Riders of the Pale Horse (32 page)

Allison had finally pleaded exhaustion and stumbled to bed around two that morning.

Allison dressed hurriedly and grabbed her shoulder bag,
checking to make sure the homing device was still in it. She arrived downstairs to find three men already in the Land Rover. When she appeared in the doorway Fareed fired up the motor. She slid into the backseat beside Wade, taking meager satisfaction from the fact that he looked as tired as she felt.

“What's going on?”

Wade shrugged a weary reply. Ben waved the driver on and said, “We have to hurry. The boat leaves in less than half an hour.”

“What boat?” she asked, then gave up as the engine bellowed and cut off further talk.

They flew down the hillside, weaving in and out of traffic, driving as much by the horn as the wheel, scattering dogs and people. Women hiked the hems of their djellabas and scampered to safety, children in tow. Allison saw no angry gestures at their passage, only waves; clearly the locals were accustomed to the doctor's quick getaways.

Buildings grew higher and streets broader the closer they came to the sea. Hotels sprouted balconies and names in both Arabic and English. Trees rose alongside the boulevards. Shops bore signs advertising Swiss watches and Italian suits and French perfumes. White-limbed tourists paused to inspect prices and take one another's pictures. Allison felt as though she was catching a fleeting glimpse of another world.

They took the main boulevard around to the port. Traffic ground to a halt behind an endless line of trucks. Ben threw open his door, said, “We'll have to go the rest of the way on foot.”

“But where—”

“No time!” Ben was already striding down the sidewalk, motioning for them to follow.

She looked a question at Wade, who spoke for the first time. “I don't know any more than you do. But it looks like if we're going, we'd better do it now.”

They slid from the Land Rover and hastened to catch up with Ben. Their path edged past three battered steamers
unloading sacks and bales of goods, both by crane and by endless lines of sweating men. Ben dodged through the lines, hustled down a long, littered passage, and finally stopped at a windowless gatehouse. Beyond swarmed a mass of humanity. Farther still rose the filthiest boat Allison had ever seen.

The officers staffing the guardhouse clearly knew Ben. All three rose from their sullen lethargy and offered smiles and outstretched hands. Ben returned the greetings in rapid Arabic, then motioned Wade and Allison forward.

At that moment the ship's whistle wailed. The people not yet on board responded with a cry of their own and surged forward. Over the clamor, Ben indicated to the officers that they wanted to board. Allison looked from Ben to the struggling, shouting people and from them to the foul boat. She opened her mouth to say they could give her place to somebody else.

Before she could speak, two of the officers hefted long wooden batons and gestured for them to follow. Allison grabbed for Ben's shoulder, wanting to turn him around and tell him she had changed her mind, that she would wait in the truck. He mistook the gesture, grasped her hand tightly with one of his, and stepped forward. Immediately Wade moved up close, gripping her with one hand and Ben with the other. She was well and truly trapped.

The two officers used their batons to form a wedge. They pressed forward, shouting fiercely. Turbaned men and kerchiefed women turned angrily to see who was shoving them, recognized the uniforms, and stepped meekly aside. Ben drew himself and Allison and Wade up close behind the officers so that they moved in virtual lockstep. As soon as they passed, the opening closed up behind them, swallowing them up into the noisy, smelly throng.

People closest to the gangway held money and tickets and passports aloft, screaming continuously at the two sailors barring their way. The officers pressed grimly forward until they were directly in front of the gangway. The noise was
deafening. The sailors were not impressed by the guards' uniforms, and gesticulated that there was no more room. But the officers had not come that far only to be turned away. Angrily they pushed the sailors aside and formed a narrow passage between them. Ben ducked his head and slipped through, pulling the pair along behind.

The sailors shouted a protest but were kept from following by the crowd, who saw an opportunity for themselves and massed forward. Arriving at the top of the gangplank, Allison looked back to see the horde funnel into the gap, carrying both officers and sailors with them. But three more sailors pushed by Allison to join their mates, and together they forced the crowd back down. The whistle hooted, the sailors retreated, the gangplank was removed, and the boat chugged away.

“Sorry about that,” Ben said, stopping to wipe his brow. “I only heard at the last minute that the boat had been rescheduled to leave today. Are you both all right?”

Wade nodded. Allison declared, “I never want to go through anything like that, not ever again.”

“I am truly sorry,” Ben replied. “It is always such a press for these ferries, and with the new travel restrictions the situation has become almost impossible.”

“Where are we going?” Allison asked.

“Nuweiba—an Egyptian port on the Sinai Peninsula, about halfway down the Gulf of Aqaba. The full name is Nuweiba Muzeina. Because smuggling has become so serious a problem, all sea travel between Jordan and Egypt and Saudi Arabia has been limited to these weekly ferries. They don't hold to a set departure date, in order to lessen the crowds.”

“Their plan isn't working,” Wade offered.

“It is far better than it might have been.” He gestured for them to follow. “Come, we'll be more comfortable in the bow.”

Once the boat was well underway, the clamor died. Those who had made it on board swiftly settled into the relaxed
activity of people long used to endless waiting. Bedrolls and prayer rugs and frayed carpets were laid out, marking clan territory. Lines formed at two kiosk windows selling lukewarm drinks and coffee and platters of unidentifiable food. Men lounged and chattered and smoked. Women gathered and tended children. All eyes marked the westerners' gradual progress.

