The Best Ye Breed

XII ISOBEL CUNNINGHAM

Isobel Cunningham looked up from the mountain of paperwork on her desk. The French and English was easily enough handled but although her Arabic was fluent, spoken, she had her work cut out writing in the language. She had taken over one of the larger offices in Fort Laperrine’s administration building, since Homer and the three of the El Hassan inner circle had headed north. She had two male secretaries, newly recruited from the former Africa For Africans Association, the teams of which had all come over to the El Hassan movement when the New York headquarters had joined lock, stock and barrel. They were trickling in daily, along with elements of Homer’s former Reunited Nations project and even Doctor Smythe’s American Medical Relief organization. Not to speak of units from the French African Affairs sector and the British African Department. All of these, educated blacks, born, raised and schooled in lands beyond Africa.

Rex Donaldson, El Hassan’s Minister Without Portfolion, as he had named himself, in dismay at the work piling up, had headed south for Dagon country where he had operated before, on the excuse that the tribes there weren’t coming over to El Hassan fast enough.

Isobel had found it necessary to take over command. Jimmy Peters was a workhorse but hadn’t the capability to make firm decisions, and Doctor Smythe was fully occupied with his medical problems.

No, it was a matter of Isobel, as the secretary of the supposedly temporarily withdrawn El Hassan, to assume direction. It was piling up so fast that she couldn’t even remember the names of these two young men who were now looking at her, waiting to be told what to do. One was Donald something or other; but the other?

She had turned over the greeting of the flood of newcomers to Jimmy Peters and he was assigning them as rapidly as possible to tasks within whatever abilities they laid claim to. Most likely, upon Homer’s return—knock on wood—there’d be a lot of switching around, but meanwhile they were doing their best.

The foreign delegations and newsmen, including Tri-Di TV cameramen, were temporarily at loose ends. She refused to make decisions involving them until El Hassan’s return from his alleged seclusion with his viziers.

But now, there was commotion out on the parade ground. She came to her feet wearily and said to her two aides, both of whom were manfully trying, with little success thus far, to figure out just what it was they were supposedly doing, “Carry on, fellas. I’ll check out what’s cooking.”

She left by the door that led onto the parade ground and put a hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare of the mid-day sun, after the comparative dimness of the office.

Approximately fifty of Guémama’s camel corps and two of the weapon carriers, liberated from the Arab Union, had filed in through the gates, accompanying a jeep and two desert lorries. In the jeep were seated four whites, including a woman, and a black driver who wore, of all things, a bedraggled green beret.

Isobel walked out aways and waited for them.

The stranger vehicles came to a halt and some twenty men issued forth from them. They were in a wide variety of desert uniform and half carried advance model rifles, and the other half submachine guns.

The occupants of the jeep also climbed from their vehicle and the green bereted black one barked commands. The soldiers lined up, in two lines of ten men apiece, those with rifles in the front, those with submachine guns to the rear. They were efficiently snappy in their drill. The black stood to one side of them and snapped another command and they all came to salute.

Guémama’s camelmen had formed a semi-circle behind the newcomers and now the young Tuareg chieftain came up to Isobel on his white hejin camel, struck in smartly with his mishab stick, struck it smartly again and barked the usual Adar-ya-yan. The camel was not quite to the ground before he nimbly jumped off and saluted the American girl.

“Aselamu, Aleikum, Sitt Izubahil,” he said.

Isobel knew that Homer’s chosen leader of the Tuaghi forces wasn’t quite sure just where she stood with El Hassan. Whether she was his wife, or concubine, or simply one of his most intimate associates. Vizier, certainly she could not be. As all men knew, never had there been a woman vizier. Yet, before his leaving, El Hassan himself had made it clear to Guémama that until his return, the Sitt Isubahil’s word was as his own as she was to be obeyed by all followers.

Isobel nodded to him and said, “Salaam Aleikum, O Guémamaa, mokkadam of El Hassan’s most faithful. And what transpires?”

The three white men from the jeep had taken their place before the two lines of soldiers. One, in advance of the other two, bore a swagger stick, nothing more. The others had side arms, the holsters buttoned. The young woman stood a bit to one side of them. The men were at attention.

Guémama said in Tamaheg, “Verily, it is strange. One of my goum patrols of twenty came upon them as they advanced down the way from In Salah. They offered no resistance and allowed themselves to be captured.”

“Wallahi!” Isobel said. “And what do they will, O Guémama?”

The Tuareg warrior shrugged hugely. “They do not speak Tamaheq, O Sitt Izubahil. Few of the Roumi do, as each man knows.”

Isobel nodded and looked at the lead stranger.

Guémama stepped one yard to the left and rear of her.

Sean Ryan marched forward, came to a halt before her, tucked his swagger stick under his left armpit and saluted, British style.

