The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four (46 page)

But there was something else—a memory he couldn’t place, a sensation of lying in the bottom of a boat and hearing voices. Now he slowly pieced together that memory, scowling with effort to force the thought back to consciousness. In that swaying darkness he half remembered, with spray on his face and damp boards against his back, he seemed to have heard a guttural voice saying in triumph:

“That will be the biggest convoy of all! Forty ships, and they are helpless before the
Khamsin.
”

Then another voice that had muttered, “And only two days to wait!”

Ponga Jim Mayo lay still, his head throbbing. For the first time in a life of fierce brawls, barroom brannigans, gunfights, and war on land and sea, he was helpless. Not only was he imprisoned somewhere far from civilization, he was sure, but he was bound so tightly that even to wriggle seemed impossible. The feeling came over him that he was not just imprisoned. He had been carried here to die.

His mind sorted out his memories. The warship was in the Red Sea. Zara had told him that something in his own past, something he had forgotten but another remembered, linked him with the base of the warship.

Carefully, trying to neglect nothing, he tried to recall that long, narrow, reef-strewn sea of milky, sickly water. He remembered the sandstorms sweeping across the sea from the desert, the days of endless calm and impossible heat when the thermometer soared past one hundred and thirty degrees.

He remembered rocky islets and endless, jagged coral teeth ready to tear the bottom from a ship, sandy shores where desert tribesmen lurked, ready to raid and pillage any helpless ship, pirates now as they had been ages ago in Solomon’s time.

And along those mountainous, volcanic shores where no rain fell were ruins—ruins of the heyday of Mohammed, of Solomon, of Pharaohs; ruins whose names and origins were lost in the mists of antiquity. No like area in all the world has so many ruined cities as the shores of the Red Sea and the edge of Arabia where it faces the Indian Ocean.

Even in Mokha, once the center of the coffee trade, in 1824 a city of twenty thousand inhabitants with a shifting population that made it much larger, only two or three hundred Somalis, Arabs, and Jews now lived in ruined houses of stone, crawling like animals in rags from their lairs, cowardly and abject, but ready to fight like demons if need be. Mokha was now only a memory, with its streets heaped with debris, its stone piers crumbling into the stagnant, soupy sea.

Yet somewhere along the shores of the Red Sea was a base. A base that must be well equipped and fitted for at least minor repairs, with tanks filled with water and fuel oil. But where?

His memory searched around Hanish Island, around many a
Ghubbet
and
khor,
down the Masira Channel and past Ras Markaz, across the dreaded Rakka shoals and up to Jiddah town, where the Tomb of Eve with its wide, white dome stands among the old windmills.

Somewhere in that heat, sand, and desolate emptiness was the base for the battleship of mystery he had seen.

Now Europe, Asia, and even America were at war, and in the Near East the bazaars were rife with whispers of intrigue, with stories of impending rebellion, of the gathering desert tribes, of restlessness along the Tihama, of gatherings in the Druse hills. And then out of the night—murder.

Hard-bitten old General McKnight, who knew the East as few men did—murdered, poisoned with his own sherry. And Norfolk, shrewd criminal investigator, stabbed suddenly on a dark street. One by one the men who could fight this new evil, this strange, growing power, one by one they were dying, murdered by unseen hands at the direction of a man who sat far behind the scenes pulling the strings upon which puppets moved to kill.

Ponga Jim stirred restlessly. That was the horror of it, to know that he knew the clue, that somewhere down the chaotic background of his past was the knowledge that could end all this killing here.

Suddenly, he stiffened. There had been a movement, a sly, slithering sound. And for the first time, he became conscious of a peculiar odor in the place. His eyes had gradually grown accustomed to the dim light, and now, with a skin-crawling horror, he saw!

On a heap of broken stone and piled earthen jars was a huge snake, lifting its ugly flat head and looking toward him! His throat constricting with terror, Ponga Jim’s eyes roved again. And now that he could distinguish things better and in the dim vagueness could see grotesque figures, of carts, animals, and workmen painted on the walls, he knew he was in a tomb! He was lying where a sarcophagus once had lain, on a stone table probably three or four feet above the floor.