Allison did not see another white face.

Conversations stopped as they approached the bow, and everyone turned to stare. Ben responded with a nod, a wave, and words in Arabic that resulted in a blooming of delighted smiles. Room was made for them at the railing. Ben had been right about one thing; here the air was indeed better. It blew directly off the sea, uncontaminated by the countless bodies crowded in behind Allison.

When curiosity about the three white passengers abated, Ben motioned at the boatload behind them. “The people you see here come from Egypt, Sudan, Libya, Chad, Niger, Mali, even as far away as Morocco. They come from small desert villages that are often a hundred miles from the nearest electric light or running water. But still they hear of the money to be made in these richer lands. So they hoard their pennies or sell their livestock or barter a prayer rug that has been in their family for generations. They walk the days or weeks to the nearest big road, buy a ticket for the bus or the train, and make their way to Nuweiba.

“For some the trip lasts a week, for others up to three months. They gather there, where corrupt agents squeeze out the people's last remaining pennies in exchange for work contracts the majority cannot read. These agents of course collect their commissions from those hiring, but such agents do not rise to the rank of flesh peddlers unless they are utterly consumed by greed.”

Ben's face grew stern, his eyes lost their light, his voice cut like a rapier's sweep. “So the guest workers board the ferries and go to work as street sweepers and janitors and
dishwashers and ditch diggers. They work six, sometimes seven, days a week. They are paid a pittance, but it is a fortune by the standards of their homelands. They often do not return until their contract is completed. They do not see their families for as long as ten years, and their families are almost never allowed to join them. They often live in appalling conditions. But they have no recourse, no one to turn to. No local or international agency sees to their rights. It is a practice that has existed for a thousand years and is accepted by almost everyone here. The argument is that the guest workers are so much better off, even under these circumstances, than they would be at home. And because this is tragically true, the people keep coming.”

“But why are
we
going there?” Wade asked.

“I remember now,” Allison said, then looked at Ben for confirmation. “We heard a rumor that this place might be used as a staging point.”

Ben shrugged. “More than rumor, less than fact.” His features resumed their habitual calm. “In either case, Nuweiba is a natural place for us to search. Smuggling is common there, as I mentioned, and the police are trained to look the other way. If product is involved, people might be as well. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I will do a quick check of the four local clinics. That is normal for me. I try to come over every few months to see what they need. Our way will take us along the central thoroughfares. Search the markets, the caf;aaes, the streets. Be extremely careful not to become separated, both of you. And watch out for thieves.”

The voyage was long and hot and monotonous. Allison watched hill after desert-colored hill pass until the sun's glare became too strong. Ben then found them a place to sit and doze by a shaded bulkhead.

When they arrived at the port, the chaotic scramble occurred in reverse. At Ben's direction they hung back and watched passengers push and shove and shout and scramble off the boat. When the worst of the crush was over, he slipped away, then returned a few minutes later and motioned them to follow.

“Where did you go?” she asked.

“To ensure our return passage. We must hurry. There isn't much time.”

The port area was a series of dilapidated metal and concrete warehouses lining a red-clay street. Their way was often blocked by crowds gathered about hawkers who had set up impromptu stalls wherever foot traffic was heaviest.

The dust was as fierce as the heat. Following Ben, they sidled around packed throngs of gawking Arabs and Africans. Their shirts swiftly became plastered hard to their backs and coated with the reddish sand. Where possible they stayed to the shadows; entry into daylight meant being struck by hammer blows of heat. Wade searched in vigilant silence, his eyes constantly on the move.

Nuweiba looked just like what it was—a poor Egyptian village overwhelmed by a flood of humanity. The original blockhouse structures were now merely a centerpoint to a sprawling city of shacks and shanties and tenements. There was little electricity, less running water, the most rudimentary of sewage. The only saving grace for most of the people was that they would not be staying long. Those who lived there permanently were drawn from life's very dregs.

Allison passed gatherings from three dozen different tribes representing the length and breadth of Africa. Many of the darker men and women had faces deeply marked with tribal scars—patterns cut into cheeks and foreheads with ritual knives during coming-of-age ceremonies. Headdresses varied as widely as stature and faces and dress, ranging from simple rags to elaborate coiffures of brightly colored cloth and beads and silver pins.

Ben knew exactly where he was going, and he did not tarry. He led them past great open spaces where men harangued gatherings and waved papers bearing fancy script. He ignored the cries of stall holders and the smells of cooking and the plucking arms of beggars. His calls on the clinics were in-and-out affairs. He was clearly uneasy being in Nuweiba, and was determined to cover the ground in the least amount of time possible.

It was while he was in the third clinic that the bandits struck.

Like many of the older structures, the clinic was built on a raised foundation that lifted it above the worst of the rainy-season mud. A narrow sidewalk fronted it and the businesses to either side. The walkway had not been built to handle the foot traffic now inundating the town. Stopping and standing proved difficult because it forced people to shove around them. Allison did so anyway, as the sidewalk offered them shade.