He said, “Parlez-vous Francois, Mademoiselle!”

She took him in for a long moment and finally said, “Yes, however, you may speak English, if you would rather. Your Irish accent is somewhat overpowering.”

She was by far the most attractive woman that he had seen thus far in North Africa. He grinned in self-deprecation, saluted again and said, “Major Sean Ryan. At your service, Miss…”

“Cunningham. Isobel Cunningham. And your companions?”

Sean half turned and looked at Raul, Bryan and Meg. They came forward, the two officers marching perfectly. They stopped a few yards off and came to attention again.

Sean said, “Doctor Megan McDaid, Captain Bryan O’Casey, Captain Raul Bazaine. I introduce you to Miss Isobel Cunningham.” He raised his eyebrows at Isobel. “Of El Hassan’s staff?”

“That is correct,” Isobel said, without even a nod at the introduction. She looked cooly at Sean Ryan. “And why do you come to the headquarters of El Hassan, fully armed?”

“To offer our services.”

She took him in, her eyes narrow. Finally, she said, “This sun is unbearable. We’ll discuss it inside. Meanwhile, your men cannot bear arms in Fort Laperrine, nor in the vicinity of Tamanrasset.”

Raul Bazaine made an about face and called, in French, which was the language most common to the mercenary company, “Ground arms!”

Isobel turned to Guémamaa and clipped out a few words in Tamaheq.

He said, “Bilhana!” and turned and called an order to the suspicious camelmen who had watched all this, weapons in hand.

A score of them dismounted and began disarming the mercenaries, who stood, empty-faced, and offered no resistance.

Guémama himself went forward and relieved the two captains of their sidearms.

Sean said, with all courtesy, “Is there some place my men can be sheltered? As you say, the sun…”

Isobel frowned. She said, “Tamanrasset is not a large settlement. Hundreds of premature newsmen, trade delegations, diplomats and recruits to El Hassan’s banners have been descending upon us. All facilities in Tamanrasset are filled to capacity. Many are living in tents, or in the vehicles, some of which are trailers or campers, in which they arrived. It is quite chaotic. The fort, here, is reserved to the officials and forces of El Hassan. However, for the time, I suggest that your men and their vehicles retire to the shade of the former non-commissioned officer’s mess, over there.” She pointed. “They will be guarded but otherwise free to bring forth their cooking equipment and prepare food. I assume you are short of fresh provisions. You may have delegated two of your men to go into Tamanrasset and to the souk to purchase food—under guard.”

She turned to Guémama and gave instructions and then turned back to them. “And now will you follow me?”

Bryan O’Casey went over quickly to Lon Charles and spoke to him briefly, then turned and hurried after the others who were heading for the administration building. The two camelmen at the portals saluted as Isobel and the four strangers passed into the interior. Guémama brought up the rear and, as he passed, took the submachine gun from the hands of one of the guards.

Isobel led to the way to the once-staff room, with its long, heavy table and its ample complement of chairs. She took the larger seat at the table’s head, once the prerogative of the commandant of the fort and motioned them to chairs.

She looked at Megan and said, “Would you like to freshen up a bit, Doctor?”

Meg said, “Thank you, but I can wait.”

Isobel turned her eyes to Guémama, who had stationed himself to one side of the door and said in his own language, “Please order mint tea for the strangers, O Guémama. Let all men know that El Hassan is aware of the hospitality due… strangers.”

“Bilhana,” the Tuareg said, but didn’t himself leave on the errand. He opened the door and spoke to one of his two camelmen who were stationed there, then turned back and resumed his stance.

The three mercenaries had noted that not only was his sub-machine gun cocked but the safety was off.

Isobel looked at them, one by one. “Very well,” she clipped. “The purpose of your intrusion into the realm of El Hassan?”

Sean said, with all the gentle tone of the Irish, “Intrusion is not quite the term, my dear Miss Cunningham. And would it be possible to present our petition to El Hassan himself?”

“Not at this time. El Hassan has withdrawn into seclusion with his closest viziers to lay further plans for his uniting of all Ifriqiyah. He is not available.”

Bryan looked over at Sean, remembering what the other had said about the possibility of the four men they had passed on the other side of In Salah being El Hassan and some of his confederates. Sean realized what was behind the glance, but ignored it.

He said, “Could you tell us when he will be available for an audience?”

They were interrupted by the advent of the tea, and waited until all had been served.

Then Isobel said, “I truly cannot say. He is in ekhwan, in great council, with his viziers and it might go on for days… or even longer.” Isobel looked at him flatly. “However, I am El Hassan’s secretary and presently detailed to make minor decisions until the problems he works upon are resolved.”

Captain Raul Bazaine said gallantly, “You seem young, as well as supremely attractive to hold such an arduous post, Madamoiselle.”

