Under Cover of Darkness (19 page)

“It's what you get for being competent, old chum,” Percival said, trying to soothe his friend. “And having a willingness to charge into the fray when no one else will. Admit it, you've always enjoyed a challenge.”

Lawrence frowned. “Not one of this type. I'd almost rather return to Cairo and spend the rest of the war bored to death in the map department. I wanted action, but not like this.”

“Drawing maps of terrain in Cairo would be a waste of your extraordinary talents.”

Lawrence looked hard at his schoolmate, his own analytical ability making an odd connection. “Percy,” he said slowly, pointing a long index finger, “did you plan my posting to Cairo, then set up my appointment as adviser to Feisal?”

“Not entirely.”

“What do you mean?”

“The British war effort would have been mad not to post a man like you in Cairo, or ignore you for the Arab Bureau. I merely suggested your name at a likely moment in a certain military someone's ear during a dinner soirée. I also gave my highest recommendation when another general questioned me about you some time later.”

“So, you were in the right place at the right time to determine my destiny.” Shaking his head, Lawrence looked distressed. Tension built again as he stared at Percival. He opened his mouth to retort, then laughed as a mercurial thought changed his mood. “I should have bloody well known you stirred that pot. It all happened too fast and too thoroughly to believe that someone's hand wasn't pushing somewhere.” He glanced upward at the lookout again, answered a question in Arabic from one of the tribesmen, then switched back to English. “Your timing is excellent, by the way. The train will get here within the half hour.”

“Hopefully, it will offer important information for both of us.” Percival kept tiptoeing between the mundane world and the mystical, searching for a plausible explanation to give Lawrence an inkling without revealing too much. “You know, you're assisting the fight on two fronts.”

“What?” Lawrence's penetrating eyes probed Percival's face.

“Trust me,” he said, the seriousness evident in his voice. “There's much more going on than you think.”

“So, the odd marks on the dead Turks are part of this second front?”

“I'm not certain yet,” Percival repeated. “But I suspect that's true.”

“I'm quite worried.” Lawrence's tone warned Percival to listen. “If the same strange thing starts happening to the Arabs, Grand Sharif Hussein's revolt could be in complete disorder in a matter of days. I doubt even Feisal could hold them together if word got out. The tribesmen are bad enough as it is. When they get what they think is enough booty, or we haven't won decisive victories in three or four fights, they disappear like summer clouds and go home.” He shook his head. “It's a completely different mind here, one most Europeans don't understand. There are no contracts for two-year involvements, or dedication to a national cause. These people are loyal only to their tribes and the sharifs who lead them. Feisal lost more than half of his army earlier this year just because many nomads decided their raids weren't successful.”

Percival appreciated his passionate tone. It was no surprise that Lawrence had moved at least one or two of his superior officers and Prince Feisal to listen to his assessments. It was also no surprise that Lawrence had been assigned to ascertain which of Grand Sharif Hussein's four sons was ready to shoulder the responsibility of leading the Arab Revolt. After meeting them all, Lawrence had endorsed Feisal.

“We have to keep the Arabian front active, attacking with these people's strengths and minimizing their shortcomings,” Lawrence continued. “If the defense here collapses, we not only lose the Levant, but this entire side of the world.”

Percival smiled at his fervor. “You're more a part of this fight than most Arabs.”

“Someone has to be. I seem the only consistent advocate they have outside of Prince Feisal and Grand Sharif Hussein.”

I understand exactly how you feel, old chum,
Percival thought.
It's not easy being a force of one.

From the top of the ridge, a Bedouin called out to Lawrence. He replied in Arabic, then faced Percival again, continuing in the same language.

“Want to have some fun?” he asked. “We can always use a hand with the explosives. If you've had experience, of course.”

“I have,” Percival smiled. “Thought you'd never ask. What have we in resources?”

