was required for them to gather their warriors and once more come out of the desert to drive the invaders and infidels from their lands. Who knew? If they were successful in their first attempt then it might be that the other tribes of the Berbers and even some of the Arabs would come to ride with them and declare a great jihad, a holy war.
Sunni Ali saw all this clearly. In the remote regions of his mind there was the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, he could be the flame which would rally all the followers of the prophet together and once and for all rid themselves of the ferengi. Then the tribes could go back to settling their differences among themselves as they always had.
Legend and prophecy had forecast the birth of a great one who would rally Islam. It was possible that it could be him. He did have the space between his teeth that the prophets had said would mark the Mahdi.
Sunni Ali lost sight of reality in his dreams, dreams he had as a child reborn. He had listened to the storytellers talk of the past when they were free men, of the great warriors who with sword and fire brought the word of Allah to the unbeliever. He believed in dreams. Oft-times at night he would go deep into the desert, his eyes locked upon the heavens if he waited long enough he could see the passing of stars, comets, and constellations. In them were his dreams.
The ferengi had two weeks, not one minute longer, more to give him that which he had demanded. Then the boy would watch his wife die slowly, a slice of her being taken away every day. Once there was nothing left of her but madness, he would start on the son of the arms dealer. Unless, of course, the old man reconsidered once he knew what had happened to the girl.
Taking a path up the side of the mountain, he passed sentries whose eyes sparkled with the fire of devotion above the folds of their veils.
' El kher ghas. '
He acknowledged that all was well.
Sunni Ali found what he desired, a place where he could look out into the distance to where the hand of God touched the sky and the earth as one. It was good to let the great quiet seep into his soul. It was pure, clean. That is all that he wished for. He knew of the cities to the West and the Orient, of their sickness of soul and heart. He was no fool.
Let the outside world think of him as only another madman of the desert. He knew what he was doing. If the desert was to be returned to its rightful owners, now was the time.
The nations around them were weak. Recent wars of independence had taken all of the energies and resources of the colonial powers. They could not afford a war in the desert. Europe had its own problems and war and was weary. They had no interest in the Sahara, only in its oil. Even that could be negotiated. France was emotionally crippled by her long wars in Asia and North Africa. England had her own problems in Kenya and Egypt.
On his side also were many liberal organizations with over-worked social consciences to whom the return of the lands to their original peoples would seem a fine and good thing. All this he had as allies, and most of all he had the desert.
To wage war at this time, Sunni Ali could rally an army that would cost hundreds of millions to match, money which would not be easily forthcoming. From the Tuareg alone he could call on 70,000 warriors. If the Bedouin and rest of the Berber joined with him, they would number over 150,000 fighting men. A major force, a force larger than the combined armies of Algeria, Libya, and Tunisia.
He would leave the ferengi their coastlines and green valleys, and make the cost of one hectare of his desert so high no man in his right mind would wish to pay the price for it. But it had to be now before the climate of the outside world changed and too many of the desert peoples were drawn into the cities and ruined by the corruption which was bred there.
It was a great dream, one he had first had when he became a convert to the ways of Allah, may His name be praised. Islam was the light, the flame which he would use to unite the tribes. His people, the Tuareg, were already devout Moslems. Among those who had come to him, he had slowly enforced the Islamic law of old by increasing the discipline a little every day. The pure faith of Mohammed would be vital to his plans, to give his men the singleness of thought and purpose which could unite them against the outsiders.
A wind blew from the southwest. He knew where it originated. On the ocean currents off the Ivory Coast. In his mind it still had the smell of the sea to it. Beyond this range the winds would be sucked dry as he would suck dry the bodies of any who came against him.
Removing his veil Sunni Ali bared his face to the crystal clear night, exposing his true self. If it had not been for the blue cast given it by the indigo dye, his face would have been as fair as the day his mother had given birth to him faraway in the green valley of the Rhine River.
The years had been long since the day he had escaped from the American prisoner of war camp outside of Tunis. He made his way into the desert and wandered about half-mad until he was found by a band of Tuaregs heading south across the Sahara away from the war. He had gone with them. He had been brought into the clan by their master, Bukush, a member of the Imahren, the upper caste of the Tuareg, through marriage to one of his daughters.
They taught him their ways and he aided them with his modern mind. He could make machinery work. He knew modern weapons and tactics. He should know, having once been a colonel in Rommel's Afrika Korps. He knew how to fight in the desert against the West.
Once Bukush died, Sunni Ali had slowly taken over guidance of the Azbine clan into which he had married and been adopted. By his command the Azbini had gone to the north and brought back items which had been abandoned on a dozen battlefields. He had repaired the vehicles, two Hanamog half-tracks and three American jeeps. These had been kept stored in the caves where he now held his captives.
For eleven long years they had waited. Their small stockpile of weapons and ammunition was not enough for his mission, but it was enough to secure his leadership. And Sunni Ali had a great advantage: a modern, trained mind to command warriors who still had the raw courage of the savage in their breasts. He would guide them, be their father, and make them a great people once more.
Yes, it was a good dream, one that he would follow to the end. For such was the will of God. In sha' Allah!
CHAPTER SIX
Monpelier and Dominic were waiting for Langers when he and Gus returned from Wadi Jebel. At two other tables were what Carl presumed to be the rest of the team.
He was glad he made it back at the time when the electricity was on and the ceiling fans were turning. Leaving the bar, Dominic and Monpelier joined him and Gus at a table directly under one of the rotating fans. To Dominic and Gus, Carl said, 'Just to be on the safe side, spread out where you can keep an eye on things.'
Dominic went to where he could see the lobby. Gus went to the bar, stationing himself behind the new arrivals. Carl faced off with Monpelier. Drinks were ordered, then Carl filled him in on what he had found out from Sharif Mamud.
Monpelier frowned. 'I have heard the same. It bears out what I have learned. In essence, I have nothing else to add at this point. I wish we had time to plan this more carefully but we're running out of time. Planning ahead, I have already sent vehicles to Fort Laperrine. If you have no objections to the rest of the team, we'll pull out tomorrow by plane. We should arrive at about the same time, maybe a day earlier than those driving.'
'Looks like you have the logistics pretty well in hand. You must be getting a hell of a bonus if we pull this off.''
Monpelier shrugged. 'You know me, mon vieux. I am a humanitarian, interested only in returning those youngsters to the arms of their families.'
Carl couldn't have cared less. As long as his end of the bargain was lived up to, whatever side deal Monpelier had was his business.
'All right. What kind of aircraft do we have and what about weapons?' Carl asked.
Monpelier leaned over the table. 'I have a Dakota C-47 in excellent flying condition. As for weapons:
