Chapter Three
Hanging on was hardly the word Summer would use to describe the group’s problems. At five in the morning the brutal guards marched into the room and forced everyone to get up and stagger outside. As the sun had not risen, the desert air was still quite cold. The hostages shivered because of the thin clothes they wore. Summer could not figure out the surroundings. All that she knew was that she was cold and exhausted.
The guards forced the captives to walk about the yard, a chore which enabled the prisoners to get needed exercise. There were periodic stops as the Americans received water and some evil smelling and evil tasting porridge. Soon three trucks rumbled into the courtyard. An officer explained in broken English that the prisoners should gather their private belongings and climb into the first truck. Summer quickly realized that they were all exchanging one hell for another.
The trucks followed some dim track among the fifty-foot-high sand dunes. Soon, the roof tarpaulin acted as a first-class heat conductor. By mid-morning Summer estimated the temperature to be over 100°. The prisoners sat lifeless on two hard wood benches, hanging on to each other for support. She felt that without that help, the twelve captives would have collapsed on the floor. No one spoke; no one looked anywhere but at the floor. The girl still had energy to think. She figured that they were all being moved to a northern town. She could only guess why. Perhaps the negotiations had begun. Perhaps the American government was finally showing some concern. She stopped. Her sluggish mind went back five years to a similar situation in which her brother, Jimmy Granger, was a member of the team and Scott was chief negotiator.
Something had gone terribly wrong. Scott claimed that the CIA had deliberately abandoned the team for some political reasons. He had mentioned oil and trade. In any case the team had to fight its way out of the trap in Syria and reached safety in Israel. In the shoot-out Jimmy had been killed. Summer irrationally blamed Scott and had sought a divorce. Scott had contested it, leading to a tragic court battle. That had been four years ago; she had not seen her ex since. She could hardly blame him now if he refused to join in negotiations.
The heat inside the truck became intolerable. At noon the convoy stopped at a small oasis for a few hours. Everyone, prisoners and guards alike, laid down for a rest after a lunch of dates, lamb meat and warm water from the small pool. At two p.m. the ordeal continued. Summer surrendered to the elements. She hung her head and fell asleep.
At sundown the trucks lurched to a stop on the outskirts of fairly large city. The guards herded the prisoners into a house, much bigger that the first jail. Summer was surprised to see running water. She could hardly hope—she was right. The officer explained that the prisoners were now free to bathe and clean themselves. She did not care about her surroundings as she gratefully sank into a tub of water.
At six P.M. an unmarked plane took off from the Israeli field on a southwesterly course. Miller explained to Scott that the Egyptian government had given them air clearance.
“What about Libya,” Scott wanted to know.
“We’ll just fly over the lower corner of the country for a few minutes, not enough time to cause any problem. We should touch down around midnight. Do you want to move out then or wait for morning?”
“It all depends on the information we get about the location of the hostages. By the way how was the original information given out?”
“The American embassy at Khartoum received a note from Fatah with the request for money.”
“Where were the hostages when they were kidnapped? Show me on the map.”
Miller spread a large map on the table. It represented the countries of Chad and Sudan. He pointed with his finger. “They were here in Malakal.”
“I doubt if they are still there. Fatah must have moved them but where? Was there anything said in the note about the transfer of money?”
“Only that we were to receive further instructions. I was also told that a GDS would orbit over Sudan. Any news would be sent to Abéché. May I ask a leading question? How do you propose to cross the border?”
“It’s simple. We are part of an archaeological team.”
“That and a dollar will get you into the New York subway. Think up something more original, old buddy.”
Scott grinned and replied, “How about good old money to go along with it?”
“That’ll work. What about the return trip? Most likely we’ll run into unplanned events that might, just might, block our retreat.”
“I contacted an old friend before we left, and he assured me that the cookie pushers up in State would work on that one. We might possibly get an escort from the Sudan government if everything goes according to plan. Fatah is fast destroying the welcome mat. Relax about that. We’ll get out safely.”
Scott did not feel relaxed. He had no way of being sure if they could come back the same way. They had to cross a desolate desert; they had to bribe guards; they had to locate the prison; they had to carry out negotiations between himself and an old enemy; they had to rescue and transport twelve prisoners, perhaps in need of medical attention; they had to devise an escape. The last, but not the least important problem, was the coming confrontation between himself and Summer.
Now that was some woman, Scott reflected, as he stretched out on the hard floor with his back against some equipment. One hundred twenty pounds of pure ecstasy or pure hell, depending on the circumstances. We had ten solid years. Let’s see. She would be around 35 or so, just reaching her woman’s prime. She was devastatingly beautiful back in the old days, an uninhibited bedroom terror but honest in her feelings. I must admit that I spoiled her quite a bit. But she was always so easy to spoil, so eager to please me, so devoted to me, if I may use that old-fashioned word. I wonder how she looks now. What in the world possessed her to go on that rescue expedition, anyway? I keep asking the same questions and receiving the same answers. She was always apolitical in the old days, completely unaware of the world’s condition, completely caught up in doing practical things. People sometimes act in mysterious ways or is it God who does that. I’ll soon find out. Scott chuckled all of a sudden. I can hardly wait to see the look on her face. He sobered as he muttered, “I wonder if she still remembers me?”
What shall I do about Fatah? I won’t be able to carry any concealed weapon. I would give my right arm to have Dirty Harry with me along with that cannon of his. He smiled. I know damn well I am walking into a trap. I know damn well that Fatah knows I’m coming. He reads me like an open book. Maybe I can pull that old arsenic-pill-in-the-shoe trick. That would take too long to work. How about—oh hell, I’ll think of something.
Scott came awake immediately when a cheery voice proclaimed, “It’s show time, old buddy. It’s time to earn your money. I’ve got good news and bad news. Which one do you want first?”
“Hot coffee, if you don’t mind.”
It was very dark when the plane touched down at the French base. Scott checked his watch: one a.m. The base had been sealed off, no one outside the perimeter knew of the team’s arrival. The French soldiers resembled the Israelis in toughness and competence. Scott had no trouble carrying on negotiations in French. He could also speak Arabic, he informed the Capitaine.
Scott, Miller and the team leader, Jake Dalton, reviewed the good news. The photos from the satellite showed three trucks leaving Malakal. The next pass picked up the three vehicles nearing the city of Al-Ubayyid. Miller had to assume that the trucks carried the hostages. The bad news was that there was no mention of the ransom drop. Scott did not like it. It meant that the Applebee woman, who had been quiet during the whole trip, would be in harm’s way. He shrugged. He would have to play it by ear again.
All in all the team assembled its gear with the minimum of confusion. The French placed three large Fiat trucks at the team’s disposal. That pleased Scott since he knew the vehicles were first-class, admirably suited to desert traveling. Within the hour Scott and his team reviewed the plan while eating a hot meal, loaded all the equipment including precious water kegs and kissed their hosts on the cheeks. Scott took the wheel of the first truck. The sixteen men and women distributed themselves among the three vehicles. All had changed into desert khaki clothes. It was agreed and understood by all that Scott would do the talking. All the trucks’ lights were dim as Scott led the way out of the compound. A bearded Legionnaire wished them Godspeed at the gate. With a sigh and a heavy heart, Scott Emerson took the road East to Sudan.
He did something he had not done in years. He offered up a silent prayer and trusted the electronic orbiting eye.