T
URNING HIS HEAD
, he could see the dim outlines of great coils, more snakes. And still more.

He looked up, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, and it dawned upon him what had been done. Above, a loosely fitted stone slab had been moved back, and his body had been lowered into this old tomb. Soon he would fall off the table to the floor, and the snakes would bite. Or he would die of thirst or of starvation.

Ponga Jim felt with his feet toward the edge of the stone table. He got his ankles over, and a thrill went through him as what he had hoped proved true. The edge of the stone slab on which he lay was clean-cut, sharp!

Hooking his ankles over the edge, he began to saw. It would take a long time, but it would have to be. A snake moved, rearing its head to stare, but he worked on as sweat soaked his clothing.

It seemed that hours passed, but still he worked, on and on. Above him, the light grew dim and darkness closed down.

Suddenly, dust spilled in his face, and above him he heard a grating as of stone on stone. He looked up, and above him was a square of sky and stars, blotted out suddenly by an enormous shape.

“Captain Jim?” The voice was husky with effort. “You down there, Captain?”

“You’re right I am!” Ponga Jim’s voice was hoarse with relief. “Watch it! I’m tied hand and foot, and this place is crawling with snakes. Get a line and rig a hook on it.”

“Captain, they ain’t no more line up here than there’s nothin’! This here place is nothing but rock and sand. Ain’t no fit place for no snake even.”

“Wait!”

In desperation, Ponga Jim hacked viciously at the edge of the slab and suddenly felt the weakened strands give. He hacked again, kicking downward against the stone edge, sawing, jerking against the corner.

The snakes were stirring restlessly now. He knew what would happen if one struck him. Within an instant he would be bitten a hundred times. Snakes, like rats and men, can be gang fighters.

But the rope fell loose.

He crawled to his feet, staggered, and almost toppled from the table into the crawling mass below.

Ponga Jim’s hands were bound, but even if they had not been it was a good ten feet to the hole above.

“London,” he called, “scout around and find something to haul me out of here or I’ll start knotting these snakes together. If I do I swear I’ll toss you the hot end to hold!”

“Don’t you be doing that!” Big London said hastily. “I’ll see what I can find.”

Ponga Jim bent over, working his slender hips between the circle of his arms and bound wrists. Once he had them down over his hips he stepped back through the circle and straightened up, his arms in front of him. Then he began working at the knot with his teeth. It was a matter of minutes until the knots were untied.

Shaking the ropes loose, he gathered up the pieces. He had about eight feet of rope; a bit less when he had knotted the two together with a sheet bend.

There was sound above him.

“Captain”—Big London’s voice was worried—“I reckon you going to have to start working on them snakes. They ain’t nothing up here like no rope.”

“Lie down!” Ponga Jim said, “and catch this rope! I’ll toss it up, you take a good hold, and then I’m climbing. And you better not let go!”

“You just leave it to London, Captain,” the black man assured him. “I’ll not let go!”

Big London caught the rope deftly. Then Ponga Jim went up, hand over hand. When he reached Big London’s hands, he grabbed the big man’s wrist. London let go of the rope and caught him. In a few seconds he was standing in the open air.

“Thanks, pal!” Ponga Jim said fervently. “I’ve been in some spots, but that one—”

“Captain,” Big London said, “we better be going. This is clean across the Gulf of Suez and way down the coast. They spent the best part of the night and morning coming down here.”

Ponga Jim looked around. It was bright moonlight.

“Is there a high cliff right over there?” He pointed toward the southeast. “One that drops off into the water? And is there a black hill right over there?”

“Sure is, Captain,” Big London said. “I took me that black hill for a landmark. I smuggled myself away on their boat, hoping they’d leave one man alone so I could take over, but they never. Then I waited, hid out till they took you ashore. I wanted to follow, but they got clean away with three men with guns still on the boat. I had to slip over into the water when they started again, swim ashore, and then trail you up here.”

“You did a good job.” Ponga Jim chuckled. “The joke is on them. This place is the Ras Muhammed, the tip of Sinai Peninsula, and right over there, not three miles from here, in one of the neatest little bays in this area, is the
Semiramis
!”

