Desert mercenary c-16

by Barry Sadler

  Sharif Mamud nearly glowed. He was right, there would be gold. Restraining his excitement he responded with calculated disinterest. "Ah, but what may this old one know that would be of interest to one such as yourself? There is no longer any war. The lands are quiet, the tribes are at peace, the French are gone. What could it be that you wish to know?''

  Sipping the tea with sucking sounds to show his appreciation, Carl waded through Sharif Mamud's ritual foreplay. "True, Sharif, things are different and the land is quiet. But that may change soon. There is trouble coming from the south."

  "Not from my people surely, al-Kattel — '' The title slipped out. Sharif Mamud recovered quickly. "- Effendi."

  Carl waved it away. "That does not matter. I do not take offense. In my years I have been called much worse. But let us keep that name between us; it's not for outside ears."

  Sharif Mamud bowed his head slightly, the folds of his turban framing his face. "As you wish. Now back to how I may be of service. What is this trouble you speak of?"

  "Sunni Ali of the Azbnei Tuaregs."

  Sharif Mamud sucked the back of his teeth. " Aiii! I presume you do not mean the Sunni Ali of old but the new one."

  Carl nodded. "Of course. Tell me what you know of him."

  Sharif Mamud poured more tea, giving himself time to collect his thoughts and calculate how much to give away for free.

  "It is said, by whom I do not know, but it is said that this new Sunni Ali would be a torch in the night. He is a man without vice or tolerance. A most hard and unforgiving person trapped in the sands of yesteryear, to which he wishes a return.''

  Sharif Mamud paused. Significantly his right hand lay palm open, casually, on the inlaid table. Carl smiled. His own hand was already filled. Over Sharif Mamud's palm he let loose a stream of gold coins until the palm was filled, then he said, "My old friend, even I know that words must be given nourishment that they might ripen into truth and wisdom."

  Mamud knew within a centime exactly how much had been put into his palm by the weight of it. It was enough.

  "It is good to speak with one who has not blinded himself with philosophies or dreams. Reality can be so much more rewarding.'' The coins disappeared into the folds of his jellaba.

  "More tea, al-Kattel?" Carl accepted with grace, and waited.

  Picking up where he had left off Sharif continued, "As I said, my friend, this Sunni Ali is a most strange man, and it has been whispered by a few that he is not of the Azbini or even of the Tuareg. But no one knows from whence he came. One day he was there, that is all that is known. He has taken for his own many young men from different tribes including my own."

  Leaning closer he hissed, "It is good that you have come. Too long have these lands been watered with blood and tears. This Sunni Ali is evil. If perchance you happen to meet him, gain favor with Allah and kill him without hesitation or conscience. I take your gold for such is my weakness of spirit, but I would have told you without payment, such is my distaste for the veiled man."

  Carl knew what he meant. Those bad years were still fresh to the memory. That they would come again he never doubted, but they didn't have to come so soon.

  "You said that perhaps he is not of the Azbini. Then what is he? You have sharp ears, old one. Have there not been rumors of his origin?"

  Mamud scratched at his beard. "Rumors, yes. Some have said that he is one of those desert-loving Englesi who has gone mad and become more Arab than the Arab, more Berber than the Berber, and more Tuareg than the Tuareg. Others claim he is a legionnaire who, when he deserted, was taken in by the Tuaregs, for he speaks several languages, something most unusual for a Tuareg. There are many stories. Take your choice of them. One will serve as well as another."

  "One other thing I know is of the guests he keeps at his camp by the mountain known as Baguezane. If my feeble mind has not completely lost its ability to do simple mathematics, I would conclude that they are the reason you are asking these questions. Is it not so?"

  "Yes, that is correct, you desert jackal. It has fallen to me and those under me to take the two, as you called them, 'guests' from the hospitality of Sunni Ali."

  Sharif Mamud rose from his cushions. "Come with me. We shall walk and talk during this the most pleasant time of the day when the sun gives way to the night and the air is cool."

