She quickly explained the route to the site she had prepared, naming each landmark three times. He did not remind her of his old familiarity with travel in the United States, but listened with critical approval. It was best to arrive after sunset, she said, which also gave her time to alert the others.
"Chaim and Rashid know you," she added. The third, Bernal Guerrero, had been recruited in Damascus, as Talith herself had been, after Hakim Arif's last sojourn there. Hakim had read impressive reports on his new followers, and chose not to say so.
"They will serve," he said, rising to collect the somnolent mare some distance away. He flung over his shoulder: "Better perhaps than a woman who deflects my questions." She could not read the satisfaction in his face. He wheeled the mare and trotted her back to the girl. Again he stared down from a commanding height, stern, refractory: the visage of Fat'ah. "Soon, then," he said, eyeing the sun.
"Sire," she stammered. Her body was controlled; only her voice betrayed her. "I was led to expect a lieutenant. Your face is known to few in Fat'ah."
"Or out of it, as Allah is merciful," he rejoined. "Perhaps I shall be merciful, too."
"If God wills," she said in Arabic.
"Or perhaps—" he waited until she met his eyes again, "I shall beat you."
"Perhaps you will," she said, not flinching.
Hakim Arif whipped the mare mercilessly up the trail with the reins, enjoying the experience, the control, especially enjoying the memory of the girl's eyes. They had dilated again at his threat. Under a westering sun he sped back to the stable. He was thinking: spawn of pain. We Fat'ah are the children of El Aurans after all...
Over an hour later he found the Fat'ah site, temporary as it must be but better situated than he had expected. The bungalow commanded a clear view of the San Jose skyline in the dusk and, on three sides, open pastures beyond carbine range. On the fourth side a swath of scrub oak followed a brook so near the house he could almost leap from its porch into thick cover. He accepted congratulations for his work in Pueblo as though spurning praise, yet Hakim was pleased. He let his distant smiles and nods say so. Let those idiots in the PLO show all the ersatz egalitarianism they liked: Fat'ah, born of Al Fat'h, born of injustice, was effective because he, Hakim Arif, was so. It was essential to strike a balance between fellowship and personal supremacy—yet a little fellowship became a heavy weight.
Only after his site inspection did Hakim conjure a show of warmth, with a ritual embrace for gaunt, silent Rashid and then for Chaim. He traced the new scar tissue across the forehead of Chaim Mardor with a finger. "An honorable wound," he said, thinking otherwise. He caught the gaze of Bernal Guerrero, who stood slightly apart from the others, stalwart in khaki work clothes. "And now, Guerrero: welcome." He offered the handclasp then the embrace.
"My regrets that we could not meet in Damascus," the Panamanian said, his bow formally correct.
Hakim felt the aura of strength, like a physical shield of energy surrounding the strongly-built latino. Independent, ingenious, cold; he would need firmer leadership than the PLO had provided. "I share your regret," said Hakim. "Talith, bring us bread."
They sat cross-legged on the living room floor, Hakim tearing chunks from the uncut loaf. He placed a piece in each mouth, then chewed a piece himself. With this ritual he invoked the ancient Arab law of hospitality; no matter that he thought it a hollow gesture. Rashid, and perhaps Guerrero, would luxuriate in the rite that placed them under Hakim's protection. The site was, for the time, the home of Fat'ah; and Hakim Aril was Fat'ah.
Then: "They say you are clever with electronic devices, Guerrero."
"I can fix a toaster," Guerrero smiled. Then, sensing that he had been too flippant on such short acquaintance, he went on. "Or a transceiver, or a squib time-delay. From what I have seen of the Pueblo blast, perhaps not as well as you.”
Hakim grunted with pleasure. If Guerrero was hinting for an explanation he was doing it ex-pertly. Besides, a recapitulation of the recent events might impress them afresh. "Talith, bring us sweet coffee, and my briefcase. I have some new devices of French design, manufactured in Canada. They will be of use." He darted a glance at Guerrero. "You are prepared to emplace communication devices tonight?"
"A sus ordenes, at your orders," Guerrero said. "But the roads across the coast range are few and well-patrolled. In my van is a vehicle that avoids the highways."
Hakim hesitated. Even an expert cyclist would have little chance to make good time through those low precipitous mountains. He said as much.
"It is not a scrambler bike," Guerrero said easily. "While repairing a small rotary engine last year I learned that it powered a shrouded impeller. The unit is slung beneath a parafoil, senor. What I have in the van is my gift to Fat'ah."
He seemed willing to continue, which would effectively wrest the moment from Hakim. Worse, it would consume minutes which Hakim needed to familiarize the Panamanian with the new microprocessors. "I assume you are proficient," he said curtly, then took the briefcase from Talith. Moments later he was again the undivided center of attention. And of control.
Guerrero was quicker than quick, more impressed with the microprocessors than his fellows because he understood their multiple functions without delay. "With the battery packs and ordinary communication devices patched to these units," he mused, "Fat'ah can be everywhere at once."
"Indeed," Hakim smirked. "Perhaps I shall tell you how I used them in Canada. But another time," he said, seeing Talith check her wristwatch. "Tonight I shall require remote voice relays at two telephone locations. Show me, Guerrero, how you would use my components."
Guerrero made mistakes only twice, then correctly assembled the devices three times without error. At length Hakim was satisfied and called for a light meal. Talith, in her wisdom, had managed to obtain honey-rich, multilayered baklava as their dessert. Hakim found himself salivating for it and so, perforce, refused it. He had seen the jumble of communication equipment arranged by Talith and Rashid but this, too, he ignored for the moment. Then it was time for Guerrero's departure, and he sent Talith and Rashid out on picket duty.
Guerrero's van combined a short wheelbase with all-terrain tires under a long cargo compartment. At Hakim's acid comment on the garish paint, Guerrero pointed out that, by California standards, it was subdued. The van culture, springing from the recreational vehicles of the seventies, was invading the west coast to such an extent that one could purchase, direct from Detroit, vans covered with tinted plastic bubbles and fantastic painted panoramas. While he enthused over the uses of a van, Guerrero was proving his point.
With Chaim's help, dark green dacron and black-painted aluminum tubing from the van soon became a spidery frame topped by fabric. In places the fabric was taut over the slender tubing; across most of its span it draped limp. The vehicle had no tail surfaces but featured two swept wings, the lower wing staggered behind. Guerrero boasted that the dual wing gave his craft such a low stall speed that, unlike earlier parafoils, it could fly at the pace of a trotting man. Despite the darkness, Hakim could see that Guerrero's perch was a padded bike seat, mounted above the enclosed driveshaft. Ahead of the rider was the little rotary engine; behind him, the shrouded impeller. It started quickly with the rasping whirr of a big lawnmower.
A loaded pack frame leaning against his knee, Hakim cupped one hand to his cheek and leaned forward. "If your landing is not gentle, Guerrero, your cargo will dig your grave."
"I can land in any clearing," Guerrero joked, "with the landing gear I was born with." He flexed his knees and gestured for the pack.