The Best Ye Breed

VIII SEAN RYAN

Sean Ryan, Megan McDaid and Bryan O’Casey were killing time sightseeing in Algiers. Sean Ryan had stopped in the Algerian capital for a couple of hours once, on his way to Port Said and a Middle-East job, but had spent the time in a harbor bar. Megan had never been in Africa before at all. But Bryan O’Casey knew the town fairly well.

O’Casey said, “Let’s see what I know about Algiers. Not much. The Arabs used to call it Al-Djezaor, a description of all those little islands that cluster in the harbor. It was the Turks that linked them to the mainland with a long dyke, which they later fortified. When the French took over, they couldn’t pronounce it so they changed it to Algiers. Damned if I know how old the town is. Probably Hannibal, in his day, trudged up the staired streets to Charthaginian boites de nuit. By the looks of some of the dogs still plying their trade in them, they might have been the same ones that took him on.”

“Why, Bryan,” Meg said. “How would you know what the local prostitutes look like?”

He made with an exaggerated leer.

Sean Ryan looked at his watch, as they began to ascend into the Kasbah. “We’ve got about an hour or so.”

They were passing a tourist restaurant, overly done in its efforts to project a native atmosphere, without driving away squeamish foreigners nervous about sanitation.

Meg said, “I do wish that we had the time to have lunch. I’ve already read so much about couscous and meshwe.”

They were all dressed tourist-wise, complete to the two men having cameras slung around their necks. Meg wore a tweed walking skirt and very sensible, thick-soled shoes.

Bryan O’Casey said grimly, “We can get European food back at the hotel, French at that. You’ll have all the couscous you’ll want and more down in the interior. Complete with well-aged mutton, complete with rancid camel butter. And don’t ask me why it has to be rancid. They like it that way. They place it between the camel and the saddle and pack it along until it gets good and rancid.”

He made a sweeping gesture with his hand as they ascended the stepped wide street, the only wide street in the Kasbah area, as they were to find. He said, “This is the famous Kasbah. Every old North African city has a Kasbah, but this is the famous one. The Berbers and the Arabs after them used to build their towns on hills like this for defensive purposes. Now it’s the slums of the city, populated with Moors, Arabs, Turks, bastard Koolooies, blacks, people from all the races of Africa, the Middle East and the Mediterranean. Just smell it. Once in awhile you’ll get a whiff of the scent of myrtle and jasmine from some rich man’s garden, just enough to keep you from passing out. Talk about pollution.”

Sean Ryan said, “This looks like tourist row, with all these souvenir stands. Let’s get off onto some of these narrow side-streets.”

Narrow was the word for it. Often as narrow as corridors, they were shadowy with houses tottering toward each other, often supported by struts. Periodically, they’d have a quick glimpse, when somebody was passing through a door, of narrow-columned patios and of gardens and even fountains, the homes of the wealthier Moslems who chose to live here with their fellow followers of the Prophet, rather than in the modern European section. Grated windows of these establishments permitted outward vision from the interior but limited seeing into the houses from the street. The pedestrians teemed. Women, veiled in white, usually looking enormous, yet light-footed in their balloonlike trousers, men in jeballahs or bournouses, beggars as filthy as only beggars in a North African town can be, multitudes of playing, screaming children, also instantly convertible into beggars. Small girls with henna-reddened fingernails and in pigtails ran about. The open air meat and other food shops, their goods covered with plenty of flies, threw out unpleasant odors.

Bryan said to Meg McDaid, “Are you sure you’d like to eat in one of the native restaurants?”

“No.”

The two men chuckled.

As they passed what was obviously a bar, Bryan said, “Like a drink? They’ve got a native raki—I think they make it from dates—which tastes worse than Irish poteen.”

Sean laughed glumly and said, “Beggin’ your pardon, but nothing tastes worse than poteen, man dear. Besides, I’m on nothing stronger than beer, until this job is over.”

As they sauntered along, Bryan said, “As I recall, they’ve got a beer here called Stork. They sell it all over North Africa. There must be a half dozen breweries in different countries.”

