by Jack Higgins
Kane turned to Cunningham and said quietly, “You come in from the rear of the tents. Jamal can work his way round to the other side of the pool, and I’ll go in from here.”
He waited until they were in position and then stepped from behind a tree and went slowly forward. He stopped a yard or so away from the fire. The Bedouin was stirring something in the pot. He laughed, looked up to call to the men washing, and saw Kane. The laughter died in his throat.
“Do as you’re told and you won’t be harmed,” Kane told him in Arabic.
The man stood up slowly and shrugged. “I am not a fool.”
He was older than Kane had at first thought, with a fine, intelligent face, seamed with wrinkles, and an iron-gray beard. His three companions waded out of the pool to join him, and Jamal and Cunningham moved in behind them.
“Where are the others?” Kane demanded.
“It was thought that you were dead,” the old man said. “The two Franks and their men left in the trucks before first light. The Yemenis went at dawn.”
“Why have you stayed?”
“We are Rashid,” the old man said simply. “We do not abandon our kindred. My cousin is lying in one of the tents. You put a bullet in his shoulder last night. One of the Franks removed it before they left.”
“And the women?”
The old man shrugged. “They went in the trucks.”
Kane turned to Cunningham. “Did you manage to get all that?”
The Englishman nodded. “What do we do now?”
“The only thing we can do—get after them.” Kane turned back to the old Rashid. “You’ll have to help us.”
There was a murmur of discontent from the other three, and the old man stilled them by raising a hand. “Why should we? You are our enemies.”
“Because you haven’t any choice,” Kane told them, raising his submachine gun. “After we’ve eaten, you can select your three best camels, and the Somali is an expert, by the way.”
The old Rashid shrugged. “As Allah wills it.” His three companions sat down sullenly, legs crossed, and he poured coffee into two battered tin mugs, which he presented courteously to Kane and Cunningham.
Kane drank some of the coffee gratefully and Cunningham said, “But we haven’t a hope in hell of catching them.”
Kane nodded, “I know, but if we make good time to Bir el Madani and get a truck to Jordan, we stand a good chance of reaching Dahrein before they leave.”
“By God, I hope you’re right,” Cunningham said fervently. “When I think of Ruth . . .” His voice trailed away and he quickly swallowed some coffee.
Kane tried to sound confident. “You don’t have to worry about a thing. Skiros won’t be in any hurry to leave Dahrein. There’s no reason why he should be.”
But inside he wasn’t so sure. Skiros must be a worried man. What else could explain his sudden departure? Perhaps he’d realized that his run of luck was ending and like a good gambler was simply getting out while he was still ahead of the game.
Kane narrowed his eyes as he looked up into the blue vault of the sky and watched a buzzard poise before wheeling down in great circles. One could never be sure of anything in this life. If this country had taught him anything, it had taught him that.
15
THEY LEFT AN HOUR LATER ON THE THREE CAMELS Jamal considered to be in the best condition. Kane and Cunningham wore the headdress and loose outer robes of the Bedouin, reluctantly provided by the old Rashid and his companions, and Jamal carried two goatskins of water securely looped over the pommel of his saddle.
Kane was riding a bull camel, a large and powerful black animal which moved across the flat plain outside the gorge at an incredible rate.
Pieces of twisted metal and fuselage from the Catalina were strewn over a wide area, and as they passed the fire-blackened wreckage he looked at it in wonder. It seemed impossible that they could have destroyed it so completely, and already the memory of the incident had lost its sharpness as if it had never happened.
As they left the plain and entered the sand dunes, he lifted a fold of his headcloth across his face as a protection against the fierce heat which rose to meet them.
The desert rolled ahead in great waves of sand as far as the eye could reach and he eased himself into a more comfortable position in the wooden saddle and urged the camel on. Speed was the only thing which could help them now. That and the fact that Skiros would not be expecting pursuit.