  Gus started to trail after them but was detoured by Mamud. "No, my large one. Remain and dine. Lamb roasted with mint jelly and grape leaves and sweet rice is being brought to you now. Stay and do that which you do best, and leave thinking to those who are the thinkers. Feed, thou offspring of an elephant, feed."

  Gus would have been indignant but the mention of lamb roasted with mint jelly was too much, especially as the platters were at that moment being brought to him by the women of Sharif Mamud's household. The aroma removed any thought of insult or retaliation from his thick brow. Carl smiled at him as a parent would smile at a slow but well-loved child.

  Mamud led the way between rows of date palms to the edge of the oasis where they climbed to a rocky ridge and sat upon the stones. These craggy ridges, on the horizon beyond the Sahara, kept the moisture of the sea from being dissipated by the desert, giving life to a thin green strip along the North African coast.

  The day was giving way reluctantly as the shadows grew longer and darker across the land. Mamud looked to the south, his eyes going beyond the mountains. "It is hard out there, my friend. There is a saying which has much truth to it. And that is: if you cross the Sahara, to stay on the trail look for the bones of those who have died. They mark the trail. When you cannot find them, you are truly and forever lost."

  Carl knew that even though the danger that he spoke of was real, in the deep caverns of his soul Mamud still longed for the freedom he had known of the desert before he became master of Wadi Jebel. Out there in the great silence was the only true freedom for one such as he.

  "Al-Kattel, I will go with you in your quest. If you will cross the Baguezane, you will have need of one who knows the way. Once, when I was young, my sire pitched our tents at the base of the mountain. My boyhood friends and I spent many months learning its secrets. I know how to get to the camp of Sunni Ali. You must come from the east over the mountain. No one will look for you to come out of the desert."

  Mamud was not a young man but Carl knew that he had hidden reserves of strength. And he was right, he would be needed. Perhaps he would even make the difference. "Very well, graybeard. If you would go once more into the desert, then come with us as friend and companion."

  Mamud faced toward the mountains, now only a faint, soon to be invisible line against the rim of heaven. "Good. It is right that I go with you. I have been too long away. The soft life has taken much from me, and now I have little left to give. My days grow short and I am not needed as I once was. My sons have sons. They are not of the desert anymore. Soon they will want cars and planes, vacations in Europe. That is well enough for them, but I wish to return one more time to the furnace that once made my people great in the eyes of God."

  Turning his eyes to Carl he breathed deeply, "Ah, yes I know. I ramble too much. Dream too much. But you know that when only the stars separate one from the face of God, when the djinns, the spirits, ride the winds and great dunes move as oceans over the land, it is easy to dream. To dream of those years past when my people rode out of the furnace as hard as steel, pure of mind and eye. With the sword and the Koran they cleansed the earth."

  Carl thought he saw a tear in Mamud's eye. "And then, my friend?"

  Mamud looked toward the north."Then we fell from favor and became like those we conquered. The cities took us and with the taking we were corrupted in the eyes of Allah, may His name be praised. For this did he turn his favor from us, and now for such a long time we have been a small people who fight among ourselves and accomplish nothing. We have little left and that is one reason why I wish to go with you. This Sunni Ali must be stopped. The ways of old are not to be brought back. The world is too differ
ent. All that he would accomplish would be to speed up the dying. I would have the old ways die like myself, with time and as much grace as possible."

  Carl understood all too well. Casca Rufio Longinus had seen nations rise and fall, men and religions grow old and unneeded. He shook the thoughts from him. Casca alias Carl Langers was to live in this time. Yet if he could have he would return to the other time also.

  A chill ran over Langers. In only a few minutes the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. "Let's go back now," he said. "There is much to do. We will meet again perhaps in one or two days. At that time be ready to go. Also, if you find out anything more about Sunni Ali, contact me immediately."

