Sheba

by Jack Higgins

  At the end of the first hour, a strong wind started to blow in from the coast, cutting across the mountains, driving the curtain of cloud before it, and the full moon appeared, its rays drifting down into the valleys, lighting the way before them.

  Jordan increased their speed now that he could see more clearly ahead, and they hurtled along the bed of a sterile, barren valley, zigzagging between large boulders, lurching from side to side.

  An hour later, they moved out onto a man-made road, hewn out of the side of the mountain and roughly surfaced with small stones.

  As Jordan moved into a higher gear, taking them forward in a burst of speed, there was a loud report from the rear, and the truck slewed dangerously close to the edge of the road.

  Jordan switched off the engine with a curse. “Blow-out! Might happen more than once on this blasted road.”

  They changed the tire and were on their way again within ten minutes, but this time Kane was behind the wheel. There was no room in his mind for thinking of what lay ahead. He focused everything on the road in grim concentration. His mind became a blank and nothing existed except the truck and the road ahead, twisting and curving along the side of the mountain, gradually sliding down toward the coast.

  There was no question that he couldn’t keep it up—no question at all. He sat hunched behind the wheel for mile after mile, hands slipping in their own sweat on the rim, until three hours later they came down into the great valley which opened into the sea.

  He and Jordan had not spoken for hours, but now, as Dahrein came into sight, Kane said, “What time have you got?”

  Jordan glanced at his watch. “About four A.M. You feel okay?”

  Kane breathed several times to clear his head and nodded. “I feel fine.”

  “What’s our next move?” Jordan said.

  Kane frowned. “I don’t think they’ll use the hotel. Muller’s house is the obvious choice. It’s more secluded.”

  All was quiet as he took the truck along the road past the airstrip and moved in through the outlying houses down toward the waterfront.

  Dahrein was shrouded in darkness, and he turned the headlights full on as he drove carefully through narrow streets and twisting alleys toward Muller’s house.

  At the end of the street, he halted and switched off the engine. “We’d better go the rest of the way on foot.”

  He reached for his submachine gun and led the way cautiously along the street. A lamp hung suspended over the door in the wall and beneath its light a travel-stained truck was parked.

  Jordan touched the engine housing briefly. It was still warm. “They haven’t been here long.”

  Kane nodded. “I know, we made good time.”

  The door was locked. For a moment he hesitated, and then Jamal touched him on the shoulder. When Kane turned, the Somali was leaning against the wall, legs braced firmly. Kane slung the machinegun over his shoulder and scrambled up on to Jamal’s back. As he reached the Somali’s shoulders, great hands seized his ankles and pushed.

  He pulled himself over the wall and dropped down into the garden. There were lights on in the interior of the house. He stood in the darkness looking up at the windows, and then he moved quickly to the door and unlocked it. A moment later, Jamal and Jordan were standing at his side.

  He locked the door securely, pocketing the key, and they moved through the darkness toward the house.

  18

  IT WAS QUIET IN THE GARDEN AND A SLIGHT BREEZE lifted coolly across Kane’s cheek as he crouched behind a bush a few yards from the front door. He moved forward out of the shadows and mounted the steps to the terrace, followed by Jordan and the Somali.

  The door opened to his touch and he walked inside, submachine gun ready. The light was on, and from upstairs there came the sound of faint movement.

  He turned to speak to Jordan and a door clicked open on one side of the hall. An Arab servant in white robes entered, carrying a suitcase. As he saw them, his eyes widened into saucers. Before he could cry out, Jamal took a quick pace forward and slammed his fist against the side of the man’s jaw. He slumped to the ground without a cry, the case slipping from his grasp.

  A voice called impatiently from upstairs and Muller appeared on the landing. “For God’s sake, hurry, boy!” he shouted, and then he saw Kane.

  He pulled a Luger from his pocket and fired one wild shot that ricocheted from the wall, causing them all to duck instinctively, and then he turned back into his study and slammed the door.