She looked at him bleakly but didn’t deign to answer. She returned her level eyes to Sean Ryan.

The Irishman cleared his throat and went into his pitch. “Our group is composed of soldiers of fortune, Miss Cunningham. For the present, at least, there are few openings for our profession in the world. When word of El Hassan’s, ah, movement began to filter out we came to the conclusion that perhaps here was employment. We banded together, pooled our resources to buy our vehicles and other equipment, and headed south to offer our services.”

“And why do you think your services are required?” Isobel said. “Every day individuals, small groups and large contingents of Sahara tribesmen come in to volunteer. So many that we must turn away all but the most experienced warriors and most, even, of them. The Sahara does not have the resources of Common Europe, the Soviet Complex or America, to maintain large standing armies. On top of which, we of Ifriqiyah consider ourselves a peaceful nation, not a militaristic one. We seek no war, only the unification of all North Africa. We rally to us blacks, berbers, rifs, the Hamitic tribes, even such Arabs as have resided for centuries in Africa, largely on the Mediterranean coast. You are whites.”

Sean accepted that and nodded and gave her the story which was their cover, though they didn’t truly expect it to be acceptable. He said, “You have heard of the Janissaries of Turkey, the Mamelukes of Egypt?”

Isobel said, “Of course. We of El Hassan’s staff are not uneducated, Major Ryan.”

“Of course not. The Turkish Janissaries were the most trusted troops of the sultans and usually composed his bodyguard. They were more fully trusted than even his fellow Turks because they could only be without political ambition. They were Christians who had been captured while infants, circumcised and raised as Moslems. But they were still whites, still Europeans by birth, and had no possibility of rising to the throne. Had they attempted to seize power, the Turkish people as a whole would have risen and overthrown them, and all were aware of this. So they made an ideal elite to act as the sultan’s bodyguard and as his most trusted soldiers in combat.”

Isobel said skeptically, “Go on.”

“This is what we offer El Hassan. We are admitted mercenaries, who offer our experienced services as bodyguards or in any other capacity. All of us have led native troops. We are sophisticated veterans, knowledgeable about the latest weapons and tactics. I myself, in my time, have been commander in chief of the armed forces of one—undeveloped—nation. Obviously, we could have no ambitions in the direction of a coup d’état. Like the janissaries before us, we would be rejected by the people of North Africa, since we are white. Our only allegiance would be to El Hassan, who would be responsible for our pay.”

Isobel’s voice was cold. “You are of the opinion that our native troops, as you put it, are in need of being led by you and your men?”

He looked at her for a long moment before saying, “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Cunningham, but we are some of the most highly trained veterans to be found in the world today. Not only the veterans of one or two wars or military revolts but of literally dozens and on every level from guerrilla affairs to the most sophisticated. We could drill your most awkward recruits to a hair. We can crew any tank, armored car, weapon carrier, or service any piece of artillery you might have on hand or acquire. And we can also repair such equipment. How many of your bedouin can do the same? I strongly suspect that if a minor screw on one of your simplest machine guns becomes loosened to the point where the weapon is inoperative, the machine gun is abandoned by its helpless gunner.”

Instinctively, Isobel didn’t like him. She didn’t know why. What this major of mercenaries was saying made considerable sense. Face it. They had a few in the service of El Hassan who had served under the French, British or Spanish in the old colonial days. But largely these were older men and had usually been utilized as infantry or in the Meharistes, French Camel Corps. They were ignorant of mechanics.

She looked over at Megan McDaid, who had her underlip in her teeth and, for reasons unknown to Isobel, was frowning. The Irish girl, doctor or no, Isobel thought, was handsome, obviously intelligent, and didn’t seem the type inclined to an intricate intrigue.

She looked back at Major Sean Ryan. “I could possibly make a decision and send you packing, under an escort of our men, but I would rather not. Very well, Doctor McDaid will move into my quarters. You and your men can set up your tents, where your vehicles are now. You will be allowed to remain there until El Hassan’s return and with him the Field Marshal, his Vizier of Defense. They will decide.”

Captain Bryan O’Casey spoke up for the first time since they had taken their places at the table. He said, looking doubtfully at Megan, “We would prefer to stick together.”

Isobel’s eyes were again cold. She said, “This fort was originally one of the largest of the French occupation of Southern Algeria. However, the facilities are quite primitive. You three officers may occupy what quarters you can find in the former non-commissioned officer’s billets. However, you will discover the sanitary facilities inadequate. I do not know if there is even running water. My quarters are those of the former chief of staff of the French commandant . They are adequately furnished and there is even a bathroom. The Doctor will stay with me.”

She came to her feet, in dismissal.

Bryan shot a glance at Meg and shrugged in resignation. But she looked about and saw that no one else was observing her and stuck out her tongue at him, as though pleased with her fortune as compared with his.