'Get the rifle and his pack.'
'We are British subjects,' Nicholas told him loudly, and the guerrilla
looked surprised by his use of Arabic. 'We are simple tourists. We are
not military. We are not government people.'
Be quiet. Shut your face!' he ordered, as the rest of the guerrilla
patrol emerged from cover. Nicholas counted five of them all told,
though he knew there were probably others who had not come forward. They
were very professional as they rounded up their prisoners. They never
blocked each other's field of fire, nor offered an opportunity of
escape. Quickly they searched them for weapons, then closed in around
them and hustled them on to the path.
'Where are you taking us?'Nicholas demanded.
'No questions!' The butt of an AK-47 smashed between his shoulder blades
and almost knocked him off his feet.
'Steady on, chaps,' he murmured mildly in English.
'That wasn't really called for.'
They were forced to keep marching through the heat of the afternoon.
Nicholas kept a check on the position of the sun and the distant
glimpses of the escarpment wall.
He realized that they were heading westwards, following the course of
the Nile towards the Sudanese border. It was late afternoon, and
Nicholas estimated that they had covered some ten miles, before they
came upon a side shoot of the main valley. The slopes were heavily
wooded, and the three prisoners were herded into a patch of this forest.
They were actually within the perimeter of the guerrilla camp before
they were aware of its existence. Cunningly camouflaged, it consisted
merely of a few crude lean, to shelters and a ring of weapons
emplacements. The sentries were well placed, and all the light machine
guns in the foxholes were manned.
They were led to one of the shelters in the centre of the camp, where
three men were squatting around a map spread on a low camp table. These
were obviously officers, and there was no mistaking which of the three
was the commander. The leader of the patrol which had captured them went
to this man, saluted him deferentially and then spoke to him urgently,
pointing at his captives.
The guerrilla commander straightened up from the table, and came out
into the sunlight. He was of medium height, but was imbued with such an
air of authority that he seemed taller. His shoulders were broad and his
body square and chunky, with the beginning of a dignified spread around
the waist. He wore a short curly beard which contained a few strands of
grey, and his features were refined and handsome. His skin tones were
amber and copper. His dark eyes were intelligent, his gaze quick and
restless.
'My men tell me that you speak Arabic,' he said to -Nicholas.
'Better than you do, Mek Nimmur,'Nicholas told him.
'So now you are the leader of a bunch of bandits and kidnappers? I
always told you that you would never get to heaven, you old reprobate.'
Mek Nimmur stared at him in astonishment, and then began to smile.
'Nicholas! I did not recognize you. You are older. Look at the grey on
your head!'