Sean said, disinterestedly, “What does it taste like?”

The other laughed. “Beggin’ Meg’s pardon, it tastes like piss.”

And Meg said mocking, “Why Bryan, how would you know?”

That was the second time she had pulled that one, so Bryan looked at her and said, “Once when I was operating down in Somalia, the small detachment I was with was overrun by the Ethiopians. We went on the run, with them after us. One doesn’t surrender to the Ethiopians. In fact, off hand, I can’t think of any natives, here in Africa, you surrender to. And damned few white men, unless they’re fellow mercenaries, in which case you’ll probably run into some old chums—and might even switch sides, if your adherence to the mercenary’s code is a bit shaky. At any rate, they were after us. The Sahara is as bad in Somalia as it is to the south of here. In three days we were completely out of water. Most of our camels had died, but we had three left.”

Sean knew what was coming and inwardly he was amused but he said nothing.

Meg was staring in fascination at her lover.

He went on. “Possibly, it’s a fact known not even to the average M.D., Meg, mavourneen, but if you put sugar in urine, either animal or human, it will support life for a time, prevent dehydration.”

Meg closed her eyes in distaste and feminine rejection.

Bryan said with mock cheerfulness, “So I say that Stork beer tastes like piss, and I stand by my statement.”

Sean said, looking at his watch again, “I think we’d better get back for this talk with Saidi, without any alcohol at all, either on our breaths… or minds.”

Bryan shot a quizzical look at him. “You don’t trust this Levantine friend of yours?”

Sean growled, “Have you ever met anybody who was after trustin’ a Levantine?”

The narrow winding streets had become a maze, equal to that of the famed labyrinth of the palace of Minos of antiquity.

Meg said, “Bryan, and how in the name of the Holy Mother are we ever going to find our way out of here?”

Bryan laughed. “You can’t get lost in the Kasbah. All you have to do is head down hill. Every time you come to a turning, or a corner, you take the down route. You wind up at the bottom in the so-called European section of town—now largely taken over by the better-off Algerians who got their fingers in the expropriation pie when the French pulled out.”

They passed ten or fifteen donkeys laden down with fire wood. Not even a jeep could have gotten through these streets.

Meg said, “Has it changed any since you were here last, Bryan?”

He snorted and in a take-off of the Irish brogue said, “Shure, Colleen, and it’s been twenty years since oiv been here. But it hasn’t changed a mite. And I’m after suspectin’ that it hasn’t changed in the past thousand.”

Meg nodded, dodging a prehistoric beggar who looked as though he had, at least, leprosy. She said, “I saw one of those movie film revivals the other day. It was about the Kasbah. Charles Boyer played Pepe Le Moko, or whatever his name was, and Hedy LaMarr was the girl. And, you know, it looked exactly the way it does now.”

They wound their way down hill and, as Bryan had prophesied, emerged into a modern section of the North African city.

It was too far to walk, so they took a hovercab to the heights of Mustapha Supérieure and to the once deluxe St. Georges hotel, at 24 Avenue Foureau Lamy. These days, there were better hotels in town, but Saul Saidi had suggested this one for the officers of his expedition, his ‘commando’ raid.

Sean, Bryan and Meg had gotten together only a short time before.

The same day Saul Saidi had met him at the Pearl Bar in Dublin, Sean had taken the train south to Cork. His wallet was heavy with more money, advanced toward expenses, than he had seen in years. There was no doubting the reality of the mission.

At Cork, which was only a few hours on the Express, he took the bus to Blarney, five miles out, and transferred to the bus to the little village of Coachford to the southwest.

From the village of some twenty cottages and one inn, he took the narrow dirt road which led to Bryan O’Casey’s thatch roof farmstead cottage.

He hadn’t been here for some six months—the last time, he had come to borrow from his former comrade-in-arms—and he paused for a moment outside the waist-high rock wall, and his eyes took in the fact that, if anything, it was more run-down than ever. Meg’s ancient Austin wasn’t in sight, and he wondered worriedly if the two had given up and left.

