39

Dance of Death

They stood there stunned until a previously unseen man in saffron jellaba robes approached from the side of the garden and told Sokhoor in Arabic, and the others in German-accented English, to put their hands up. He carried himself with confidence, snapping his fingers for the Senegalese to come forward, search, and tie them up. Their hands intruded roughly everywhere, yanking out knives and pistols, money and watches, dumping them in a pile on the ground.

There was a gasp from the tall black men when they saw the naval uniforms under the Americans’ robes, but the Arab leader in yellow just smiled knowingly. “Ah, yes, the Americans, who want Morocco to be protected from the greedy Europeans. We knew you were here with Sokhoor. You are so stupid. Why are you even here? To assist the French? They despise you. To assist Sultan Hassan? He laughs at you even as he takes the trade tribute from you. The Germans are the ones you should be assisting, but your British masters won’t let you.”

Wake tried to bluff the best he could. “I am Lieutenant Peter Wake of the U.S. Navy and I demand to talk to the vizier, and to know your exact name.”

“You will talk to no one and do nothing unless I permit you. You do not impress or intimidate me. Be quiet and listen.”

Then he said to his other prisoners, “I am Falah. Do exactly what I say and you people will not be hurt. In fact, we want you to stay healthy.”

Sokhoor’s immediate protests were cut short in Arabic by Falah. Whatever Falah said, Wake saw that it dejected the scholar, who visibly deflated. As each of them had their hands tied tightly in the front, Woodgerd stood grimly silent, eyes switching back and forth from Sokhoor to Falah. Faber began to speak, but stopped when a Senegalese cinched the knot tight and made him gasp in pain. Rork’s eyes flared. Wake leaned over and whispered, “Now Sean, let’s play this one calmly. We can always kill them later.”

“I’m memorizing the bastards’ faces, sir, so I kill the right ones later.” He tilted his head toward Falah. “An’ that sonovabitch is at the top o’ the list.”

“Good plan, Rork. Just please be calm now.”

Woodgerd asked the scholar, “What did that man tell you? And just who the hell are these men?”

Sokhoor nodded to the black men and sighed. “The Senegalese are the vizier’s. The Arabs are ShayTaan Taalib renegades. The vizier is a hostage to this also, evidently. The bandits have his family somewhere. And there are a lot more of the bandits than I thought. I am sorry, Colonel. Our own men outside are already dead. They resisted and were cut down.”

Woodgerd hissed a foul oath, then asked, “What’s next?”

“I do not know. Just do as they say, all of you, or they will kill you now without hesitation,” warned Sokhoor, as the group was pushed across the garden. At the palace they were shoved into separate rooms, told to sit on the floor and guarded by two of the stone-faced Senegalese.

Wake was led to a mosaic-walled room, dark red tapestry adding to the gloom, and flung onto the marble floor where he was forced to kneel in front of three short reed baskets on a rug. In seconds two men in the indigo-dyed robes of the Tuareg sat down by the baskets opposite Wake. Their attention was on the baskets and one of them pulled out a flute, from which scratchy notes pealed high and low, repeating faster and faster.

Falah came in and stood to the side, his eyes locked on Wake’s. The smallest basket moved slightly, catching Wake’s attention. Something inside it was jiggling the loosely woven top, which was now sliding up and back. Falah’s doomsday voice matched his sneer.

“Lieutenant Wake, of the American Navy, you really should be honored. Your earlier impertinence has earned you a great distinction. You are about to go through one of our quaint African tests of manhood.

“If you fail, you will die painfully and we will use your body—and its unique wounds—as a vivid incentive for the French to pay our ransom for their meddling missionaries. If, against all odds, you somehow succeed, you will become highly valuable to me, for the mysticism attached to your success will have tangible rewards. It is, as I understand you Americans say, a winning situation for us. Oh, and of course, if you try to flee, the Senegalese behind you will slice off your head. Their master has been persuaded to assist us and told them to follow my orders.”

Falah’s arrogance had Wake seething in anger, but he controlled his tone. “Well, you’ve got me curious, Falah. But maybe we can dispense with all these theatrics and just use some common sense here. There’s no reason for you to hold us. You made your point—”

“No, Lieutenant Wake, I haven’t. But I soon will.”

The small basket tottered again and a thick head poked out. In seconds, its body followed, a six-foot-long yellowish-brown snake with a squared pattern along its length. It came out of the small basket and dropped onto the rug, then slithered over in the direction of the flute. Wake noticed that the second Arab was tapping his foot hard against the floor. The snake was following the vibration. The man rose from his squat, reached over and in one smooth motion he scooped it behind the head and walked toward Wake.

Wake’s biggest fear was snakes. His service in Florida during the war had shown him what they could do. The snake man stroked the snake, murmuring to it as he carried it forward.

The screeching of the flute rose as the Arab reached out for Wake, who suddenly felt the tip of a Senegalese cutlass begin to slice into his back. The snake, its tongue flicking, was wrapped around his neck twice, ends dangling down his chest. Wake felt his heart pounding in his ears. He dared not move or speak. The thing was moving slowly, squirming as it examined its new perch.

The doomsday voice started up again. “Our very own vaunted Russell viper of North Africa, Lieutenant Wake. A beautifully efficient machine of death. So similar to your diamond-back rattlesnake, but without those ridiculous warning rattles. The Russell doesn’t let you know when it will strike, which is an admirable trait. Never warn your enemy, Lieutenant—it’s a silly notion of romantics who have never fought to the death.”

Wake saw the other two baskets move, lids sliding back. A snake came out of each basket, these snakes brownish-black with no pattern. Instead of dropping to the floor, they stood up, their glistening bodies supporting them a foot high out of the basket as they rotated their heads around.

