Kane led the way down into the hollow, unslinging his sub-machine gun. As they neared the trees, a camel coughed and there was the sound of laughter.
On the other side of the oasis, two Bedouin tents still stood with at least a dozen camels hobbled near by. One man squatted before a small fire on which he was cooking, and three more stood knee-deep in the pool and washed themselves.
Kane turned to Cunningham and said quietly, ‘You come in from the rear of the tents. Jamal can work his way round to the other side of the pool and I’ll go in from here.’
He waited until they were in position and then stepped from behind a tree and went slowly forward. He stopped a yard or so away from the fire. The Bedouin was stirring something in the pot. He laughed, looked up to call to the men washing, and saw Kane. The laughter died in his throat.
‘Do as you’re told and you won’t be harmed,’ Kane told him in Arabic.
The man stood up slowly and shrugged. ‘I am not a fool.’
He was older than Kane had at first thought, with a fine intelligent face, seamed with wrinkles, and an iron-grey beard. His three companions waded out of the pool to join him, and Jamal and Cunningham moved in behind them.
‘Where are the others?’ Kane demanded.
‘It was thought that you were dead,’ the old man said. ‘The two Franks and their men left in the trucks before first light. The Yemenis went at dawn.’
‘Why have you stayed?’
‘We are Rashid,’ the old man said simply. ‘We do not abandon our kindred. My cousin is lying in one of the tents. You put a bullet in his shoulder last night. One of the Franks removed it before they left.’
‘And the women?’
The old man shrugged. ‘They went in the trucks.’
Kane turned to Cunningham. ‘Did you manage to get all that?’
The Englishman nodded. ‘What do we do now?’
‘The only thing we can do – get after them.’ Kane turned back to the old Rashid. ‘You’ll have to help us.’
There was a murmur of discontent from the other three, and the old man stilled them by raising a hand. ‘Why should we? You are our enemies.’
‘Because you haven’t any choice,’ Kane told them, raising his sub-machine gun. ‘After we’ve eaten, you can select your three best camels, and the Somali is an expert, by the way.’
The old Rashid shrugged. ‘As Allah wills it.’ His three companions sat down sullenly, legs crossed, and he poured coffee into two battered tin mugs, which he presented courteously to Kane and Cunningham.
Kane drank some of the coffee gratefully and Cunningham said, ‘But we haven’t a hope in hell of catching them.’
Kane nodded, ‘I know, but if we make good time to Bir el Madani and get a truck from Jordan, we stand a good chance of reaching Dahrein before they leave.’
‘By God, I hope you’re right,’ Cunningham said fervently. ‘When I think of Ruth…’ His voice trailed away and he quickly swallowed some coffee.
Kane tried to sound confident. ‘You don’t have to worry about a thing. Skiros won’t be in any hurry to leave Dahrein. There’s no reason why he should be.’
But inside he wasn’t so sure. Skiros must be a worried man. What else could explain his sudden departure? Perhaps he’d realized that his run of luck was ending, and like a good gambler, was simply getting out while he was still ahead of the game.
Kane narrowed his eyes as he looked up into the blue vault of the sky and watched a buzzard poise before wheeling down in great circles. One could never be sure of anything in this life. If this country had taught him anything, it had taught him that.
FIFTEEN
THEY LEFT AN HOUR LATER on the three camels Jamal considered to be in the best condition. Kane and Cunningham wore the head-dress and loose outer robes of the Bedouin, reluctantly provided by the old Rashid and his companions, and Jamal carried two goatskins of water securely looped over the pommel of his saddle.