“Shall I touch your bloody hands, then?” ben Cheriff said, but he spoke as much in question as in scorn.
“Raise me by the hands,” ben Khedda repeated, “and take from my right sleeve what you find there to hide in yours. Then wait the time.”
“As God wills,” the Kaid said and raised up ben Khedda. Their bodies were momentarily so close that their jellabas flowed together.
“And what in the blaze of Hell is this, Corporal!” roared Sergeant Scratchard. “Blood and martyrs, who told you to let anybody in with the prisoners?”
“Via, Sarge,” the corporal sputtered, “he said—I mean, it was the captain, he tells me.”
Ben Khedda had begun to sidle away from the line of prisoners. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Scratchard snapped in Arabic. “Corporal, get another set of leg irons and clamp him onto his buddy there. If he’s so copping hot to be here, he can stay till the captain says otherwise.”
The sergeant paused, looking around the circle of eyes focused nervously on him. More calmly he continued, “The Bordj is clear. The captain’s up from the tunnel, but it’ll be a while before he gets here—they came up somewhere in West Bumfuck and he’s borrowing a skimmer from First Platoon to get back. We’ll wait to see what he says.” The first sergeant stared at Ali ben Cheriff, impassive as the wailing traitor was shackled to his right leg. “We’ll wait till then,” the soldier repeated.
Mboya lifted the nose of his skimmer and grounded it behind the first of the waiting gun-jeeps. Sergeant Scratchard trotted toward him from the direction of the prisoners. The non-com was panting with the heat and his armor; he raised his hand when he reached the captain in order to gain a moment’s breathing space.
“Well?” Mboya prompted.
“Sir, Maintenance called,” said Scratchard jerkily. “Your brother, sir. They think he’s coming to see you.”
The captain swore. “All right,” he said, “if Juma thinks he has to watch this, he can watch it. He’s a cursed fool if he expects to do anything but watch.”
Scratchard nodded deeply, finding he inhaled more easily with his torso cocked forward. “Right, sir, I just—didn’t want to rebroadcast on the Command channel in case Central was monitoring. Right. And then there’s that rag-head, ben Khedda—I caught him talking to green-hat over there and thought he maybe ought to stay. For good.”
Captain Mboya glanced at the prisoners. The men of Headquarters Squad still sat a few meters away because nobody had told them to withdraw. “Get them clear,” the captain said with a scowl. He began walking toward the line, the first sergeant’s voice turning his direction into a tersely-radioed order. Somewhere down the plateau, an aircar was being revved with no concern for what pebbles would do to the fans. Juma, very likely. He was the man you wanted driving your car when it had all dropped in the pot and Devil took the hindmost.
“Jack,” the captain said, “I understand how you feel about ben Khedda; but we’re here to do a job, not to kill sons of bitches. If we were doing that, we’d have to start in al-Madinah, wouldn’t we?”
Mboya and his sergeant were twenty meters from the prisoners. The Kaid watched their approach with his hands folded within the sleeves of his jellaba and his eyes as still as iron. Youssef ben Khedda was crouched beside him, a study in terror. He retained only enough composure that he did not try to run—and that because the pressure of the leg iron binding him to ben Cheriff was just sharp enough to penetrate the fear.
A gun-jeep howled up onto the top of the plateau so fast that it bounced and dragged its skirts, still under full throttle. Scratchard turned with muttered surprise. Captain Mboya did not look around. He reached into the thigh pocket of his coveralls where he kept a magnetic key that would release ben Khedda’s shackles. “We can’t just kill—” he repeated.
“Now, God, now!” ben Khedda shrieked. “He’s going to kill me!”
The Kaid’s hands appeared, the right one extending a pistol. Its muzzle was a gray circle no more placable than the eye that aimed it.