  Mamud led the way back. Carl watched him carefully. His steps were strong, sure, his back still as straight as a jirad, a spear. He knew the old man would carry his weight, more than carry it. When one was ready to die as he was, the last reserves of strength from body and soul stood by to be called on. He envied Sharif Mamud his death. For he knew that the hand of Allah had touched the old man. He was ready for paradise. Carl wished him well in the afterlife. In sha' Allah, the will of God.

  Gus was ready for them. Nothing remained save the bones, which had been well picked, sucked, and smacked over by the fleshy lips of the big German. When they returned, Gus was wandering around outside of Sharif Mamud's tent eating a handful of sweet dates for dessert.

  Carl left Sharif Mamud at the door of his tent, telling him "Rest well and dream the dreams of old. For I know that they will come to you again and this time your dream of freedom will be realized, for that is what you seek and what you shall find."

  Mamud nodded his head. It was good to speak to one who understood. The scar-faced ferengi was more than he seemed. There were depths to the man's soul that were deep, very deep, and in those depths were great sorrows. Mamud wished for him, too, to one day find peace.

  " Salaam aleikum, my friend." He spoke the parting words.

  " Aleikum salaam, Sharif Mamud ibn-Hassani. Peace be with you. Till we meet again." To his large friend he said, "Come on, Gus, let's get going. Monpelier should be there by now."

  Gus climbed into the driver's seat and started up the Land Rover. The ride back to the fort seemed much longer. Or perhaps it was just that Carl felt very, very old.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He did not like the caves; they choked him with their closeness. Holes in the earth were the domain of the dead. The walls were stained with smoke ten thousand years old and covered in parts with prehistoric paintings. It stank inside of stale death, not of the invigorating purity of the desert.

  Guards at the entrance to the caves bowed as he passed, their faces, like his, kept hidden beneath the black indigo-dyed veils. He was their master and they were his dogs to do his bidding. Their only reason for existing was to obey and serve. Sunni Ali felt the same discontent for them: the warriors of the Tuareg had too long been confined. Soon it would be time to set his dogs loose to reclaim their ancient heritage.

  Striding across a cleared area between larger-than-man-sized boulders he went to his tent, ignoring the rest of his encampment whose tents had been set to take advantage of what shade was cast by the boulders of the mountain. But his eyes missed nothing. Sentries stood on high points to observe all that passed in front of their eyes, eyes which could see much farther than those of ordinary men, eyes which had been trained in the constant glare of the Saharan sun. His women he had sent away. There was no place for women in the affairs of men. They were a distraction at this time. He would be served only by the men of his tribe.

  Resting on cushions of woven horse hair, Sunni Ali crossed his legs and removed his veil. His face was stark, surprisingly pale where the sun had not touched it. The bones of his cheeks were prominent, giving him the gaunt and intense look of a desert falcon. He wished nothing at this time and waved away his attendants. He wanted only to think.

  When the weapons came he would gather to him the tribes of the desert and make war. He did not have any illusions about being able to win a major war, but he could make it so expensive for the enemy in terms of life and cost that his people would be granted their freedom. Freedom from artificial boundaries, freedom to ride as they had for a thousand years, obeying only the laws of Allah, blessed be His name, and those of the desert. Let the rest of the world do as it wished. Let them destroy themselves in their quest for power. He wanted only that which was theirs and the return of their way of life without interference. If it meant that thousands would die, that too would be in the hands of God.

  Once he had possession of the weapons the boy's father had promised, Sunni Ali would then call a great gathering of the tribes to him. Already he had sent emissaries to the Bedouin and the other Berber. He heard back from them that they would wait and see if he could deliver on his promise. Rifles alone were not enough to fight tanks and airplanes. Courage they had, but too many times in the past they had seen the bravery of their fighting men destroyed by the more modern weapons of the invaders. To wage war they had to know that they had at least a fighting chance. That is all. No one would have believed a guarantee of victory, but a fighting chance was all that was required for them to gather their warriors and once more come out of the desert to drive the invaders and infidels from their lands. Who knew? If they were successful in their first attempt then it might be that the other tribes of the Berbers and even some of the Arabs would come to ride with them and declare a great jihad, a holy war.

