By now my eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness and I could make out about a dozen on the ground. But three of the attackers were on their feet and very much alive. Thinking I was out of ammunition, they started running toward me, one screaming, "INFIDEL! WE KILL YOU!", another snapping off a shot with a pistol. But I had seen the man's movement and had ducked to one side, at the same time jerking Wilhelmina from her shoulder holster and thumbing off the safety. The enemy bullet zinged off the van, and I put one of Wilhelmina's Luger projectiles into the man who had fired. The 9mm Parabellum bullet struck the man in the chest, knocked him backward, and he went down at the same instant that I triggered off two more rounds. One 9mm smashed into an Arab's stomach, doubling him over; he quit trying to raise his rifle when another slug bored into his forehead. The third man jerked to his left and fired his carbine as I ducked to the right and twice more pulled Wilhelmina's trigger. The first slug struck him in the chest, the second in the stomach, the double impact of the HP bullets knocking him off his feet. Down he went, his burnoose flying.
I ran around the end of the van and came up on its other side in time to see another invader creeping toward the side door. Wilhelmina had exhausted her ammunition and I didn't have time to shove in another clip and cock the old girl. I twisted my right arm, freed Hugo from his chamois case and let him slip handle-first into my hand. The Arab, spinning toward me, did his best to blow me up with a rifle that appeared to be an old-fashioned bolt-action weapon.
I ruined his chances by tossing Hugo at him as I ducked to one side to avoid his bullet. The pencil-thin stiletto speared him in the throat, the surgical steel slicing through his flesh; the man's legs folded and he went down.
Quickly I shoved another clip-full of 9mm hollow points into Wilhelmina, cocked her and looked through the glass of the door, but I didn't see Miriam. Either she was down on the floor or in the rear of the van. I rapped three times and instantly her head popped up from beside the bucket seat next to the driver's. She unlocked the door and I stepped inside and relocked it.
"They're all dead, all of them?" she asked.
"I'm not sure," I replied. "I'm going back out and make sure. Keep watch but stay in."
I went into the rear of the van, took the Czech Skorpion Machine Pistol and two magazines from the gun locker, shoved the two long clips into my waistband, and again went outside. Cautiously I checked around the front of the van; I could have gone out and inspected the perimeters but I wasn't an idiot.
I picked up the empty Bush master, crept around the rear of the van and went back to retrieve Hugo. Sighing in disgust because I knew I was going to have another sleepless night, I reached down, pulled Hugo from the dead man's throat and wiped both sides of the blade on the corpse's burnoose.
I rapped three times on the door and Miriam let me in. "We shouldn't spend the rest of the night here," she said right off, staring at me.
"We're not going to!" I went to the rear of the van, carefully placed Hugo in the tiny sink and returned the Bushmaster and the Skorpion machine pistol to the gun locker; I then hurried back to the driver's seat and sat down.
"I counted sixteen bodies out there," I said, turning on the headlights and starting the motor. "What will happen when the Syrian Desert Patrol discovers them?"
Still clutching her AK-47, Miriam sat down in the seat next to me as I started to move the van forward. "The border police won't even try to find out who killed the bandit trash," she said. "What we have in Syria is similar to what used to happen in your nation's South when anti-Negro organizations would lynch black men and women."
From the corner of my eye, I could see her peering ahead at the twin yellow beams of the headlights. We might as well have been on the Moon. "How far are you going to drive?" she asked.
"Five miles," I replied. "After we stop, I'll set up a new defense with the I.D.S., even though I feel that we're safe enough. The few bandits holding the camels would have to be crazy to attack us."
Several hours later, Miriam and I both felt more relaxed, especially after I had erected three perimeters of hair-thin wire, the farthest 180 feet from the van, the middle one 120 feet, the closest 60 feet. I set the beeper to maximum, cleaned Hugo and reloaded the Bushmaster and the machine pistol. A short while later, I placed the I.D.S. station close to my ear as I settled down in the bunk on my side of the van.
We pulled out the next morning when the sun was already high above the horizon. The van bounced over small rocks and rough, broken ground, the heavy-duty springs creaking in protest whenever the wheels rolled over slabs of broken skag and lava-rock. We were now close to the As-Suwayda Hills.
The plan for approaching Mohammed Bashir Karameh's main SLA camp was basically practical. According to Miriam there would be guards posted at strategic positions, all around the camp for several miles. These guards would be at the highest points available in order to detect anyone who might approach at a distance. Miriam explained that we would overcome this problem by driving through the Wadi el Mujib. At this time of the year, the deep ravine would be bone dry. All we would have to do is drove down the wadi, park the van and climb up one side, up a few hundred feet of slanting limestone. Once at the top, we would keep behind large boulders and from there see the camp, situated on a high plain, through powerful binoculars. We could even photograph it with a camera equipped with telescopic lens which Miriam had thoughtfully provided. On the surface, the whole deal was a snap. I'd draw a crude map, make the proper coordinates, take the longitude and latitude and gear the whole procedure for photomosaics and orthophotos. That is, for the aerial photography that would follow, conducted by a U.S. satellite which, two hundred miles overhead, would be diverted for that purpose.
Miriam and I would then return to Damascus where I would give the information to a Hamosad agent and later take the Josi-Dan Express to Amman, Jordan. From Jordan I would return to Tel Aviv. All very simple. At least in theory.
This third day was pure hell. The almost constant bouncing up-and-down of the van loosened a connection in the air-conditioning system, and soon Miriam and I were sweltering in the heat, our clothes soaked with perspiration. I removed my shirt and wrapped a towel around my neck; Miriam removed her shirt, and slacks, so that she was wearing only thin panties and a bra.
Toward noon it became obvious that we were off schedule and would not reach the wadi until the next day. I toyed with the idea of driving at night, but quickly decided that the risk would be too great. The glow of the headlights would be seen for miles and there was the chance that, in the dark, I would run the van over too large a rock and break a spring. The van was too precious; without it, Miriam and I would die.
"How about landmarks?" I asked Miriam. "If you have any doubts that we're off the route, now is the time to say so. You must be absolutely certain." I gave her a quick glance. "Well, are you sure or aren't you?"
"I've been to the SLA base four different times," Miriam said confidently. "I know where we are and we are on the right route." She paused to light a cigarette. "We passed one of the landmarks this morning. The Roman ruins were the remains of the Temple of Jupiter. The six columns are all that is left. As you know, Syria was once a province of Rome. We'll see more Roman ruins as we get closer to the wadi."
"Yesterday you mentioned something about a castle built by the Crusaders," I said. "How far away is it?"
"A long way yet," Miriam laughed. "The Tower of Lions is on the rise where Karameh has his camp. We'll be able to see it tomorrow."