  Kane moved cautiously up to the landing and flattened himself against the wall. He reached over quickly and tried the door. It was locked. Jordan and Jamal crossed to the other side and they waited. Muller made no sound.

  Kane nodded to Jamal and the Somali moved forward silently, fired a long burst that shattered the lock, and kicked the door open. He jumped back to the shelter of the wall, but Muller made no move. After a moment, Kane peered round the corner into the room. It was empty, and in the far wall another door stood open.

  It gave on to a back stairway and Kane led the way, moving cautiously down into the darkness. The door at the bottom was closed, and when he opened it he found himself standing in the garden.

  “Do you think he’s still there?” Jordan whispered.

  Kane nodded. “He must be, I locked the gate, and he’s too small to get over that wall without help.”

  A bullet sang through the bushes and dunted against the wall a few feet away. They crouched down and Jamal moved in beside them.

  “Don’t be a fool, Muller,” Kane called. “There are three of us and we’re well armed. You don’t stand a chance.”

  Somewhere a bird, disturbed by the unaccustomed noise, lifted through the bushes, and there was an uneasy fluttering from the doves which perched on the roof of the house nightly.

  “We’d better split up,” Kane told Jordan softly. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. But for God’s sake, don’t start any indiscriminate firing. You might get me instead of Muller.”

  Jordan grinned. “I’ll be careful.”

  Jamal moved away to the right and Kane started to crawl forward. The ground was wet with dew and he got to his feet and stood in the shadow of a fig tree, acutely aware of every sound. And then another shot was fired and Jordan cried, “He’s making for the gate, Kane! Head him off!”

  Kane moved forward quickly and came out on to the path as Muller appeared some twenty or thirty feet away. The German ran to the gate and vainly tried to open it as Jordan emerged from the bushes and joined Kane.

  The German turned to face them, despair in his eyes. He held the Luger close against his right thigh and Kane lifted the submachine gun. “Don’t be a fool.”

  Muller raised the Luger and fired and Jordan seemed to catch his breath sharply and stumbled sideways into Kane. Muller raised the Luger again, and Jamal stepped out of the bushes and fired a burst that drove the German back against the gate.

  Jordan’s face was twisted with pain and Kane could feel blood trickling across his hand as he supported him. He called to Jamal and the Somali lifted Jordan in his arms and carried him back toward the house.

  Kane was about to follow, when Muller groaned. He hesitated and then walked down to the gate and dropped to one knee beside the German. His eyes were open and glazed with pain and his chest seemed completely shattered.

  Kane leaned down and said urgently, “Muller, can you hear me? Where are the others?”

  But he was wasting his time. Muller’s eyeballs retracted and blood erupted from his mouth. His head fell to one side and he lay still.

  Kane stayed there for a moment, thinking, and then he dragged the body off the path into the bushes and unlocked the gate. He went back up the path to the house.

  Jamal had stripped Jordan’s shirt from his body. The bullet had caught him beneath the left breast, but a close examination showed that it had been deflected by a rib, scoring a deep groove in the flesh, which bled freely, but was not otherwise dangerous.

  As
Jamal tore the shirt into strips and quickly bandaged the wound, Jordan opened his eyes. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “You’ve still got Skiros to think about.”

  “After we’ve got you to a doctor,” Kane said.

  As Jamal picked him up, the young geologist fainted, and Kane led the way down through the garden to the truck. The Somali eased Jordan into the backseat, then climbed in beside Kane.

  As they drove away, the surrounding houses were quiet, and Kane reflected grimly that it was a fortunate thing that in Dahrein gunfire in the night was not so unique as to arouse comment.

  He braked to a halt outside the hotel and Jamal followed him in, Jordan cradled in his arms. The foyer was deserted and a Hindu night clerk dozed behind the desk. Kane grabbed him by the shoulder and brought him rudely awake.

  “Where’s Skiros?”

  The Hindu spread his hands. “He is away, sahib. He has been away for several days now.”

  The man was lying, Kane was sure of that, but for the moment, he let it go. “Is Doctor Hamid still living here?”

