Don Pendleton - War Drums

“You see. I was right. The desert is a cruel mistress.”

Bolan understood the man’s feel for the desolate space. At the same time beautiful and indifferent, it had the timeless appeal of all great empty places. With no distractions, barely any sound, the desert could cast its hypnotic spell and isolate a man. Cut off from the reality of normal existence it would be easy to start imagining things. Bolan pushed the thoughts from his mind and focused on the present, where he needed to stay alert. He smiled to himself. Maybe he had been letting Salim’s desert get to him. An all too easy condition to submit to. But not one he could afford to give in to.

His mission in Jordan wasn’t to admire his surroundings, but to locate the isolated camp being used by Razihra’s group. He had a job to do. It was his priority. His focus had to be on that and nothing else.

Bolan turned to see that Salim was inside the vehicle, leaning back in the seat, his head resting against the window. The man was a strange one. Hard to figure, except in the respect that Bolan didn’t trust him fully. Salim had already changed sides once. Why wouldn’t he do it again if the opportunity presented itself? Bolan considered that and figured he had it just right. The man had no loyalty, except to himself. He was of that breed who worked one against the other. Salim would never tread the middle ground. Both sides of the street were fair game. He could only be bought for what was the current rate. If the pay went up in the opposite camp, Salim would choose to step over the line. Bolan had no doubts on that.

He climbed back inside the Range Rover, taking the rear seat so he could watch Salim. The man made no signs he had heard Bolan return to the vehicle. He was either a heavy sleeper, or a good actor. Bolan went with the second option and played along. He settled in the corner of the seat, making a play of taking out the Browning and cocking it. Now he sat with the pistol resting in his lap, the muzzle pointing at the back of Salim’s seat.

THEY MOVED OUT AS SOON as it was light. Bolan had dozed lightly, always conscious of Salim’s presence. The man had stirred a number of times during the night, perhaps in sleep, or to test Bolan’s response. Each time the man moved the soldier had responded by making sure the Browning could be seen. Eventually, Salim had slept soundly.

Bolan splashed water from a canteen on his face and drank a little. He allowed Salim the same privilege, but the man only swallowed a little of the water before resuming his seat. He seemed to have lapsed into a sullen mood, speaking only when he needed to offer directions, and Bolan had little he wanted to say to the man.

Midmorning Salim indicated they should stop. Bolan guided the Rover into a low, dry wadi and switched off the engine.

“Are we near?”

“Close enough that we should leave the vehicle here and walk.”

“How long?”

“Maybe two hours.”

“We’d better fill those canteens in back,” Bolan said.

He climbed out of the vehicle and followed Salim to the rear, then stood back, the Browning in his hand. Salim stared at the weapon.

“What is this? Suddenly you need to keep a gun on me?”

“You never know who might be waiting over the next rise. I’m just being cautious.”

“Then you should watch me in case I poison your water.”

“I will.”

They moved out, Salim in the lead, stopped to fill the canteens hanging from his shoulders. Bolan, his baseball cap pulled low to cover his face, walked a few paces behind. The Browning was tucked into his belt.

The first hour went by quickly. After that their pace slowed and even Salim seemed affected by the heat. He trudged to a near stop until Bolan caught up and prodded him.

“Yes, yes. You do not have to push me. Am I a camel?”

“A camel would be better company.”

“Ha, ha.” The exclamation was harsh, the derogatory meaning clear.

“Just keep moving, Salim.”

“And what if I refuse to go farther? What then? Could you find this place without me?”

Bolan’s silence made Salim turn. He saw the big man looking at the sky, his right hand resting on the pistol in his belt. Despite his curiosity Salim still managed to persist in his question.

“What now? Have you not heard my words? That you will never find the camp without me?”

“I have a feeling your time as a guide could be over. My guess is I don’t need to be shown where the camp is. I think they just sent us an invitation. And a ride.”

Salim followed Bolan’s gaze and saw the dark shape coming at them from the empty sky. A shape that rapidly formed into the outline of a helicopter.

Salim picked up the distinctive beat of the rotors. The sound grew in volume as the aircraft swept toward them, the rotors stirring up great clouds of dusty sand that peppered them with its gritty hardness. The helicopter made a firm landing. Bolan recognized it as a Westland Lynx. By its faded, dun color it was an ex-military aircraft, much used but still serviceable. The side hatch slid open and armed figures jumped out, covering Bolan and Salim. A lean figure dressed in khaki shirt and pants, and wearing a checkered kaffiyeh, came forward, raising a hand in Salim’s direction.

“Salaam aleikum, my brother. I see you have brought our guest safely this far.” The man turned to Bolan. “Novak? You have changed greatly since the last time we met. I am Yamir Kerim. Do you not recognize me?” Kerim was smiling as he spoke, amusing himself at revealing Bolan’s ploy. He looked at the pistol in Bolan’s belt and reached out and took it. “You will not be needing this. I would not want you to come into our camp armed. It would be looked on as an insult. You understand that some of the men are not as worldly wise as we. They live by the old rules of hospitality, you understand.”

“We wouldn’t want to upset them then. Would we, Mr. Kerim.”

Kerim’s face hardened. He heard the coldness in Bolan’s words. Saw the contempt in the blue eyes. “Your arrogance defines you as an American. Only one of your kind would dare to try and walk into my camp and then insult me as if I was nothing but an ignorant Arab. Isn’t that how you see us? All of us from this region? Dirty, ignorant Arabs? You class us all as one type. Perhaps, American, you need a lesson in the geography of where you are.”

“And you’re the man to teach me?”

“Perhaps I am.” Kerim nodded in agreement. “Yes, perhaps I am.”

The flight was short and, as far as Bolan was concerned, one of the roughest he had ever experienced. Kerim’s men had manhandled him to the helicopter. He had been thrown inside, the men using their boots to force him to the deck. Bolan hadn’t fought back. That would have resulted in far worse injuries than those he did receive. During the flight, he was dragged upright and subjected to a beating that left him bruised and bloody. The assault only stopped when the helicopter made its landing and Bolan was hauled outside. He was dragged by a couple of the men as they followed Kerim to the largest of the tents that formed the camp. He was pulled inside and thrown to the sand floor.

Kerim stood in front of a wooden desk, arms folded, waiting for Bolan to climb to his feet. Salim stood to one side, trying to appear relaxed. His eyes told a different story. Even in his dazed condition Bolan realized things had moved a little faster than even Salim had expected.

“So,” Kerim began. “We know at least that you are not Novak. So who are you? Or should I be asking, what are you? Obviously some kind of undercover operative working for…?”

“This could be a long day,” Bolan said.

“He would not tell me his real name,” Salim said eagerly.