Falah sauntered from the side of the room and stood in front of Wake’s view. “Ah, now here are two of my personal favorites, African cobras. Not as efficient as the viper around your neck, and certainly not as colorful, but more artistic in their actions. I know you will agree, Lieutenant, when you see their dance of death.”

Wake struggled to stay still, the heavy viper around his neck remaining docile, but his eyes were on the cobras. Seemingly urged on by the flute, they slid out of the baskets and toward the American. One of them, the smaller cobra, slowed and lay down in a coil, but the larger one, at least five feet long, continued forward. The Arab tapping his foot moved around behind Wake, then gently unwrapped and removed the viper from his neck and placed it back in its basket.

Sweat poured into Wake’s eyes as he finally took in a breath. It took every ounce of discipline not to burst into tears with relief. Then Falah’s sarcasm sent another wave of fear through Wake.

“Very good, Lieutenant. The viper was not agitated. Didn’t even smell your fear—most unusual. Not many men could have done that. Congratulations to both of us, your value to me just went up and you are still alive.”

Another movement drew Wake’s attention and he involuntarily turned his head to look, then was unable to turn away from the sight. The cobra closest to him was rising up again, this time only a foot in front of his knees, as the flute’s melody slowed and became more lilting, more sensual.

The snake rose up and up, until its head was almost level with Wake’s. The black eyes were watching him, measuring, while the shiny skin behind the head began to flare into double and triple its size. The cobra started weaving back and forth in time with the music, its tiny black eyes never leaving Wake’s, the body getting closer and closer.

Wake was on the verge of screaming as he recalled Falah’s earlier words. The dance of death, he called it. An incarnation of evil, the snake was hypnotizing him, controlling him. Wake knew he had to stop this. But how? He forced himself to think, to work out what to do. The snake was always watching his face, locked on his eyes. That was something important. As if it was searching. For his eyes?

Wake forced himself to keep his eyes still and slowly turned his head to the left. He kept his gaze downward, hiding his eyes from the snake undulating in front of him. He was dead if he made a break for it—the Senegalese’s blade point in his back was penetrating the skin, he could feel the blood running down his spine.

Wake waited for the bite.

It seemed an hour, but he knew it must have been only minutes, before the flute man said something in an angry tone. Wake could hear slithering in front of him but didn’t dare look. The man behind him tapped louder.

Rapid Arabic snarled from Falah with fear obvious in the replies from the snake men. What was happening? Wake kept his breathing shallow and waited. Abruptly, the music stopped and he heard footsteps on the marble fading away, the Arabs plaintively explaining something to Falah. He allowed his right eye to glance at the cobra—it was on the floor by his knees, coiled several times upon itself, head toward the basket.

Falah called out from somewhere near the door. “You passed the test, Lieutenant Wake. You successfully faced down a viper and a cobra. Your value has now reached the highest level for an infidel. I must admit that you fascinate me.”

The snake men lifted the cobras and placed them in the baskets, then scurried out of the room, leaving Wake still kneeling with the Senegalese behind him. He felt the blade withdraw and come to rest across his neck. He collapsed on his side, tears and sweat mingling on his lips, chest heaving for air, clothing soaked with sweat.

Wake mumbled a prayer of thanks. He had always considered himself a Christian and attended church on the holy days. But he’d never felt it enter his soul, until now. Now he wept like a baby as he said thank you.

He rolled over and found the black guards in the exact same position, still standing above him with the razor sharp scimitars, one of which had a dark stain. He looked up at their faces and felt his hope disappear. The dark faces still watched him, devoid of emotion, and he knew it wasn’t over.

An hour later Falah came into the room, surveyed him curled on the floor in the torchlight, and left without a word. At a shouted order from outside the two guards lifted Wake from the floor and trotted with him out into the night, where a line of five wagons waited, each with a large crate on the bed and a team of worn horses in trace. One of the Senegalese lifted Wake into the air and threw him headfirst into the crate of the second wagon, the other slamming the door.

“Welcome home, sir,” an Irish lilt muttered from the dark. “It ain’t much, but it’s ours.”

“Rork! Oh God, am I glad to be back with you.” Wake moved to relieve the pain in his shoulder. “What’s going on, Sean?”

“Not even a wee clue, except that none o’ them bastards seems a bit bothered by this. Seems like jes’ another day to ’em.”

“Just what I was thinking—”

A woman’s scream pierced the air close by, followed by a commotion and stream of desperate French from the same voice.

“Catherine? Catherine, are you out there? It’s Peter. Peter Wake!”

Another crate was slammed shut somewhere back down the line of wagons, then a frightened female voice. “Peter! You are here to save us! We are here in a box, save us!”

Wake’s eyes were getting accustomed to the dim light coming through the slats of the crate. Rork, two feet away, cocked an eyebrow and gave him a rueful look.

Wake sighed and called out. “I’m in a box too, Catherine. Are you hurt?”

“A little. Oh Peter, I am so frightened . . .”

“Stay strong, Catherine. Henri is here, somewhere. He may be in a box too. He came to search for you. We all did. Just stay strong. We’ll all get out of this.”

The sound of a scuffle, then a crate being shut, was followed by German-tinged English very close to the crate. “Oh yes, Lieutenant Wake. You will all get out of your boxes when you reach your new home. I hope you enjoy the journey.” The tone lowered to almost a hush, the humor in it brutally sinister. “I must say thank you. Your new master in Mali paid a lot of money for you, double what it was before you passed the test.”

Wake slumped against the side of the crate, strength draining away with the realization of Falah’s meaning when he had said his value has risen. Rork let out a long breath.

“Oh sweet Jesus, sir. We’re bound for the middle of Africa as slaves.”