Major Namid was too hot and tired to do more than make a disgusted face, but Carter was interested.
"How would they do that?" he asked.
"They would drop a mountain on you." Bored suddenly, Zarak went back to his pastime of snatching flies out of the air.
Khamsina explained. "It is an old Nefrazi trick, from the days when cavalry came to the Sawda to harass them. They would find a likely spot, at a mountain pass or gorge, undermine a section of the cliff face by driving long stakes into it, and pry the rocks off to crush their enemies."
"That gives us all something else to worry about. Beware of falling rocks, eh?" Carter said.
"Oh, they do not do that now. That was a long time ago."
"If it worked on cavalry, it should work on convoys too," Carter noted.
Presently they all had something else to worry about, and it wasn't falling rocks.
Station 6 did not reply.
Not a fort, hardly an outpost, Station 6 was the end of the line, the last stop before the road and semi-modern civilization ran out. It consisted of little more than a blockhouse, barracks to hold its complement of a dozen men, a well, and a gas pump. It would be the last stop, too, for Carter, Namid, and Khamsina before Zarak led them into the hills where the Nefrazi had their hidden oasis… and where the Crime Police base camp was secreted.
Station 6 had a radio, too, but they could not be raised by the operator working the set on the mini-bus. He was a youngster, fresh-faced, who said hopefully to Lieutenant Osmanli, "Maybe their radio is out of order, sir."
He didn't believe it, and neither did anybody else. The soldiers stopped looking bored and started paying plenty of attention to their rifles and ammunition.
The scout jeep went on ahead, out of sight of the rest of the convoy, as they investigated the communications gap.
After a long pause, the scouts radioed back the reason for the unbroken silence of Station 6:
"They're all dead — wiped out!"
Sixteen
The vultures thronging Station 6 were having a great time, one of the best feast days ever. What looked like hundreds of them littered the ground around Station 6. They must have been there for some time. There wasn't much flesh remaining on the four clean-picked skeletons they were mobbing.
The real horror was in the mess hall. It was filled with vultures, too, smart ones who had figured out that walking inside the blockhouse would take them where the real action was.
Somebody had tried to burn down the station, but dried mud-brick doesn't burn too easily. Scorch marks framed square windows. Wooden doors, shutters, and roof beams were charred, blackened. The scent of burning was perfume compared to the indescribable stench within.
The mess hall was the scene of sudden, violent death. That's where most of the soldiers sprawled, amid the overturned tables and chairs. The sights, the stink, the blankets of flies…
The men hadn't died by shooting, stabbing, or bludgeoning. Despite theirorted postures, there wasn't a mark on them. Investigation of the kitchen told the tale.
Poison.
Still standing on a wooden table was the means of death: a ten-gallon metal bucket with a long-handled ladle resting in it. It contained karkade, a refreshing soft drink made from raspberries. Its surface was coated with thick black scum, the bodies of innumerable insects who came to drink the poisoned sweet brew and, drinking, died. Just like the station personnel.
Carter told Major Namid the story that old Salah had recounted to him on that faraway morning at SB headquarters in Tel Aviv, about the clan of Reguibat males exterminated by a poisoned banquet.
Scanning the rugged black highlands, Carter said, "He's here. Somewhere not far from here, we'll find Reguiba."
* * *
Nothing is less romantic than a camel ride at night. Some few miles west of Station 6, a bedraggled trading post hung like a blister on the lip of the Sawda Hamadi. Here mounts were acquired for the trek, one for each of the travelers, plus two more as pack animals.
Major Namid gave final instructions to Lieutenant Osmanli, charging him to establish a base camp, set up his defenses, and maintain regular radio contact with the town of Dunqul, keeping them apprised of the situation.
"And above all, maintain a constant watch over the foodstuffs and the water supply," Namid cautioned.
Unnecessary advice, since the lieutenant had been profoundly shocked by the atrocity at Station 6.
Osmanli was not happy with the situation. He trusted Zarak not at all, Carter very little, and he was suspicious of the woman too. But his orders were clear, and he would obey them.
