Raul Bazaine made an about face and called, in French, which was the language most common to the mercenary company, “Ground arms!”
Isobel turned to Guémamaa and clipped out a few words in Tamaheq.
He said, “Bilhana!” and turned and called an order to the suspicious camelmen who had watched all this, weapons in hand.
A score of them dismounted and began disarming the mercenaries, who stood, empty-faced, and offered no resistance.
Guémama himself went forward and relieved the two captains of their sidearms.
Sean said, with all courtesy, “Is there some place my men can be sheltered? As you say, the sun…”
Isobel frowned. She said, “Tamanrasset is not a large settlement. Hundreds of premature newsmen, trade delegations, diplomats and recruits to El Hassan’s banners have been descending upon us. All facilities in Tamanrasset are filled to capacity. Many are living in tents, or in the vehicles, some of which are trailers or campers, in which they arrived. It is quite chaotic. The fort, here, is reserved to the officials and forces of El Hassan. However, for the time, I suggest that your men and their vehicles retire to the shade of the former non-commissioned officer’s mess, over there.” She pointed. “They will be guarded but otherwise free to bring forth their cooking equipment and prepare food. I assume you are short of fresh provisions. You may have delegated two of your men to go into Tamanrasset and to the souk to purchase food—under guard.”
She turned to Guémama and gave instructions and then turned back to them. “And now will you follow me?”
Bryan O’Casey went over quickly to Lon Charles and spoke to him briefly, then turned and hurried after the others who were heading for the administration building. The two camelmen at the portals saluted as Isobel and the four strangers passed into the interior. Guémama brought up the rear and, as he passed, took the submachine gun from the hands of one of the guards.
Isobel led to the way to the once-staff room, with its long, heavy table and its ample complement of chairs. She took the larger seat at the table’s head, once the prerogative of the commandant of the fort and motioned them to chairs.
She looked at Megan and said, “Would you like to freshen up a bit, Doctor?”
Meg said, “Thank you, but I can wait.”
Isobel turned her eyes to Guémama, who had stationed himself to one side of the door and said in his own language, “Please order mint tea for the strangers, O Guémama. Let all men know that El Hassan is aware of the hospitality due… strangers.”
“Bilhana,” the Tuareg said, but didn’t himself leave on the errand. He opened the door and spoke to one of his two camelmen who were stationed there, then turned back and resumed his stance.
The three mercenaries had noted that not only was his sub-machine gun cocked but the safety was off.
Isobel looked at them, one by one. “Very well,” she clipped. “The purpose of your intrusion into the realm of El Hassan?”
Sean said, with all the gentle tone of the Irish, “Intrusion is not quite the term, my dear Miss Cunningham. And would it be possible to present our petition to El Hassan himself?”
“Not at this time. El Hassan has withdrawn into seclusion with his closest viziers to lay further plans for his uniting of all Ifriqiyah. He is not available.”
Bryan looked over at Sean, remembering what the other had said about the possibility of the four men they had passed on the other side of In Salah being El Hassan and some of his confederates. Sean realized what was behind the glance, but ignored it.
He said, “Could you tell us when he will be available for an audience?”
They were interrupted by the advent of the tea, and waited until all had been served.
Then Isobel said, “I truly cannot say. He is in ekhwan, in great council, with his viziers and it might go on for days… or even longer.” Isobel looked at him flatly. “However, I am El Hassan’s secretary and presently detailed to make minor decisions until the problems he works upon are resolved.”
Captain Raul Bazaine said gallantly, “You seem young, as well as supremely attractive to hold such an arduous post, Madamoiselle.”
She looked at him bleakly but didn’t deign to answer. She returned her level eyes to Sean Ryan.
The Irishman cleared his throat and went into his pitch. “Our group is composed of soldiers of fortune, Miss Cunningham. For the present, at least, there are few openings for our profession in the world. When word of El Hassan’s, ah, movement began to filter out we came to the conclusion that perhaps here was employment. We banded together, pooled our resources to buy our vehicles and other equipment, and headed south to offer our services.”
“And why do you think your services are required?” Isobel said. “Every day individuals, small groups and large contingents of Sahara tribesmen come in to volunteer. So many that we must turn away all but the most experienced warriors and most, even, of them. The Sahara does not have the resources of Common Europe, the Soviet Complex or America, to maintain large standing armies. On top of which, we of Ifriqiyah consider ourselves a peaceful nation, not a militaristic one. We seek no war, only the unification of all North Africa. We rally to us blacks, berbers, rifs, the Hamitic tribes, even such Arabs as have resided for centuries in Africa, largely on the Mediterranean coast. You are whites.”
Sean accepted that and nodded and gave her the story which was their cover, though they didn’t truly expect it to be acceptable. He said, “You have heard of the Janissaries of Turkey, the Mamelukes of Egypt?”
Isobel said, “Of course. We of El Hassan’s staff are not uneducated, Major Ryan.”
“Of course not. The Turkish Janissaries were the most trusted troops of the sultans and usually composed his bodyguard. They were more fully trusted than even his fellow Turks because they could only be without political ambition. They were Christians who had been captured while infants, circumcised and raised as Moslems. But they were still whites, still Europeans by birth, and had no possibility of rising to the throne. Had they attempted to seize power, the Turkish people as a whole would have risen and overthrown them, and all were aware of this. So they made an ideal elite to act as the sultan’s bodyguard and as his most trusted soldiers in combat.”
Isobel said skeptically, “Go on.”
“This is what we offer El Hassan. We are admitted mercenaries, who offer our experienced services as bodyguards or in any other capacity. All of us have led native troops. We are sophisticated veterans, knowledgeable about the latest weapons and tactics. I myself, in my time, have been commander in chief of the armed forces of one—undeveloped—nation. Obviously, we could have no ambitions in the direction of a coup d’état. Like the janissaries before us, we would be rejected by the people of North Africa, since we are white. Our only allegiance would be to El Hassan, who would be responsible for our pay.”
Isobel’s voice was cold. “You are of the opinion that our native troops, as you put it, are in need of being led by you and your men?”
He looked at her for a long moment before saying, “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Cunningham, but we are some of the most highly trained veterans to be found in the world today. Not only the veterans of one or two wars or military revolts but of literally dozens and on every level from guerrilla affairs to the most sophisticated. We could drill your most awkward recruits to a hair. We can crew any tank, armored car, weapon carrier, or service any piece of artillery you might have on hand or acquire. And we can also repair such equipment. How many of your bedouin can do the same? I strongly suspect that if a minor screw on one of your simplest machine guns becomes loosened to the point where the weapon is inoperative, the machine gun is abandoned by its helpless gunner.”