Sahara (Dirk Pitt 11)

"A pleasure, Colonel," said Giordino with a cocky smile. "Call on us anytime."

"I hope they give you a medal," said Pitt, "and promote you to General. No man deserves it more."

Levant surveyed the devastation as if searching for something, perhaps envisioning the men of his command who were still buried under the rubble. "I hope the sacrifices endured by both sides were worth the terrible price in lives."

Pitt shrugged heavily. "Death is paid for by grief and measured only by the depth of the grave."

Pembroke-Smythe, head high, glorious disdain engraved on his handsome face, was the last to board. "Bloody good sport," he said. "We must all get together and do it again some time,"

"We can hold a reunion," muttered Giordino sarcastically.

"If we ever meet in London," said Pembroke-Smythe, unperturbed, "the Dom Perignon is on me. In fact, I'll introduce you to some marvelous girls who oddly find Americans appealing."

"Will we get a ride in your Bentley?" asked Pitt.

"How did you know I drove a Bentley?" replied Pembroke-Smythe in mild surprise.

Pitt grinned. "Somehow it fit."

They turned away without a backward look as the helicopter carrying the last of the UN Tactical Team soared across the desert toward Mauritania and safety. A young black lieutenant trotted across their path and waved them to a stop.

"Pardon me, Mr. Pitt, Mr. Giordino?"

Pitt nodded. "That's us."

"Colonel Hargrove wants you over at the Malian headquarters across the railroad track."

Giordino knew better than to offer Pitt a shoulder as his friend limped across the sand, teeth gritted against the pain shooting from his thigh. The opaline eyes never ceased to gleam with determination from a gaunt face partly covered by a bandage.

The tents making up Kazim's former field headquarters bore desert camouflage markings but were shaped more like stage settings from a production of Kismet. Colonel Hargrove was in the main tent leaning over a table, studying Kazim's military communication codes when they walked inside. A stub of a cigar was pushed between his lips.

Without greeting, he asked, "Do either of you by chance know what Zateb Kazim looks like?"

"We've met him," answered Pitt.

"Could you identify him?"

"Probably."

Hargrove straightened and moved through the tent's opening. "Out here." He led them across a short stretch of level ground to a bullet-riddled car. He removed the cigar and spit in the sand. "Recognize any of these clowns?"

Pitt leaned into the interior of the car. Already hordes of flies were swarming on the blood-coated bodies. He glanced at Giordino who was peering in from the other side. Giordino simply nodded.

Pitt turned to Hargrove. "The one in the middle is the late General Zateb Kazim."

"You're sure," Hargrove demanded.

"Positive," Pitt said firmly.

"And the others must be high-ranking members of his staff," added Giordino.

"Congratulations, Colonel. Now all you have to do is inform the Malian government that you have the General in your custody and are holding him as hostage to ensure the safe return of your force to Mauritania."

Hargrove stared at Pitt. "But the man is a corpse."

"So who's to know? Certainly not his subordinates in the Malian security forces."

Hargrove dropped his cigar and ground it into the sand. He looked at the several hundred survivors of Kazim's assault force that were now massed in a large circle and guarded by his American Rangers. "I see no reason why it won't work. I'll have my intelligence officer open communications while we wind up the evacuations."