If trouble did break out, he and his men had their service pistols, and Teddy Clark was a steady hand on the Browning. But the last thing he wanted was a massacre. If he had to choose between the lives of his patrol and those of anyone trying to kill them, he knew he could make the choice. But he wasn’t sure if he could live with it afterwards.
‘Al-salam ‘alaykum,’ he called out, using the universal Muslim greeting, and adding in Tamasheq, ‘Ma toulid?’
The man in the centre, inches taller than his brethren, continued to survey him from behind the blue veil, his eyes boring into him, looking neither to right nor left. Gerald stopped and waited for a response.
The Anislem, a Qur’an clutched ostentatiously in his right hand, bent sideways and whispered briefly in his lord’s ear. Behind Gerald, the rest of the patrol had come to a halt. He could almost feel their edginess, or perhaps it was just his own. These were men with whom he’d shared the most intense days of his young life. They had fought together; pissed on the same sand; picked fleas from each others’ bodies and lice from one another’s hair; gone in search of women together in the Berka. They had headed into the desert together time after time, and come out alive again time after time.
Gerald waited patiently for a reply. The men of the desert lived an almost timeless existence, in a world where little changed from year to year, from century to century. No Tuareg would let himself be hurried.
But the headman had made up his mind.
‘‘Alaykum al-salam,’ he responded. ‘Al-khayr ras, al-hamdu li’llah.’
Gerald spoke haltingly, explaining who he was and where he and his men had come from. ‘Min al-Qahira,’ he said, ‘from Cairo.’ Even this deep in the desert, Cairo was a legend. The Tuareg leader listened impassively, neither warmth nor coldness showing in his eyes. The other Imashaghen watched. No one fidgeted or shuffled or raised a hand to swat the flies that buzzed all round them. These were Kel Tamasheq: as straight as guardsmen, they looked ahead without visible emotion.
‘A people have come to this land who are no friends of the Muslims,’ Gerald said. ‘They despise the Arabs because they belong to an inferior race, they hate the blacks because their skins are not white, they look down on the Berbers and the Tibu and the Kel Tamasheq because they ride on camels. In my language, they are called Germans. My people have come here to wage war with them. If they win this war, they will tear down the mosques, and kill the learned, and make slaves of the Muslims. They will send soldiers into the Ténéré, into the deep sands, they will carry off your wives and children to be slaves in the land they come from, where it is always dark and cold.
‘My people are not a Muslim people, but we are the greatest nation on earth, and we have been friends to the Muslims wherever we have gone. We have come here to speak with you. We need your help to fight our war, and we bring tokens of our friendship.’
He went on like this for about ten minutes, and not once did the Tuareg betray their feelings. For all he knew, they might be laughing at him. Or planning how to kill him.
The Anislem, a man of learning who had studied the Qur’anic sciences and the Traditions of the Prophet in the now-decayed schools of Timbuktu, watched the infidels intently. His rank was clear from the leather wallets he wore slung across his shoulders, containing a copy of the Qur’an and other sacred writings. From his left hand hung an amber rosary, whose beads he turned and twisted through gnarled fingers. His name was Shaykh Harun agg Da’ud, and he had lived for many years among the Kel Adrar at Ghadames further north. He had long served the people of Ain Suleiman, performing marriages, burying the dead, writing down verses of the Qur’an to wear as amulets, inscribing talismans in the ancient Tifinagh script, guarding the secrets of the oasis. He knew that these strangers, like the Italians he’d met in Ghadames and the French he’d seen in Timbuktu, were a threat to his prestige and authority.
When Gerald came to a halt, the headman remained silent for a time. He had heard rumours of a war far to the north, but knew nothing of its currents and did not fear its outcome. Perhaps the stranger was telling the truth, perhaps he lied: he was some sort of unbeliever, after all. These were the first unbelievers he had ever set eyes on.
Gerald whispered to Leary, telling him to go back to the trucks with Bill Donaldson, and to bring several items back with them. The silence continued.
When they returned, Leary and Donaldson carried an armful apiece. They laid their offerings on the ground in front of the headman, and stepped back. One by one, Gerald presented an odd mixture of military supplies: two pairs of chapplies, the desert sandals every trooper was issued with; a spare Jerry can; a pair of sand goggles for the headman; the desert stove from Donaldson’s vehicle; a folding tent; and a selection of desert rations.
Last of all, Gerald unstrapped his Smith and Wesson .38 and handed it, holster and all, to the headman.
‘I will teach you how to fire and reload it,’ he said.
The headman did not move. Even the poorest Tuareg had his pride. Gerald waited. On the dunes, sand danced in a light breeze. The fronds on the palm trees whispered. Somewhere, a child cried raucously. It would not be hard to take this place by force, thought Gerald. Each Chevvy carried two air-cooled .30 Browning machine guns. A Waffen-SS commander might have used them. Gerald fervently prayed he would not have to.
The Tuareg leader stretched out his hand and took the weapon.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It is much appreciated. As are all these gifts.’
‘There will be more and better if you will give us your help.’
‘My name is Si Musa agg Isa Iskakkghan. I am lord of this oasis. You and your men are welcome to stay. As for these other matters, we shall talk of them later.’
At that moment, a young woman who had been standing with the others in the rear came running forward. She was visibly distressed, and when Gerald looked more closely, he saw that some of the other women were agitated too.
‘Si Musa,’ she called out. ‘Ask the strangers if they have brought medicine. Perhaps they will know how to save our son.’
Si Musa did not turn to look at her. The woman was dark-skinned and pretty, with flashing teeth and large eyes that were red from weeping.
‘Go back to the women, A’isha,’ her husband said. ‘Shaykh Harun has prayed for our child. He will pray again later. If it is God’s will, Yaqub will live. If not, he will die.’
But A’isha did not budge.
‘Let the strangers prove their power, Si Musa. If our child lives, it will be God’s way of showing you that they can be trusted. If he dies…’ she sighed ‘…then they will have to leave.’
Back among the dwellings, the crying of the child redoubled in force. The later sunlight raked the oasis like a purple claw. In the distance, the sand shimmered, conjuring up a mirage, as if crenellated castles danced on the skyline where the dunes and the sky met one another.
Si Musa, inwardly as frightened for his son and heir as his wife, conceded. He turned on his heel and walked back to the encampment, his wife following. Gerald signalled to Donaldson. Donaldson, apart from his driving and navigational skills, was the patrol’s medic. He was a Scot who’d been studying medicine at Edinburgh when war broke out.