The Killing Ground by Jack Higgins Page B

Jasmine saw it first and cried out and there was a general disturbance, but no sign of flames, just that heavy black plume of smoke.
    Sara, who’d dozed off again, came awake with a start to hear him say,
    “Calm down, all of you.”
    He switched off the engine and turned on the extinguisher for the port engine. Spray mingled with the smoke, but there were still no flames. “I think I know what it is. The oil seals have gone, leaking oil over the hot engine and creating all that black smoke. Everybody fasten their seat belts and we’ll go down.” He said to Sara, “Follow Grant’s line on the map. We must be close to the oasis at Fuad and Saint Anthony’s Well.”
    He went down fast, the black plume of smoke flaring out from the wing, and Sara said calmly, “Over there on the right,” and she pointed through the windscreen.

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    “Good girl.”
    They went down lower and lower until they were only a few hundred feet above the sand, and the oasis seemed to be coming toward them fast.
    Sara saw a clump of palm trees, a small, flat-roofed building to go with it, the clearly defined line of the road marked by the feet of countless travelers over the centuries.
    There was a large pool of water, six horses drinking from it, Bedouins in robes beside a cooking fire gazing up, hands raised to shade their eyes from the sun.
    Of further interest was a man in black robes, his wrists tied above him as he hung from a pole beside the house.
    Hussein dropped the Hawk down on the road and rolled to a halt some distance from the oasis. He said to his three men, “Out you go. Rifles at the ready.”
    One of the men by the pool was holding a riding whip. He turned as if ignoring them and slashed it across the monk’s back. The monk’s robe had slipped from his shoulders and they were already bloody.
    Sara said, “They can’t do that, he’s a priest.”
    “Calm yourself.” Hussein reached for his phone, which rang as his men disembarked, and discovered it was the Broker. “Good,” Hussein said. “I was hoping you’d be available.” He explained the situation with the plane and detailed their position.
    “I’ll contact the airport at Hazar and arrange a recovery,” said the Broker. “Probably by helicopter. I’ll call you back when I know more.”
    Hussein said, “Let’s get moving, ladies.” He smiled at Sara. “Pass me my jacket, will you?”
    As she handed it to him, she saw the maker’s label inside and it said Armani, and she thought it was the most beautiful jacket she’d ever seen and suited him completely.
    “Be ready for anything, boys,” he said. “Some bad bastards here, I think. Remember your blood, Rashid, before anything else.”
    “As one, cousin, we are with you,” Khazid said, and they started forward, Hussein with Jasmine on one arm and Sara on the other.

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    T H E S I X M E N by the pool watched them approach, cradling their rifles, wearing black robes and black-and-white head scarves. The leader, tall and bearded, waited, the whip dangling from his right hand.
    “And who have we here?” he demanded.
    “Who asks?” Hussein asked, and moved to the right where a pole pro-truded from a wooden fence, and sat on it.
    “Mind your manners, pretty boy,” the man said. “I am Ali ben Levi.
    I say who comes and goes here. I claim the well and this one cannot gain-say me.”
    He turned and slashed the priest across the shoulders again, and Sara cried out, “No.”
    “Learn your place, girl. He is only a Christian.”
    “And I am Christian, too,” she said in Arabic. “Would you lash me?”
    She ran at him, and he grabbed her wrist and laughed. “To do so would give me great pleasure.” He flung her to the ground and raised the whip, and Hussein’s hand fastened on the Colt .25 in the ankle holster and he drew it and fired, catching ben Levi between the eyes, the hollow-point cartridge propelling him backward into the pool and