by Jack Higgins
Kane nodded. “I know the man you mean. I’ve traded with him in the past.” His eyes narrowed. “Come to think of it, I heard that Muller was pretty thick with the Bal Harith. Maybe he knew they were encamped at Hazar.”
Jordan grinned. “They’re the sort of friends he and Skiros would need. Big, rough-looking guys who bare their teeth and finger their rifles every time I drive by. They’d cut your throat for a pair of socks.”
Kane shook his head. “Not Mahmoud. He’s a Bedouin of the old school. Very keen in his honor and the strict observance of the ancient customs.”
He pushed himself to his feet and walked out from under the awning. He felt curiously light-headed and swayed slightly, bracing his feet to steady himself. Jordan said anxiously, “Sure you feel okay?”
“I’ll feel a lot better when I catch up with Skiros,” Kane told him. “Can I borrow one of the trucks?”
Jordan shook his head. “No need. I’m coming with you. I happen to think quite a lot about Marie Perret myself.”
“What about Cunningham and his wife?”
Jordan shrugged. “They’ll sleep for hours. I’ll leave my men here to look after them.”
Kane was too tired to argue. He called Jamal over, explained the situation, and they climbed into one of the trucks and waited for Jordan, who was giving his men their instructions.
They drove away a few minutes later, Jordan behind the wheel, and Kane closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. It was as if all the action, all the passion of the past few days, had finally caught up with him, draining the strength from his very bones. He didn’t even bother to think about what lay ahead.
They reached Hazar in just under an hour and Jordan braked the truck at the head of the wide valley, and they looked down on the black tents of the Bedouins.
“Whatever happens, leave the talking to me,” Kane said. “I know exactly how I’m going to handle it.”
The palm trees of the oasis extended for several hundred yards along the valley, their green fronds forming a solid roof against the rays of the sun. As they drove into the encampment, scattering camels and goats before them, children ran toward the tents with shrill cries of alarm, and tall, black-bearded men in flowing robes emerged, most of them carrying rifles.
As they drove into the center of the camp, Kane straightened in his seat and Jamal touched him lightly on the shoulder. Fifty or sixty yards away two trucks were parked.
Jordan saw them in the same moment. “Looks as if we’ve come to the right place.”
He braked to a halt outside the largest tent and a commanding figure moved outside and stood looking toward them.
Mahmoud was very old, his flowing beard heavily streaked with silver, and his skin was drawn tightly like parchment over fine bones. His robes were of dazzling whiteness and the hilt of his jambiya was of finely wrought gold.
The tribesmen moved silently in on them, surrounding the vehicle and effectively cutting off any retreat. They looked anything but friendly.
Jordan said quietly, “Have you noticed their rifles? The very latest. No wonder Skiros chose to wait here.”
Kane moved forward slowly and halted a few paces away from Mahmoud. For a brief moment they looked into each other’s eyes, and then the old Arab smiled and extended his hand. “My good friend, Kane. It is a long time since we hunted together with the falcons.”
Kane took the proffered hand and smiled. “Time has been good to you, Mahmoud. Each year you grow younger.” He turned and nodded toward Jordan. “I bring a friend.”
Mahmoud’s face wrinkled with distaste. “I know him. The young man who tears up the ground and makes the air stink with his machines.” An expression of discomfort appeared on Jordan’s face, but the old man smiled and made a courteous gesture with one hand. “On this occasion we make him welcome for the sake of a friend.”
He turned and walked through the low entrance into the cool interior and Kane and Jordan followed.
They sat cross-legged on soft rugs and waited until a woman shrouded in black robes emerged from the rear of the tent carrying a coffee pot, three cups, and a bowl of boiled rice on a brass tray.
Kane and Jordan, observing the usual formalities, drank their coffee and ate a little of the rice, dipping their fingers into the communal bowl as did Mahmoud.
