Bolan used a small crowbar to pry open the lid. "These are sensitive metal detectors. Archaeologists use them to find old coins, swords, cooking pots, that sort of thing. It save a lot of time digging."
The captain twirled the point of his well-waxed mustache. "And what is this... engine?"
"That's our generator," replied Bolan, quickly and convincingly. Damn, was this guy going to rummage through everything? Most of the equipment was carefully stowed in the long trailer Red Chandler had fashioned from a converted horse box.
"Open it," ordered the captain. "Please." He peeked inside two of the reinforced cardboard cartons. "And why so much, er, canvas... all this fabric?"
"Tents," Bolan lied. "Several of them. One for myself. One for Professor Jones. Another for a darkroom. It's all there on the manifest."
The officer was briefly distracted by the arrival of a fuel tanker. Jack Grimaldi went over to talk to the technicians. The second official had been inspecting the Sand Hog, and not without an envious gleam in his eye.
"What is this for?" he shouted. The man was pointing at the mounting bracket in the back of the Hog.
"Oh, that... that provides a secure base for my surveying and photographic equipment."
The man nodded thoughtfully. Danny was amazed to hear Bolan's rapid explanations. She had no idea they were bringing this much equipment just for a cover story of a brief dig. Bolan had got enough gear here to unearth Troy single-handed.
This whole charade was making Bolan tense. He knew they were being watched. At first there had been nothing to warn him except that uneasy prickling he had long ago learned not to ignore. The guy in the short-sleeved white shirt standing close to the tower's shaded windows was to be expected; any controller worth his salt would want to know more about a man who could fly like Grimaldi. It took Bolan longer to pick up on the second watcher.
One glinting flash from the binoculars marked the thin man in the leisure suit, who was lounging against a car parked beyond the chain link fence at the perimeter of the airfield.
The arrival of Delta-One-Niner must have been the most interesting thing to have happened in Khurabi all day.
The first customs officer was still fingering his mustache.
"What is in this crate? Open it, please."
Bolan moved a lot more slowly this time.
Inside that wooden box was the one item he could not coolly explain away — a machine gun looks just like a machine gun and nothing else.
7
Bolan reached for the crowbar again.
The nosy official suddenly stepped back smartly and snapped to attention. The other two promptly followed suit.
It was the government's welcoming committee. And not a moment too soon. The long blue Lincoln, pennants fluttering, purred to a stop. The uniformed driver skipped back and held open the rear door.
Salim Zakir stepped out and with a delicate flick of his wrist neatly rearranged his robe. A second imperious wave was all that was needed to dismiss the customs officers. They climbed back into the Jeep and retreated to their office in the terminal at top speed.
"Danica, how good it is to see you again."
The formalities of introduction were quickly dispensed with; he accepted Bolan as one of Danny's colleagues from Westfield. His attention was focused wholly on the young woman.
"Many sincere apologies for not being here to greet you when the plane landed... but, well, pressing matters of state must take preference."
Bolan stood dutifully to one side as the minister offered more profuse apologies to his glamorous American friend. His elaborate greetings barely concealed an air of distraction. Bolan had originally guessed the Minister of Cultural Affairs was little more than a PR function given to one of the ruler's favored relatives; now he began to wonder if he should revise his opinion.
Zakir looked strained, as if beneath all that flowery language it was taking a real effort of will to suppress his true concerns. Perhaps every minor Arab sheikh had cause to be worried.
The smaller states like Khurabi were running out of oil almost faster than the troubled network of OPEC could hold up the prices. But whatever secret business within Harun Zayoud's court troubled him, Salim Zakir was determined to play the gracious host — at least as far as Danica Jones was concerned.
"How long will you be staying with us?"
Danny glanced across at her partner before replying, "Two or three weeks at the most."
"So short a visit!" It seemed their sudden decision to return to the Haufari dig conflicted with Zakir's busy schedule. "These are difficult times... but let us talk of happier things... there is much for you to see. The British team made many exciting finds at Salibra recently. The new items are all in the museum's storerooms. Come, let us go there now!"
Bolan noted Danny's genuine curiosity at the mention of the Salibra dig. But then she obviously remembered the real reason for her being there. She sneaked a second quick check with Bolan. They were working on a tight schedule.
Bolan nodded his encouragement. Grimaldi had the trailer already hitched to the Hog. "It's okay. I'll follow Abdel to the site. You must accept the sheikh's kind invitation. We can meet later at the International Hotel."
"Very well." She seemed a little annoyed to be handed off to Zakir.
"I should be back in town by about six," said Bolan. He opened his briefcase and extracted the wrapped package of videotape.
"If you should be granted an audience with Sheikh Zayoud, you can give him this, or perhaps Mr. Zakir will be kind enough to pass on our small gift with the appropriate greetings."
The Khurabi minister gave a regal tip of his head. It sounded most irregular and typically casual of the Americans, but he indicated it would be his pleasure. It was also his pleasure to have Danica Jones to himself for the afternoon. This tall professor at least had the tact to know when he was not wanted.
The chauffeur held open the door of the Lincoln for Danny. She glanced back at Bolan, but he was already behind the wheel of Chandler's special Jeep.
A few moments later he followed Abdel's truck and the fuel tanker toward the gate.
Zakir's limousine sped through the security gate and turned toward the glass-and-concrete towers of the capital city. Bolan watched the blue import dwindling in the rearview mirror, as he drove in the opposite direction along the airport approach road.
The cargo carrier thundered overhead. The gutsy pilot knew he was breaking all international regulations to fly it out solo; but then Jack Grimaldi always reckoned they must have written the rule book for somebody else. And he had the proven skills to back his self-confidence.
Bolan wasn't sure if Grimaldi was making a midclimb correction or if he actually waggled the wings of that big bird.
The Sand Hog handled just as smoothly and powerfully as Chandler claimed it would on far rougher terrain.
Bolan drove past a row of gaudily painted juice stands, a half-constructed desalination plant, two cement works and a sprawl of shanties built from packing crates, wrecked auto bodies and chipped cinder blocks — the discards and debris of the rapidly expanding city in the hazy distance behind him.
The asphalt curved left, dropping down to run close along the water's edge. Weathered wooden dhows bobbed on weed-choked lines. Fishermen were handcasting their broad nets in glittering arcs of salt spray. Ahead, Abdel hooted to drive a wandering goat off the road. Bolan was keeping watch for any sign they were being followed by the man with the field glasses. Splitting up with Danny served several purposes, not least of which was that it forced the watcher's hand into deciding which one of them he would tag along after.
If, as Bolan suspected, the guy was keeping tabs on the foreign visitors for Hassan Zayoud, it would be easy enough for him to check on Zakir's itinerary with Danica Jones later in the day. Even that smarmy chauffeur could be on Hassan's payroll.