Six Bloody Summer Days

by Nick Carter

  "And if I win?"

  "You won't win, but I have no bargain with you. Should Allah, by some unseen stroke, favor el-Feddan with ill fortune," he rolled his eyes at the Bull, "then we shall see." He stood up, and I saw what a runty old banty rooster he was. "Bring them," he ordered.

  The place of battle was outside the wall on the plateau near where we had left the Citroen. There were several French jeeps parked beside it. As many of Osman's entourage as could crowded on to its roof, while the others, about twenty in all, stood around in a semi-circle to watch the fun. The table had been brought and Osman, his sons, and Doosa, sat behind it. Erica and her father had been forced to sit on the ground.

  My watch was gone, but the sun was about noon high and the heat a powerful force. Down on the plain where the green ended there were dust devils. The flank of the bare mountain rose up, and I saw a hawk lazily circling, riding the thermals. A good omen. I needed one as I rubbed my wrists, flexing my fingers, working some strength back into them.

  I watched as el-Feddan took off his jacket and exposed his torso. Then he took off his calecons to the cheers of the assembled group. An Arabian nudist, no less. What he had below was almost as formidable as what he had up top. It wasn't exactly an Achilles heel, but I figured it on doing him about as much good if I could get in close without being crushed to death.

  I stripped to the waist to catcalls. David and Goliath, but no sling shot. Still, Osman hadn't been kidding about weapons. I had thought it was going to be strictly body contact. It might come to that, but before it did I was thrown a thin meshed palm fiber net and wrapped in it a knife with an eight inch blade.

  As a judo or karate buff will tell you, it's not size that counts. It's speed, coordination and timing. There was little doubt that my opponent possessed all three. As for Nick Carter, let's just say that possession was not at its peak. My right leg was not fully recovered from a past encounter. My head, while clear, throbbed from a more recent one. The sun's glare took conditioning, which didn't come with a few blinks of the eyelids. There was no way of maneuvering free of its effect. The blade in my hand was familiar enough, the net was not. The way the naked ape before me handled his reminded me of what's at the other end of the bull — the toreador.

  Putting my life on the line is part of my job. In most cases it's a matter of split-second action. Sudden contact, merciless response and no time for reflection. A challenge like this is something else again. Having a chance to evaluate what I'm up against adds a certain amount of stimulation to the game. I knew two things: If I was going to win I had to do it fast. My best weapon was guile. I had to convince the bull and all assembled that they weren't about to witness a fight but a slaughter.

  I held up the net clumsily, "I can't use this!" I called to Osman. "I thought this was going to be a fair fight!"

  Osman silenced the jeers and howls. "It is you who asked to meet el-Feddan. You have the same weapons as he. Before Allah, the contest is fair!"

  I began looking around frantically for a way to escape. The semi-circle had become a circle. "But — but I can't fight with these!" There was a note of pleading and fear in my voice as I held out knife and net.

  Over the insults of the chorus, Osman shouted angrily, "Then die with them, yankee spy! And I mistook you for a man!"

  I backed away, feeling the rough stone underfoot, glad I wasn't barefoot like my opponent, who was wearing nothing but a sour grin. I saw that Erica had buried her face in her hands. Hans had his arm around her and was staring at me, pale and helpless.

  "Finish it, el-Feddan!" Osman ordered.

  Over the sudden silence of the crowd, my cry, "No! Please!" was on a par with Doosa's performance the previous evening. I didn't have time to catch his reaction. I was busy trying to back out of the ring, my arms extended, futilely trying to hold off the inevitable.

  The bull came toward me, flat-footed, somewhat in the style of the Japanese Sumo wrestler. In his left hand he dangled the net; in his right he held the knife close to his thigh. His plan was simple enough, tangle me in the net and then marinate me in my own blood.

  The crowd had taken up the cry again: "Kill him! kill him!" I stopped back peddling and began edging along its front. I could feel spit hitting my back. Nails raked it. I made sure not to retreat further. I didn't want to risk being shoved from behind and thrown off balance. The sun beat down and the sweat ran.