As the woman handed them a damp cloth with which to wipe the grease from their fingers, Kane sighed with relief, all tension easing inside him. Whatever course the conversation took, whatever happened, they were now safe. They had eaten and drunk with Mahmoud in the midst of his tribe. No harm could possibly come to them now.
There was a slight silence before Mahmoud said politely, “You have come far, my friend?”
Kane nodded. “Far and fast. I seek two men who have wronged me deeply.”
“A man’s honor is his life,” Mahmoud said seriously. “May Allah guide your footsteps.”
“He has already shown me his great mercy,” Kane replied. “The men I seek are here in your camp. I have seen their trucks.”
Mahmoud was not visibly moved. He nodded calmly. “There are two Franks in my tents. My good friend Professor Muller and the fat one from Dahrein. In what way have they offended your honor?”
Kane kept his voice flat and unemotional. “They have taken my woman.”
There was quiet and the old man stroked his beard gently with one slender hand. After a moment, he said, “Certainly they have a woman with them. One of mixed blood. She has not left their tent since their arrival.”
“She is the one,” Kane said.
Mahmoud got to his feet with easy grace. “Wait here,” he said calmly and went outside.
Jordan moved restlessly. “What was all that supposed to mean?”
Kane explained quickly. “It’s the one way we can bring Skiros out into the open. A woman may be just a household chattel to a Bedouin, but the similarity ends there. To steal a man’s woman is one of the most serious crimes known to these people.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that,” Jordan said impatiently. “But I still don’t see how it’s going to help.”
Before Kane could reply, Mahmoud came back into the tent followed by Muller and Skiros.
Kane and Jordan rose to their feet and Kane moved forward a step. The expression of dismay on Muller’s face was ludicrous, but Skiros showed little emotion. “We saw you arrive. It would appear that miracles still do happen. Presumably Selim has been delayed.”
“Indefinitely, I’m afraid,” Kane replied.
“So you are old friends,” Mahmoud said softly.
“Hardly that,” Skiros told him. “This man has done me great harm. One might even say he has also harmed you and your people. Because of his actions, Muller and I must leave the country. There will be no more arms for the border tribes.”
“That is certainly most unfortunate, and my people would not be pleased if they knew,” Mahmoud said, “but Kane is a guest in my tents and his safety is as much my concern as is your own.”
Skiros shrugged. “Naturally, that is your own affair, but I feel I should warn you that this man is your enemy.”
Mahmoud walked away a few paces as if deep in thought and said slowly, “This woman you have in your tent, she belongs to you?”
Skiros stiffened and Muller mopped sweat from his face with a trembling hand. “In what way can this woman concern you?” the German asked.
Mahmoud’s voice was quite calm. “Kane tells me that she is not your woman. That you have stolen her from him.”
Skiros shrugged carelessly. “I would expect him to say such a thing.”
“I see,” Mahmoud said thoughtfully. “Two versions of the same affair each different. Logically, someone must be juggling with the truth. There is one obvious way to find out.”
He clapped his hands and there was a slight movement outside. Marie came through the entrance and stood facing them, blinking her eyes in the gloom, and then she saw Kane. An expression of wonder appeared on her face, and with a sl
ight, incredulous cry she ran into his arms.
He held her close and ran a hand over her dark hair. “Are you all right?” he said.
“I’m fine—just fine.” She touched his face gently. “I can’t quite believe it.”
Mahmoud placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her round to face him. “What is your name, child?”
She faced him proudly, chin up-tilted. “Marie Perret.”
He nodded slowly. “I have heard of you. Your mother was a Rashid, was she not?” He turned away and stood slightly to one side of the group so that he could see every face clearly. “This man Kane says that you are his woman. That Skiros has stolen you from him. Is this true?”
She nodded and the old sheik went on. “Are you married according to the Christian custom?”
“No, we are not married,” she said.
“Has he known you, child?” Mahmoud said gently.
