Wake tried to bluff the best he could. “I am Lieutenant Peter Wake of the U.S. Navy and I demand to talk to the vizier, and to know your exact name.”
“You will talk to no one and do nothing unless I permit you. You do not impress or intimidate me. Be quiet and listen.”
Then he said to his other prisoners, “I am Falah. Do exactly what I say and you people will not be hurt. In fact, we want you to stay healthy.”
Sokhoor’s immediate protests were cut short in Arabic by Falah. Whatever Falah said, Wake saw that it dejected the scholar, who visibly deflated. As each of them had their hands tied tightly in the front, Woodgerd stood grimly silent, eyes switching back and forth from Sokhoor to Falah. Faber began to speak, but stopped when a Senegalese cinched the knot tight and made him gasp in pain. Rork’s eyes flared. Wake leaned over and whispered, “Now Sean, let’s play this one calmly. We can always kill them later.”
“I’m memorizing the bastards’ faces, sir, so I kill the right ones later.” He tilted his head toward Falah. “An’ that sonovabitch is at the top o’ the list.”
“Good plan, Rork. Just please be calm now.”
Woodgerd asked the scholar, “What did that man tell you? And just who the hell are these men?”
Sokhoor nodded to the black men and sighed. “The Senegalese are the vizier’s. The Arabs are ShayTaan Taalib renegades. The vizier is a hostage to this also, evidently. The bandits have his family somewhere. And there are a lot more of the bandits than I thought. I am sorry, Colonel. Our own men outside are already dead. They resisted and were cut down.”
Woodgerd hissed a foul oath, then asked, “What’s next?”
“I do not know. Just do as they say, all of you, or they will kill you now without hesitation,” warned Sokhoor, as the group was pushed across the garden. At the palace they were shoved into separate rooms, told to sit on the floor and guarded by two of the stone-faced Senegalese.
Wake was led to a mosaic-walled room, dark red tapestry adding to the gloom, and flung onto the marble floor where he was forced to kneel in front of three short reed baskets on a rug. In seconds two men in the indigo-dyed robes of the Tuareg sat down by the baskets opposite Wake. Their attention was on the baskets and one of them pulled out a flute, from which scratchy notes pealed high and low, repeating faster and faster.
Falah came in and stood to the side, his eyes locked on Wake’s. The smallest basket moved slightly, catching Wake’s attention. Something inside it was jiggling the loosely woven top, which was now sliding up and back. Falah’s doomsday voice matched his sneer.
“Lieutenant Wake, of the American Navy, you really should be honored. Your earlier impertinence has earned you a great distinction. You are about to go through one of our quaint African tests of manhood.
“If you fail, you will die painfully and we will use your body—and its unique wounds—as a vivid incentive for the French to pay our ransom for their meddling missionaries. If, against all odds, you somehow succeed, you will become highly valuable to me, for the mysticism attached to your success will have tangible rewards. It is, as I understand you Americans say, a winning situation for us. Oh, and of course, if you try to flee, the Senegalese behind you will slice off your head. Their master has been persuaded to assist us and told them to follow my orders.”
Falah’s arrogance had Wake seething in anger, but he controlled his tone. “Well, you’ve got me curious, Falah. But maybe we can dispense with all these theatrics and just use some common sense here. There’s no reason for you to hold us. You made your point—”
“No, Lieutenant Wake, I haven’t. But I soon will.”
The small basket tottered again and a thick head poked out. In seconds, its body followed, a six-foot-long yellowish-brown snake with a squared pattern along its length. It came out of the small basket and dropped onto the rug, then slithered over in the direction of the flute. Wake noticed that the second Arab was tapping his foot hard against the floor. The snake was following the vibration. The man rose from his squat, reached over and in one smooth motion he scooped it behind the head and walked toward Wake.
Wake’s biggest fear was snakes. His service in Florida during the war had shown him what they could do. The snake man stroked the snake, murmuring to it as he carried it forward.
The screeching of the flute rose as the Arab reached out for Wake, who suddenly felt the tip of a Senegalese cutlass begin to slice into his back. The snake, its tongue flicking, was wrapped around his neck twice, ends dangling down his chest. Wake felt his heart pounding in his ears. He dared not move or speak. The thing was moving slowly, squirming as it examined its new perch.
The doomsday voice started up again. “Our very own vaunted Russell viper of North Africa, Lieutenant Wake. A beautifully efficient machine of death. So similar to your diamond-back rattlesnake, but without those ridiculous warning rattles. The Russell doesn’t let you know when it will strike, which is an admirable trait. Never warn your enemy, Lieutenant—it’s a silly notion of romantics who have never fought to the death.”
Wake saw the other two baskets move, lids sliding back. A snake came out of each basket, these snakes brownish-black with no pattern. Instead of dropping to the floor, they stood up, their glistening bodies supporting them a foot high out of the basket as they rotated their heads around.
Falah sauntered from the side of the room and stood in front of Wake’s view. “Ah, now