  When the clerk nodded, Kane went on, “Give me a key for a room on the first floor and get him out of bed. Tell him it’s urgent.”

  The clerk moved round the desk, handed him a key, and went upstairs ahead of them. Kane quickly checked the number of the key, located the room, and opened the door.

  Jamal laid Jordan gently on the bed and stood back. Jordan’s face was beaded with sweat, and as Kane anxiously examined him the door opened and a thin-faced, graying Arab entered. He wore a dressing gown and carried a black bag. He nodded briefly to Kane, pushed him out of the way, and leaned over Jordan.

  He straightened up and opened his bag. “Looks worse than it is,” he said in precise English. “He’s a lucky man, though.”

  “I’ll leave him with you, then,” Kane said. “I’ll be back later to see how he is.”

  Doctor Hamid nodded impatiently, his mind already on the task before him, and Kane and Jamal left the room.

  When they went downstairs, the clerk was back behind his desk, reading a newspaper. Kane went and leaned against the desk and waited.

  The man looked over the newspaper and smiled uncertainly. “There is something I can do for you, sahib?”

  “You can tell me where Skiros is,” Kane said.

  The Hindu shrugged. “As I have already told you, sahib, I have not seen Mr. Skiros for several days.”

  “Normally I’m a patient man,” Kane said, “but you’ve caught me on an off-night. Either you tell me where Skiros is, or I’ll ask my friend here to break your arm.”

  The clerk looked at Jamal and winced. “That will not be necessary, sahib. There is a limit to all things—even loyalty. Mr. Skiros was here about an hour ago. He took many papers from his office and a quantity of money from the safe. He told me he was going away for a while, that if anyone asked for him I was to say I knew nothing.”

  “Was Marie Perret with him?”

  The clerk shook his head yes. “He made two telephone calls, that is all.”

  Kane glanced across at the switchboard and smiled. “And naturally you listened in to those calls.”

  The Hindu shrugged. “The first was to Professor Muller. Mr. Skiros told him to hurry. He said that everything was arranged.”

  “And the second?”

  “That was to Captain Gonzalez, the Customs Chief. Mr. Skiros told him to come round at once and to bring all the money he could lay his hands on.”

  “Did he come?”

  “He arrived twenty minutes later. He was very angry, sahib, but Mr. Skiros threatened him.”

  “About what?” Kane said.

  The clerk shook his head. “I am not sure, sahib. It sounded as if they had been business partners.”

  Kane stood there for a moment, a slight frown on his face, and then he nodded to Jamal, who had been standing impassively at his side, crossed the hall quickly, and went out into the street.

  As they walked along the waterfront, many things became clear to him. The fact that Skiros had denied all knowledge of Cunningham’s arrival in Dahrein was understandable, but that Gonzalez had missed him was not so easily explained. The Customs Chief was lazy and shirked his duties, but every beggar in town was his spy and little happened that he didn’t get to hear about.

  And what about all those times Kane had brought currency into Dahrein for Skiros? Gonzalez hadn’t searched the boat once, obviously because he’d been fixed by Skiros and they hadn’t bothered to take Kane into their confidence.

  They had arrived at the Customs Chief’s house. Kane pulled hard on the bell chain and waited. After a while, there was a movement on the other side of the door and Gonzalez peered out through the grill.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “I’d like a word with you,” Kane told him. “It’s rather urgent.”

  Grumbling, Gonzalez unchained the door. It opened slightly and Jamal kicked it back against the wall.

  When Kane moved in through the gateway, Gonzalez was sprawled on the ground. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded angrily.

  Kane hauled him to his feet and pulled him close. “Where’s Skiros?”

  Something very like fear appeared in the Spaniard’s eyes, but he tried to bluster. “How should I know?”

  Kane held him with one hand and turned to Jamal. He spoke clearly and distinctly in Arabic. “This dog knows where Miss Perret is being held prisoner. Make him talk.”

  The Somali’s great hands reached out and fastened around the Spaniard’s shoulders. A second later, he was bent over one mighty knee, back arched. He screamed once and Kane moved forward and nodded to Jamal.

