two walked out through a side door into a courtyard lit by wall sconces and soothed by the splashing noises of many fountains.
He slipped his arm through the big man's as they walked.
"We all wonder how you obtain your merchandise in such an arid region," he said. "In the mountains and deserts and jungle, it must be difficult."
Saldan disengaged his arm from the other's.
"That's my business," he said shortly. "You'd better tell your men I'll have another shipment ready for you in a month's time-at the dark of the moon."
Saldan paused and looked long into the Prince's eyes. He leaned forward slightly and the Prince recoiled, even his iron will subdued at the purpose in the other's gaze.
"Remember, Your Highness," the big man said with great emphasis. "My business is my business. I want no one spying on me when I leave. No one knows who I am and where I go-and live. My identity and purpose in life are my business, too."
"Certainly, my friend," said the Prince, glancing round thoughtfully in the early dawn light. "As you say."
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He saluted Saldan in the Arab fashion. The big man bowed over his hand once more and was then gone like a shadow through the archway of the court. A few moments later the clatter of horses' hooves sounded in the outer courtyard. Scum walked to the arch and watched silently as Saldan and Zadok spurred their horses out into the growing dawn.
An old man, a trusted confidant of the Prince, sidled up to his side.
"Who is he, sire?" he whispered. "Where does he go and how does he obtain slaves in such quantity?"
The Prince shrugged. He stood, still as the dawn itself, with his cloak wrapped around him to keep off the dew.
"Who knows, Ali," he said. "As long as he brings us gold, who cares?"
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CHAPTER 2
JUNGLE PATROL
A scarlet jeep bounced down the jungle trail and skidded dangerously on two wheels. Tim Ricketts, spinning the wheel, desperately hoping to keep the vehicle upright, inwardly winced. Colonel John Weeks, local commander of the Jungle Patrol, tightened his mouth round the stem of his pipe and grinned inwardly. Ricketts was one of his newest officers, but a likable youngster and one ever ready to show off.
The colonel only hoped he wouldn't overdo it.
The jeep shot through the white stone archway of Masara, Jungle Patrol post Number Eight, and skidded to a halt in front of the main building.
Ricketts got out and saluted the colonel. His eyes anxiously searched his superior officer's face.
"Next time try to keep a bigger percentage of the wheels on the ground," Weeks told the youngster gently.
He suppressed a grin as he ran up the steps, across the balcony, and into the first-floor suite where he had his office. Big rotary fans in the ceiling redistributed the stale air,
"I'd like a word with you, Tim," he said as the young officer paused on the landing. He ushered him into his office and closed the door. Ricketts sat down nervously opposite the colonel, who slumped at his desk looking in the center drawer for his pipe cleaner. The next three minutes were occupied in ferociously cleaning it out and relighting. When he had tamped the tobacco down to his satisfaction with a square, stubby finger, the colonel gave a sigh of satisfaction and sat back behind the desk. Wreaths of blue, fragrant smoke started fumigating the gnat population.
"It's all right, Tim" he told the somewhat apprehensive figure in front of him. "I'm not dissatisfied with your work. 1 called you up here for a purpose. I've got a job for you."
He stabbed with his pipe over his shoulder, down at the inner courtyard of the headquarters.
"Tell me what you see down there."
Ricketts crossed to his side and looked downward. He saw two tough-looking men, one squat and bald, the other dark-haired and about fifteen years younger. They sat manacled together on a bench on the bare stone floor. Opposite them, a member of the Jungle Patrol stood guard with a loaded rifle.
Ricketts frowned at the