Don Pendleton - War Drums

“So if you will kill me, do it. There is nothing I can tell you.”

Bolan backed away, turning to peer through the window. The narrow, sunlit street below had little traffic. Between the houses he could see the glittering water, boats bobbing gently. Here, away from the tourist hotels and the busy shops, life went on its slow-paced way. Just as it probably had for a thousand years. Change here was slow to the extreme. It didn’t stop the shadow people from plying their back-street trade in arms dealing. Weapons were always in demand, and the enterprise was thriving. The merchandise was no longer the usual crates of Kalashnikovs and RPGs. The stakes were far higher.

Nuclear stakes.

“If they know I’m not Novak, they must be concerned,” Bolan said. “Worried I might be close to discovering something about them. Like the location of the desert camp.”

Bolan watched Salim’s eyes as he spoke. Though he tried not to, Salim made an involuntary movement with his head when Bolan mentioned the camp.

“There is nothing to say,” Salim muttered, avoiding looking directly at the big American.

“I’ll be sure to let your employers know you helped me find them. Yamir Kerim especially.”

Salim became instantly alert, eyes wide with alarm. “You cannot do this…”

“You haven’t told me anything. Yet. But you will.”

Bolan let his words hang in the silence that followed. He could almost sense Salim’s mind working overtime, assessing and debating which way to go. He was caught in a dead end. No matter which way he turned, he was facing threats. Bolan on one side, Kerim on the other.

“Why should this happen to me? I only offer my services as a business. Not to become involved like this.” His voice had taken on a whining tone as he tried to worm his way into Bolan’s sympathy. “I am just a poor man struggling to make a living.”

“About now might be a good time to consider a change of occupation.”

Salim stared at the American. When he looked deep into the hard blue eyes he saw no consideration. Only the steady gaze of a man who knew his own mind.

“What do you want from me? If I offer you information, how do I know you will not betray me?”

“I don’t go back on my word. All I want is to find the camp. Give that to me and I’ll let you go.”

“Why should I trust you?”

Bolan leaned in close, his blue eyes looking directly into Salim’s.

“I never lie. If I give my word, I don’t go back on it.”

Salim knew instinctively that the American was telling the truth. There was no guile in his voice. It was that of an honest man, which was something of a novelty in Salim’s world. He lived in the shadows, surrounded by lies and cheating. Truth and honesty were items in short supply, so to be confronted by such things left him briefly at a loss for words.

“You tell the truth? What guarantee do I have?”

“How about I let you live.”

Salim recalled how easily this man had broken Yusef’s arm. The easy way of violence was in him.

“What do you want?”

“Get me to the camp. I need to go there. If you don’t I’ll kill you here. Now.”

“If I do this, you will set me free?”

“As I said, you walk away. No strings.”

Salim sighed. He had little choice. If he gave this American what he wanted, at least he would have his life. He would need to have his injuries attended to, collect his money from his apartment and take the first coach heading up country. He could always find work. His expertise was always in demand. After that…

“Do I need to explain what will happen if you betray me?” Bolan asked. “Just remember one thing. I’m very good at finding people.”

Bolan hired a high-end Range Rover from a Jordanian rental company. The vehicle was fitted with satellite navigation, had climate control and a digital communications setup. Bolan, carrying a couple of cameras he had picked up from a local store, said he was scouting locations for a movie.

“Do you think they believed you?” Salim asked as he accompanied Bolan from the rental office.

“They believed the money I handed over.”

“Only an American would say such a thing,” Salim said.

“You didn’t take on your contract for money?”

Salim shrugged. “Perhaps it came into the picture a little.”

The rental assistant showed them around the gleaming vehicle. “It is very new, Mr. Cooper.” He was fussing over the Range Rover, rubbing a smudge with his sleeve. “Only a few hundred miles on the clock.”

“We’ll take good care of it,” Bolan said. “We are just going for a short trip.”

“The tank is full. You have spare cans of petrol and water in the rear. You understand how to operate the satellite navigation?”

“America is a big country, too,” Bolan said. “We use them all the time.”

“Then have a good trip and be safe.”

They climbed in and Bolan fired up the powerful engine. He eased away from the rental lot onto the smooth tarmac of the highway.

“Head north for now,” Salim said. He was hunched in his seat, keeping his head low, cradling his broken finger. Bolan had allowed him to go to a local drugstore to purchase a bandage to bind it. Coming out, Bolan had spotted rack of long-billed baseball caps and bought one.

“Are you expecting to be recognized?”

“If you expect the worst, it isn’t so much of a surprise when it comes.”

Salim was left to figure that one out.

THEY STAYED WITH THE HIGHWAY for an hour before Salim directed Bolan off-road. The flat Jordanian desert stretched out on all sides, wide and dusty, with little vegetation. The afternoon was hot. What wind there was blew gritty dust across the parched land. It hissed along the Range Rover’s sides and peppered the windows. According to Salim they were moving in a northeasterly direction. Bolan activated the sat-nav and the screen flickered into life. The readout pinpointed their position and when Bolan ran a check he found they were on a northeasterly setting.

“You did not believe me,” Salim said. “I do not need machines to tell me where I am.”

“I guess not,” Bolan said.

Salim fell silent. He kept looking in Bolan’s direction, but said nothing. The only time he spoke was to direct Bolan’s line of travel.

When it became dark Bolan slowed. The sat-nav would keep him on course but he didn’t want to risk hitting some unseen pothole or deep depression. After a couple of hours, the moon rose and bathed the landscape in a cold light. Bolan finally stopped. He was ready for a break after almost five hours driving. Beside him Salim sat up, staring around.

“Why have we stopped? Is someone out there?”

“I need a break, is all,” Bolan said, taking the key from the ignition.

He opened his door and climbed out, working the stiffness from his body. The desert spoke in its eternal whisper. The movement of the wind stirred the sand, rattling the sparse and dry grass. In truth the desert was never silent. It had a voice all its own and it was the same voice that had spoken for a thousand years. Bolan moved away from the Range Rover, feeling the still warm wind tug at his clothing. He felt Salim at his side, the man gazing out across the empty place.

“What do you hear?” Bolan asked.

“It is the song of the desert,” Salim said. “The sound that draws men to this place. They say it can bewitch a man. Make him follow the sound until he is lost. Did you know, American, that the desert is a woman? She has the power to lure men into her heart and turn them mad with her song. Do you believe that?”

“I believe a man could get himself lost out here. And be lonely. Put those together and a man could start to hear things. Maybe see what wasn’t there.”