"That is was," Homer said grimly. "Now, go see if you can find my lads,
will you? This joker is going to fall right into our laps. It's going to
be interesting to find out who hates the idea of African development so
much that they're willing to commit assassination."
But it didn't work out that way.
Isobel found the other teammates one by one, and they came hurrying up
from different directions to the support of their chief. They had been a
team for years and operating as they did and where they did, each man
survived only by selfless co-operation with all the others. In action,
they operated like a single unit, their ability to co-operate almost as
though they had telepathic communication.
From where he lay, Homer Crawford could see Bey-ag-Akhamouk,
Tommy-Noiseless in hands, snake in from the left, running low and
reaching a vantage point from which he could cover one flank of the
ancient adobe mosque. Homer waved to him and Bey made motions to
indicate that one of the others was coming in from the other side.
Homer waited for a few more minutes, then waved to Bey to cover him. The
streets were empty at this time of midday when the Sahara sun drove the
town's occupants into the coolness of dark two-foot-thick walled houses.
It was as though they were operating in a ghost town. Homer came to his
feet and handgun in fist made a dash for the front entrance.
Bey's light automatic _flic flic flicked_ its excitement and dust and
dirt enveloped the wall facing Crawford. Homer reached the doorway,
stood there for a full two minutes while he caught his breath. From the
side of his eye he could see Elmer Allen, his excellent teeth bared as
always when the Jamaican went into action, come running up to the right
in that half crouch men automatically go into in combat, instinctively
presenting as small a target as possible. He was evidently heading for a
side door or window.
The object now was to refrain from killing the sniper. The important
thing was to be able to question him. Perhaps here was the answer to the
massacre of the Cubans. Homer took another deep breath, smashed the door
open with a heavy shoulder and dashed inward and immediately to one
side. At the same moment, Abe Baker, Tommy-Noiseless in hand, came in
from the rear door, his eyes darting around trying to pierce the gloom
of the unlighted building.
Elmer Allen erupted through a window, rolled over on the floor and came
to rest, his gun trained.
"Where is he?" Abe snapped.
Homer motioned with his head. "Must be up in the remains of the
minaret."
Abe got to the creaking, age-old stairway first. In cleaning out a
hostile building, the idea is to move fast and keep on the move. Stop,
and you present a target.
But there was no one in the minaret.
"Got away," Homer growled. His face was puzzled. "I felt sure we'd have
him."
Bey-ag-Akhamouk entered. He grunted his disappointment. "What happened,
anyway? That girl Isobel said a sniper took some shots at you and you
figure it must've been somebody at the meeting."
"Somebody at the meeting?" Abe said blankly. "What kind of jazz is that?
You flipping, man?"
Homer looked at him strangely.
"Who else could it be, Abe? We've never operated this far south. None of
the inhabitants in this area even know us, and it certainly couldn't
have been an attempt at robbery."
"There were some cats at that meeting didn't appreciate our ideas, man,
but I can't see that old preacher or Doc Smythe trying to put the slug
on you."
Kenny Ballalou came in on the double, gun in hand, his face anxious.
Abe said sarcastically, "Man, we'd all be dead if we had to wait on
you."
"That girl Isobel. She said somebody took a shot at the chief."
Homer explained it, sourly. A sniper had taken a few shots at him, then
managed to get away.
Isobel entered, breathless, followed by Jake Armstrong.
Abe grunted, "Let's hold another convention. This is like old home town
week."