osman."

  His sons looked at him in surprise. He tried to hide his grin, then they all had a good laugh. "Yes," he said, "thanks to Allah, I am Hassan Abu Osman. What do you wish of me?"

  "It's a private matter."

  "Ahh! Nothing is private from these two jackels. They'll fight over my bones when I'm dead. Why would a yankee spy wish to see me? Do you want to put me on the throne in Lamana? With Allah's help I'll do that myself."

  "I thought it was Mao's help you were getting."

  He didn't bridle, he cackled and the boys joined in. "Oh, I'll take what that non-believer has to offer just like I'll take what you have to offer if I think it's worth taking. What do you have to offer, yankee spy?" He was having fun.

  "I was hoping you'd have something to offer me."

  "Oh, have no fear of that. Before I have you publicly executed, I'll offer you el Feddan. He'll make you call on Allah for a quick end."

  "I'm talking about something important."

  He stared at me and let go with another cackle. "Important, hey! I agree, your life is of no importance." He pounded on the table and called," I want el Feddan! Tell him to come at once!"

  Someone behind me made a quick exit. "Suppose I could guarantee your taking over the rest of the country," I said.

  "That would be a guarantee I would spit on." He spat.

  "So after you spit on it, the question still stands. You've got Budan. Whether you can hold it or not is another question, but you'll never get Lamana from here or Pakar. Tasahmed is no Mendanike. At least Mendanike was willing to make a deal."

  Osman's eyes flared. "So I was right. You bloody imperialists were behind him. If he had lived I would have put his head in the square!"

  "You mean he didn't tell you!" I pretended amazement, knowing damned well what the answer was going to be.

  The shiek and his son exchanged glances then looked at me. "You tell me," he said.

  "Tasahmed was planning a coup backed by the Russians. My Government convinced Mendanike that he should try to make peace with you and…"

  Osman let out a howl of derision and beat the table, "So that's why that bag of guts wanted to see me, to really make a deal! I said it was so! It was what made me decide to take Budan. If he was so bad off that he had to see me, I knew I could take it. It fell like a rotten coconut!" He had another good spit.

  I felt like joining him. There it all was. The answer I had been almost positive I was going to get. As for stealing nukes, this whole crowd was somewhere back at the Battle of Khartoum. The trouble now was that I looked like the Chinese Gordon of the piece, and he'd ended up with his head on a pike.

  I heard the door open behind me and Osman's gaze shifted over my shoulder. "El-Feddan," he beckoned, "come meet your yankee spy."

  El-Feddan, which means the bull, was all of that. He was no taller than I, but he must have been half as wide again, and it was all muscle. He looked more Mongolian than Arab. It wasn't a pleasant face, wherever he'd been spawned. Yellowish eyes, a flattened nose, rubbery lips. There was no neck, just a pedestal of muscle holding the gourd of his shaven head. He wore an open bush jacket, but no one had to guess what lay under it. He ignored me, his eyes on his chief, waiting for the word to turn me into a yoyo.

  There was a delay due to the sound of outside activity. Again the door was flung open and I turned to see Erica and Hans being hauled into the room by some members of the praetorian guard. Strolling in behind them was my old pal, Mohammed Doosa. I'd had it figured about right. The colonel was either Osman's man in the enemy camp or Tasahmed's man in Osman's tent… or both. I didn't have time to dwell on it, but there was something I wanted to ask him, providing I could keep my head on.

  Erica had a nasty mouse under her left eye. She was pale and breathing hard. She stared at me with a mixture of anguish and hope.

  "Hang in there, child," I said in English. She lowered
her head and shook it unable to answer.

  Hans had been cuffed around and he was half out on his feet. When his handler let him go he sank down on his knees.

  "Which one of you wants her?" Osman asked his thirsty sons.

  They both gobbled at once, practically drooling. The crafty old bastard howled with glee and pounded the table. "You can fight over her bones like you can fight over mine… when I'm through with her!"

  They both shut up, staring at the table, wondering how they could figure a way to get him in a boney state.

  "So, Colonel, all is well?" Osman gave Doosa an oily grin.

  "As Allah wills," Doosa touched his forehead in salute, approaching the table. "May one ask a favor?"

  "But ask it," Osman said.

  "I'd like to question him before the execution."

  "Humm." Osman scratched his chin. "I plan to turn him over to el-Feddan. When he's through I don't think this one will be able to answer anything. What about that pile of camel dung on the floor, won't he do as well?"

  "Oh, I want to question him, too."

  "Well, you'll have to be satisfied with what I can offer, Colonel. El-Feddan needs his exercise. Otherwise, he becomes ugly." This brought gales of laughter and even a grunt of approval from the Bull.

  "If I've got to fight this cow's udder, you could at least have honor enough to give me the use of my hands." I said.

  This was the first time Doosa had heard me speak Arabic. It wiped the smirk away, and my words didn't do much for el-Feddan's sense of humor either.

  "Oh, you'll have your hands," Osman chuckled. "You can use them to pray with. I'll even see that you have weapons."

  "Are you a betting man, Shiek Hassan Abu Osman?" I said, knowing there was never an Arab born who wasn't. "You want this bull to soften me up for the kill. Why not make our contest the kill? If I win, my friends and I get safe passage back to Lamana."

  That brought what is called a pregnant silence. All eyes were on the head man, who had his eyes on me. "You know, yankee spy," he said, tugging on his pointed chin. "I think you must be a man. I admire a man even if he's a stinking imperialist. You can die fighting."