The Outlaw (11 page)

"Someone was pretending to be you," said Jake.

"Who?"

"How should we know? Do you have any enemies?"

Sor threw back his head and laughed like a hyena. "Do you see the stars above your head,
tuubaaku?
That is how many enemies I have."

"Well, then," said Jake, "if one of your enemies can make our people believe that you have kidnapped and killed us, our government will not rest until they have destroyed you."

Yakuuba Sor nodded. "We are all in very great danger," he said. "Paaté, go to the Needle Hut and start work. Our guests will need proper disguises—the best you have ever made!"

Yakuuba's
plan was very simple. They would ride in disguise to Djibo and take the bus from there to Ouagadougou. Once there, Yakuuba would escort Jake and Kas to the embassy. With their help he would explain to their father that the Friends of the Poor were innocent of the kidnapping and that he, Yakuuba Sor, had no quarrel with the British.

"We have a long journey ahead of us," said Yakuuba, "so get some sleep. I will wake you before sunrise for the ride to Djibo."

Getting some sleep was easier said than done. When they got back to their hut, Jake and Kas were still buzzing with adrenaline from their attempted escape and at the same time dreading what the next day might have in store for them. How, wondered Jake, had they gotten caught up in this power play between a young outlaw and his enemies?

After an hour or two, Jake drifted into fretful sleep. He dreamed he was riding a black horse, which suddenly sprouted wings and soared up over the desert in an exhilarating but terrifying climb. He flew over djinns, dunes, camels, wadis, and a whole convoy of menacing Nissan vans.

"
Réveillez-vous,
" said a voice. "Wake up and come with me."

Jake opened his eyes and saw a man crouching at the foot of his bed. Right away he recognized the goatee beard and the two dangling locks of hair that framed the intruder's face. It was none other than Sheikh Ahmed. The sheikh had changed into a green robe with intricate embroidery down the front, and he wore a pair of dark glasses, unusual for this hour of the morning.

"I thought they took you away," stammered Jake.

"They did," said the sheikh. "And now I am back, to help you with your
maquillage.
"

"What is
maquillage?
"

"Makeup," said Kas, sitting up. "And you may have fooled my brother, Yakuuba, but you can't fool me. Your stomach's hanging off."

Yakuuba Sor chuckled and adjusted the cords around his waist. "Come with me," he said. "Your makeup awaits you."

The sun had not yet risen, but a swath of gray and indigo in the eastern sky indicated that the night was nearly past. Jake and Kas crawled out into the invigorating morning air and shook hands with Yakuuba. The stubby upward-pointing branches of the baobab tree loomed above them like the crenellations of a wizard's castle.

Paaté and Mariama were waiting for them in the Needle Hut, where two sets of fine clothes hung from a ceiling beam. The workbench was covered with lotions and potions.

Yakuuba lifted up one end of a rickety wooden bench so that its cargo of cotton, scissors, plastic bags, clothes hangers, foam, sequins, and zippers slid off onto the floor. "Sit down," he said to Kas, "and listen carefully. Your name is Kadija Zabri and you are a Tuareg princess from the Niger delta. You are traveling to Ouagadougou with your personal praise singer, Bobo Nuhu, played by Paaté here. Also traveling with you is Sheikh Ahmed Abdullai Keita and your idiot brother Ali."

"Hey!" cried Jake.

"I'm sorry, Ali," said Yakuuba, "but your French accent is terrible. You will attract less attention if you simply gibber in some made-up language of your own."

"I've never gibbered in my life," said Jake. "I wouldn't know how. And you can shut up laughing, Kas."

"You don't need to gibber," said Yakuuba. "Just don't talk at all, if you would prefer that."

"Why Tuaregs?" asked Kas.

"Tuareg nobles have long noses," said Mariama, "and their skin is lighter than other Africans."

"As light as my skin?"

"Of course not," said Mariama. "In this part of Africa, only djinns are as pale as you are. But don't worry. We have a tub of moringa pulp here somewhere. By sunrise you will both look more Tuareg than
tuubaaku,
I promise you."

Sure enough, over the course of the next hour the children of the British ambassador were transformed. Paaté shaved Jake's head bald and plastered moringa pulp over his whole head and face, even on his eyelids and the insides of his ears. In addition to its skin-darkening effect, the pulp felt cool and soothing across his sunburned nose and cheeks. He was sorry when the time came for it to be washed off.

