Casca 16: Desert Mercenary (4 page)

At midday they pulled over to seek the shade of a rock wall. The Land Rover needed the rest, too. The surface temperature of the sand was over 130 degrees and they had hundreds of miles to go yet before they reached the worst of it.

Each of them tried to take what rest they could from the heat. For four hours they didn't move, not until the sun had long since passed overhead and the earth had had a slight chance to cool.

They wouldn't make it to
Ghudamis until long after dark, and that was all right with them. They would take the cold of the desert over the heat.

Somewhat rested, Carl took the wheel again, navigating over a road that had seen little traffic and even less maintenance. But it was the only road to
Ghudamis.

In the light of the Land Rover's headlamps, animals which came out at night to hunt crossed the road, eyes bright and glowing but blinded by the glare. There were desert jackals, large eared foxes, and striped hyenas. All came out in the night to compete for food.

Unseen to the west and south the dunes waited, stretching for hundreds of miles. The Sahara itself was three and a half million square miles of hell. Carl thought those dimensions would fit Hades perfectly.

Shoulders cramped, muscles burning from the tedious drive, it was with relief that they at last saw dim lights glowing in a few brown mud brick houses. They were coming into
Ghudamis. It was about time. In the last hour the temperature had dropped to thirty five degrees from the day's peak of 108. The Sahara did not have cloud cover enough to retain any of the heat of the day.

Gus pointed to a grove of trees outside of the village. "Isn't that where the Hotel
Saharienne is?"

"I think so," Carl said. "We'll find out in a few minutes." Pulling into a palm lined driveway which led up to a three story stuccoed
building, they came to a halt gratefully.

The passenger door of the Land Rover was opened by a smiling black man wearing a gold trimmed red jacket and a fez. Despite their road filthy and dust encrusted appearance, he greeted them as if they were visiting royalty. Upon the clap of his hands, porters appeared out of the dark to carry their
gear into the lobby, which could have come from a Hollywood movie set: potted palms and plants, rotating overhead fans, furniture which belonged in the attics and cellars of a hundred years ago.

The
Saharienne had once been somebody's dream, built by an Englishman who'd thought that when oil was found, Ghudamis would become a major crossroads. It had gone through several hands since then. It was now owned by a Hindu family who kept the pukka sahib attitude: patiently they had waited for the flood of tourists and travelers to come for two generations now, and with the calm resignation of the Orient, they were ready to wait two more generations or however long they had to. Meanwhile, they would keep the hotel ready and fully staffed. Of its one hundred rooms, only four were occupied, three of those by a geological survey crew from Belgium and the other by a permanent resident one of those leftovers from the colonial days who had chosen to stay and die.

"Welcome, sirs. Have you a reservation?"

Carl admitted that they did not. The Hindu clerk gave them a slightly distasteful look through his wire rimmed glasses, as if to say their parents should have taught them better. He went through the ritual of checking his guest register, then with great satisfaction at being able to squeeze them in, replied aloofly, "Ah, yes, good sirs. You are most fortunate. I see that we will be able to accommodate you. Please sign the register."

They did as they were
bade. Even Gus seemed a bit subdued by the clerk, as if he recognized one who had even more fantastic dreams than he did.

Carl gave the car keys to a porter. They were requested to please wait a moment. The clerk vanished to the rear office. A few seconds passed.

Then they heard a coughing that changed to a steady chug and lights came on in the lobby, electric lights from overhead chandeliers. For some reason it made the place seem even more odd than it was when lit only by lamps and candles.

Proudly the desk clerk announced, "You may go to your rooms now, good sirs, and have a pleasant stay at the Hotel
Saharienne. "

A red
fezzed bellboy took them to a lift, making a ceremony out of turning the bronze handle forward till power gave the winch enough strength to lift the cage up to the first floor, where they were shown to two rooms. Carl had put Gus with Dominic, thinking that it was best that neither of them were left alone too long. Besides, he needed some space to himself to think for a time. The rooms were like the lobby. A touch of old England seventy years ago. After accepting his gratuity, the bellboy announced that the electricity would be turned off upon his return to the lobby but every evening at dinner it was turned on again for two hours.