He went through the gate and found the cottage door open and yelled through it, as he approached, “And is anybody at home?”

Bryan came up, grinning, as Sean passed over the threshhold.

They went through the usual hand grinding and pounding and joyfully calling of each other’s names and then both stood back and took the other in.

Bryan said, “You’ve lost weight and you look like you’ve got a hangover going back through the months.”

And Sean grunted deprecation and said, “And it’s a fact that any weight I’ve lost, you’ve put on. And where would Meg be?”

Bryan led the way into the kitchen. He had an ancient portable typewriter on the table, surrounded with disordered papers. The floor was littered with further crumpled sheets.

Bryan pushed a chair back for his visitor and said, “Believe it or not, Sean, she’s out making a house call.”

Bryan O’Casey was as Irish-looking an Irishman as was likely to be found. About forty, an inch or two over six, and born to be lanky, though now carrying a few more pounds than called for, he was blue of eye, sandy of hair, and smiling of mouth. He didn’t appear the fish-cold-blooded soldier of fortune Sean had known him to be for a decade and more.

Sean sat and when his host had seated himself behind the typewriter, said, frowning lack of understanding, “Why, believe it or not? She’s still in practice, isn’t she?”

Bryan scowled, picked up a semi-burnt out Peterson shell briar and loaded it from the leather pouch that had been sitting next to the typewriter.

He said, disgust in his words, “Can you imagine any Irishman in the whole country who would allow a woman doctor to come near enough to examine him beyond the point of advocating a few shots of Vitamin B for his shakes? Not even the women, even her relatives, will come to her as patients. They want a man doctor, not a handsome young woman.”

Sean could imagine that. Meg McDaid was the only woman Irish M.D. he had ever met. And he suspected that the fact that she and Bryan were living out of wedlock didn’t help any in this hundred percent Catholic community.

He dropped it and said, “And how’s the book going?”

Bryan tried to smile and look enthusiastic but dropped that and shrugged unhappily as he lit the pipe. The shag he was smoking smelled a horror. It must have been the cheapest on the market. He said, around the pipe stem, “With all I’ve been through, with all I’ve seen myself and heard of from such as yourself, sure and I thought the writing of my memoirs, Soldier of Misfortune, would be a cinch. It isn’t.”

“What chapter are you on?”

“Number Two, but every time I reread Chapter One, I realize that it’s got to be rewritten.”

Sean stared at him. “What’ve you done with all your time since I saw you last?”

His friend looked embarrassed. “About six months ago I decided that writing longhand was what was holding me up. Maybe it was all right for Shakespeare, but it gave me writer’s cramp. So I bought this antique and taught myself to type.” He said, lowly, “Sean, I hope that you’re not still on your uppers.” He was unhappy. “If you’ve come for a little loan…”

Sean grinned and shook his head and brought his wallet from his hip pocket and displayed the sheaf of banknotes. He said, “I’ll be paying up what I owe you, man dear. And how would you like a job?”

The other knew immediately what he was talking about and scowled. “I thought we were both retired, Sean. I thought we both retired while we were still breathing. Neither of us are exactly boys any more.”

“It’s three hundred ounces in gold for me Bryan, two hundred for you. Banked in Hong Kong, if we bring it off. All expenses, whether or not we do.”

Bryan stared at him.

Sean was still giving him the full story when they heard Meg’s car come up. And shortly after, Megan McDaid entered, black doctor’s medical kit in hand and discouragement in her face.

However, she brushed her difficulties aside on seeing Sean, who had come to his feet. She came into his arms and kissed him heartily. Actually, they were not too well acquainted, but she knew him to be her lover’s best friend and liked him, herself, thoroughly.

When greetings were through and the men in their chairs again, she said, “Bryan, you haven’t offered Sean a drink. We’ve got a few bottles of stout.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Unless you’ve been into them.”

Sean said, “I’ll not be having any, Meg dear. I’ve got to straighten up. This is a business call.”

Meg sank into a chair herself and frowned puzzlement.

