War Drums. Don Pendleton

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      CHAPTER NINE

      The helicopter quit on Bolan just as night started to spread across the desert. He had been aware of the increasingly uneven sound from the engine and discovered that power was reducing. He tried to compensate but it made no difference.

      “Looks like we get to walk the rest of the way,” was his only comment on the situation.

      “Then it is providential I know how to reach the camp,” Sharif said.

      Bolan took the Lynx down. Before he and Sharif left the aircraft, Bolan ripped out the wiring from beneath the control panel and did the same after he had raised the engine cover. Disabling the machine would reduce its use against Bolan and the Bedouin.

      “Perhaps one day we will come back and salvage what we can,” Sharif mused. “The Bedu are the best traders in the area.”

      He led the way into the dusk, sure of his path, walking steadily without pause. Bolan followed, making frequent checks on their back trail. It was almost 8:00 p.m. by Bolan’s watch when Sharif signaled for him to halt. Bolan joined him and they looked down a long, sandy slope to where a small camp had been set up around a well.

      “Your people?”

      “Welcome to my camp, Cooper,” Sharif said, and made his way down the slope, calling out as they neared the camp.

      Bolan saw the erected tents. A short way off tethered camels grumbled softly to themselves. Glowing cook fires glowed in the shadows and robed figures, alerted by Sharif’s voice, moved out to meet him.

      There was much conversation, hands slapping Sharif across the shoulders once he had been recognized. Bolan stood to one side, waiting to be invited into the camp. The Bedouin were a proud people who clung to the customs of their past, and he had no intention of offending them.

      Eventually Sharif himself turned and gestured to the American. “I welcome you to join us, my friend. Welcome to the home of the Rwala.”

      It was obvious that the Bedouin had regaled his brothers about Bolan and what he had done. The members of the group clustered around the tall American, greeting him in their own tongue and parting to allow him to pass. Sharif watched him, nodding his approval as Bolan acknowledged his invitation with small bows of his head, to the delight of the Bedouin tribesmen.

      “Tell your brothers I am honored to be invited into their company.”

      “Tell them yourself, Cooper,” Sharif said. “They all understand some English.”

      Bolan repeated his gratitude. It was greeted with a chorus of approval, his words translated for those who had difficulty understanding. With Sharif at his side and slightly behind, Bolan was escorted into the camp. A rug was spread before one of the tents and Bolan was invited to sit. While the majority of the group sat in a semicircle around him, others brought utensils and placed them in the warm sand. Bolan watched as coffee was prepared in smooth worn copper pots over a small fire of red-hot glowing embers. The rich brew, spiced with cardamom, was served in small ceramic cups.

      Bedouin custom decreed the first cup be tasted by the host, to satisfy the guest he wasn’t being offered anything suspect. When Sharif had done this, he indicated that Bolan himself pour the next cup and taste it. On the third filling Bolan was allowed to drink the full cup. Bolan raised his cup to his hosts before he drank. Rich and spicy, the coffee burned its way down into Bolan’s empty stomach.

      At his side Sharif spoke quietly. “They greet you as a brother warrior. The coffee is their way of acceptance.”

      “I have been told the Bedouin are great warriors,” Bolan said to the assembled group. “Now I see that their hospitality is as justly praised.”

      Bolan’s words were well received. There was much talk then, some of it directed at Bolan. He kept his replies short and respectful.

      “Now they will bring food, Cooper. What is ours is yours. We apologize it is not as sumptuous as we would like to offer you, but as you may see, this is a small group. We were on a hunt for food when my brothers and I stumbled into the hands of those dogs.”

      Bolan had observed the way the Bedouin settled themselves to eat. Left leg tucked beneath them and the right raised so the arm could rest on it. He adopted the same position as his hosts, and remembered the custom he had read somewhere that the Bedouin ate with three fingers of the right hand only.

      The food when it arrived on a circular flat dish consisted of a deep layer of rice cooked in samn, a form of clarified butter. It was accompanied by roast mutton. Around the edge of the dish was a sprinkling of pine nuts. There was also cooked bread made of flour, dates and samn. The dish was placed centrally and Bolan felt all eyes on him. As the guest he was given the first choice from the communal dish. He obliged, taking rice and mutton in his fingers, tasting the spiced food and nodding in appreciation. Once Bolan had made the first move it was open for the gathering to join in. Bolan ate along with the Bedouin, listening to their conversation, sometimes in Arabic, while English was also used as a gesture of respect to their American guest. He joined in when a question was put to him. The Bedouin were excellent hosts, making Bolan feel at home in their midst. When the meal was over and more coffee was passed around, the business became serious.

      “I have explained to them about the camp where we were captive,” Sharif said. “About our murdered brothers and the terrible weapon those criminals intend to release on the Israelis.”

      Bolan was aware of the silence that had fallen as Sharif spoke.

      “I have to go back, Ali. One of the reasons I came here was to destroy whatever the СКАЧАТЬ