The shower was hot. On the roof was a holding tank painted black to absorb the heat of the already searing sun. Water came nearly steaming from the pipes. The only good thing about hot showers in tropical climates was that it felt cool for a few minutes after you got out.

A light meal of boiled eggs and toast served with English tea and marmalade started the day off fairly well. Gus had four orders.

Looking at Dominic over his cup,
Langer was concerned about him. Since they'd gone on the road Langer had been keeping a watch on Dominic. He seemed a bit more at ease. Gus was always the same; he hadn't changed since the first day they'd met in Russia. Seven long years of fighting together and the only time he'd ever seen him down was when young Manny Ertl died in the winter of '44 on the Dnieper River Line. He'd lost track of Gus during the retreat from Russia and found him again in the Legion, where thousands of former members of the Wehrmacht ended up after the war was over. France had needed trained soldiers to fight her wars in Indochina and she found many of them in the defeated armies of her former enemy.

Langer
shook the past off again. They had things to do today.

Carl had Gus and Dominic service the Land Rover. They used their spare gear and went about replacing the air and oil filters. While they did this
Langer took the time to go over the report Monpelier had given him.

Inside the envelope were pictures of the two hostages. For the first time he had names: Jason St. Johns and his bride, Jeannine. There was a striking resemblance between them. Both were in their early twenties. From the black and white photos he guessed they both had dishwater blond or sun bleached hair. A good looking couple, intelligent faces. Both were well educated, she at schools in Switzerland and France, he at Yale. It appeared that Sunni Ali had picked them up while they were on their honeymoon taking a motor safari across Africa. The boy's father was Andrew St. Johns, an international arms broker who had mega dollars and only one heir.

As for Sunni Ali, there was nothing new. He was still a mystery. He had just appeared among the tribes one day and had risen to leader of the Azbnei Tuaregs, all this in the last two years. The only known fact about him was that he always did what he said he would do. If he said he'd kill the hostages, then that was exactly what would take place. It was known that he spoke French and English fluently, as well as Arabic and Tamahag, the Tuareg dialect.

The rest of the envelope contained pictures of the Mt.
Baguezane region. All of them were aerial views, some of which had been torn out of old magazines. That was okay; nothing there would change very much in just a few years.

That was it. Not much! He'd have to do like
Monpelier had suggested and try to contact some of those he had dealt with during the troublesome past. The one man he needed in particular was Sharif Mamud ibn Hassani, an old desert fox who was the master of Wadi Jebel, only a few hours’ drive from Ghudamis. He'd make inquiries. If the sharif was still alive, he would go and see him. During the Algerian operation, Sharif Mamud had supplied him with information about the rebel terrorists. As often as the French Colonials had been attacked by them, so had his people, the Reoun Arabs. Sharif Mamud had explained his informing by saying that if he was going to be conquered, he would prefer it to be by people who at least knew how to cook.

Returning to the hotel, Carl found Gus on the porch sipping iced lemonade. "Looks good, Gus." He ordered one from the attending waiter, who stood waiting politely just out of earshot. When it was brought to him, before drinking it he placed the glass between his eyes. The cold almost hurt. He ran it over the outside of his face. The chill was delicious. Only then did he drink, taking half the glass in one long swallow.

Gus smiled with approval. "Good shit, huh? Comes from their own groves."

"Yes, it's good. Now listen, if he's still around we're going over to see old Sharif
Mamud tomorrow."

Gus nodded. "I wondered if we'd see the old goat thief while we were in the area. If anyone knows anything it'll be him. An information service, that's what he is, a regular
encyclopedia."

Looking around,
Langer asked, "Where's Dominic at?"

Gus pointed his glass to the road.
"In the village taking a look around. He should be back soon."

"The Land Rover?"

"Everything's in order. It's watered and gassed and the spare cans have been refilled. We're ready to go."

