O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [57]
“Strangers. I have seen them!” the man shouted, almost sobbing as the burning tobacco came closer. “Farther east, near the sea, I’ve seen them before. With the salt [something].” I missed the key word, but Mahmoud knew what the bandit was talking about, and so did Ali. Even Holmes nodded briefly.
“Those who work near Sedom, or Safi?”
“Mazra. On the [something].”
“Good. I thank you, my brother. And I hope very much that you have told me the truth because by the Prophet, if you have not, I shall come back and burn out both of your eyes.”
The man winced, but he held Mahmoud’s gaze. Satisfied that he was hearing the truth, Mahmoud withdrew his hand. The man closed his eyes and shuddered in relief. Mahmoud patted his shoulder, and stepped away.
Ali got up from his seat on the man’s back and squinted into the setting sun. “I shall have to go find the mules that this son of a dog frightened, ” he grumbled, and turned to kick the man’s ribs in irritation. “I will take his mare,” he decided. “She looks fast.”
The figure at his feet squeaked at Ali’s proposal but gave no other protest. Ali kicked him again for good measure and went over to where the horse was tied to a prickly bush. He undid the reins, threw himself onto the pad that passes for an Arab saddle, yanked the animal’s head around, and kicked her into a gallop. Mahmoud went over to the saddle-bags that lay on the ground beside the bandit’s rifle and went through them, removing various things and leaving the rest scattered on the ground. He then picked up the rifle, jerked his chin at us, and walked away.
When we had caught him up I protested. “You can’t leave him tied there. What if the jackals find him?”
“I left him his knife. He will be free before night falls, and his friends will find him by morning.”
“Holmes?”
“He won’t die, although in England he would probably be hanged for his various crimes.”
“If you say so. What was that he said about the salt?” I asked Holmes.
“Salt?”
“The men who killed Mikhail were seen with the salt something-or-other, on the somewhere.”
“Ah. Salt smugglers, on El Lisan, the peninsula that comes out into the Dead Sea.”
“Salt smugglers?” I said in amazement.
“Anywhere a valuable commodity is controlled by the government, there will be individuals who circumvent regulations.”
I made a connexion in my mind. “That’s what Ali meant, that the dirty salt in Mikhail’s bag was not government salt. Is there a link?”
“Between his having the salt and salt smugglers appearing later on in the case? Not necessarily. I should think smuggled salt is relatively common in this area. Mahmoud?”
“ ‘He who feeds a lion is a fool,’ ” he said by way of confirmation. “No-one buys government salt.”
We walked a couple more miles before I spoke again. We seemed to be making off rapidly in a new direction, and the desert is a big place. “How is Ali going to find us?” I wondered aloud.
“Surely you can say that in Arabic,” chided Holmes, so I did.
“Ali will find us,” Mahmoud answered unhelpfully, and strode on.
And Ali did find us, trotting up in the dull moonlight on the horse with the three mules behind him. The large fire Mahmoud built may have helped, of course, but I was beginning to think there was some mind-reading going on here.
The rider dismounted, put the hobbles on the smug-looking mules, tucked the reins securely up behind the neck of the bandit’s horse, and slapped her hard on the rump. She galloped off in the direction they had come from, her ears pricked.
“She will go to the wadi,” Ali said to me in explanation. “I did not give her water, and she will smell it there. I would not want to be accused of stealing a horse.” He laughed merrily, pulled over the bowl of spiced lentils that Mahmoud had left near the fire, and ate with one hand while gesturing wildly with the other as he recounted the day’s adventures.
This was not the same Ali as had sprinted away down the wadi that afternoon. Since we had left Beersheva