  El-Feddan stalked me with confidence, playing it out for the troops. Bit by bit he closed in, his grin frozen, his yellow eyes fixed. I waited for the tell-tale of his attack. There always is one no matter how imperceptible. Because he was sure of himself, he telegraphed it. And at that instant I moved.

  As I had backed and circled I had balled the net. Just as his net arm began the motion to cast, I slung mine at his face. In reflex, his arm rose to block it, and at the same time, he ducked and shifted his stance. I followed on his motion, using the leverage of his being off balance. I went under his net, thrusting low. I got about a half inch of blade into him. Then he had spun away his arm slashing down to deflect my lunge. It had happened so fast that Osman and company were still trying to figure it out when be turned and rushed me.

  Going past him in my lunge I had gotten into the center of the ring, and as he came barreling at me, I leaped clear of his rush and gave him a boot in his behind as he went past.

  There was a moment of dead silence. Here was their champion with blood running down his belly, putting red rain drops on the stones, and for good measure he'd just been kicked in the behind by a cowardly yankee spy. They got the message and great howls of laughter went up. Now the cat-calls were for el-Feddan. What was he, a chicken instead of a bull?

  Arabs love to play tricks. The crowd realized I'd played mine. They appreciated it. The bull didn't, which was what I wanted. I'd failed to get him by convincing him I wasn't worth his time. Now my only advantage was to get him so teed off he'd lose his judgment.

  As he rounded on me, the grin was gone, the yellow eyes blazed. The sweat running on his chest glistened in the sunlight. He halted and put his knife between his teeth. Then he used his knife hand to smear the blood from his wound all over his chest and face. The significance escaped me, but I ended his toilet by kicking for his groin. He took the blow on his thigh, and it felt as plough I'd kicked a stone wall.

  The crowd was really excited. They knew they had a fight. I heard Hans shout, "Cut his head off, Ned!" Then I shut out the sounds, concentrating on survival.

  We circled, he feinting, looking for an opening. I had recovered my net and held it balled again in my left hand. Now instead of a wide open stance, I faced him in a fencer's crouch, knife arm half extended, net arm up and hanging. I couldn't afford the breath, but I began to taunt him.

  "Bull! You're no bull, you're not even a cow — a fat camel's hide stuffed with pig's excrement!"

  That brought him. He feinted high with the net and cast low. I'd never seen a faster motion. Even though I leapt back, the net snared my right foot, nearly tripping me. At the same time I only half avoided his follow-through as he tried to trap my knife hand by grabbing my wrist. He got my shoulder instead. His own knife came at me, slicing upward. I felt it rake my ribs as I twisted to the right and slashed at his throat, branding his chest. Then I pivoted and slammed the net into his face, yanking my shoulder free. His hand clawed at my throat. Our knives clashed and drew sparks. He took a step back to get clear of my net in his face, and I shook free of his. Then I moved forward on the attack and he jumped away.

  We hadn't been at it long, but it seemed very long. My mouth was a dried out water hole. My breath was hot and ragged. The pain in my right leg was playing counterpart to the drum beat in my head. I'd drawn more blood than he, but he had more to spare. I took another step forward, grinning at him, waving my knife.

  Whether it was pride, the roar of the crowd, or fury at the thought of being beaten, he charged. I went down on my back, taking him on my feet and catapulting him over my head. He
landed face up in front of Osman, momentarily stunned.

  The crowd ate it up. He came off the ground bent low, going for my legs. I leaped above his knife, but he was right behind it, and I had no time to avoid the momentum of his rush. His net was gone but not the hand that held it. It caught my knife wrist. His blade went back for the killing blow. With time running out, I kicked with all I had for the extra point.

  There are a lot of sensitive parts of the body. But remember this, if you're ever trapped in close, there is no more vunerable point of contact than your mugger's shin. There's nothing there but bone and nerves. The front of my shoes had been reinforced with a thin band of metal for just such an eventuality.

  El-Feddan threw back his head and roared to Allah, his knife hand hanging in mid-thrust. I karate-chopped his wrist, tore my knife hand free, and with a back-hand swipe cut what throat he had from ear to ear.

