Manhunt Is My Mission

by Stephen Marlowe

  “She’s my wife,” I said.

  “But traveling on her own passport?”

  I couldn’t deny that; Chester Drum was the only name on my passport.

  “Her papers, please.”

  Mahmoud almost saved us. He awoke and started to cry. “There now, it’s going to be all right,” Samia told him softly. “Don’t cry, little one.”

  “She’s my wife,” I repeated. “Leave them alone. The kid’s had a hard day.”

  “Why do you come to Shughur City?”

  “Are you kidding? We’re hoping to get a boat out of here before this country of yours blows up in our faces.”

  He could have let it go at that, but he said: “I must see your wife’s passport.”

  I still had the Ford in gear, with the clutch-pedal depressed. I remembered the two men and the woman who had been shot in cold blood outside the gate. I remembered Mahmoud’s parents lying in the dust on the Shughur Road. I knew I couldn’t let them learn Samia’s identity. If they did, we might go on living—long enough to climb out of the car.

  “I … I can’t find it,” Samia said. She tried to laugh. It was a ghastly sound.

  I laughed too, nervously. No harm in sounding nervous now. “Maybe I’ve got it somewhere in here,” I said, fumbling inside my jacket again. My hand closed on the butt of the Magnum. I let go of it, took out my cigarettes and lighted one.

  “Well?”

  I drew out my own passport again. My throat was dry. “Well, what do you know,” I said. “Had it all the time.”

  Just then Mahmoud began to talk—in Arabic.

  His words were cut off suddenly; Samia had clamped a hand over his mouth.

  “This is your child?” the guard demanded suspiciously, and leaned in the rolled-down window next to me.

  I did three things at once. I jabbed the lighted end of the cigarette against his cheek. I shouted: “Get your heads down!”

  And I let up the clutch and stepped down on the gas.

  We lurched forward. The soldier stumbled back against the mud-brick wall of the archway. His comrade in front of the car flung up his hands, leaped out of the way and was behind us.

  But there were four others, and they all had rifles.

  Shots roared deafeningly under the archway. I heard the whine of slugs ricocheting off brick, heard the shattering, crumpling sound of safety-glass going.

  Then our headlights bore down on the barbed wire. The Ford’s left front fender struck it just under El Thamad’s portrait. The tire went with a bang and we bounced through the narrow lane between the wire entanglements.

  A wooden shed loomed fifty yards away, two uniformed figures standing before it. Green-clad or khaki? I couldn’t tell.

  Green, and we were dead.

  Khaki?

  One of them kneeled, brought up his rifle and fired.

  Not at us. Behind us.

  I stopped the car. “You speak English?” I shouted.

  The soldier was wearing khaki. He shook his head.

  I pointed to Samia. “Samia Falcon,” I said. “Falcon. Falcon Pasha.”

  He looked bewildered. “Falcon Pasha,” he said. “Yes, yes. Motamar Legion?”

  There was no more gunfire behind us. The Scourge of Allah soldiers had given up on us because the battle for Shughur City hadn’t begun yet.

  An officer came out of the shack. He examined Samia’s passport. It was the blue U.K. book, with her name in the cut-out window on the cover.

  “Samia Falcon?” he said. “Falcon Pasha’s daughter?”

  Samia nodded. She couldn’t talk.

  But we were in.

  6

  I HAD SEEN STORIES about Falcon Pasha in the news magazines. They called him the Desert Hawk and said he was as easy to bend as the craggy moonscape of Motamar’s northern mountain-country and as easy to defeat as a Pan-Islamic fanatic.

  But now, as the Scourge of Allah’s big 88’s began to hammer at the walls of Shughur City, even Falcon Pasha’s fierce, ginger-colored mustache seemed to droop. His pale blue eyes stared vaguely at Samia and Dr. Capehart, as if he was trying to remember where he’d seen them before. A sheen of sweat covered his florid face.

  “What are you telling me?” he said. “What are you telling me?”

  “It’s the truth, Dad. I heard them myself. Baki Osman and—Galib.” Samia wouldn’t meet the hurt in those pale blue eyes. “They want to kill King Khalil. They’re going to plant a bomb on his plane.”

  “But Osman’s El Thamad’s flunky,” Falcon Pasha protested mildly. “He’s loyal to the king. Damn it all, he works for the king.”