The little band waited until nightfall before setting out on their journey. Not only because it was cooler, though the sun's absence was a blessing, but because there was less chance of stumbling into a Crime Patrol ambush. Those renegades moved freely by day, but the night belonged to the Nefrazi.
This was not the first time the Killmaster had ridden a camel, but the experience was no more pleasant than the last time. His mount was surly, sullen, and balky, with all the maliciousness for which the so-called "ship of the desert" is famed.
Major Namid was reminded by his mount of another nasty trait of camels. They spit.
"Major, shhhhhh!" Khamsina said. "We will be heard all over the range if you do not control your temper!"
"My temper? Did you see what that brute did to me? He did it on purpose, I know it. Look at him, the devil's laughing at me!"
Carter noticed that Zarak, for the first time, was laughing too.
The Nefrazi bandit was enjoying himself hugely. They were in his world now, a world of harsh extremes and constant struggle.
Which described the Killmaster's world as well.
Carter had to agree with Namid. Even in the dull moonlight cast by a slivered crescent, the camel seemed to be giving the befouled Namid the horselaugh.
Once they were all mounted, they moved out on the trail in single file, Zarak in the lead. Hooves clip-clopped on the narrow, stony trails.
A rough ride got worse almost immediately, and Carter was reminded of yet another painful memory, namely, that camel saddles are damned uncomfortable. The camel's pitching, rolling gait rocked him from side to side in the saddle, soon making him wish he'd sewn a pillow to the seat of his pants.
The route passed through a gorge, across a stony flat, into a steeply rising, ever-narrowing wadi. Beyond the valley was a hill with a rounded dome, which they circled. The trek was no different from one taken a thousand years ago by the savage nomads who made this wasteland their own.
Within two hours they were deep in the Black Highlands. Zarak was in his element, and knew every inch of it, picking out trails no one else could find.
Carter oriented himself by moon and stars, but the trail took so many twists and turns that he was hard pressed to keep track of them. If he absolutely had to, he thought he could find his way back. He hoped he didn't have to.
Once, they saw a fire burning on a distant hilltop. It was extinguished almost as soon as they caught sight of it.
Occasionally Zarak paused, using all his senses, watching, listening, even sniffing the air as if to catch some elusive scent. At one passage he cautioned them to avoid making any betraying noises or talking. After twenty minutes they passed out of the tense danger zone.
By midnight the trail grew so rough that they, all dismounted and led their camels by the bridles. Major Namid was careful to stay well clear of the beast's spitting range.
Eventually the ground leveled off and they remounted. They were on a sprawling plateau. For the first time in many a mile, there was the fresh scent of green growing things.
Zarak was true to his oath to lead them to the oasis of the Nefrazi. They arrived shortly after two o'clock, according to Carter's watch.
They entered a high-walled, narrow gorge. Overhanging ledges blocked the moonlight, locking the pass in inky darkness.
Was that an animal cry? Or someone imitating an animal?
There was a sense of movement, furtive, swift, all around them. Above them. But there was nothing to be seen.
The gorge widened, opening out into a bowl-shaped plateau hemmed in by cliffs. It was a vest-pocket oasis, dropped as if by mistake into the heart of stone. There was the smell of water. The bowl sported scrub grass, bushes, and small scraggly little trees.
At the left side of the bowl, the herd animals were hobbled, camels, sheep, and goats, sounding off with dull bleats, baas, and lowing.
And there were tents, ghostly gray, peaked, integrated into the landscape to take advantage of all possible cover. Clusters of them dotted the bowl, further camouflaged by the tiger-stripe pattern of moonlight and shadow.
"But where are the people?" Namid wondered.
Carter said, "They're here."
"No, it's deserted!"
There were no fires, no voices, and no one to be seen but the foursome, their mounts, and the distant grazing flocks.
But Carter knew better. He told Major Namid, "Take a good look around you. They're here."
"Yes, we are here." Zarak laughed. Not a pleasant laugh, but then he was not a pleasant fellow.