  He went down on his knees, choking, trying to repair the damage with his hands. The arterial blood spewed out between his fingers. El-Feddan fell over, his body convulsing, his heels starting to kick. Aside from the sounds of his dying, there was absolute silence. Osman watched his champion depart for paradise with a fixed stare.

  Usually in a bull fight, the toreador who plays the bull to the death is awarded the ears. I considered it, but then I decided I had pushed my luck far enough. Instead, I walked over to the table, brushing the sweat from my eyes, fend placed the bloody knife on it. "May a thousand houris guide him to his rest," I said.

  Chapter 14

  The outcome of the fight shook old Osman. His sons were all for finishing me right then and there. He shut them up. El-Feddan lay in a great pool of his own blood, the flies at him, the buzzards already circling. The ragged company of troops stood silent, waiting for the command of their leader. Hans couldn't take his eyes from the dead man and Erica couldn't take her eyes from me.

  The Shiek rose and looked at me. "In-shallah, you are a man, yankee spy, much man. Were things otherwise, I could use you. I will think before I decide what is to be done." He turned to the bearded officer standing with his arms folded at the end of the table. "Put them in the cells!"

  "What about her?" the right-hand son pointed.

  The father ignored him. "The two men in one cell, the woman separate."

  I let my breath out easily. Had his reaction been otherwise, he would have been my hostage with the knife at his throat. I'd palmed el-Feddan's blade and had it stuck down through my back pocket.

  The troops began to drift away. Orders were given to remove the corpse. Doosa stood to one side, careful to keep his mouth shut. When I was permitted to put on my shirt, I let the tails hang out, which concealed the haft of the knife.

  A guard of six fell in around the three of us and marched us back into the building.

  "God, if I live to be a hundred," Hans sighed, "I don't hope to see anything like that again."

  "Shut up!" said the squad leader in Arabic.

  They put Erica in the first cell directly across from the guard room, "See you soon, child," I said. "Keep your spirits up."

  "I'll try," she whispered.

  They stuck us in the cell I'd occupied before. As I figured they would, they tied our hands and feet, and left us in the stinking darkness.

  Hans began to mutter.

  I cut him off. "Like the other man said, shut up, old boy."

  He halted in mid-cry.

  "Now answer me a question, can you fly the DC-3 with me as your co-pilot?"

  "The Dakota? Sure, but…"

  "Good. We have things to do." I told him about the knife and we maneuvered around until we got back to back. As a mechanic his fingers were agile and sure. He had the blade out of my pocket on the first try and the palm fibre cords on my wrists sawed through in a couple of minutes. We had to work fast for more reasons than one. If someone suddenly realized that el-Feddan's knife was missing, we'd have quick company.

  "I suppose you've got a key for the lock, too." Hans hissed.

  "No, you have. I want you to start screaming — shreet, shreet."

  "Snake?"

  "That's my boy. Whatever verdict Osman reaches he wants us in good shape when he makes it. If we're dead from snake bites our warders will be dead, too. At least two of them will come running. I want you to sit in the corner with your back against the wall, hands behind you, rope around your ankles. You start yelling and you don't stop until they come. After that, don't move and don't do anything else until I tell you. Got it?"

  "Yeah, sure, pal, whatever you say."

  "Start singing."

  Hans sounded, and the way he went on I began to wonder if we weren't in a din of snakes. Over his trumpeting I heard the approaching cavalry.

  The key was in the lock, the bolt was pulled, the door was flung open. Number one charged in AK-47 at the ready, light behind him flooding the cell. El-Feddan's knife did kill that day. Its victim hadn't hit the floor before I had hands on the light holder behind him. I ran him head first against the wall, spun him around and broke his neck with a karate chop.

  "Get their djellabas off and put one of them on, the kefiya, too," I ordered, taking a quick look down the corridor.

  There was no one in sight, and I was off and running. I had Pierre in one hand, an AK in the other. I wasn't anxious to use it for obvious reasons. This was Pierre's show. One whiff of his perfume and that was the last whiff.