  From the window of Falcon Pasha’s command post—an office on the fourth floor of a warehouse building near the docks—you could see the last freighter that would leave Shughur City. Smoke was pouring from its two funnels and its Plimsoll Line rode high out of the water. From its masts flew the Union Jack and the green and silver flag of Motamar. At a distance of a quarter of a mile and in the first light of dawn, the cars pulling up alongside at the dock looked like toys. They disgorged ant-sized people who trudged slowly to the gangway and aboard.

  “Of course he works for the king,” Dr. Capehart said. “How else do you think a palace revolution starts?”

  Falcon Pasha lighted a flat Turkish cigarette. “Then I’ll grant you Osman. I’ll grant you El Thamad. But not Galib. Not Galib, Doctor.”

  Dr. Capehart stared at Samia, pityingly, I thought. Samia clutched little Mahmoud tighter against her. He was asleep on her lap.

  “Hold on a minute,” I said. “I thought that was the whole idea. I thought you and Colonel Azam had a war on your hands here. Against King Khalil.”

  Falcon Pasha’s blue eyes hardened. “What do you know about Motamar?” he said crisply. “What do any of you know? Of course we have a war on our hands.” As if to emphasize his point, the barrage from the 88’s grew louder. A young Englishman in Motamar Legion khaki rushed into the room and cried:

  “We’ve lost contact with K Company, sir. Major Dawson thinks they may have breached the walls.”

  Falcon Pasha’s stare went vague again.

  “Sir?” the soldier said.

  “Eh? Try to re-establish contact. That’s all.”

  “Yes, sir.” And the soldier was gone.

  “We rebelled against the government forces, Mr. Drum,” Falcon Pasha said, “but not against King Khalil. The king is a good man, as good as an enlightened despot in an oil-rich country ever can be.” Falcon Pasha sighed. “Damn it all, I’ve known him half my life. He wouldn’t send the Scourge of Allah against his own people. But I am afraid he is also a—well, a middle-aging sybarite, and El Thamad and Baki Osman have usurped more and more of his power. So we are fighting a war, Mr. Drum. Against the jackals in the king’s camp. Not against Khalil himself.”

  The difference, I thought, was unimportant. The Motamar Legion was trapped in Shughur City, ringed in by the 88’s of El Thamad’s tanks and with their backs to the sea.

  Falcon Pasha stood up suddenly. For a long time he faced the window, watching the flashes from the unseen muzzles of El Thamad’s big guns. Then he swung around and said: “What is it you want me to do? Send an infantry platoon to Al Saydr to arrest Colonel Azam? Surrender and make my peace personally with King Khalil so they’ll have to wait to kill him another time? Forget the twenty years of my life I spent trying to …” Falcon Pasha’s voice broke. He turned sharply away again and wouldn’t let us see his face. Samia stared at his broad back. There were tears on her cheeks.

  I said: “There’s only one thing you can do. Get out while you still can, while there’s still a British ship in port.”

  “H.M.S. Oban,” Falcon Pasha said, imitating the concise accents of B.B.C. English, “steamed into Southampton today with the refugees from the civil war in Motamar. Aboard were eight hundred women and children, British subjects all, and General John Baylis Falcon, erstwhile commander of the Motamar Legion. When asked to comment, the General said he had f
led Motamar at the suggestion of an American private enquiry agent who had been in that small Levantine country for all of several days.”

  “Then stop Osman and Colonel Azam,” I said.

  “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Falcon Pasha said, ironically. “Failing that, I could always ask Nasser to return the Suez Canal to the Suez Canal Company.”

  “You could try to reach the king and warn him,” Dr. Capehart suggested.

  “I’m going to. Oh, I’m going to. But after the Legion revolted and when we’re trapped here in Shughur City, do you think he’d listen to me?”

  “If he doesn’t, he’s a dead man,” Dr. Capehart said.

  “If he doesn’t and you don’t get the hell out of here fast,” I said, “you’re a dead man too. Because Osman and Galib Azam will need a patsy, General. King Khalil’s liked in Motamar, isn’t he?”

  “You can hear it all over Motamar—Khalil Zindabad. Long live Khalil. They love him.”