When he was able to open his eyes, Jake saw that his sister was well on the way to becoming a Tuareg princess. Her skin was a shade darker and her earlobes were decorated with rows of tiny silver rings. Her hair, parted down the middle, was woven through with silver coins and amber beads all the way from Mali. Three short black lines adorned her cheekbones, lending her the untouchable air of a warrior queen.

"How do I look?" she said.

"Scary," said Jake. "What about me?"

"Undead."

The clothes were exquisite. Kas got a long indigo dress, lavishly embellished with white braid. Across the top of her head she wore a black shawl inlaid with strips of silver. Jake got a pair of baggy green trousers, a blue turban, and a white robe that reached all the way down to his knees. For Paaté there was an orange cassock and a floppy black and white beret.

"Almost there," said Yakuuba Sor. "Somebody fetch Princess Kadija an amber ring and an armful of silver bracelets. Paaté, you will need a three-stringed lute. And give Ali a sword. No self-respecting Tuareg prince would walk unarmed in a town like Djibo."

By the time the sun rose over the camp, the disguises were complete. Outside the door of the Needle Hut came a loud whinny of anticipation.

"Time to ride!" declared Yakuuba.

The three horses waiting outside the Needle Hut were dressed to impress. They wore fine yellow saddles, embroidered red and black saddle cloths, tasseled reins, and tough goatskin stirrup leathers.

Yakuuba had chosen to ride Sheikh Ahmed's white stallion and to entrust his own horse, Silalé, to Paaté and Jake. Silalé was a black stallion with a proud head and a long arching neck. A white blaze graced his forehead and steel muscles rippled under his glossy flanks. He flattened his ears at Jake's approach and gave an angry snort.

"Mount from the left, not the right!" cried Kas. "And talk to him, tell him who you are."

Jake climbed into the saddle, and Paaté hopped on behind. Kas and Mariama were also sharing a horse, a beautiful mare with a light tan hide, black mane, and black tail.

"We're going to have to blindfold you to start with," said Paaté, "but after that we'll let you take control."

The blindfolds went on and the horses took off. Once again, Jake felt a jolt of fear and a strange lightness in his tummy.

"I've seen sacks of millet flour sit better than you!" cried Paaté behind him. "Use the stirrups!"

It was disorienting trying to ride blind, but eventually Jake found a rhythm. He learned to put his weight on the stirrups as Silalé's shoulders swung down, and to rise slightly in the saddle when the shoulders rose again.

Paaté was as good as his word. After twenty minutes of trotting and walking he let Jake remove the blindfold and take the reins himself. "Put your hands like this," he said. "Imagine you are holding two goblets of Mariama's mango wine."

Jake kept a light pressure on Silalé's mouth and trotted gently, rising and falling with the stallion's gait. Over the crest of a dune they went, and down onto a great plain that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Beogo was right about the danger,
thought Jake.
This vast flat arena would be a great location for an apocalypse.

Silalé must have felt it too, because he was throwing his head from side to side and champing on his bit. Jake glanced at Kas and Mariama. He saw Kas relax her grip on the reins and give the horse its head, and immediately the mare shot off across the plain with a beautiful racing stride. The mare was like the bottom of a wave, pitching violently to and fro, with Kas and Mariama as the quiet crest. Smooth and elegant, they ebbed and flowed, indigo dresses flying in their wake.

"
Mo buraa maa yahde fuu taa bure collaare,
" Yakuuba shouted to Jake. "If someone is slower than you, don't let them make more dust than you."

"What do you mean?"

"Silalé is a matchless creature, the fastest horse in the Sahara. Are you really going to let your sister and Mariama beat you on that old nag?"

Jake summoned his courage and spurred the stallion into a fierce gallop. Silalé sprang forward, his great spirit finally unleashed. As he accelerated, the plain slid away beneath them in a dizzying blur, dry earth crackling under the pounding of his hooves. Camel grass flashed by. Spume flakes flew from Silalé's mouth. Paaté whooped and punched the air. Already they were gaining on the girls.

Jake was no jockey. All he could do was hold on tight to the front piece of the saddle and roll with the savage motion of the horse. Desert wind blew hot against his face. Intoxicating power and joy raged beneath him.

