Directly ahead of them the slavers’ Unimog was parked on the edge of the village. Eight children were hunkered down in a row on the desert side of the vehicle, out of sight of the village. One of the children was Khalid. Alex had picked him out immediately, even without the binoculars. Khalid’s Arab looks and clean gandourah made him stand out from the others, who were all West Africans, dressed in crumpled, filthy clothes. There were both girls and boys, most aged between eight and twelve, Alex estimated, although one little girl looked as young as five.
‘Nigerians, I think,’ whispered Li, gazing at the bedraggled group. ‘Maybe Ivory Coast. They’ve travelled a long way.’
There were two men guarding the children, and a tall, rangy dog with yellow eyes was lying in the shade under the truck with its tongue lolling from its mouth. One of the men turned to lift a girba from the side of the Unimog and Alex groaned as he saw the Kalashnikov slung across the man’s back.
‘Bad news,’ he muttered. ‘They’re armed.’
The man opened the top of the goatskin girba and poured some of the water into his mouth while the children watched thirstily. Then he poured water for the other guard. The dog scrabbled out from under the truck, wagging its tail eagerly and the man poured a stream of water into the creature’s open mouth. Much of the water splashed into the sand in front of the children. The little girl next to Khalid began to cry with thirst and he put a comforting arm around her shoulders. Finally, the guard turned and casually ran the upturned girba along the row of children. Quickly, they held out their cupped hands to catch their share of the sparkling stream of water, then they drank thirstily and licked their palms, catching every last drop.
‘Oh, this is evil!’ fumed Li. ‘We have to do something!’
‘It’s not going to be that easy,’ muttered Alex as he spotted the second guard’s Kalashnikov propped against the wheel of the Unimog.
‘Where’s the Scorpion?’ asked Amber, her sharp eyes noting that neither of the men at the Unimog had a scorpion tattoo on his arm.
‘Good question,’ said Alex.
He panned the binoculars in a slow arc, trying to spot the leader of the traffickers. The village behind the Unimog was nothing more than a ramshackle cluster of mud-brick houses that had seen better days. Many of them were derelict and abandoned. The houses were built so close together that the narrow, winding alleys between them were like dark tunnels. The oasis on the edge of the village was plainly failing after the years of drought in the Sahara. The network of irrigation ditches was dry and crumbling. There was still an inner ring of date palms growing around the well, but the skeletal remains of a much bigger palmery formed a sombre outer ring. There was a sandy square with a few mange-ridden camels gathered around a rusty water tank, and that was it.
As Alex studied the village, he saw a flurry of movement in the doorway of one of the houses. A tall, good-looking Arab man emerged from the house. He was wearing a layered headcloth to protect his head and neck from the sun, but that was his only concession to desert clothing. The rest of his outfit was right out of a bad Western. His cowboy boots were highly polished, his jeans were skin-tight and the sleeves of his checked shirt were rolled up to the elbow.
‘Got him,’ grunted Alex as he spotted the scorpion tattoo on the man’s left forearm. The Scorpion strolled towards the Unimog and Alex checked him for weapons. He was not carrying a gun or a rifle, but a large knife in a tooled leather sheath hung from his belt.
Two boys followed the Scorpion from the house. The older one, a boy of about ten, held his head high and did not look back as he walked away. He was holding the hand of a younger boy. His little brother was crying and dragging his feet, looking back at the woman who stood in the doorway with tears streaming down her
‘Nigerians, I think,’ whispered Li, gazing at the bedraggled group. ‘Maybe Ivory Coast. They’ve travelled a long way.’
There were two men guarding the children, and a tall, rangy dog with yellow eyes was lying in the shade under the truck with its tongue lolling from its mouth. One of the men turned to lift a girba from the side of the Unimog and Alex groaned as he saw the Kalashnikov slung across the man’s back.
‘Bad news,’ he muttered. ‘They’re armed.’
The man opened the top of the goatskin girba and poured some of the water into his mouth while the children watched thirstily. Then he poured water for the other guard. The dog scrabbled out from under the truck, wagging its tail eagerly and the man poured a stream of water into the creature’s open mouth. Much of the water splashed into the sand in front of the children. The little girl next to Khalid began to cry with thirst and he put a comforting arm around her shoulders. Finally, the guard turned and casually ran the upturned girba along the row of children. Quickly, they held out their cupped hands to catch their share of the sparkling stream of water, then they drank thirstily and licked their palms, catching every last drop.
‘Oh, this is evil!’ fumed Li. ‘We have to do something!’
‘It’s not going to be that easy,’ muttered Alex as he spotted the second guard’s Kalashnikov propped against the wheel of the Unimog.
‘Where’s the Scorpion?’ asked Amber, her sharp eyes noting that neither of the men at the Unimog had a scorpion tattoo on his arm.
‘Good question,’ said Alex.
He panned the binoculars in a slow arc, trying to spot the leader of the traffickers. The village behind the Unimog was nothing more than a ramshackle cluster of mud-brick houses that had seen better days. Many of them were derelict and abandoned. The houses were built so close together that the narrow, winding alleys between them were like dark tunnels. The oasis on the edge of the village was plainly failing after the years of drought in the Sahara. The network of irrigation ditches was dry and crumbling. There was still an inner ring of date palms growing around the well, but the skeletal remains of a much bigger palmery formed a sombre outer ring. There was a sandy square with a few mange-ridden camels gathered around a rusty water tank, and that was it.
As Alex studied the village, he saw a flurry of movement in the doorway of one of the houses. A tall, good-looking Arab man emerged from the house. He was wearing a layered headcloth to protect his head and neck from the sun, but that was his only concession to desert clothing. The rest of his outfit was right out of a bad Western. His cowboy boots were highly polished, his jeans were skin-tight and the sleeves of his checked shirt were rolled up to the elbow.
‘Got him,’ grunted Alex as he spotted the scorpion tattoo on the man’s left forearm. The Scorpion strolled towards the Unimog and Alex checked him for weapons. He was not carrying a gun or a rifle, but a large knife in a tooled leather sheath hung from his belt.
Two boys followed the Scorpion from the house. The older one, a boy of about ten, held his head high and did not look back as he walked away. He was holding the hand of a younger boy. His little brother was crying and dragging his feet, looking back at the woman who stood in the doorway with tears streaming down her
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