He glanced back and saw Jamal close behind followed by Cunningham, his face half-covered by a fold of his robe. The Englishman raised a hand in a half-salute and Kane turned and concentrated on the trail ahead.
The camel never faltered in its stride, great legs covering the ground tirelessly, and he lapsed into a state that was somewhere between sleeping and waking, eyes half-closed against the glare.
He wondered what the German’s next move would be. He would probably make for Dahrein, secure in the knowledge that no one was left to follow him. He could afford to spend several days there, clearing up his affairs before moving out ahead of any inquiries set on foot by the American Consul.
What he would do with the women was debatable. Kane recalled the conversation he had overheard outside the tent on the previous night. What had Skiros said? That he looked upon Marie Perret as a personal challenge.
Kane shivered at the thought and pushed it firmly away from him. Sufficient unto the day. For the moment it was enough to concentrate on reaching Bir el Madani. He slouched into a more comfortable position in the saddle and urged the camel on.
The morning passed as in a dream and they rolled on into the afternoon like great ships floating over the sand. On several occasions they had to dismount to lead their camels up the steep sides of some of the larger dunes, and they stopped once to share their water and a handful of dried dates.
Cunningham looked tired and his eyes were sore and red-rimmed, the thin, sensitive face coated with sand. Kane swallowed his ration of water, grimacing slightly at the acrid, unpleasant taste, and looked anxiously at him. “You managing okay?”
Cunningham’s face split into a tight grin. “A little tired, but I’ll be fine. Don’t forget I passed this way going in the opposite direction.”
They remounted and rode on. The sun was high in the heavens, beating fiercely across their backs with a flail of fire, and Kane bowed his head on his chest and let the camel find its own way. He was tired—very tired. Too much had happened during the past three or four days. Too much for any man.
He decided that he must have ridden unconscious for the rest of the afternoon, because he was suddenly aware that the sun was dropping in the west and a slight wind stung his face. Jamal had ridden up beside him and was pulling at the reins of his camel.
Kane slid to the ground and sat down, shaking his head from side to side to bring himself awake. His mouth was dry as a bone and full of dust and, as Cunningham threw himself wearily down beside him, Jamal produced one of the goatskins and handed it round.
They had two good swallows each and then it was empty. The Somali tossed the useless skin away and walked back to his camel and stood holding its bridle, staring impassively into the distance.
Cunningham’s face was drawn and haggard, the skin stretched tightly across the cheekbones. When he spoke, his voice was a dry croak like an old man’s. “What are we going to do—keep going through the night?”
Kane nodded. “The camels are in good condition. We’ll be feeling the shortage of water before they are. We stand a better chance during the cool of the night.”
“What about Skiros?”
Kane shrugged. “That’s another point. He’ll probably make camp soon.”
He struggled wearily to his feet and the wind lifted sand into his face, and then Jamal was moving toward him quickly, eyes flashing.
The Somali cupped a hand to one ear in an unmistakable gesture and Kane listened. Faintly, borne on the wind, came the sound of voices in the distance.
Exci
tement moved inside him and the weariness dropped from his shoulders like an old cloak. “Did you hear it?” he asked Cunningham.
The Englishman nodded. “Perhaps something went wrong and they’ve made camp sooner than they intended.”
“Whatever the reason, they’re in for one hell of a surprise,” Kane said.
They hobbled the camels and went forward cautiously on foot. The wheel tracks turned away to circle the base of the large dune, and Kane hesitated for a moment and then led the way up the steep side, sinking knee-deep in the soft sand.
He covered the last few feet to the summit on his belly and raised his head cautiously. Seventy or eighty feet below in a hollow, a tent was standing. A truck was parked beside it, hood raised, while an Arab tinkered with the engine.
As Cunningham moved up, the flap of the tent was thrown back and Ruth Cunningham emerged, pushed by Selim. She seemed to have lost all hope and dragged her feet as she went toward a flaring spirit-stove. She picked up a pan and placed it on the stove and Selim stood over her, laughing.