Bryan told her the story. Then leaned back and relit his pipe, his face expressionless.

She said, “But you’re not going, Bryan? Who is this El Hassan? What government is it that…”

Bryan interrupted her, saying, “Mavoureen, do you know how much an ounce of gold brings in Irish pounds these days? We would have enough to migrate to Canada or the United States. We’d have enough for you to establish a practice and for me to take all the time in the world for my book… and other books after.”

Meg McDaid was of the beauty that only the Black Irish produce. The hair, which she wore long, was jet, the eyes green, the nose, chin and ears near perfection. She was past her girlish years but still the most handsome woman, in face and figure, that Sean Ryan could ever remember having seen.

She looked full into the face of the man she loved and said, “If you go, I go too.”

Saul Saidi was already awaiting them on the terrace with another, when they came up.

The Levantine scowled in puzzlement at Megan McDaid and then looked questioningly at Sean Ryan. Both of the men had come to their feet from the table up against the terrace railing, upon the approach of the three.

Sean made introductions. He said, “Doctor Megan McDaid, Captain Bryan O’Casey, Mr. Saul Saidi and…” He looked at the tall, narrow faced, blue eyed, blondish haired, stranger.

The stranger bowed gently and took Meg’s hand and kissed it, murmuring, “Enchanté, Madam Docteur.” He looked down at the hand, which was ringless. “Or should I say, Mademoiselle?”

“You could even say Ms. in the American fashion,” Meg said. “But I’m not married.”

“How delightful,” he murmured again, and raised his eyebrows in an over-exaggerated expression of ecstasy.

“Come off it, Raul,” Bryan O’Casey growled. “She’s all mine.”

The Frenchman grinned and turned to the two men. “A pleasure, gentlemen.” He shook hands with Bryan. “Though, of course, I am already well acquainted with this old Irish clod.” He shook with Sean and said, “My name is Captain Raul Bazaine.” He flicked a thumbnail over his thin blonde mustache in most French fashion.

Sean said, “I’m Major Sean Ryan, commanding this detail, if all goes as Mr. Saidi has outlined.”

The pudgy Levantine was sputtering, “But… but this lady…”

Sean said easily, with an ease he didn’t entirely feel, “Shall we then be seated and I’ll explain?”

Meg and the four men took chairs at the table which gave them a splendid view of the city.

Saul Saidi attempted to rise to the occasion. “Would anyone wish an apertif?” He raised a commanding finger to a waiter.

Meg had a Cinzano, Captain Bazaine a pastis, the Levantine an orange squash, Bryan a Scotch whiskey, since Irish was unknown in Algiers.

Sean said, “I’ll not be having anything.”

The Levantine raised eyebrows at that but said nothing.

When the waiter was gone, Saidi said, an ominous quality in his usually smooth, oily voice, “And this Mademoiselle?”

Sean Ryan took over. “Is Captain O’Casey’s… fiancée. And not Mademoiselle… but Doctor. Mr. Saidi, please realize that we are white men going into the interior of the Sahara, an area with which at least most of us are unacquainted.” He looked at the Frenchman. “Though I understand Captain Bazaine is. However, I doubt if his medical qualifications go beyond those of the usual mercenary in the field.”

Bazaine stroked his mustache again and smiled acceptance, but held his peace. He was still eyeing Meg appreciatively.

Sean went on. “We shall be subjected to the usual, and, so I understand, quite endless, African diseases from dysentery to fevers that are not even in the lexicon of western medicine. Beyond this, as combat men, we are exposed to being hit, to taking wounds. What makes more sense than that our group would include a medico?”

Saidi said testily, “Your cover is that you are a group of more or less ragtail mercenaries, out of employment and seeking jobs as the bodyguard of this upstart El Hassan. One would not expect such a contingent to be able to afford a qualified doctor.”

Bryan said mildly, “She needn’t go in as a doctor. We can call her a nurse. The fact that she is my fiancée and, let us not mince words, my mistress, makes it even more likely that she might be along. I’m in favor of her being one of our number. So is Major Ryan.” He looked at the Frenchman, “Captain Bazaine?”

