I decided Marina and I were captive for a while yet, until I could find some moment for a break. I used the word “until” to myself. It was less pessimistic than “unless.”
We rode on, and the hot day finally gave way to the coolness of night as we reached the foothills of the Rif mountain stronghold.
Once more the Rifs paused but only for a few moments at the shores of a dayat, a mountain lake. Now, in the darkness, two of them rode behind Marina and me.
We pushed on, and the terrain changed from the semi-desert flatness to mountain defiles and narrow passes.
Marina was having trouble staying awake and I watched her closely. She was strained, haggard, thoroughly exhausted.
I was feeling it myself, and I was surprised she’d held out this long. Even the motion of the horse no longer served to keep her awake. I saw her eyes close, watched as she began to fall from the saddle and was there to catch her as she toppled.
I reined to a halt and was surrounded by Rifs at once.
“She can’t go on,” I said, holding the girl in my arms.
The tall one spoke brusquely to the others, and Marina was pulled from my arms and flung like a sack of grain across the saddle on her stomach, her head and legs hanging from the sides.
With a few quick turns of rope they lashed her in place, handed the reins of the horse to me, and started off again at the same, hard-driving pace.
Don’t the bastards ever get tired, I wondered. Suddenly the roads were steeper and the progress slower. We had reached Mount Dersa, I was certain.
We’d ridden most of the night, and I scanned the sky for the first hint of approaching dawn. It hadn’t bowed in yet when suddenly, turning a sharp curve in a narrow pass, we came to the dark silhouette of a citadel, two heavy towers at each corner standing guard over a collection of intertwining, connected buildings.
It was the Casbah of El Ahmid, and though he may have built it in recent years it followed the architectural lines of the ancient traditional Casbahs or citadels.
The main entranceway, tall and arched, stood open, protected only by sentries.
We rode through it and halted inside a stone courtyard.
I saw other Rifs on the walls and on the ground platforms of the two towers.
They unstrapped Marina and she slid to the ground, waking up as she did so. She tried to get up but her cramped, aching muscles refused to respond.
Two Rifs yanked her to her feet and started to drag her away.
“In the women’s quarters,” the tall one side. “Tell the eunuchs to guard her.”
He turned to me. “El Ahmid will see you after he awakens and breakfasts,” he said. “Meanwhile, you will have a few hours to think about what will happen to you if you do not cooperate with us.”
“I’ll think carefully,” I said. “That’s a promise.”
I was already thinking as they started to lead me away, only not what they wanted me to think about. I was noting that the wall from the towers was considerably higher than the roofs of the interconnected buildings at the back of the Casbah. I also noticed that the wall didn’t enclose the rear part of the Casbah but only butted up against the structures.
When they led me down a flight of stone steps, I had formed a pretty good mental picture of the outside layout of the place. A barred door swung open, and I was shoved into a dank, stone cell, windowless and barren except for some straw piled in a corner.
“Remind me not to stop here again,” I muttered to the two Rifs.
They looked at me blankly, slammed the door and took up positions at each side of it. They would be standing guard through the remainder of the night. It didn’t matter much because I wasn’t ready to move yet.
The cold, stone floor was hard but at least I could stretch out and flex my aching muscles.
I thought of what the tall one had said about cooperating with him, and I had to laugh, ruefully. I couldn’t cooperate if I wanted to do so. Where Karminian might be hiding was as much a mystery to me as to them. However, I knew I’d never be able to convince them of that.
Instead, I’d try for the brass ring on my own. I’d try to find out what this was all about. They’d tabbed me for an American agent, anyway. I had nothing to lose by trying, nothing except my neck, that is, and I. was used to risking that.
I fell asleep on the stone floor, still wondering how I came to be here and where these fierce, mountain tribesmen fitted into this weird puzzle of double-dealing twin informants.
I was wakened as the barred door came open with the sound of creaking hinges.
The two Rifs were inside the room and yanking me to my feet.
I could have taken them both, but it wasn’t time yet. I didn’t want to win a battle and lose the war.
“El Ahmid awaits you, pig,” the one snarled, shoving me out of the cell.
I was led back up the stairs and into a long room which in turn entered upon a room of rich draperies, incense, thick carpets and thick cushions casually strewn about.
At the far end I saw a man, wearing a traditional Arab headdress with open-necked shirt and riding breeches. He sat upon a bed of the cushions.
Beside him, feeding him olives and grapes, perched on her knees, was a girl, slim, narrow-waisted, wearing a diaphonous skirt and a bra, her midriff bare. Her nose was long and broadened at the base, her eyes a glistening black and her hair flowing loosely down her back. She was fascinating without being beautiful, her breasts swelling up from the bra in twin mounds of olive-skinned provocativeness.
The two Rifs with me bowed low, almost prostrating themselves before the man.
His face was long and angular with a high, broad forehead and a long, thin nose over finely molded, chiseled lips. It was an imperious face, arrogant, cruel and supremely confident. His eyes, dark and piercing, regarded me with disdain.
“Bow when you come before El Ahmid, son of a sow,” he hissed, his eyes boring into mine.
“I forget how,” I smiled.
I saw the sneer in his eyes change to anger. I shot a casual glance at the girl.
Her eyebrows were raised in astonishment. It was obvious that one didn’t give smart answers to El Ahmid.
He caught my glance and rose to his feet. He was tall, six feet, I judged.
“Bow!” he commanded, eyes glaring, one hand pointing to the door.
I knew what I was doing and I did it deliberately. I’d throw him off balance, open him up. It wouldn’t take much. He wasn’t used to anything but abject obedience.
“Go to hell,” I answered laconically.
He muttered an oath, reached down beneath one of the cushions and brought out a riding quirt. In two long steps he was before me, lashing out with the quirt.
I only moved my head to take the blow alongside my face. I felt the trickle of blood as the quirt bit sharply, painfully into the side of my face. I looked past him at the girl.
She was watching every move with eager interest.
He was standing with the quirt upraised, waiting for me to bow or receive another blow.
I bent my knees slightly, as though I were about to go down, and brought up a whistling right from behind my back. It cracked against his jaw like a rifle shot and he went crashing backward, sending cushions flying in all directions as he hit the floor.
The girl was at his side almost before he hit the floor, cradling his head in her lap, running her hands across his face. But her eyes were on me with a continuing astonishment, now tinged with something else, possibly respect.
The two Rifs had flung themselves at me and each one held an arm.
I didn’t try to pull away and stood casually, relaxed.
El Ahmid was up on one elbow, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth.