War Drums. Don Pendleton

      “Close enough that we should leave the vehicle here and walk.”

      “How long?”

      “Maybe two hours.”

      “We’d better fill those canteens in back,” Bolan said.

      He climbed out of the vehicle and followed Salim to the rear, then stood back, the Browning in his hand. Salim stared at the weapon.

      “What is this? Suddenly you need to keep a gun on me?”

      “You never know who might be waiting over the next rise. I’m just being cautious.”

      “Then you should watch me in case I poison your water.”

      “I will.”

      They moved out, Salim in the lead, stopped to fill the canteens hanging from his shoulders. Bolan, his baseball cap pulled low to cover his face, walked a few paces behind. The Browning was tucked into his belt.

      The first hour went by quickly. After that their pace slowed and even Salim seemed affected by the heat. He trudged to a near stop until Bolan caught up and prodded him.

      “Yes, yes. You do not have to push me. Am I a camel?”

      “A camel would be better company.”

      “Ha, ha.” The exclamation was harsh, the derogatory meaning clear.

      “Just keep moving, Salim.”

      “And what if I refuse to go farther? What then? Could you find this place without me?”

      Bolan’s silence made Salim turn. He saw the big man looking at the sky, his right hand resting on the pistol in his belt. Despite his curiosity Salim still managed to persist in his question.

      “What now? Have you not heard my words? That you will never find the camp without me?”

      “I have a feeling your time as a guide could be over. My guess is I don’t need to be shown where the camp is. I think they just sent us an invitation. And a ride.”

      Salim followed Bolan’s gaze and saw the dark shape coming at them from the empty sky. A shape that rapidly formed into the outline of a helicopter.

      Salim picked up the distinctive beat of the rotors. The sound grew in volume as the aircraft swept toward them, the rotors stirring up great clouds of dusty sand that peppered them with its gritty hardness. The helicopter made a firm landing. Bolan recognized it as a Westland Lynx. By its faded, dun color it was an ex-military aircraft, much used but still serviceable. The side hatch slid open and armed figures jumped out, covering Bolan and Salim. A lean figure dressed in khaki shirt and pants, and wearing a checkered kaffiyeh, came forward, raising a hand in Salim’s direction.

      “Salaam aleikum, my brother. I see you have brought our guest safely this far.” The man turned to Bolan. “Novak? You have changed greatly since the last time we met. I am Yamir Kerim. Do you not recognize me?” Kerim was smiling as he spoke, amusing himself at revealing Bolan’s ploy. He looked at the pistol in Bolan’s belt and reached out and took it. “You will not be needing this. I would not want you to come into our camp armed. It would be looked on as an insult. You understand that some of the men are not as worldly wise as we. They live by the old rules of hospitality, you understand.”

      “We wouldn’t want to upset them then. Would we, Mr. Kerim.”

      Kerim’s face hardened. He heard the coldness in Bolan’s words. Saw the contempt in the blue eyes. “Your arrogance defines you as an American. Only one of your kind would dare to try and walk into my camp and then insult me as if I was nothing but an ignorant Arab. Isn’t that how you see us? All of us from this region? Dirty, ignorant Arabs? You class us all as one type. Perhaps, American, you need a lesson in the geography of where you are.”

      “And you’re the man to teach me?”

      “Perhaps I am.” Kerim nodded in agreement. “Yes, perhaps I am.”

      CHAPTER SIX

      The flight was short and, as far as Bolan was concerned, one of the roughest he had ever experienced. Kerim’s men had manhandled him to the helicopter. He had been thrown inside, the men using their boots to force him to the deck. Bolan hadn’t fought back. That would have resulted in far worse injuries than those he did receive. During the flight, he was dragged upright and subjected to a beating that left him bruised and bloody. The assault only stopped when the helicopter made its landing and Bolan was hauled outside. He was dragged by a couple of the men as they followed Kerim to the largest of the tents that formed the camp. He was pulled inside and thrown to the sand floor.

      Kerim stood in front of a wooden desk, arms folded, waiting for Bolan to climb to his feet. Salim stood to one side, trying to appear relaxed. His eyes told a different story. Even in his dazed condition Bolan realized things had moved a little faster than even Salim had expected.

      “So,” Kerim began. “We know at least that you are not Novak. So who are you? Or should I be asking, what are you? Obviously some kind of undercover operative working for…?”

      “This could be a long day,” Bolan said.

      “He would not tell me his real name,” Salim said eagerly.

      Kerim shook his head. “His name doesn’t matter. The important thing is that we have him. Oh, I forgot, American, an old friend is here to see you, too.”

      Someone moved out of the shadows at the far end of the tent and into the light. Bolan saw Yusef, Salim’s driver. His broken arm was encased in a plaster cast. His face was badly swollen and bruised where Bolan had hit him. It explained how they had known he was coming.

      “Forgive Yusef if he does not express much pleasure at seeing you,” Kerim said. “He is still in great pain. Though he says little, he does hold a grudge.”

      Bolan remained silent. He realized he wasn’t going to gain very much by getting into a vocal trade-off with Kerim. His prime concern now was to get himself out of their hands and make his attempt to destroy their nuclear cache before it could be moved on. To antagonize his captors was to invite the threat of an early death. Bolan had no plans for that to happen, so it was time to tread lightly until he could make his break.

      “Contrary to what you might believe, we are not stupid. Since your involvement with our affairs suggests you work for one of the American agencies, it is important to us that we learn about you. Agreed?”

      Bolan remained silent.

      Yusef leaned forward and spoke softly into Kerim’s ear. Kerim raised a hand and nodded. “Yusef asks if he may be included in your interrogation. I understand his motive. He wants to hurt you. Tell me, should I accede to his wishes?”

      “His risk.”

      Kerim smiled. He turned and spoke to Yusef. The big man lunged at Bolan, his good arm flailing as he lashed out. Bolan attempted to step back but the armed men behind blocked his movement and the heavy blow rocked his head, knocking him to the ground. Yusef went after him, slamming his powerful fist into Bolan’s side. The blows came hard and on a regular basis, sending shock waves of pain through Bolan. He could hear Yusef’s ragged breathing as the man expressed his rage through the assault.

      Kerim finally put a stop to it, the guards intervening to push Yusef back. Bolan stayed on his knees, sucking in breath through clenched teeth. He could taste the blood in his mouth from where Yusef’s first blow had cut his lip. A command from Kerim and the guards hauled Bolan upright and back to where he had been standing before Yusef’s attack.

      “So, Yusef is at risk? Yes?”

      “He won’t do that again.”

      Kerim seemed to find this amusing. “You are extremely confident, American. Or very naive. You are aware of your position here? I am in control. You are the captive. Yet you prefer to see it differently by giving me ultimatums.”

      “It