“Several mule packs of dynamite, plus blasting caps. A few mines and remote triggers. Camel and mule teams to pull down the telegraph poles and wires, after we've appointed someone to ascend and yank apart the important bits. I've taught several of these men to do just that recently.” Lawrence waved his hand at the surrounding tribesmen. “And some of the finest marksmen in Arabia, handpicked from Feisal's top rifles. These Juheina are particularly good.”

The adulation raised a cheer from half the tribesmen. Others glowered. “And the Beni Salem are superior shots.” A roar came from those who'd been frowning a moment before, making the first group subside into grumbles.

“I take it the trains come armed?”

“Always,” Lawrence nodded. “Two or three small guns, and usually dozens of soldiers with rifles and extra ammunition. How dull things would be if they weren't.”

“Right.” Percival stepped back while Lawrence gave orders.

“Ahmad, Gasim, choose your crack shots. I want them up here to pick off as many soldiers on the train as they can. Hold your fire until the mines go off, then choose targets with care, shooting as soon as the locomotive derails and the dust cloud allows sight. Aim for the artillery gunners first. Shoot at the same time, so several enemies fall together. That always makes a better impression.

“We'll lay a couple of mines under the front and back wheels of the locomotive, ensuring that the entire motivating force, as well as a majority of the train behind it, derails. Turkish soldiers still alive will be in confusion then. We can take cover behind that dune,” he pointed to a mound below, halfway between the tracks and the rock where they stood, “and deal with the rest at our leisure.”

The excited nomads followed his orders. In minutes a line of riflemen, divided into Beni Salem and Juheina, lay prone in firing positions across the top of the rock, padded against heat by rugs. They tested their sights on the railroad, challenging each other's prowess. The rest of the Arabs, led by Lawrence and Percival, made their careful way down the crag to the sand.

Lawrence directed the unpacking and division of explosives. He cradled one mine as Percival picked up and inspected another. “I thought I'd grow up enough by now to stop playing with fire crackers,” he teased in English.

“Haunted by our evil pasts,” replied Percival in the same language. “Where were you thinking of setting these? And approximately how long are these Turkish locomotives, from camel-catcher to the back wheels?”

Lawrence grinned at his joke. “Come on, I'll show you.”

Lawrence led the way around the foot of the recumbent stone, Percival at his elbow. The tribesmen followed, their callused bare feet whispering through hot sand. Their dark eyes glinted with the promise of adventure and riches.

“Does your cadre always trail you with such devotion?” Percival asked.

Lawrence tossed a twisted smile over one shoulder. “For the promise of treasure, they'd follow me to the gates of hell.”

“Not farther?”

“I haven't tested them beyond that yet.”

The sun cooked the sand without mercy. Heat waves shuddered on either side of the shining rails, and the omnipresent dust overrode all scents except sweat. The Turkish train puffed toward them, its engine appearing to swim along the desert. Percival listened as Lawrence described the locomotive's length, then arbitrarily picked a mile-marker, its total measured from Damascus, at which to bury the first mine. Percival paced off the distance estimated by his friend, knowing Lawrence had a keen eye for size and length, honed by years of map making and gauging the sizes of walls and floors while working at the Hittite archaeological dig at Car chemish, in northern Syria. His reckoning would be almost as accurate as measuring the locomotive with a yard stick.

Percival dug into the coarse sand between the timbers, appreciating the unyielding surface. The hard grains abraded his fingers. With a fundament such as this supporting it, his explosive would not shift as the approaching train vibrated the rail bed.

Lawrence rose from his task before Percival did, and walked over to observe his friend's work. He squatted to double-check the second mine.

“Does it pass?” asked Percival.

Lawrence studied the explosive connected to wires with a critical eye. “A small adjustment here, and it should. Now we hide it.” They scooped coarse sand over the mine until it looked like part of the rail bed, then covered the wires leading back to the plungers behind the dune. When they stood, dust wafted from their robes.

“We've tracked through that area enough that the Turks will notice,” Lawrence said, pointing to the sand between the railroad and the mound. “I think we should do more.”

“Walk the men and camels through it,” nodded Percival. “Good thought.”