Neck and neck, stride by stride the horses lunged forward, with first one and then another surging ahead. A Tuareg prince and princess, a celebrity sheikh, and a minstrel—galloping together, they made a very impressive traveling party. The three steeds ran to the limit of their energy and then at last slowed down, staggering, heavy, and dripping with sweat.

"Djibo straight ahead," said Paaté. "Look, there's the phone tower."

Jake strained his eyes and was just able to make out the slender tower. He took his phone from his money belt, and sure enough, there was one bar of network coverage, then two, then three.

"Kas!" he cried. "I've got a signal!" He took both reins in his right hand and used his left to dial the embassy. Dad was a morning person and was sure to be up by now. In fact, he was probably finding it difficult to sleep at all. Sure enough, Mr. Knight answered the phone after only one ring.

"Dad!" cried Jake. "It's me."

The white stallion came cantering up, and Yakuuba snatched the phone out of his hand. "No phone calls," said the outlaw. "I have learned not to trust telephones."

"That was my father," said Jake. "I was going to let him know what's happening. I was going to tell him that you were not responsible for our kidnapping."

"He would not have believed you," said Yakuuba. "This afternoon I will meet your father face to face, and then he will believe."

Dexter!
" Mr. Knight knocked on the door of the spare room. "Wake up! Wake up, I tell you."

Dexter opened the door in his boxer shorts. He was bleary-eyed and his face was framed by greasy curls. Mr. Knight was shocked to see there were three cruel diagonal scars across his chest.

"What do you want?" said Dexter.

"I'm sorry," said the ambassador. "I didn't mean to stare. But are those—?"

"Turkmenistan, yes. And I have learned my lesson."

"Jake phoned."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing. Sor must have taken the phone off him."

"Pity." The MI6 officer yawned and rubbed his unshaven chin.

"The point is, Dexter, the phone is back in range of a tower. We have a fix."

"Excellent." There it was again, that gleam of fear in the man's eyes.

"I have already told Commissioner Beogo the news," said Mr. Knight. "He is sending a driver to pick you up."

Dexter darted back into his room, grabbed his beetle tin, and opened the lid a fraction. "Xena, my beauty, we have a fix, which means your time has come. Today you will assist in the disincentivization of Yakuuba Sor."

"That is secondary," said Mr. Knight. "Your primary objective, remember, is the rescue of my children."

"Rescue," murmured Dexter. "Of course."

A horn sounded outside the gate.

"There's your driver," said Mr. Knight. "I suggest you put some clothes on."

Nearly
there!" shouted Paaté.

"Faster!" cried Yakuuba Sor. "There is only one bus every day, and we must not miss it!"

Jake spurred his horse and led the charge along a sandy track. On either side the fields flashed by, interspersed with clusters of dome-shaped dwellings. The sun shone on Jake's face and the air blew deep into his lungs, but he was still angry about his phone. How dare Yakuuba snatch it off him like that? What was so bad about letting Dad know they were on their way home?

The more Jake thought about it, the less he trusted Sor. Even if he was not a kidnapper, he was still an outlaw.
Outlaws are thieves and murderers, and there is not a speck of cool in any of them.

In front of them loomed a metal water tower and a
WELCOME TO DJIBO
sign. Beyond that a vast herd of cows milled about.

"Customs post," said Yakuuba, slowing to a trot. "They're counting cows."

"Why?"

"There is a government tax on all movement of livestock. Yesterday was market day, when rich traders come to Djibo to buy cows. Today those rich traders will employ poor cattle herders to walk the cows to Ouagadougou."

"They walk all the way from here to Ouaga? How long does that take?"

"Eight days," said Yakuuba. "I should know—I used to do it for a living. Every alternate Thursday I'd be right here at the cow count, waiting to set off on another one-hundred-fifty-mile walk."

Jake looked at the cows with their crescent horns, humped backs, and scrawny rib cages. They were sickly specimens, and he wondered how many of them would survive the journey to Ouagadougou.

The closer they got to the marketplace at the center of the town, the busier the streets became. Camels lurched past carrying piles of straw mats and other wares. Women sat outside their houses selling milk or
nyiiri
or fried millet pancakes. A gaggle of small children ran alongside the horses shouting, "
Cadeau, cadeau!
" Sor threw a handful of coins, which the children gathered up, shrieking and giggling.