Bazaine bowed to Meg McDaid. “She would be a most practical—and most charming—addition to our company, n’est-ce pas?”

The Levantine thought about it. Finally he shrugged hugely and said, “She is expecting recompense?”

Meg chopped out a less than feminine laugh and said, “Of course.”

Sean said, “Equal to that of the sergeant.”

Saidi said, “How do I know that you are a qualified doctor?”

Meg smiled and said, “I have credentials.”

But Bryan was looking at the lardy Levantine.

Saidi cleared his throat unhappily and said, “Very well, Doctor McDaid will be one of your number. I assume that she will be able to assemble her medical kit here in Algiers.”

Meg said, “I have brought it with me, Mr. Saidi. I researched the requirements before leaving Dublin. The medical school library there is quite adequate, even for desert diseases.”

“Very well. Let us get down to practical matters.” The heavy-set man looked at Sean Ryan. “You were successful in recruiting your troop?”

Sean nodded. “Yes, I first contacted my old comrade in arms, Captain O’Casey, here. With the need in mind of men acquainted with the desert and North Africa in particular, he in turn made contact with Captain Bazaine, with whom I have not had the pleasure of serving before. Then, between the three of us, we sent out the word to former comrades. Sometimes, they in turn suggested still others. It was difficult to find our twenty dependable combat veterans on such short notice, but not too much so.”

“And the sergeant?”

“Is an American, possibly one of the most experienced mercenaries in our ranks.”

“And where are these men quartered now?”

“At the Oasis Hotel, on the rue de Laurier.”

“Very well. At the conclusion of our planning here, we shall go see them and make final provisions for your pay and such matters.”

He brought a red jacketed packet from an inner pocket and unfolded it to reveal a map, saying, “This is the Michelin 152 Map of the portion of the Sahara in which we are primarily interested.” He spread the chart out on the table and the others bent over it.

The waiter came up with their drinks and they held their silence until they had been served and he left. Sean Ryan eyed Bryan’s drink, but shook his head infinitesimally and returned to the map.

Saul Saidi took a pencil from his breast pocket and used it for a pointer. He said, “We have had to make some alterations in original plans. We had first thought to base your rescue craft in In Salah, only 683 kilometers north of Tamanrasset, where El Hassan was last reported. However, the El Hassan disease is spreading like an epidemic and we cannot be sure that In Salah will not be subjected to it—if it has not already fallen. Hence Adrar has been substituted.” He pointed it out on the map. “It is, unfortunately, another 351 kilometers further northwest. Happily, we have excellent cover there for both your aircraft and the pilots who will rescue you after you have disposed of El Hassan and his immediate followers.”

“There is something that hasn’t been completely clear to me,” Bazaine said. “This plane that comes to our rescue. Suppose, after we’ve pulled the job, we go to ground somewhere out in the hammada, the rocky uplands between the mountains in that area. How is it going to land to pick us up, hein?”

The Levantine beamed greasily at him. “The craft, which we already have on hand at Adrar, is a helio-jet. It can land anywhere, and has sufficient capacity for all of you. Have you located the pilots you wish to utilize?”

“Yes,” Sean said. “In fact, they’re waiting in Tunis to get the message on where they are to go.”

“Excellent,” the Levantine said. “We’ll phone them tonight and they can proceed down to Adrar. Of what nationality are they?”

“Both French, both acquainted with the Sahara, and the helio-jet will be no problem. They can fly anything,” Captain Bazaine said. “I contacted them, on Bryan’s suggestion, when he got in touch with me. In fact, Bryan is well acquainted with one of them. They served together in the guerrilla fighting in Indonesia.”

Sean said, his voice flat, “I want to see those two pilots and the helio-jet before we go in after El Hassan.”