Lawrence called to his tribesmen. While he and Percival planted the explosives, they had pulled down the telegraph wires and poles with the help of camels, dragging the debris out of sight around the hip of the rock. The nomads fetched their mounts and turned the trampling into a game, shuffling across their own footprints followed by their camels. When they finished, the sand between the railway and the dune revealed only that it had been churned by many feet going multiple directions.

Lawrence nodded in satisfaction. “Let's get behind our dune, Percy. That train's getting close.” His voice softened. “I hope it has some odd victims you can look at somewhere within.”

“Ah. Thanks for reminding me.” Percival doffed his head cloth and fished for something beneath his clothing. The sun beat on his unprotected head and neck. “One of the reasons I came here was to give you this. Wear it at all times next to your skin. Never take it off for any reason. Don't let anyone touch it. Above all, don't lose it.”

He held out his hand. On it sparkled a silver chain. A fat oval of lapis lazuli hung from it, gleaming in the sunlight. The stone was carved into a rough heart shape, and showed an engraving of a vulture-headed figure holding a spear in one hand and a serpent in the other, flanked by Egyptian hieroglyphs.

“Lovely gift,” Lawrence said as he took the charm and fingered it, studying the jewel. “It's cool—unusual in this climate. I read ‘truth' and ‘strength' here. Who's the figure? I don't recognize it.” Looking up after draping the chain around his neck, he saw something in Percival's expression. “It has occult properties, I assume.”

“It's powerful protection,” Percival replied. “That's the old Egyptian heart symbol. Found it in my collection. It's now ritually tied to your spirit. I thought the strength of Abrasax, also known as Abraxas, might help protect you. I repeat: do not ever take off that talisman, nor allow anyone else to touch it.”

“Right. Thank you.” Lawrence buried the stone in his robes. “You'll have to tell me more about it later. Ah, our target's almost within range.” He replaced his head cloth and its golden rope, then motioned with an imperative hand for the tribesmen to crouch behind the dune.

The locomotive rolled toward them, dragging nine cars along a curve taking it around the volcanic pinnacle. The middle one carried two small field artillery guns pointed in opposite directions, with piles of ammunition, and crews of four men each. Two flat beds carried nervous horses and mules meant as replacement mounts for Turkish soldiers at depots up the line. Others were open, mounded with canvas-wrapped bundles. One car was full of soldiers, elbows and heads hanging out glassless windows to catch the breeze. The other enclosed wagon promised staples such as coffee, sugar, and flour.

“A fat haul, if we can stop it,” murmured Lawrence.

“We'll stop it,” returned Percival.

Lawrence teased, “You're truly a scimitar of the desert.”

“No, just its shadow. Old chum, what I'm about to do must remain between us. This, and my presence here, must never surface in the book you intend to write.”

His friend looked surprised. “How do you know about . . . ?” Then he stopped, obviously recalling Percival's extraordinary talents. “Of course not, old boy. Any knowledge you offer becomes my own. And whatever you do stays in here.” He tapped his temple.

“Your tribesmen shouldn't see this.” Lawrence moved his men away from the Englishmen in the center, then gave orders for the Juheina and the Beni Salem to keep eyes on the train.

Turning his back to the dune, Percival detached a leather pouch from his belt and opened its brass catch.

Lawrence inhaled sharply, peering inside. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes.” Percival gently lifted out a small alabaster ca nopic jar surmounted by a beautifully carved and painted head of Anubis. Muttering an incantation, he opened it, took his spectacles off, folded them and put them in the pouch, then pinched a bit of pale powder from the jar. Turning his face upward, he opened his left eye wide, dropped in the dust, and closed both eyes.

“That always hurts,” he sighed. By feel, he hooked out his lenses with a finger, put the jar away with great care, and reattached the pouch to his belt.

“What in heaven's name did you do?” Lawrence whispered.

Percival smiled, faced his friend, and opened both eyes. Lawrence stared, amazed.