had a brief staring contest. Then he pulled up his loose pant leg. “We don’t have time to argue about this.”
She took in the half-dozen raw wounds on his tanned skin, the muscles in his thigh tightening as he bent to examine the damage. She could have wept for him. He had to be in pain, but nothing save the tight set of his lips showed it.
“Your brother will find us,” she said, because they both needed hope, and she could offer no other encouragement. Tariq needed medical help.
“When did you talk to him last?”
“When I reached the cave. I described the hills to him.”
“There are many hills here and hundreds of caves. They might have been setting a trap for him. I overheard them discussing him when I was going for the trucks yesterday.”
“But I’d just talked to him.”
Tariq glanced at the rocket launcher, and she knew what he was thinking. One of those could easily take a chopper out of the sky.
It would have been nice to catch a break somewhere. Just a single one. And who knew … She refused to give up hope. Which didn’t mean she wasn’t going to act as if they had nobody to count on but themselves.
She reached for the saddlebag on the camel and pulled out two headdresses. She wet one from the flask and wrapped it around Tariq’s head, hoping to control his fever somewhat. The other she ripped into pieces, then wrapped around his wounds, once she’d washed them clean. Not nearly enough. He needed disinfectant, antibiotics and several stitches.
Frustration clamped her jaw tight as she stood and took the reins from him. She tugged on them, hard, until the camel knelt in the sand. Then she climbed up, making sure she would be in back, in case Tariq needed an arm around his waist to keep him from falling off.
He headed for the trucks first, however, and did something around the gas tanks. Soon both vehicles were engulfed in flames, along with their sinister cargo.
“We’d better go,” he said as he hurried back. “Before they explode.”
His robe fluttered behind him. In his traditional desert clothing, he looked a lot more like the sheiks of old than ever before.
“Where are we going?” she asked, when he slid into the saddle in front of her and took the reins.
“We are going to try and find the nomadic families of my tribe,” he said, his voice not revealing weakness. But she caught a shiver that ran through him. “You are about to meet the Bedu.”
They were several hundred feet away when the fire reached the gas tanks and twin explosions shook the air. If Karim was anywhere near, he would hear that, would see the smoke, which might act as a guide.
Of course, the same was true for their enemies.
She looked out at the endless hills to her left and the equally barren desert to her right. What were the chances that they would run across a small, wandering group of camel herders before their enemies found them, or before their water ran out? Or before Tariq fell unconscious from blood poisoning?
Chapter Eight
Tariq clung to life by sheer will alone, his head buzzing, his arm feeling as if it were on fire. His vision was dark and fuzzy, his ears popping.
“You okay?” he asked Sara, as he had done intermittently.
“Fine.” She humored him. She probably knew there was nothing he could do if she weren’t.
He wasn’t going to find the Bedu. All he knew was the general direction of the places they camped. There weren’t many areas where there was still enough grass to support the herds. He had pointed the camel that way and left the rest to Allah and luck, although it looked like both had deserted him.
“We’ll stop soon.” He hoped. The grazing grounds couldn’t be too far off now.
If he couldn’t get her to camp, at least he had to get Sara to a place where his tribe might find her, to one of the watering holes they regularly visited. Only one goal remained in his fevered mind—to save her. She could then warn his brother.
They were crossing a semiarid area that supported some vegetation, although sparse—a few scraggly bushes here and there, some yellowing grass. The breeze blew garbage around them, and he swore.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, alarmed.
He gestured, his anger giving him extra strength. “People who dump their refuse in the desert. It chokes what few plants live here. When they die, the sand takes over. The desert becomes even hotter, with less rain. See?” He pointed. “We are in an indentation here. In the rainy season, water will gather and create a watering hole. The Bedu will come, unaware of the garbage rotting under it, and let their animals drink. There’ll be disease.”
She had her arms around him from behind, and now hugged him a little tighter. “When I researched MMPOIL’s Web site, I saw that part about the desert preservation project.”
“Yeah, that went over well.” If he had any extra energy he would have laughed. “The Middle East is still a far cry from California, as far as environmental awareness goes.” But he was working on it. He’d seen both good and bad things while he had lived in the U.S. He was working on bringing the former into his own country as much as he could.
They rode on silently for a while.
He was getting weaker as time passed, and hating it. Abandoning appearances, he finally let his body lean against the camel’s hump, barely able to support himself. He needed to preserve what little strength he had left.
“Why did they torture you?” she asked.
“They think I have the previous king’s gold, because I’m his half brother and sheik of the tribe.”
“And you don’t?”
“There is no gold. Majid amassed a fortune, but he wasted it as fast as he stole it. He spent insane amounts on luxuries, on building his army, on bribing people inside the country and out.”
“So it’s a myth?”
“It’s becoming a legend. Even some people in our own tribe believe it. Majid used to hand money out to them to ensure their loyalty. They miss that. Some think I have access to vast treasures, and I’m just too greedy and want it for myself.”
Loyalty disappeared faster than a drop of water in the desert when speculation about a secret hoard of gold bars and other treasures became the focus of conversation. That’s why he saw Sara’s loyalty as the true treasure and felt humbled that she would give it to him.
“But don’t they see that you don’t spend like the old king?” she was asking from behind him, her body pressed against his, her arms around his waist, anchoring him to the saddle.
“When I came back, I sold some of my family’s assets and used the money to help my people, because they were in dire need. Some other well-to-do businessmen in the tribe didn’t look favorably on this, probably thought that if I was helping, they might be expected to help, as well.”
