Camels were dodgy, unpredictable creatures. Sometimes they hardly reacted at all, other times—like that exact moment—they became ill-mannered and angry. It roared and tossed its head. It showed its horrid yellow teeth and nipped at the flank of its nearest neighbor.
Two more gunshots snapped through the air. Linley’s camel jerked its ears toward the sound, stopping its ruckus long enough for her to get the beast under control.
Breathless, she turned to her father.
“Probably the French,” he explained. “Lord knows what they’ve come upon at this hour.”
The four camels pawed the sand, impatient as their riders contemplated whether to investigate the situation further. On one hand, it was dangerous to dally in the desert for too long. It would be hours still before they reached Rabat, and, should they be waylaid, the team did not have enough supplies to make it through the night.
But on the other hand, it would be sweet revenge indeed to watch the French get what they deserved.
The team urged their camels into a gallop, racing toward the origin of the signal. More gunshots popped in the distance. Another flare lit up the sky. The Talbot-Martin team reached the crest of a dune and pulled their animals to a skidding stop.
Below, the despicable French tangled with a band of angry Berbers. One of the automobiles lay overturned. The other was surrounded by a circle of camels and kaftan-clad riders. Terrified archaeologists clung to the crates of catalogues and artifacts while outnumbered soldiers tried in vain to defend them.
The French were no match for the Berbers—not in the desert, not in the dark.
The Talbot-Martin team slid from their camels and dropped to the sand. They lay on their bellies, just out of sight, but with a perfect view of the commotion below.
Linley shivered in her thin linen blouse. The desert was not a hospitable place, night or day. A girl could freeze to death just as easily as she could get heatstroke.
She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.
A few feet away, Archie and her father whispered to each other. Reginald Bourne, the third member of their team, slowly loaded his pistol. The camels snorted. The wind whipped up little currents of sand, stinging their eyes.
No one noticed the figure creeping toward them in the darkness.
Something reached out and grabbed Linley’s ankle. She started to kick. She stifled the urge to scream and flipped over onto her back to face the attacker, her hand reaching for the knife stashed in her boot.
“It’s me,” the shadow hissed. “Schoville.”
Linley blew out the breath she’d been holding. “Christ!”
He flopped down beside her. “I couldn’t get your attention. God knows I couldn’t make any noise. If those Frogs knew we were here, we’d be in for it, to be sure.”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“Those Frenchies,” he said, pointing down the hill. “If they caught us.”
Linley followed the direction of his finger, all the way to the besieged archeologists and the band of attackers. “Don’t tell me we are behind this.”
“Your Berber messenger ran into some very curious Frenchmen on his way to town,” he explained. “I had quite a hunch about them, and it turns out I was right.”
A misplaced gunshot rang out and a bullet thumped into the sand only a few feet from where the team lay hidden. Linley, Schoville, and the others recoiled, covering their faces.
When the moment of danger passed, he continued, “I employed a caravan of Berbers and staged an ambush. If the French government suspects the natives, they won’t come after us.”
Linley grinned. Sometimes Schoville could be brilliant. One had to be, in their line of work. The Talbot-Martin team rarely resorted to violence or bribery. They carried weapons, but only as means of protection, and never seemed to carry enough money. Instead, they relied on their ability to outsmart their adversaries. Always staying one step ahead of the game. Always slightly out of reach.
From across the sand, her father frowned. As happy as he was to get his crates back, tangling with those double-crossing French was much too risky. “The last thing we need is more trouble from the French government.”
“Don’t worry,” Schoville said, watching the Berbers disappear into a cloud of dust. “Our re-stolen crates will be on the first steamer back to England. The evidence will be long gone before anyone suspects it was us.”
CHAPTER TWO
Patrick had never heard of Rabat before he stepped off the steamship, but when one’s boat is sinking on its way to South Africa, one is glad for any spot of dry land.
“We are sorry, my lord,” the ship’s captain explained. “But it will take a few days to make the necessary repairs.”
Inhaling the pungent aromas of the open-air fish market in the height of the Moroccan mid-day sun, Patrick held his white handkerchief to his face. “You mean I am stuck here?”
“Only for a few days.”