Sahara Adventure Series

11. REVENGE OF THE SABRE-2

The men look at the South African with questions in their eyes, and this time, with much more interest than when they have asked him about his evening out with Julie Lefevre.

“In their midst?” Fritz Mundt enquires, his eyes showing disbelief. “When were you near the border of Libya in the ranks of the Arabs?”

“When I was looking for my brother.” Teuns Stegmann’s answer is short and to the point.

Suddenly, everybody is silent and stares at the tall, blonde man. Once, he had told them about his brother, but he had never said much about it.

“That little man is a member of the nomadic Raff tribe. They roam the southern desolation of the Sahara, near the border of Libya. They are a bad bunch and very cruel.”

“I never realized we have a traveler in our ranks,” Petacci says softly. “You have never told us much about your brother.”

Teuns moves his hands on the table and says. “Because of my brother, I have joined the French Foreign Legion.” Tonight, he feels the urge to say something more about the case.

“Your brother?” Podolski asks, as he has never heard Teuns’ story before.

“During the Second World War, my brother had been a fighter pilot. He was shot down in the southern part of the desert, and after that, he started walking, looking for help. Later, I established he had landed up between the nomadic Arabs, as he had approached them for help. They had simply murdered him, but I do not know if it was the Raffs who had killed him. There are indications that he had reached an area further to the north. That is the reason why I had temporarily given up my South African wine farm and joined the French Foreign Legion.”

“So basically, you are a crusader?” Podolski asks.

“You can call it that if you want to,” the South African answers calmly.

“Have you heard anything about your brother after that?” Petacci asks.

“There are strong indications that he had been murdered, but I have never accepted it as final. I still have hope he is alive and that he is kept prisoner somewhere by these savages, and that is why I am in the French Foreign Legion… Partly to try and find my brother if he is still alive, and partly to have my revenge on the cruel rubbish which might have murdered him…”

“We are still being watched,” Fritz Mundt says. “I am getting very sick of it.”

“Calm down, calm down,” Teuns soothes him. “This thing will very well move in one or another direction soon. The little crayfish will not just remain seated and stare at us.”

“I want to go and ask him why he keeps staring at us?” says Fritz irritably.

“Keep quiet. Keep quiet,” Podolski warns him too. “If you start anything here tonight, we will be in deep trouble, as four Arabs outnumber us to one Legion man at the very least.”

“There is another way to find out exactly what is going on,” Teuns says. “We can quickly determine if that little man is merely staring at us because he hates Legion men.” Suddenly, the South African rises.

“Where are you going now?” Jack Ritchie wants to know, but Teuns does not answer.

Slowly, he walks forward, weaving through the tables and the crowd. He had scarcely given three paces when the strange Arab, with the unusual cloak, was also on his feet. Teuns stops, and quite unobtrusively, he turns around and returns to his seat.

“What did I tell you?” the tall man asks them. “Apparently, our friend does not want me to leave this restaurant.”

“But, the feeble little bastard,” Fritz grinds his teeth. “I will go and and break his jaw.”

“It is quite an interesting phenomenon,” the sharp-witted Petacci remarks. “It is clear that yellow beak is sincerely after your blood, Stegmann.”

Teuns does not reply, but he knows it is the truth, and it causes a strange prickling inside of him. It even makes him a little bit short of breath. “Let us leave,” he suggests. “I do not like this business. In any case, I do not want trouble while on this specific leave.”

“Now that we can understand very well,” Podolski says. “If I should have had Mademoiselle Julie at my side, I would also not have wanted anything to jeopardize it.”

Mademoiselle “Do not be lighthearted, Podolski,” Jack Ritchie reprimands him. “We are all in this business together, of that I am certain.”

“In the first place, they are after Teuns’ blood,” Petacci states decisively as if it is a fact that cannot be argued.

“You sound very sure of yourself,” Podolski mocks.

“There is one very big difference between us, Podolski,” Petacci answers, bad-tempered. “I see things while you are dreaming away your time. When Stegmann had risen, I watched those yellow beaks closely. The way they had gestured, the way they had stared at him, and the way they had conversed among themselves prove only one thing. They are very interested in Stegmann, but I do not know why. Maybe Stegmann had entertained the sheik’s first wife while he had been roaming around under the Raffs.”