  Sunni Ali saw all this clearly. In the remote regions of his mind there was the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, he could be the flame which would rally all the followers of the prophet together and once and for all rid themselves of the ferengi. Then the tribes could go back to settling their differences among themselves as they always had.

  Legend and prophecy had forecast the birth of a great one who would rally Islam. It was possible that it could be him. He did have the space between his teeth that the prophets had said would mark the Mahdi.

  Sunni Ali lost sight of reality in his dreams, dreams he had as a child reborn. He had listened to the storytellers talk of the past when they were free men, of the great warriors who with sword and fire brought the word of Allah to the unbeliever. He believed in dreams. Oft-times at night he would go deep into the desert, his eyes locked upon the heavens if he waited long enough he could see the passing of stars, comets, and constellations. In them were his dreams.

  The ferengi had two weeks, not one minute longer, more to give him that which he had demanded. Then the boy would watch his wife die slowly, a slice of her being taken away every day. Once there was nothing left of her but madness, he would start on the son of the arms dealer. Unless, of course, the old man reconsidered once he knew what had happened to the girl.

  Taking a path up the side of the mountain, he passed sentries whose eyes sparkled with the fire of devotion above the folds of their veils.

  " El kher ghas. "

  He acknowledged that all was well.

  Sunni Ali found what he desired, a place where he could look out into the distance to where the hand of God touched the sky and the earth as one. It was good to let the great quiet seep into his soul. It was pure, clean. That is all that he wished for. He knew of the cities to the West and the Orient, of their sickness of soul and heart. He was no fool.

  Let the outside world think of him as only another madman of the desert. He knew what he was doing. If the desert was to be returned to its rightful owners, now was the time.

  The nations around them were weak. Recent wars of independence had taken all of the energies and resources of the colonial powers. They could not afford a war in the desert. Europe had its own problems and war and was weary. They had no interest in the Sahara, only in its oil. Even that could be negotiated. France was emotionally crippled by her long wars in Asia and North Africa. England had her own problems in Kenya and Egypt.

  On his side also were many liberal organizations with over-worked social consciences to whom the
return of the lands to their original peoples would seem a fine and good thing. All this he had as allies, and most of all he had the desert.

  To wage war at this time, Sunni Ali could rally an army that would cost hundreds of millions to match, money which would not be easily forthcoming. From the Tuareg alone he could call on 70,000 warriors. If the Bedouin and rest of the Berber joined with him, they would number over 150,000 fighting men. A major force, a force larger than the combined armies of Algeria, Libya, and Tunisia.

  He would leave the ferengi their coastlines and green valleys, and make the cost of one hectare of his desert so high no man in his right mind would wish to pay the price for it. But it had to be now before the climate of the outside world changed and too many of the desert peoples were drawn into the cities and ruined by the corruption which was bred there.

  It was a great dream, one he had first had when he became a convert to the ways of Allah, may His name be praised. Islam was the light, the flame which he would use to unite the tribes. His people, the Tuareg, were already devout Moslems. Among those who had come to him, he had slowly enforced the Islamic law of old by increasing the discipline a little every day. The pure faith of Mohammed would be vital to his plans, to give his men the singleness of thought and purpose which could unite them against the outsiders.

  A wind blew from the southwest. He knew where it originated. On the ocean currents off the Ivory Coast. In his mind it still had the smell of the sea to it. Beyond this range the winds would be sucked dry as he would suck dry the bodies of any who came against him.

  Removing his veil Sunni Ali bared his face to the crystal clear night, exposing his true self. If it had not been for the blue cast given it by the indigo dye, his face would have been as fair as the day his mother had given birth to him faraway in the green valley of the Rhine River.