The Howling Jackals
Tourists travel thousands of miles to see the full moon rise over the
Sahara Desert. It is a sight of lonely, majestic grandeur. The rolling
contours of sand and rock assume weird, lovely patterns, and even the
desert wind is hushed. It is at such times, men say, that the spirits of
the ancient Egyptian gods, Amon-Re, Horus, Thoth, Isis, Osiris, Bubaste,
and the others again walk on earth.
Rick Brant could appreciate the scene, but he was in no mood for it. He
clutched his coat around him more tightly to keep out the penetrating
desert chill. From behind a nearby dune he heard the rising, yapping
howl of a jackal, one of earth's loneliest sounds.
Anubis, Egyptian god of death, had the head of a jackal, he recalled. He
tried to wet his lips. He was terribly thirsty.
Hassan had been stretched out on the sand. He rose to a sitting position
and gestured toward the dune that shielded the jackal from sight. "He
noisy."
Rick nodded. "Do jackals always bark at night?"
"Always. It is their kismet."
Their fate, Rick thought. Born to bark at the empty desert. He wondered
if the little doglike animals enjoyed it. "Do they always bark at
nothing?"
"No. Sometimes they bark at people. Like now. He bark at us."
Rick grinned feebly. "He doesn't like us using his desert. Well, I'd be
happy to give it back to him."
The dragoman nodded. "Also. You know, when our people want to say time
go by ... how you say? ... life goes on and no man can stop time or make
much change in things, they speak of the jackal."
Rick looked at the guide with interest. He had been glad all through the
long hours of Hassan's presence. The Sudanese had turned out to be an
entertaining and thought-provoking companion. "Is it a saying of some
kind?" he asked.
Hassan nodded. "The little jackal barks--but the caravan passes."
Rick repeated the expression thoughtfully. It said a great deal. "I'll
remember that, Hassan."
There was something he had wanted to ask. "May I ask a personal
question?"
The guide spread his hands expressively. "You hired a dragoman, but he
has become your friend. Ask what you will."
"Thank you, Hassan. Scotty and I think of you as a friend, too. I wanted
to ask about your English. You've been speaking very good English to me
all day, but until we were captured, you spoke sort of broken English."
Hassan chuckled softly. "It is part of show I put on. My clients talk
too simple English to me most of the time. They don't expect me to know
good English. So I do not speak as well as I can. Now, with you and
Scotty, it is different. My broken English is habit, so I continue to
speak it until today. But I knew it would be different with you when we
had coffee together, and when we laughed together. That was when I knew
I could leave my show clothes at home and dress in a suit."
Rick laughed with him. "So that's why you wore fancy stuff only that
first day. But, Hassan, if you can't read or write, how did you learn
such good English?"
"I am like a parrot," Hassan replied. "I hear, and I repeat. For four
years I was houseboy to an American family, from USIS, what you call the
United States Information Service."
"They taught you English?" Rick prompted.
"I knew some, but we helped each other. I teached them Arab talk, and
they correct me when I speak American."
Hassan launched into a recital of his years with the Americans, who had
been transferred to India, but still wrote to him now and then. Rick
listened with only part of his mind. For the most, his thoughts went
back over ground he had covered before, since Youssef had dumped the two
of them next to an ancient crypt.
The big question was, of course, what would happen to them?
As though in answer, the little jackal appeared silhouetted on top of
the dune. He lifted his head to the full moon, and his voice rose in a
prolonged, yapping howl. Then, as suddenly, he was gone again.
Rick gave an involuntary shiver. By the time Youssef returned, he would
be in bad shape from thirst. He wondered how long he could hold out, and
in the same instant wondered why he should. There was some real value
attached to the cat. It was not manufacturing rights or sales, and it
was not revenge. He was sure of that.
Youssef had said that he had no sentimental attachment to the cat. He
had also said he disliked unnecessary violence. Rick wondered what the
thief considered "unnecessary."
What else could he recall of Youssef's talk? He had said that the cat
was not important, that it had elements of value to some people, and
that he never lied. If one took his words at face value and believed
him, then the cat itself was not important. What did that leave? Rick
could see only one thing: that it was important only because it
_contained_ something. Youssef's words simply reinforced the conclusion
he and Scotty already had reached.
"Elements of value to a few people," Youssef had said. That might mean
only a few people knew what the cat contained. If you didn't know, it
was only a plastic cat. If you did know what it contained ... well,
Youssef knew, and he wanted the cat badly enough to risk a kidnaping.
Rick wondered where the cat was now. He had no idea of what had happened
to Hassan's car. If it was left on the road and not searched, Scotty or
someone from the project would recognize it. Scotty would certainly
search the car, and he would find kitty. It was what Rick would do, and
he and Scotty thought alike on many things.
Hassan finished his recital of a trip to the Valley of the Kings with
his American employers and Rick took advantage of the lull to borrow a
match. He lighted it and looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight.
Had Scotty met Kemel Moustafa at seven? Rick thought he probably had,
and wondered what Third Brother's reaction to his mysterious
disappearance had been. If Scotty had the cat, had he delivered it? Rick
thought not. Scotty would keep the cat, for bargaining purposes.
He found himself yawning. "Hassan, when do you think Youssef will come
back?"
"If he wants us alive and able to talk, maybe day after tomorrow. If
not--_la samah Allah!_--maybe longer."
"What's _la samah Allah_?" Rick stumbled over the pronunciation.
"God forbid," Hassan said grimly.
"Amen," Rick echoed.
He shifted position. "We'd better get some sleep. Should we go into the
crypt or stay out here?"
The crypt was only a cubic chamber of rough stone, partly filled with
drifting sand. Desert winds had been alternately covering and uncovering
it for centuries.
"Stay out here until morning. Then we go in out of sun, like today.
