And then the others began to raise their hands in surrender.
One German and three French officers, plus a Waffen-SS driver, came out of the Citroen with their hands in the air. Then the truck disgorged a dozen more Frenchmen–officers, civilians, and, astonishingly, two women.
The German officer almost certainly was Obersturmbannfuhrer Muller.
A Berber on horseback appeared. He rode over to the Panhard armored car and took a long, meditative look at two of its crew who had escaped and were Lying on the ground. He killed both of them with a burst from his Thompson machine-pistol. He then rode over to the place where the two Waffen-SS troopers had been cut down and fired short bursts into their bodies.
More horsemen appeared. The remaining Germans, including the officer who had been in the Citroen, had their hands tied behind them.
A rope was looped around their necks, making a chain of them. And one of the Berbers on horseback started leading them toward Ksar es Souk.
The French officers and the women were left unbound, but they were still unceremoniously herded down the road toward the palace. The vehicles were left where they had stopped.
The operation hadn’t gone exactly as planned, but it had worked, and the armored car hadn’t been nearly as much of a problem as it could have been. And, obviously, Muller was doing what he had been told to do.
Fulmar put the binoculars case around his neck, picked up his Thompson machine-pistol, and wound his way carefully down the narrow stone stairs of the tower.
At the bottom, he emerged into the courtyard. Spotting a small boy, he ordered him in fluent Arabic to fetch the cognac, the coffee service, and the radio from the tower.
Then he started toward the gate from the inner to the outer courtyard.
Just before he reached it, he covered his face below the eyes with part of the blue cloth of his headdress. The once-glistening parachutist’s boots were now scarred and torn by the rocks and bushes of the desert, they looked like any old boots. He was quite indistinguishable from a bona fide Berber.
In the outer courtyard there were a hundred Berbers, a third of them women in black robes. The men had painted their faces blue, as was their custom, and most of them were armed as he was with a Thompson.
Off at one side, handlers held about forty horses. Fulmar made his way among the men to a group of the leaders and told them what had happened.
And then one of the Berbers touched his shoulder and nodded toward the gate. The horseman with the string of prisoners was now in sight.
“As soon as he’s inside, go get the trucks and cars,” Fulmar ordered.
“And see what you can do about hiding the armored car.”
“Why?” the Berber asked.
“Just do it, n Fulmar said.
The Berber made a mocking gesture of subservience.
“I hear and obey, O son of heaven,” he said.
“May you catch the French disease and your member turn green and fall off,” Fulmar said.
They laughed at each othe and the Berber walked to where the horses were being held. He swung easily into a tooled leather saddle, then called out the names of half a dozen men, who trotted to the horses and mounted.
They rode out of the courtyard as the German prisoners were led inside.
The Germans appeared terrified.
What the hell, Fulmar thought, I’d be terrified too if I was being led with a rope around my neck into a King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table palace by a bunch of guys with blue faces and submachine guns.
He turned to another Berber.
“The stocky one,” he said. “The one without the leather equipment.
Take him inside to the small room or the library. Leave someone with him and make sure that no one else goes into the room with him.”
“And the others?”
“Take them into the main room and get them something to eat and drink. They are not to be bothered.”
“Not even their boots?
” “Not even their boots,” Fulmar said. “They fought wex. They deserve honorable treatment.” When the French arrived and had been herded into the courtyard, Fulmar walked up to them.