An hour and a little more passed before they reached the shore of the little inlet surrounded by high cliffs. At a cleft in the rock they made their way down to a beach of black sand and decomposed coral. The freighter was anchored, a dark blotch, not a hundred yards offshore. At Ponga Jim’s shout, a boat was hastily lowered.

No sooner had Ponga Jim reached the freighter than he called Brophy.

“Slug,” he said, “get number five open and break out that amphibian. I want her tuned and ready to take off by daybreak. This is going to be quick work.”

He walked into the cabin, tossed off his clothes, and fell into his bunk. In seconds he was sound asleep.

CHAPTER VI

Four men and a woman sat in the spacious living room of Zara Hammedan’s Ramleh residence. Zara’s face was composed, and only her eyes showed a hint of the strain she was undergoing.

One of the men stood up. He was well over six feet and broad shouldered, and he moved with the ease of a big cat. There was a great deal of the cat about him—in his eyes, in the movements of his hands. His hair was black, but white at the temples, and his eyes were large and intensely black. His face was swarthy and his arched eyebrows heavy. There was about him something that spoke of a sense of power, of command, and in every word, every gesture, was an utter ruthlessness.

“You see, gentlemen?” he said lightly. “Our plans move swiftly. There was a momentary danger, but Captain Mayo has been taken care of. He was dropped into the Tomb of the Snakes this morning. By this time he has been dead for hours. By tomorrow noon the convoy will be well into the Red Sea. It carries fifty thousand soldiers, many planes, much petrol, and much ammunition. By tomorrow at dark that convoy will be completely destroyed. As always, there will be no survivors.

“And tomorrow night? General Kernan and Major Arnold will be shot down. Within an hour a reign of terror will begin in Cairo, Alexandria, Port Said, Suez, Beirut, Damascus, Baghdad, and Aleppo. By tomorrow night at midnight, the British will be leaderless in the Near East. Rebellion will break out.” The man paused. “Then we will take over.”

“I do not like it.” The man who spoke was slender and bald, and his small eyes were shrewd. “It is not practical. And that Ponga Jim was disposed of in too theatrical a manner. He should have been shot. I would never leave such a man alive.”

“The man is just a man.” The imperious words of the tall man were smooth, cold. “One would think, Herr Heittn, that you thought him supernatural.”

Heittn smiled thinly. “I know this man,” he said shortly. “Did I not use every means to dispose of him? Did he not kill my brother? Did he not handle Count Kull like he was a child?”

“Strength is not enough,” the tall man said. “It takes brains!”

“You got something there, Chief,” one of the other men said. His jaw was heavy, his nose flat. He looked like a good heavyweight boxer. “But I been hearing about this guy Mayo. He’s a tough cookie.”

“But I know how to handle ‘tough cookies,’ Mullens,” the tall man assured. “You have only to handle your end. You have your men ready?”

“You bet,” Mullens said. “I got four of the best rodmen that ever slung a heater. All of ’em with tommy guns. We’ll mow your pals Kernan and Arnold down like they were dummies.”

“Then we’re all ready. You’re sure about the time, Demarest?”

“Yes,” said Demarest. “The time is right. Everything will move perfectly. The destruction of this convoy, the fourth consecutive convoy to be totally destroyed, will wreck the troops’ morale. A whispering campaign has begun. Kernan cannot be replaced. He knows the East too well.”

Heittn was watching the tall man steadily, his eyes curious.

“I don’t understand your stake in this, Theron,” he said abruptly. “What is it you want? You are not German. You are not just an adventurer. I do not understand.”

“No reason why you should, Herr Heittn,” the man called Theron snapped. “You have a task to do. You will do it. What you think or do not think is of no interest to me if your task is well done.”

Zara arose and excused herself. Theron’s eyes followed her as she left the room. They were cold, curious.

“What of her?” Demarest asked. “You are sure of her?”

“I will be responsible for her, Demarest. She has too much power among the Arabs not to be of value to us. But she must be kept with us always.”

The group broke up. Heittn was first to leave. He took his hat and started for the door, then glanced swiftly around, and with surprising speed darted up the stairs toward Zara’s room. There he tapped lightly on the door.

It opened at once, and before Zara could speak, Heittn slipped into the room. He looked at the girl narrowly.