The Levantine nodded as though his words were absolutely to be expected. “And that calls for a change in route. You will all fly to Columb-Béchar, which is not too far from the Moroccan border in northeastern Algeria, and is the startoff point for the Tanezrouft route across the Sahara. Your equipment will be there, a hoverjeep and two desert lorries. Also your weapons and uniforms. There are rumors that already small elements of El Hassan adherents have appeared in Timimoun, 564 kilometers to the south of Columb-Béchar, but they have not completely taken over. Frankly, I cannot understand the Algerian government. They seem powerless to raise defenses against this madman.”

Captain Bazaine said dryly, “I understand that on some of the occasions they’ve sent troops to deter the growth of his following, they have defected to El Hassan, and the authorities dare not send more.”

Saul Saidi sniffed but said, “At any rate, you will make your contact with your rescue craft and the two pilots in Adrar, then push on over to In Salah to the east and then head down to Tamanrasset, always making inquiries as to where El Hassan might be. It is quite possible that he has already left the vicinity of Tamanrasset.”

Meg said, “I can just see us trekking all over the desert seeking this elusive El Hassan. He might be in Timbuktu, by this time, for all we know.”

“Or, Kano,” Captain Bazaine said unhappily. “I read in one newspaper account that they’re going over to him wholesale in upper Nigeria. In which case, we’d have one devilish wait for our rescue craft to get through to us.”

“Just who in the hell is this El Hassan, anyway?” Bryan O’Casey growled. “The more I hear about him, the less I know.”

Saul Saidi tried to smile but it came off inadequately. “It truly doesn’t matter a great deal, from our viewpoint. He has been named everything from a deserter from the former French Tirailleurs d’Afrique, to a Moroccan marabout, to the second coming of the Christian messiah, to an American professor of sociology.”

Meg laughed at that last one.

Sean said, “As we travel around the desert looking for our mysterious El Hassan, what is our cover when we run into his adherents?”

“That’s no difficulty. Simply tell them you are in search of El Hassan to offer your services. You won’t be alone. Delegations from the countries of the developed world are zeroing-in upon him for a multitude of reasons, usually opportunistic. And individuals and groups are trying to find him to offer themselves as technicians, teachers, doctors and what-not. He has evidently issued orders to his followers not to molest such groups at the risk of their heads. And now, should we join the enlisted men and make final arrangements about pay and related subjects? I myself would like to check them out before you leave on your mission.”

In its day, the Hotel Oasis, on rue de Laurier, had been one of the better hostelries in Algiers. This was no longer its day; still, it boasted a small banquet room and it was here that the full strength of the so-called commando expedition met in force for the first time.

The men, twenty of them, had lined up three rows of chairs, and were sprawled in them.

Saul Saidi, his three officers, Meg and the sergeant were seated behind a longish table facing them. The sergeant was an American black and the oldest man present save, perhaps, the Levantine.

The men were as unreassuring looking a group as could easily be imagined. They all bore the air of those who have been there—and back. And more than once. It was difficult to put one’s finger upon just what it was that amalgamated them. Some were moderately handsome, some vicious of face, some scarred to the point of ugliness. Some were moderately well dressed and seemingly semi-prosperous. Others were in the unkempt clothes and shoes typical of a sailor long on the beach.

They were of at least half a dozen nationalities, French and German predominating.

From the side of his eyes, Bryan O’Casey could see that Meg had her lower lip in her teeth, in dismay. Inwardly, he was sourly amused. What had she expected, swashbuckling types such as the Errol Flynn she loved to watch in the old film revivals?

When all were settled down, Sean Ryan stood and looked out over the men. It was a new Sean to Meg McDaid. He projected a cold air of command.

He said, “You’ve all been briefed on this assignment. If anybody wants to back down, now is the time. If he does, and talks, he will, of course, later be subjected to the code of the mercenary. No matter to what part of the world he goes, sooner or later one of us will run into him. Our lives depend on the true nature of our expedition not becoming known to El Hassan and his people.”

They stirred a bit, but no one answered.

Sean said, “I’ve served with several of you before. The others, I don’t know. I’ll introduce the other officers, our non-com and doctor. Later on, we’ll get to know all of your names. It’s not important now.”