Cunningham half-rose to his feet and Kane pulled him back behind the lip of the dune. “Don’t be a damned fool. At this range, you’d stand as much chance of hitting her as Selim, and if you go down on foot he’ll have her at the other end of his rifle before you get halfway.”
“But we must do something,” Cunningham said desperately. “We can’t afford to wait for darkness.”
Kane’s eyes narrowed as he hunted for a solution, and then a quick flare of excitement moved across his face. “I think I’ve got it,” he said and explained rapidly.
When he had finished, Cunningham sat up and nodded slowly. “It’s a good plan. At least it stands an even chance of coming off.”
He started to get to his feet and Kane caught hold of his sleeve. “I’ll handle this. You don’t look too good.”
The Englishman shook his head, jaw set firmly. “She’s my wife,” he said simply, “so it’s my job.”
Kane didn’t try to argue with him. Cunningham checked the action of his submachine gun and slipped it out of sight under his outer robe, holding it with one hand. He smiled once and then pulled back his headcloth and stood up on the summit of the dune.
For a moment, they did not see him, and he opened his mouth and cried hoarsely, “Water! Water, for the love of God!” He took one deliberate fumbling step forward and fell headlong into the sand, rolling over and over, down into the hollow.
At the first cry, Selim and his companions had turned in alarm, snatching up their rifles. Kane moved cautiously forward and peered down into the hollow as Cunningham rolled to a halt. For a little while he lay there, and then he climbed painfully to his feet and lurched forward. “Water!” he moaned, and pitched forward on to his face.
Ruth Cunningham sprang to her feet. For a moment she stood there, disbelief on her face, and then she started forward. Selim grabbed her by the shoulder and hustled her across to the tent. He pushed her inside and turned.
Cunningham got to his knees and stretched out a hand appealingly and Selim laughed. He shouted something unintelligible to his companion, put down his rifle, and walked forward.
Cunningham stood up and produced the submachine gun, and as Selim turned to run a long burst caught him full in the back.
The other man still stood in front of the truck, rifle in hands. He raised it to his hip and fired one shot wildly. Cunningham swung toward him, a line of bullets lifting the sand in a curtain, driving the man back against the vehicle.
He stopped firing and walked forward until he was standing over Selim, and then the tent flap was thrown back and Ruth emerged and came into his arms.
Kane got to his feet and stood on top of the dune looking at them and a gust of wind drove sand particles against his face. He ploughed down the hill into the hollow, followed by Jamal.
Cunningham held his wife close, and she started to tremble as reaction set in. “It’s all right,” he said. “He can’t hurt you any more.”
Selim was dead, fingers clawing into the sand, and Kane looked down at him without pity. The other man was groaning horribly, and Jamal knelt beside him and raised his head. As Kane went forward, the man seemed to choke and blood poured from his mouth. His head lolled back and Jamal lowered him to the ground.
“Is he dead?” Kane said.
The Somali nodded and pointed silently at the truck. Along the side facing them was a neat line of bullet holes. They had emptied the jerrycan of water which was bracketed to the side of the vehicle, and when Kane examined the engine, he found it damaged beyond repair.
He moved back to Cunningham and his wife. “That final burst of yours caught the truck as well. I’m afraid we’ll still have to rely on the camels to get us out of here. How do you feel?”
Cunningham looked pale, but he managed a smile. “A lot better now that Ruth’s safe.”
The wind was increasing, driving the sand across the hollow and whining round the truck. Kane slung his submachine gun over his shoulder and said quickly, “Looks as if we’re in for some bad weather. You two get into the tent, and Jamal and I will get the camels.”
He spoke briefly to the Somali in Arabic, and they hurriedly retraced their steps and climbed up the side of the dune. As they moved over the top, the wind lifted in sudden fury, carrying a curtain of sand with it that blotted out everything.
He pulled a fold of his headcloth about his face and went down the other side of the dune. Already their tracks were obliterated, and within a few moments they were alone, enveloped in a thick cloud of swirling sand.