“It appears as if your past is catching up with you, Stegmann,” Fritz Mundt teases him. “But do not worry, mon ami. You have four loyal comrades who will support you if they plan on skinning you alive.”

mon ami. “What are we going to do?” Teuns asks uncomfortably.

“We are going to drink wine,” Fritz answers nonchalantly. “And if necessary, we will fight a path open to the door. My hands are itching tonight to strike down a couple of yellow beaks.”

Petacci informs them that they are still being watched and discussed. “That little man with the strange garment looks like a rat without food for a long time. If he tells me good morning, I will see if the sun shines.”

“The waiter is on his way over here to come and tell us something,” Petacci says, who had been watching everything much more closely than the others. “He was at that table just now and is on his way over here.”

The Arab waiter stops alongside their table. He is very serious and, at the same time, also very humble. He looks at every one of them alternately, a question in his dark eyes.

Fritz Mundt’s eyes are narrow and threatening, his breathing deep.

“Tread carefully, Fritz.” Teuns cautions him once more, and the big German struggles to stay seated.

“Legionnaire Stegmann, I am looking for legionnaire Stegmann,” the waiter announces nervously.

“I am legionnaire Stegmann,” Teuns answers brusquely.

“Someone at the other table would like to speak to the legionnaire,” the waiter says. “He asks if the legionnaire does not want to join him for a glass of wine.”

“Tell him to go to hell,” Fritz answers, even before Teuns can utter a word.

“Tell him to go and drink from a camel,” Podolski jokes, and roars with laughter.

Teuns looks up at the Arab. “What does he want to talk about?” the South African asks.

The waiter merely shrugs. “I do not know, mon ami,” he says with familiarity. “He just told me it is very important.”

mon ami, “Maybe he wants to sell dates?” Jack Ritchie asks disdainfully.

The waiter shrugs his narrow shoulders again.

“Go and tell him that he can come over here if he wants to speak to me. I will not be going after him.” Teuns’ words are harsh and cold. “Tell him the day must still be born that I would follow a Raff…”

The waiter nods and walks off. He bends down over the table from where the men are closely surveyed. He speaks to the little Arab with the strange cloak.

The Legion men ignore them further and refill their glasses. Jack Ritchie sings a song about dreams that cannot come true, love that cannot be attained, and lost ideals far from the past.

They are so engrossed in the song that they never even notices the approach of the little Arab with the blue cloak. Only when he is right beside their table do they look up quickly. The men immediately stop singing, and everybody stares at the man. He is even uglier up close. The pockmarks on his face are deep and horrible. Somewhere, he must have gotten a cut with a sabre across his left eye, as an ugly scar is lying across it, which deforms it terribly. He gazes at Teuns, and in his eyes is something like friendliness but an intrusive, sly friendliness.

“Legionnaire Stegmann,” he says and bows deeply, his hands clasped in front of his stomach.

Teuns is particularly unfriendly towards him. “You are a Raff.”

“That is correct, mon ami,” he says in perfect French. “I come from the far-off land of the Raffs, far to the south.”

mon ami,” “What do you want?”

“Could we speak alone?” the Arab asks. “I have a important thing to tell you.”

“What you want to discuss, you can do it here,” Teuns says shortly. “These are my friends.”

“You speak very good French for a Raff,” Petacci mocks him, and the Arab smiles. He looks at the men, one after another, and there is nearly something cynical, something arrogant in his eyes.

“The Raffs are not as uneducated as many people think, mon ami,” he says much too smoothly.

mon ami,” “Say what you came here to say, and be gone from here,” Fritz Mundt orders him loudly.

An angry light flashes in the Arab’s eyes, but only for a second, and then he is the picture of friendliness again. He looks at Teuns. “Because your friend does not seem to like my presence, I will now tell you why I came,” the Raff says.

It becomes quiet at the table, and everyone looks anxiously at the Arab. He is very aware of it, and it flatters him.

He smiles haughtily and pushes his hands into the wide sleeves of his cloak.

“I was sent…” he says mysteriously.

“Sent?” Podolski asks quickly. “Sent to do what?”

“To find legionnaire Stegmann.”

“For what purpose?” Teuns enquires quickly.

“To impart some news,” the Raff says secretively.

All of them become quiet and look at him more intently.

“To bring you news about your brother, legionnaire Stegmann,” he says with authority.

Teuns rises so suddenly that his chair topples over.