“How did you know I was coming?” Bill asked.
Kestrel's eyes left Bill's and traveled upward to a point on the wall across from Bill, then shifted back to Bill's face, then to Shorty's. He shook his head sadly as he spoke.
“I learned it from a letter Douglas was writing to you, Barnes. We found it in his rooms in town. He-he-,—”
“What about Douglas?” Shorty snapped again. “Where is he? We know about his court-martial. Where is he?”'
“He's dead,” Kestrel said. “He was murdered night before last!”
“Murdered!” Shorty said slowly. His own face was white now, and he was thinking about the parents of young James Douglas. He was thinking about the tragic death of James' older brothel during the War. Thoughts rushed through his mind. He tried to speak and found that he couldn't,
Kestrel's eyes softened as he saw the tragedy written on Shorty's hard face. He put up a hand and spoke softly.
“Let me tell you about things,” he said. “I'll lay all the cards on the table. You'll understand if you let me tell you the whole story. It can't be told in halves. You wouldn't understand if I told you that way.”
Bill and Shorty sat spellbound while Kestrel unfolded the whole weird story. At times Kestrel stopped as they glanced at one another incredulously. He told them of the unrest of the natives and the attempt to mutilate the sacred Dushara. He told them of the theft of eight British planes and the cashiering of young Douglas. He told them all he knew up to the time he had gone to bed the night before.
“Those planes that attacked you,” he said, “were the ones that were stolen. It is as I thought: some one is working from the inside. They knew you were coming. They sent out those ships to stop you. But who sent them? And from where did they come? Those two things, gentlemen, are the things that confront us. If we can find out those things we will learn who murdered your friend.
“I admit now I was a fool to listen to the charges against him. He was not guilty, and he was determined to prove it to us. The things he learned cost him his life. What were they?
“If I had not been such a fool he would be alive to tell us. One of your own men has been dangerously wounded through no fault of his own. It seems that you are drawn into this thing without being able to help it. The long arm of the man behind it reached all the way to China to enmesh you in a fiendish plot that may cost thousands of lives. I need your aid. I beg you to work with me. By working together we can each satisfy our own interests.”
“We're in, all right,” Bill said. “ And we're going to stay. Have no fear about that. We want to know who murdered Douglas. And if Gleason doesn't pull through-”
He stopped, unable to go on.
“What about Douglas?” Shorty asked. “Will he be sent home?”
'I have cabled his parents,” Kestrel said. “I will do what his parents wish.”
“I'll take care of that,” Shorty said abruptly. “They are friends of mine, too.”
VI—PETRA'S STRONGHOLD
BILL and Sandy paced nervously up and down the anteroom of the hospital. Shorty Hassfurther, whose anxiety was even greater than theirs about his best friend and War-time pal, sat reading a newspaper and mentally cursing his nerves.
An interne had told them that they would not be permitted to see Red that day. He was so heavily doped, he said, he would not be able to recognize any one.
But they were waiting to get a report from the doctors who had worked on his shoulder in the operating room. They knew it was very possible that his left arm might be amputated.
Major McCardell, in command of the medical unit, made a report to them. He was an elderly man with a long and naturally dour face. Bill's heart fell to his boots when he made his appearance and Bill got a glance at his face.
“I'm glad to be able to tell you,” he said, “that it isn't as bad as it looked at first. He will not lose his arm and we will be able to build up the bone very satisfactorily. It will always be a little stiff, but he will not be a cripple. He is doing very well considering the shock and frightful loss of blood. We will have to keep him extremely quiet for a few days. It is possible we may need a blood transfusion or two.”
“That's where I come in,” Shorty said gruffly. “My blood has been tested for him. They used my blood for him once before.”
“That's a relief,” McCardell said. : “We may need you, Hassfurther.”
“Wing Commander Kestrel has given us quarters on the field,” Bill said. “Will you send an orderly to us as soon as we can see Gleason?”
“I will.” McCardell nodded. “ And I'll keep you informed about any developments. Don't worry about him; that won't do any good.”
“0.K.” Bill smiled. “We know you're doing your best.”
Bill reported to Wing Commander Kestrel before he took the Silver Lancer into the air a half hour later.
“I'm going to look the land over,” he said to Kestrel. “I may see something that will give me an idea.”
“Some one has got to get an idea pretty quick, Barnes,” Kestrel said. “If we can find the place they are hiding those eight planes and where they took the cargo from those seven caravans, we'll be a long way toward a solution. Even my own men are getting jumpy now. They know that somewhere there are traitors. We are like a house divided. Everyone is suspicious of every one else.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief, and Bill saw that his face was white and tense, and strained to the breaking point. “You'll want to go through Douglas' things with Hassfurther?”
“When I come back,” Bill answered shortly. “Hassfurther will remain here on the field. Sanders is going with me.”
Bill whipped the Silver Lancer into the air in a manner that had the grease monkeys and mechanics on the field wide-eyed. As he spiraled upward, they stood in little groups hardly able to believe what they saw.
At five thousand feet Bill leveled off and looked over the side as Sandy's voice came over the inter-cockpit phone.
“Say, Bill,” Sandy said, “I wonder where a fellow would go to buy a horse?”
Bill didn't answer him. He was searching the boulder-strewn desert below with his eyes. Here and there he could see the tents of the nomad Bedouins with their camels grazing near by.
“How much do you think a good Arabian horse would cost?” Sandy persisted.
“How the deuce do I know?” Bill growled. “Why don't you get yourself a harem instead?”
“Not for me,” Sandy said emphatically. “I'd rather have a horse-any day than a lot of women!”
“ All right, all right,” Bill said. “Now shut up. I didn't come up here to talk about horses. Keep your eyes on your altimeter. I'm going to cut north over the Dead sea.”
They raced the length of the Dead Sea into the Jordan Valley before Bill banked the silver ship around and came back over the precipitous cliffs on the eastern shore. Black basalt from volcanic eruptions blended with the bright red of the sandstone cliffs. Where wind and rain had chiseled away portions of the cliffs, great columns stood erect with black crowns on their heads, which faded into red, until, at the base, the bright-blue waters of the Dead Sea lapped at their feet.
The narrow chasm, through which the Wadi el Mojib flowed into the Dead Sea, flashed below their wings, and here and there they saw bright-red patches where the fertile land had been newly plowed. Scattered along the wadies were camps of Bedouin goat-hair tents.
Gliding down to a thousand feet as they entered another valley, they could see the terraced gardens and orchards below El Kerak.
Then they were back over the vast expanse of desert plateau that was the northernmost extremity of the Syrian Desert. The tan-and-yellow desert was bare of trees or color, except where a wadi cut its surface. To the east the desert rolled away interminably; and to the west a low range of hills towered into the air.