  As the Somali relaxed the pressure, Gonzalez stretched out a hand appealingly to Kane. “Tell this black devil to leave me alone.”

  “Not until you’ve told me what I want to know,” Kane said harshly.

  “Skiros and the girl are on board Selim’s dhow, the Farah,” Gonzalez said. “They sail with the dawn tide.”

  Kane nodded to Jamal and the Somali dropped the Customs Chief to the ground where he lay, groaning with pain.

  Kane hurried along the waterfront and turned on to the jetty. Several dhows were tied alongside, but there was no sign of the Farah. For a moment, he was filled with fear, and then Jamal touched him on the shoulder and pointed.

  The Farah was anchored in the middle of the harbor. No other boats were moored in the vicinity and moonlight carpeted the water with silver.

  It would be impossible to approach in a boat without being seen and they crouched low and worked their way toward the end of the jetty. Kane paused as he heard a slight sound.

  He peered over the edge of the jetty and saw an Arab sitting in a dinghy, hidden in the shadows between two dhows. “Is that you, sahib?” the Arab called softly.

  Kane realized that he had been mistaken for Muller. He started to climb down the iron ladder backwards and replied in a muffled tone, “Yes, reach out your hand to steady me.”

  He half-turned and kicked the man in the stomach as he stood up. The man subsided into the bottom of the boat with a groan and Kane dropped down beside him.

  He quickly peeled off his shirt. He was busy with the laces of his desert boots when Jamal joined him. The Somali squatted beside him in the darkness and Kane quickly explained the plan. When he had finished, there was a worried frown on Jamal’s face, but he nodded reluctantly.

  Kane stood up clad only in his khaki pants. He took the knife from the belt of the Arab sailor, who lay in the bottom of the boat, pushed it into his waistband, and lowered himself into the water. He started to swim out into the harbor, using a powerful but quiet breast stroke.

  He felt naked and alone as he came from the shadows between the moored dhows and moved into the silver path of the moon. Luckily a slight breeze was blowing in from the sea, lifting the surface of the water into tiny waves which helped to hide him.

  As he approached the Farah, he could see the look-out standing in the b
ows, rifle slung from his shoulder. Kane swam quietly under the bowsprit and rested, hands firmly wrapped round the anchor rope.

  After a moment, he started to climb, hand over hand. The look-out was standing on the other side of the deck looking toward the jetty. Kane climbed over the rail and moved on silent feet.

  He hit the man hard across the back of the neck with the edge of his hand, and the Arab slid to the deck without a sound. Kane picked up his rifle and checked the action, then moved down the short flight of wooden steps which led to the waist of the ship. He paused in the shadows.

  The crew lived in a portion of the hold and he peered inside the hatch. Voices were raised in laughter and there was a smell of cooking. He laid down the rifle and pulled the heavy storm cover of the hatch into place, securing it with metal brackets.

  He started to get to his feet, hand reaching for the rifle, and from behind him there came a slight creak. The cold muzzle of a revolver touched him gently in the back of the neck and Skiros said, “Very good, my friend. It almost came off.”

  Kane turned slowly and the German smiled. “So old Mahmoud didn’t keep his promise to hold you?”

  “Not when he found you’d taken Marie,” Kane said. “You touched his Arab pride on the raw there.”

  “A matter of indifference to me. I’ve been waiting for Muller. Presumably he won’t be coming?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Kane said.

  Skiros smiled again. “In a way you have done me a favor. He might have proved troublesome. You’ve only anticipated my own intention.”

  “That I can believe,” Kane said drily.

  Skiros pointed to the hatch. “Now you can open it again. There seems to be no further reason to delay our departure.”

  Kane removed the metal brackets as slowly as possible. He pulled back the hatch and Skiros called, “All hands on deck!”

  The Arab seamen poured up from below and stood in a group, talking excitedly, eyeing Kane in an unfriendly manner. Skiros called forward one who was obviously the mate and ordered him to make sail, then he pushed Kane along the deck toward the stern.