Carl grunted "Good" as he drained the last of his glass. The waiter approached him bearing a slip
of paper on a silver salver, saying, "Master Langer, sir. This is for you." Carl took the note and gave the man what must have been his first tip in weeks.

After reading it, he put the paper in his pocket.
"Monpelier will be here tomorrow night. I want you to go and find Dominic, then check around to see if Sharif Mamud is at the Wadi Jebel. No sense making the trip if he's dead."

With resignation for an unpleasant task, Gus hauled his carcass from the comfortable chair.
"Zu Befehl, Herr Feldwebel."
He gave a mock salute. "Yes, sir, Herr sergeant."

Carl ignored him.
He watched Gus's back as he trundled off toward the sun baked bricks of the village, then went back inside to wait. He knew that if Sharif Mamud was still alive Gus would find out. Not many could refuse him. Just his imposing size started most tongues wagging freely.

Dominic came back in and joined him, placing his thin frame gratefully on the cushions. He wiped perspiration from his face and the back of his neck. "I forgot how damned hot it was out here, and we're not anywhere near the bad part yet." Snapping his fingers he ordered lemonade. "Gus told me about you wanting to go and see the old
sharif. Good idea. Which of us is going to stay here and wait for Monpelier?"

Carl didn't have to think about it very much. Gus drove
Monpelier crazy, and he and Dominic knew it. "It would probably be better if you were here, Dominic. You know how Gus gets under Monpelier's skin."

Dominic gave one of his rare smiles. "Gus could get under the skin of a rhino. It's all right with me. I have no love for riding in that machine any more than I have to. You two go and have the fun. I'll hold things down here till you get back."

It was nearly dark before Gus returned. "The old goat's still at Wadi Jebel," he reported. "Now let's go and get something to eat before I faint from hunger."

Neither Carl nor Dominic felt any sympathy for Gus's hunger. Grease stains on his shirt told the story of why it had taken him so long to get back. The beast had been feeding again.

From Ghudamis they cut over to the east, taking the road to Messouda on the Algerian side of the border. At a checkpoint Carl and Gus showed their papers to bored guards who were more interested in the two cartons of American cigarettes they had impounded than they were in the two men in the Land Rover.

Dropping down off the mountain, they could see the sun baked brick wall of the town in the distance.
Small patches of green dotted the countryside, patches where vegetation had taken root. Here rain from the mountains fell to the basin, gathering in underwater reservoirs formed in the past millenia. Three kilometers from Messouda they turned back to the northwest, driving on a narrow rutted trail till they saw what they had come for, the oasis of Wadi Jebel.

"Welcome and
may Allah protect you. Share my tent and salt. Be welcome." Sharif Mamud gave his guests greetings in the traditional manner of his race. Instinctively he knew that their visit meant silver or gold for his purse. He had dealt with the scarface in the past. He trusted him to live up to any agreement they came to. This foreigner was an honorable man if somewhat disconcerting. He knew not where the name for him originated, but from his personal knowledge it was accurate. Al Kattel... the killer.

During the troubles the Legion had many hard men but no one who struck so much fear into the hearts of enemies as had this
gray eyed one. Sharif Mamud knew that he had been one who never failed when sent to kill. Ah! That had been a bloody time. And profitable for one who was not bothered by such things as national loyalty or political passions. It was Sharif Mamud who had been the eyes and ears of al Kattel and upon payment, the voice. And now he had returned with the big ugly one who stood as the mountain had stood before the prophet Mohammed. The one whose name sounded like the gurgling of the stomach of a camel in heat. Gusss. A most ugly sound yet it suited the bearer well.

The sides of the tent were raised, closed flaps invited unwelcome listeners. Sharif
Mamud waved away a bothersome fly with a horsetail whisk. "It has been a long time, effendi, since these eyes have seen you and your so large shadow."

Carl sat on cushions, face to face with Sharif
Mamud. Gus kept an eye on the outside. Waiting till tea had been brought and the server departed, Carl finally said, "I have need of your long nose and sharp ears, my friend."

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 thr
ough 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 l 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 that are 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.