It was impossible to see anything. He paused, eyes vainly trying to pierce the gloom, then turned and cannoned into Jamal. He and the Somali linked arms and struggled back up the side of the dune. It was impossible to remain standing on top, and they slid down the other side and stumbled blindly into the camp.
Sand was already piled around the base of the tent, and when Kane ducked in through the flap Ruth Cunningham turned, fear in her eyes. “How long will it last?” she demanded.
He pulled off his headcloth and tried to sound unconcerned. “An hour or two. Perhaps a little longer. They always blow themselves out in the end. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Jamal carefully laced up the entrance and sat against it, arms folded. Cunningham had an arm round his wife’s shoulder and held her close. “How do you feel?” Kane asked her.
When she spoke, her voice sounded unnatural and strained, like a spring too tightly wound up. “I never expected to see either of you again. After the fighting last night, Skiros told us you’d been buried under a fall of rock.”
“You’d better bring us up to date,” Kane said. “What’s been happening today and why did the party split up?”
She pushed back a tendril of hair with one hand. “It was pretty horrible. We left the gorge this morning in the two trucks. Skiros, Muller, and Marie in the front one, Selim, his man, and myself in the other.”
“Why were you with Selim?” her husband asked.
She flushed. “Skiros came to some agreement with him. He needed Selim’s help when we reached Dahrein. I don’t know what it was about, but I was the price Selim demanded.”
There was a short silence. As Cunningham slipped an arm round her shoulders, Kane went on, “But why the split?”
She shrugged. “The truck had engine trouble. Selim had to stop to fix it, and Skiros and Muller went on with Marie. They said they’d wait for us at a place called Hazar near Bir el Madani.”
“They’ll have to wait a long time for Selim,” Cunningham said.
She looked down at her hands twisting together nervously in her lap. “He kept telling me what he was going to do when we camped for the night. He was so loathsome.”
Cunningham pulled her close and she turned her head into his chest and started to cry, her whole body shaking with the violence of her weeping.
Outside, the wind howled, driving the sand against the frail skin of the tent in a relentless fury that wa
s somehow terrifying. Kane bowed his head down on his knees and relaxed, breathing deeply through half-open mouth, feeling each tired muscle ease.
Gradually it became completely dark, and the wind was so violent that he and Jamal had to hang on to the pole at each end of the tent to prevent it from being torn away into the night.
Four hours later, the storm departed as suddenly as it had come, and Kane unlaced the tent flap and crawled outside. The night sky was clear, and millions of stars burned in its depths like white candles. The moon was full and its radiance flooded down into the hollow.
The sides of the tent sagged under the weight of the drifting sand and the truck was half-buried. Cunningham ducked out through the opening of the tent and joined him. “What do we do now?”
“See if we can round up the camels,” Kane told him. “I’ll take Jamal with me.”
“You don’t sound too hopeful,” Cunningham said.
“It was a bad storm. I know we hobbled them, but a frightened camel has surprising strength. Once they get into a panic, they can kick themselves free of anything.”
He called to Jamal and they moved up the steep side of the dune away from the camp. The view from the top was quite spectacular. Rolling dunes stretched away to meet the horizon and the hollows between them lay dark and forbidding, thrown into relief by the white moonlight which picked out the higher stretches of ground.
They moved down the other side and walked forward in the general direction of the place where they had left the camels. All tracks had been swept away by the storm, and his heart sank. He stopped and whistled several times, the sound falling shrill on the cold night air, but there was no answering cry.
They separated, Kane going one way, Jamal another, but it was no good. An hour later, they returned to the camp without the camels.
Cunningham was sitting outside the camp, wearing his Bedouin robes against the chill of the night. He rose to meet them, and as they approached his wife emerged from the tent and joined him.
“No luck,” Kane told them. “They’re probably miles away by now. I’m afraid our last goatskin of water has gone with them as well.”