  As I reached the guard room, one of the jailors was starting to come out to investigate. He had time to open his mouth. The barrel of the Kalashnikov drove him backward and cut off any vocal response. Pierre landed on the table, valve open, where the other three sat. I pulled the door shut. There was a faint scrabbling on the other side. That was all.

  I counted to ten, let the air out of my lungs, and then took in a chestful. I entered and closed the metal door after me. Pierre was now on the floor, looking like a walnut. His victims were larger. The second one I searched had the keys.

  There were a lot of things about Erica that appealed to me. One was that she could take it and keep her balance. By the time I'd gotten her out of her cell and down to ours, I'd given her the plan and she was ready to move.

  "I knew you'd come," was all she said. Then she watched the corridor while I put on djellaba and kefiya, and we were ready to move out.

  The plan was simple. I didn't know where Osman was, but Hans and I were going to march Erica out of the place as though we did. We went down the corridor and up the stairs, a proper military escort. I had shown Hans how to shoulder slink the AK, safety off, firing on automatic. As a rifle the Kalashnikov is actually a machine gun.

  When we reached the entrance area I noticed it was much darker than earlier. When I eased open the door, I saw why. The blue sky had turned black. We were in for an afternoon cloud burst. Allah was indeed being merciful. I saw a half dozen of the troops heading for shelter in the building's left wing.

  "We go down the steps and right through the gate," I said. "If the Citroen is gone, we'll try for one of the jeeps.

  If there's no transportation, we'll swim off the mountain."

  A tremendous crack of thunder made Erica jump.

  "Sorry we didn't bring an umbrella," I smiled at her. "Let's go before we get damaged by hail stones."

  The wind belted us as we came out the door. There was no time to admire the view, but I saw that the storm was coming up the valley toward us. The sky was pale yellow below and ink above* split with jagged streaks of lightning.

  As we went through the gate, more troops came scuttling in. They gave us curious glances, but they were in too much of a hurry to escape the approaching deluge to do more than that.

  The Citroen was gone, so were the jeeps, which meant that Osman and Co. had moved elsewhere. That was the good news.

  Hans phrased the bad. "How the hell are we going to get out of here?"

  "That truck." I pointed to a big rig coming down the mountain road. By the time I was in hailing distance I saw that the dr
iver was planning to pull in and sit out the storm. Wise man. His truck was an open bed affair. Battered and bruised, it was no match for the overload of boulders it was hauling.

  I waved him to a stop as the thunder sounded. He grinned nervously down at me as we went through the ritual. "Friend," I said, "you will take us to Budan."

  "Of a certainty, Captain, when the storm has passed."

  "No, now. It is very urgent." I signaled Erica to go around the cab and climb in. "It is orders."

  "But you have jeeps, there beyond the wall!" he gestured.

  "There is a lack of petrol." From the vantage point of the road I saw that we had missed the jeeps because they had been brought inside and parked at the end of the building. They meant possible pursuit.

  "But… but the storm!" the driver protested. "And there is no room!" he waved his arms.

  "Are you with Shiek Hassan Abu Osman?" I elevated the barrel of the AK my smile gone.

  "Yes, yes! Always!"

  The thunder sounded and the wind began to put out. I felt the first heavy drops. "Hans, get in with Erica. When we're off the mountain, have him turn in at the first cross road."

  "Where are you going to be?"

  "I'll be taking a much needed bath in the rock pile. Now, move!"

  By the time I'd climbed over the tailgate the rain was starting to bucket. I settled myself in amongst the rock load as the truck ground into gear and moved out on to the road. I knew in minutes the visibility would be down to fifty feet or less. I wasn't anxious to be beaten to death by ice water, but against the chance of a rear guard action I was willing to accept the punishment.

  Our escape had taken no more than five minutes. It had gone off smoothly thanks to the weather and this truck. However, I didn't think we were going to get away that easily, and I was right.

  The truck had just navigated the first wide turn away from the plateau when over the bombardment of the thunder and the thunder of the deluge, I caught the wail of a siren.