Barry Sadler: Desert mercenary

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 Bedouin 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, Langers 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 Langers, 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?''