  “Sure. So they couldn’t climb to power over his corpse unless they lay the blame at someone’s doorstep. Such as yours.”

  “Oh Dad, Dad!” Samia cried, and Mahmoud stirred on her lap.

  Then, for the first time, Falcon Pasha looked decisive. It seemed almost as if his strength fed on the despair of his daughter. “Williams!” he barked, and the young British soldier almost leaped into the room.

  “Still unable to contact K Company, sir.”

  “I want you to radio Qasr Tabuk.”

  “The capital, sir?”

  “King Khalil’s palace. If you can get through, I’ll talk.”

  “To the—king, sir?”

  “To the king. Hurry, man. Drum,” Falcon Pasha asked in almost the same breath, “what are you going to do?”

  “I was hired to get Dr. Capehart out of Motamar in one piece and not feet-first. I want to take him aboard the Oban.”

  “Splendid. Then take Samia too.”

  “I’m not going without you, Dad,” Samia cried, and Dr. Capehart said:

  “Nothing that’s happened has changed my mind, Drum. My place is here. In Shughur City with the refugees.”

  Falcon Pasha’s teeth flashed under the ginger mustache in a tight, wide smile. “Dr. Capehart, either you are a brave man or else you’re a fool.”

  “Then I guess that makes two of us, General.”

  Falcon Pasha looked at me. “Drum?”

  “You already know what my job is. But I can’t hog-tie him.”

  “Then you’re staying?”

  “Waiting on the doctor.”

  “Get out while you can,” Dr. Capehart said. “Don’t be a fool, Drum. Your life isn’t all tied up in this. The General’s is, and so is mine.”

  “You tell that to your brother. I won’t.”

  Dr. Capehart shook his head. “A private eye with integrity. No wonder Benson hired you.”

  Falcon Pasha’s booming laughter roared in the small office. “By Jove, for once in my life I’m surrounded by bloody heroes, but when it finally happens, it’s too late to matter.”

  “Mahmoud’s no hero,” I said. “He’s going aboard the Oban.”

  “Alone?” Samia asked. “He’d be scared to death.”

  “You’re right, he would. That’s why he’s not going alone, Samia. You’re going with him.”

  Falcon Pasha gave me a grateful look. He’d begun to realize, as I had, how much the little orphaned boy meant to Samia. She’d returned home from the States to find the world she’d longed for gone all to pieces and the man she loved, a patronizing tyrant scheming to betray her father. Then she’d found Mahmoud, and if anything, he was in a bigger pickle than she was. Her heart went out to him.

  “Then it’s settled,” Falcon Pasha said, taking his cue from me. “You and the boy will sail aboard the Oban. You’ll take them down to the pier, Mr. Drum?”

  I nodded. Samia said, “I’m staying if you are, Dad.”

  “You’d only be in the way. Damn it all, d’you think this is an exercise at Sandhurst?” Falcon Pasha swept his arm past the window. “Men are being ripped to pieces by shellfire out there. D’you think I want that to happen to you? Do you want it to happen to the boy?”

  “I don’t want it to happen to you.”

  Falcon Pasha smiled grimly. “I have a reputation to maintain. I’ll take a lot of killing.”

  “Those are just words.”

  “If I can get through to King Khalil, everything will be fine.”

  “Just fine,” Dr. Capehart said so softly that Samia, across the room with Mahmoud on her lap, didn’t hear him. Because Capehart knew, as Falcon Pasha did and I did, that the best the General could hope for was to save the king’s life. After that, he’d still have the Scourge of Allah to deal with, and if the sound of shellfire from all directions but the waterfront meant anything, El Thamad was already inside the city walls.

  “What if you can’t get through to him?” Samia persisted.

  “Even if he wins, El Thamad needs the Legion. He’s no bloody fool. He knows that. The least I can expect is peace with honor for my men.”

  “At Sarah Lawrence we had a modern history course,” Samia said bitterly. “I learned about peace with honor. Oh Dad, you sound like Neville Chamberlain.”

  Falcon Pasha threw up his hands and jerked his florid face in my direction. I went to Samia. Her arms were around Mahmoud’s frail body. His head rested between her breasts. When I touched her shoulder she tried to draw back away from me.

  “We’d better get going,” I said.