Youssef good to us. With no shelter from the sun, we would not last
long."
"He's a fine fellow," Rick said without heat. "Good night, Hassan."
"_Leltak s'aeeda_, Rick. Good night to you."
The boy curled up in a ball, knees tucked into stomach, head resting on
one arm. He covered up as much as possible with the short coat, squirmed
until he had a depression for his hip in the sand, and closed his eyes.
On the nearby dune the little jackal peeked over the top at the two
prone figures and sang his vast displeasure to the moon. From faraway a
friend or relative joined in the serenade. It was the last thing Rick
heard.
* * * * *
Hassan shook him. "Rick! Awaken, please! Camels coming."
Rick came back to reality from a dream of emptiness and loneliness in a
darkened desert. The moon had set and false dawn was burning on the far
horizon. He shook his head blearily. "What? Who's coming?"
"Not know. I woke and saw camels on the sky."
"In the east?"
"Yes. Against sky."
Rick shivered in the biting chill of early morning. He doubted that any
legitimate travelers came this way. Youssef would not have left them
near a caravan route. He could only guess that the thief himself was
coming back, and he grew colder at the thought. Perhaps Youssef had
decided not to wait to soften Rick up. On the other hand, there was a
remote possibility he had the cat. If he was a thief with honor, he
might simply be coming to take them back.
The idea seemed unlikely. Scotty wouldn't give up the cat, except in
exchange for the two of them. If Youssef had found it himself, it was
hours ago. He wouldn't have waited to search Hassan's car, if he had
ever intended to search it.
An inner voice urged, "Tell him where the cat is. It's not your cat, and
there's no reason to believe that Kemel Moustafa has any more right to
what's inside of it than Youssef has."
But there was a deep streak of stubbornness in the Brants, which Rick
had inherited. He knew he wouldn't give in until he absolutely had to.
When that time came he would tell Youssef the truth, that he had hidden
the cat in the Egyptian Museum. What he would not say was that the cat
had been recovered and that he had left it in Hassan's car.
False dawn had faded. It was nearly black, except for myriad stars.
Hassan lay with his ear to the ground. Rick held perfectly still and
waited.
Finally Hassan sat up. "Close now," he whispered.
Rick wondered briefly if they shouldn't put up a fight, but he knew it
would be useless. Youssef had too many men.
The camels appeared like wraiths from behind the dune, and Rick blinked
trying to see more clearly.
There were three, and only one of them carried a rider. He waited
tensely for the rest of the band to appear.
The camels arrived and Rick whispered urgently, "The rest must be
behind. Jump him and we'll grab the camels and make a run for it."
Hassan tensed. "Yes. Be ready."
The camel rider came close, and lifted a hand in greeting. "_Assalamo
alaikum. Fil khedma, ya sidi. Ana gay men sidi Moustafa._"
Rick was tensed to spring, to haul the man from his saddle, when Hassan
put a hand on his arm. "Wait. He say greeting, he is at your service,
and he come from Mr. Moustafa!"
Rick watched in unbelieving amazement as the driver forced his groaning
camel to kneel, then immediately commanded the other two to kneel also.
When the camel's protests had ceased, Hassan spoke to him rapidly. The
man answered at length.
"He was with Youssef," Hassan said. "But he is also in the pay of Kemel
Moustafa. Last night he went to Moustafa and told him about us. Moustafa
sent him to bring us back."
Rick hesitated. Could they trust this man? But it was a silly question,
because he knew he had no choice. Anything was better than sitting in
the desert and waiting.
"Ask if he has water, then we'll go with him."
The man did, a full water bag. They drank sparingly, knowing the danger
of too much water after deprivation. Then the three mounted the camels.
Rick held onto the horn in front of him as the mount lurched
protestingly to its feet, then they were going across the sands to the
east at what seemed incredible speed. Ahead of them, the first flush of
real dawn was visible.
* * * * *
The sun was high before they came within sight of the first man-made
objects in the desert. Rick saw pyramids, but not those of Giza. He
called to Hassan, who was riding his swaying mount like a veteran.
"What pyramids are those, Hassan?"
"Sakkarah," the dragoman replied. "We come back long way around."
To the east, then the south, Rick thought. He was by no means sure of
what would be waiting, but at least he knew where he was. Sakkarah, a
"must" for tourists, Bartouki had said. Well, he was getting there, even
though he had taken the hard way.
On the road near Sakkarah a car was waiting, and in it was Kemel
Moustafa. The cameleer made the mounts kneel. Rick and Hassan got off,
and the man with the camels hurried away without a word. The two walked
up to the car.
"Thank you for rescuing us," Rick said politely.
Moustafa had not spoken. Now he tugged at his mustache and nodded.
"Whether it was worth while remains to be seen. According to my man,
Youssef did not get the cat. This is correct?"
"Yes. Did you see my friend last night?"
"I did. Precisely at seven. He informed me that you were missing. Then,
sometime later, my man managed to leave Youssef's gang and report in. I
at once made plans for your rescue. Now tell me. Where is the cat?"
Rick was very, very tired of the Egyptian cat. He thought grimly that
when he returned home he and his sister would have a long talk about
volunteering services for strangers.
"The cat is under the back cushion of Hassan's car," he said tiredly.
"And the sooner you take it off my hands, the better."
"Hassan's car is at the hotel," Moustafa said. "Come. We will go there
at once."
Rick and Hassan climbed into the car and Moustafa raced the motor. He
meshed gears and spun his wheels as he got off to a fast start.
He's certainly in a hurry to get that cat, Rick thought. Well, he was
the legitimate receiver. Only it was too bad to let the animal go
without ever knowing what it contained.
No matter, Rick thought, as the desert road sped underneath. No matter
now. In a few minutes it will be finished.