There was a moment of stillness and Kane held his breath, praying that her answer would be the right one. She nodded her head slowly. “Yes, I have lain with this man.”
Skiros exploded angrily. “It’s a lie. This is a deliberate plot on the part of Kane. I told you he was my enemy.”
Mahmoud stilled him with a raised hand. “What woman would shame herself without reason? If she has lain with him, then she is his. She may not belong to another. She is of the blood of my people and it is our law.”
An expression of fury appeared on the German’s face, but by a supreme effort of will he controlled his anger. He bowed stiffly, brushed aside the tent flap, and went out, Muller at his heels.
Jordan emitted an audible sigh of relief and Kane turned to Mahmoud. “What now?”
The old sheik smiled. “I think it best if she returns to her tent and stays there under guard until our friends leave.”
“May I speak to her first?” Kane said.
Mahmoud nodded. “For a little while only.” He touched Jordan on the shoulder and led the way outside, leaving Kane and Marie alone.
She came into his arms and he held her close for a little while, and then they sat down. Kane was suddenly tired—really tired. “Have you got any cigarettes?” he said.
She took a crumpled pack from her shirt pocket and gave him one. He inhaled and gave a sigh of content. “That tastes good.”
She reached over and smoothed back his hair. “You look as if you’ve been having a pretty thin time.”
“I guess you could call it that.”
“Tell me about it.”
He gave her a brief outline of events, and when he had finished she gave a sigh of relief. “I’m glad the Cunninghams are all right. What are you going to do about Skiros and Muller?”
“What can I do? Mahmoud will hold us here until after they’ve left, or I miss my guess. He owes them that much if they’ve been supplying him with guns. One thing I can’t understand is why Skiros decided to leave the valley in such a hurry. What happened?”
“I don’t really know,” she said. “He was on the radio for a long time after the fighting was over. When he came down into the camp, he was very angry. He had a long argument with Selim. Afterwards, he said we’d be leaving at dawn.”
“He was probably in touch with his superiors in Berlin to tell them about the loss of the plane,” Kane said. “They must have got into a panic. After all, if he was caught and his true nationality disclosed, there’d be hell to pay. They most likely told him to get out—and fast.”
“I hope we never see him again,” Marie said.
Kane held out his hands and she clasped them tightly. “At least one good thing’s come out of all this,” he said. “I know when I’m licked.”
She came into his arms and they kissed briefly, then the tent flap was thrown back and Mahmoud appeared. He stood to one side and Marie brushed past him.
The old Bedouin smiled. “You look tired. I suggest a long sleep. I’ll have you taken to your friend. We’ll talk later.”
Kane went out into the bright sunlight and a man led the way through the encampment. Eyes turned on him curiously and several small children ran at his heels all the way to the tent, which was on the outskirts of the camp. When he ducked in through the entrance, he found Jordan sitting cross-legged on a rug in the center, eating from a can.
“You look terrible,” the geologist said cheerfully.
Kane managed a tired grin and flung himself down on a sleeping pallet in one corner.
Jordan was still speaking, but the words didn’t seem to be making any sense. After a while, they were simply a monotonous drone, and Kane was asleep.
He awakened slowly and lay staring into the gloom. It was night and an oil lamp hung from the pole above his head, its radiance scattering the shadows from the center of the tent.
Jordan was sitting nearby, cleaning his revolver. As Kane moved, he turned and a smile appeared on his face. “How do you feel?”
“Out of this world,” Kane said, struggling into a sitting position.
Jordan handed a bowl across. “You’d better have something to eat.”
Kane pushed balls of boiled rice and pieces of goatmeat into his mouth and discovered he was hungry. “Has anything been happening?”
Jordan shook his head. “Quiet as the grave. You’ve been lying there for about eight hours.”
“Have our friends left yet?”
“They were on the other side of the camp. I suppose the old boy arranged it that way. I heard them drive off a couple of hours ago. What do you think they’ll do?”