  She looked at her father and at Mahmoud and at her father again. I lifted the boy gently. She didn’t try to stop me. It would have awakened him.

  “I’m not going,” she said.

  But she went to her father and kissed him, and after that she followed me and Mahmoud to the door.

  We waited on line at the Oban’s gangway. It was a rusty old freighter of Second World War vintage, maybe six or eight thousand tons. The first officer stood at the gangway with a British consul. Every time a shell screamed close and thudded into one of the shattered warehouse buildings, the stocky first officer would wince. You could see what he was thinking: if one of those shells hit the Oban, she’d never leave dockside.

  A middle-aged French couple were arguing with the British consul. The man was fat and sweating, the woman gawky and with a mouth like a hawser-hole. They showed their French passports. The woman kept tapping them with a bony finger and shouting like a fishwife. The consul had that peculiarly and pompously earnest look on his face that a man too young for the job gets when he knows he is playing God. Six armed soldiers from the British consulate stood to the left of the gangway. The young consul glanced at them once or twice. You could see that on his face, too: a casually arbitrary wave of his arm could mean life or death to anyone filing toward the Oban’s gangway. Only the six Tommies kept it from being a mob scene.

  Finally the consul nodded and stamped the French couple’s passports. The fat man was effusively thankful. The woman marched up the gangway like Charles De-Gaulle returning in triumph to Paris.

  That left Samia, Mahmoud and me and five or six other refugees waiting behind us.

  “Should have weighed anchor an hour and a half ago,” the first officer said. “Tide’s changing.”

  “Thank God it’s almost over,” the consul mumbled. “All of a sudden we get a shipload of bloody Frogs. There was a French ship yesterday, but I ask you, did they take them? You’d think.…” He looked at Samia and me: God at a rusted gangway. “British subjects?”

  “She is. I’m not going.”

  He whistled between his teeth when he opened Samia’s passport. “Falcon Pasha’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  “Yes”

  “And the boy?”

  “Arab,” Samia said.

  The consul waved a fastidiously manicured hand. “Then I’m sorry, but he can’t go.”

  “Play God with someone else,” I suggested.

  “I have my orders,”
said the consul stiffly. “Don’t you realize the bloody mess we’d have here if anyone, Arabs included, could board the Oban?”

  Samia had already turned. “Don’t argue with him, Chet. I’m going back to my father.”

  “Kid’s the son of one of Falcon Pasha’s top Legion officers,” I said smoothly. “His old man died in the fighting, and Falcon Pasha promised him the boy would get to England.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but if he has no papers—”

  “Got a phone aboard?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then I’ll use it. Maybe you’d like to buck heads with Falcon Pasha.”

  The consul gave the first officer an uncertain glance. I planted a foot on the gangway. Behind us a man who looked like Colonel Blimp muttered, “Will someone tell that bloody fool to hurry?”

  Sighing, the consul stamped Samia’s passport. Mahmoud blinked his eyes and said something sleepily in Arabic. Samia set him on his feet. They walked up the gangway together, Samia clutching his hand. At the top she said: “Tell Dad I—” The ship’s whistle cut off her words, and then she was gone.

  I waited until they took down the gangway and the hawser ropes fell hissing into the oily water of the harbor. A shell thudded close by and another raised a geyser of water a hundred yards beyond the Oban’s bow. Then the Oban had begun to slip smoothly away from dockside.

  The last ship that was going to had left Shughur City.

  7

  IN THE LAST STAGES of a battle, rumor is the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse.

  By noon, the Motamar Legion’s defense perimeter had been reduced to a few square miles around the waterfront. Street fighting was close enough to Falcon Pasha’s warehouse command post for us to hear the chattering rattle of Sten guns and the flat thud of mortar fire. Once a khaki-colored Land Rover with a big red cross painted on the roof went by on the cobbled street below. It almost made the corner. Then a shell hit it and it skidded wildly, careened against a whitewashed wall and burst into flames. Falcon Pasha turned away from the window.

  At twelve-thirty, Williams told him that King Khalil had left Qasr Tabuk several hours ago in the royal DC-3. There was only one place Khalil could be heading for, which was here. Shortly before one, the Legion’s single reconnaissance plane radioed that the two-engined Dakota had landed at Shughur City airport, which El Thamad held.