Jordan saw them in the same moment. ‘Looks as if we’ve come to the right place.’
He braked to a halt outside the largest tent, and a commanding figure moved outside and stood looking towards them.
Mahmoud was very old, his flowing beard heavily streaked with silver, and his skin was drawn tightly like parchment over fine bones. His robes were of dazzling whiteness and the hilt of his jambiya was of finely wrought gold.
The tribesmen moved silently in on them, surrounding the vehicle and effectively cutting off any retreat. They looked anything but friendly.
Jordan said quietly, ‘Have you noticed their rifles? The very latest. No wonder Skiros chose to wait here.
Kane got out of the truck, moved forward slowly and halted a few paces away from Mahmoud. For a brief moment they looked into each other’s eyes, and then the old Arab smiled and extended his hand. ‘My good friend, Kane. It is a long time since we hunted together with the falcons.’
Kane took the proffered hand and smiled. Time has been good to you, Mahmoud. Each year you grow younger.’ He turned and nodded towards Jordan. ‘I bring a friend.’
Mahmoud’s face wrinkled with distaste. ‘I know him. The young man who tears up the ground and makes the air stink with his machines.’ An expression of discomfort appeared on Jordan’s face, but the old man smiled and made a courteous gesture with one hand. ‘On this occasion we make him welcome for the sake of a friend.’
He turned and walked through the low entrance into the cool interior and Kane and Jordan followed.
They sat cross-legged on soft rugs and waited until a woman shrouded in black robes emerged from the rear of the tent carrying a coffee-pot, three cups, and a bowl of boiled rice on a brass tray.
Kane and Jordan, observing the usual formalities, drank their coffee and ate a little of the rice, dipping their fingers into the communal bowl as did Mahmoud.
As the woman handed them a damp cloth with which to wipe the grease from their fingers, Kane sighed with relief, all tension easing inside him. Whatever course the conversation took, whatever happened, they were now safe. They had eaten and drunk with Mahmoud in the midst of his tribe. No harm could possibly come to them now.
There was a slight silence before Mahmoud said politely, ‘You have come far, my friend?’
Kane nodded. ‘Far and fast. I seek two men who have wronged me deeply.’
‘A man’s honour is his life,’ Mahmoud said seriously. ‘May Allah guide your footsteps.’
‘He has already shown me his great mercy,’ Kane replied. ‘The men I seek are here in your camp. I have seen their trucks.’
Mahmoud was not visibly moved. He nodded calmly. ‘There are two Franks in my tents. My good friend Professor Muller and the fat one from Dahrein. In what way have they offended your honour?’
Kane kept his voice flat and unemotional. ‘They have taken my woman.’
There was quiet and the old man stroked his beard gently with one slender hand. After a moment, he said,
‘Certainly they have a woman with them. One of mixed blood. She has not left their tent since their arrival.’
‘She is the one,’ Kane said.
Mahmoud got to his feet with easy grace. ‘Wait here,’ he said calmly, and went outside.
Jordan moved restlessly. ‘What was all that supposed to mean?’
Kane explained quickly. ‘It’s the one way we can bring Skiros out into the open. A woman may be just a household chattel to a Bedouin, but the similarity ends there. To steal a man’s woman is one of the most serious crimes known to these people.’
‘Okay, I’ll buy that,’ Jordan said impatiently. ‘But I still don’t see how it’s going to help.’
Before Kane could reply, Mahmoud came back into the tent, followed by Muller and Skiros.
Kane and Jordan rose to their feet, and Kane moved forward a step. The expression of dismay on Muller’s face was ludicrous, but Skiros showed little emotion. ‘We saw you arrive. It would appear that miracles still do happen. Presumably Selim has been delayed.’