He turned and indicated Bryan. “This is Captain Bryan O’Casey. Some of you have served with him. Those who haven’t probably know his reputation.” He indicated the Frenchman, who was sprawled lazily, one arm on the table, looking quizzically at Meg, as though wondering how she was taking meeting this riff-raff. “And this is Captain Raul Bazaine. Once again, some of you have served with him, others will know his reputation.”

He turned to Meg. “This is Doctor Megan McDaid, a licensed doctor. We’re going into unhealthy territory with an unhealthy assignment. We’re lucky to have a medico along.”

The men were staring at her in open appraisal. Some, too open.

Bryan said mildly, “In case there is any question, Doctor McDaid is my fiancée.” He brought his ancient briar from a side pocket, his tobacco pouch from another and began to load up.

Meg bobbed her head at them, nervously. One in the rear gave a small wolf whistle. Bryan glared, but was unable to fix its origin.

Sean turned to the black who sat at the table with them. “And this is our sergeant, Lonzo Charles. Lon’s an old hand.”

The American black nodded out over the group. He was typical of thousands you might have run into in any large northern city of the United States. About five-eight, stocky of build, he was obviously at least a quarter white, since his features were largely Caucasian, though his lips were thick, his skin a dark brown. He had a look of tiredness and disillusionment, but that wasn’t out of place in this gathering.

Somebody in the second row, one of the Germans, said in poor English, the language all were using, “I don’t believe I haff ever heard of the sergeant. Most of us haff been sergeants in our time. Some of us haff held higher rank.”

Sean looked at Lon Charles. He had never heard of the other either. Raul had recommended him.

Lon said, “I done most of my fighting out in the Orient, like. I started off with the Green Berets.”

Someone else blurted, “Green Berets! You mean the Vietnam thing? You must be as old as the hills. Why, I was only a child when that took place.”

Lon Charles said mildly, “So was I. I was seventeen when I went into Nam. Off and on, I been fighting ever since.”

A Frenchman in the first row smiled nastily and said, “I’ve never served under a wog non-com.”

Lon sighed and came to his feet and rounded the table and approached the other. He said, still mildly. “They don’t say wog where I come from. They say nigger, but it means the same thing. Stand up, soldier.”

The Frenchman, who was approximately the same size as the sergeant not only came to his feet but suddenly turned partly sideways and kicked high with his right foot, as gracefully as a ballet dancer.

The black moved viper-fast. He stepped slightly back, reached out with his left hand, grasped the foot and lifted it higher still. The Frenchman went over backward and crashed his head to the wooden floor, dazing himself.

Lon Charles looked down at him and then out of the rest of the mercenaries who were regarding him without expression. He said, “I seen this savate type of fighting before. But you got to remember it was us Americans who invented stomping. If you want to see what fighting with the feet can come to, I’ll give you a lesson in stomping some time. A man gets stomped once and maybe he gets by; maybe even twice. But no man ever gets stomped three times and goes around normal. His kidneys and his gall and his balls and the rest of his guts and his ribs is all busted up.”

He turned and headed back for his chair.

Meg, her face white, began to rise to hurry to the fallen man, but Bryan put a restraining hand on her. “Easy,” he said.

Sean took a breathful and said, “That’s the last fighting between ourselves we’re going to have until this assignment is successfully terminated. Anyone who disobeys this order will be turned out of the group.” He looked at them emptily and added, “I suppose you all realize what it means to be turned out alone into the Sahara without transportation and only the amount of food and water you can carry on your back.”

He turned and looked at the Levantine, who had remained expressionless of face and silent, thus far.

Sean said, “And this is Mr. Saul Saidi, the representative of the government which has employed us. He will speak to you and answer any questions pertaining to our pay, or whatever.”

Sean sat down and Saidi took his feet. He said, “Your gold can be deposited to the bank of your choice in Victoria, Hong Kong. Most of the largest of world banks have branches there. I recommend, in particular, First National City Bank of New York, Barclay’s of London, or the Suisse Bank of Geneva.”