Kane shrugged. “Make straight for Dahrein, hoping to get clear before we notify the authorities.”
“Are you going to try to stop them?”
Kane shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ll be glad to see the back of both of them. They’re finished round here, anyway.” He got to his feet and stretched. “Let’s call on Mahmoud.”
He brushed back the entrance flap, walked out into the cool night, and led the way down through the quiet camp to Mahmoud’s tent.
They found the old sheik sitting cross-legged on a sheepskin before the fire, smoking a Turkish cigarette, eyes boring into the heat of the flames.
He greeted them with a smile. “So you have recovered, my friend,” he said to Kane.
Kane sat down beside him. “I understand Skiros and Muller have left?”
The old man nodded. “I promised them I would hold you here for a day. I owed them that much at least.”
“Skiros was a German,” Kane said. “Was it wise to have dealings with such a man?”
Mahmoud smiled. “Your friend represents an American oil company. If he finds oil, how long will it be before we receive the benefits of so-called American aid?”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” Jordan said.
Mahmoud shrugged. “In Oman, they have the British to protect them. Here we would rather protect ourselves. If the Germans are foolish enough to give us arms free, I will accept.”
“But most of the border tribes have used those arms to attack the British in Oman,” Kane said. “This is what the Germans wish to see happen.”
The old man shrugged. “That is not my affair.”
There was obviously no point in further discussion and Kane changed the subject. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t see the woman?”
Mahmoud shook his head. “She is still under guard in her tent. I will take you to her myself.” As he led the way through the camp, he said, “If you will take an old man’s advice, be careful when you return to Dahrein. Skiros will not forget what you have done to him.”
He paused outside the tent which contained Marie Perret. The guard sat cross-legged in the shadows beside the entrance, head lolling forward over his chest. Mahmoud exclaimed in annoyance and prodded the man with his foot.
The guard rolled forward into the sand, face turning to one side. He was still alive, but there was blood on his neck behind his left ear, the mark of a heavy blow.
There was no sign of a struggle when Kane looked i
nside the tent, but she was no longer there, and he turned to Mahmoud and said, “They have taken her with them.”
“But why?” Jordan demanded.
“A hostage until he manages to get safely out of the country or a means of hitting at me.” Kane shrugged. “The reason isn’t important.”
Mahmoud touched him on the sleeve and the old sheik’s eyes were troubled. “I am shamed that this thing should happen in my tents. Naturally this absolves me from my promise to hold you here for a day.”
“No one is to blame,” Kane told him, “but we must leave at once. Where is the Somali?”
“He sleeps with my bodyguard,” Mahmoud said. “I will send him to you.” He walked back to his tent and Kane and Jordan hurried toward the truck.
“What about the Cunninghams?” Jordan asked.
Kane shrugged. “They’ll have to fend for themselves for the time being. This thing is more important.”
He smoked a cigarette and considered the situation, while Jordan checked that everything was in running order. It was about one hundred and twenty miles to Dahrein over dirt roads, and in places the going was rough. Skiros and Muller had a two-hour start. Unless they had a breakdown, it would be impossible to catch them before Dahrein.
Jamal appeared from the darkness followed by Mahmoud and several of his men. The Somali climbed into the rear seat and Jordan slid behind the wheel and pressed the starter.
As the engine roared into life, Mahmoud leaned forward and took Kane’s hand. “As Allah wills it, my friend.”
“ ’Till our next meeting,” Kane said, and Jordan moved into gear and the truck shot away on a cloud of dust.
For the first hour, they followed an ancient caravan trail through the mountains, Jordan straining his eyes into the darkness, swinging the wheel violently from time to time as the headlights picked out boulders and other obstructions in their path.
Kane leaned back in his seat, one of Jordan’s cigarettes smouldering between his teeth. Despite his long sleep, he was still tired, but from somewhere in the depths of him he had summoned secret resources of energy, some mysterious vital force that was to hold him together long enough to finish this business.