The Nefrazi appeared.
As if by magic, or mutual instinct, some common signal, figures erupted out of nowhere. Dozens of them, popping up like a few score jack-in-the-boxes, surrounding Carter and his party.
Tribal warriors, young and old. They all had rifles, and all of them were pointed at the intruders. Rifles bristled like quills on a porcupine.
Major Namid fidgeted as if he were thinking of making a play for his rifle.
"Don't," Carter said. "They've only got us outnumbered by about forty to one."
Namid confronted Zarak. "You tricked us! You led us into a trap!"
"I think not," Zarak said. "You seek the Nefrazi? Very well. Here are the Nefrazi. Some of us, at least."
Somebody in the crowd of riflemen recognized the voice, calling out, "Ho, Zarak, is that you?"
"None other."
This caused quite a stir in the crowd. The head man of the group came to the fore, his men respectfully making a wide berth for him.
He was a spry bearded elder, dignified, erect, with a face like the carved head of a walking stick, a long white billy-goat beard, and the eyes of a fanatic.
Malik, sheik of the tribe — for that's who he was — seized the bridle of Zarak's camel, while he turned his hooded gaze upon the rider.
After a pause, he announced to the tribe: "Zarak!"
They sent up a great cheer.
Sheik Malik asked, "How do you come to be here, Zarak? Did you break free from their stinking jail of stone?"
Zarak indicated Carter, Namid, and Khamsina. "They freed me. To them I owe my liberty, much as it galls me to admit it."
"Who are they?"
"I can tell you this: they are the enemies of our enemies."
"Then they are our friends!" Malik said.
"Perhaps."
"Thanks a lot, Zarak," Carter muttered.
Then Khamsina spoke up. "By the white hairs of your beard, O sheik, have you grown so old that you forget your little Khamsina?"
Malik recognized her, as did others in the tribe. The sheik commanded his followers to put aside their rifles. The trio dismounted.
The clan had gone through many changes in five years, but despite the losses caused by time and violence, many of Khamsina's old friends remained to welcome her back into the fold. They had not forgotten the city girl who had mastered their ways and been initiated as a blood sister of the Nefrazi. As her companions, Major Namid and Carter were made more than welcome, quite a change from a moment earlier. Carter's spirits soared once he was no longer looking at a hedgehog of rifle snouts. Automatic rifles, the ubiquitous AK-47. It was amazing how the Soviet weapon had penetrated into the most remote locales, he thought. But when there's a product that everybody wants, it gets around.
The more distant quarters of the oasis gave up their denizens, as the women and children emerged from their places of hiding to join the impromptu celebration. Not even the babes in arms had cried out until the all-clear was signaled.
Sheik Malik embraced first Carter, then Major Namid. "A thousand pardons!" he said. "You will forgive us for doubting you. We believed you to be more spies, like the ones we captured yesterday."
"Spies?" Carter said.
"Yes, come to ferret out our secrets! We trapped them in the wadi and netted them like hares!" He laughed triumphantly.
A heavyset, black-bearded man, the sheik's nephew, said, "I took this from one of them!"
He proudly displayed a pistol. It was a Walther PPK with a custom-made checked handgrip.
Carter had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The odds were against there being too many guns like that in these parts.
"Those spies — they're still alive?" he asked.
"Only until we plan a fitting end for them."
"They were rich with weapons and food. They enrich us at their expense!" Sheik Malik said.
"I'd like to see them," Carter said. "It's very important."
"As you wish, so shall it be done, O honored guest of the Nefrazi! I will take you to them."
Carter and Major Namid followed the white-bearded sheik to a tiny tent set apart from all the others. Malik's nephew, Mugrin, lifted the flap.
Malik told Carter, "In light of the great service you have done us in returning our dear Zarak, I make you a gift of these two spies. Do with them what you will. Torture them, geld them, kill them, as it pleases you."
"I don't think that will be necessary," Carter said.
The two spies sat back to back, bound and gagged, tied hand and foot and to each other.
A twist of the wrist, a snap of the spring, and Hugo was in Carter's hand, thin and long as a knitting needle, glimmering in the moonlight. Hugo's dramatic appearance greatly impressed the sheik and his nephew. They came from a long line of throat-slitters with a real appreciation for knives.
Carter went into the tent and began to cut the prisoners' bonds. Over his shoulder he told the sheik, "Believe it or not, they're on our side."
"What? You amaze me!"
They were Griff and Stanton.
Seventeen
This morning, the falcon was restless. It started violently at slight sounds. Its talons tore long slivers from the thorny branch where it perched, building a mound of wood shavings on the ground beneath it. Head bobbing, beak clicking, feathers ruffling, it communicated its unease.
Reguiba stroked its head, but the creature would not be easily soothed. Its close-packed feathers were as fine to the touch as fur.
"The helicopter is late," Idir said.
Reguiba shrugged. He was schooled in patience. All things came in their own time.
Presently, a lookout atop a rock cliff waved his arms. Idir said, "Here it comes!"
Water, camouflage, and weapons were the keys to the Crime Police camp. The camp was pitched at the site the Nefrazi called Ayn al Dra, the Spring of the Arms. Not long ago, it was a Nefrazi watering hole. Reguiba took it from them. Desert-born himself, he knew its value.
It was too bad that the tribesmen and his Crime Police were enemies, but how else could it be? There was not enough water for both. Somebody had to go to the wall.
The site was on the western side of a ridge, protected from creeping desert sands by twin rock spurs that curved far out, almost touching, forming a natural barrier. The spring itself was a bubbling pool of fresh, clear water sheltered by rock overhangs. A hundred feet above it was the hanging, house-sized boulder that some camp wit had named Nasser Rock because of its uncanny likeness to the profile of the late Egyptian leader. At the far end of the camp, directly opposite the spring, a flat stony oval served as a landing pad for the helicopters.
Covering nearly half the site was a complex network of tented tarpaulins, raised on poles and strung with lines, done up in camouflage patterns. It masked troops and supplies from the prying eyes
of recon planes and spy satellites. It could shelter over three hundred Crime Police.
Reguiba enjoyed the thought that the onetime minions of the law were now his creatures. The desert and the Nefrazi had toughened them up. Soon they would be ready for big things.
He began the camp a long time ago as a project for the Libyans, who dearly wanted to destabilize Egypt. They had put him forward in Qom as the man who could lead Ifrit. They supplied his Crime Police with food and guns.
The troops were busy now, drilling, training, taking advantage of the short-lived morning coolness. Presently it would be too hot to move. Too hot for the fellahin city-dwellers, but not for Reguiba. He was a man of the desert.
The supply line was a long one. It began at Ayn al Ghazal, at the southeastern tip of Libya. Trucks ferried materiel across northern Sudan, by way of Selima Oasis, then over to Wadi Haifa. From there, it was barged down the Nile to El Diwan. Libyan agents and Egyptian traitors oversaw the last lap, bringing the supplies north by northwest in helicopters.
A fragile line. Without it, his Crime Police would quickly wither up and blow away.
Diversions in camp were few. The helicopter's arrival never failed to generate great interest.
The duo-rotor wide-bodied supply ship touched down on the flat like a bee settling on a flower.
Noncoms formed up men to off-load the supplies. The delivery crew didn't like to stay long. Reguiba was mildly surprised when a half-dozen of them got out of the copter and approached his tent.
They had guns. But why should that disturb him? Everyone had guns. Perhaps a higher-up in the chain of command was paying him a visit, and his men were trying to look sharp. Reguiba smirked at such foolish vanity.
The fellow in the middle of the group was familiar. Where had he seen him before? By the time he recognized the newcomer, his guards had leveled their rifles at the man in black.
Sadegh Sassani, the Iranian!
Sassani's left arm was in a cast and a sling. Come to think of it, Reguiba did recall that he had fired a little too far over to the left when he shot Sassani. He'd been aiming for his heart, but Sassani must have moved.
Blood Of The Falcon Page 16
