Unbreakable Camels, MacFic, Final Chapter and Epilogue 11/24

[Lothithil]

Unbreakable Camels (a sequel to 'The Art of Smuggling Camels', also by Lothithil)

Author's Note: Like our hero MacGyver... I have a problem. I cannot ever walk away from an untold story. Here is the continuation of the tale I began with 'Smuggling Camels', and a possibly plausible version of Mac's escape from Afghanistan.
Thanks for reading and commenting!
-Lothithil

Part One
Hotfoot

Mac's Voice-over:
There's an old saying that comes to mind; 'Distance makes the heart grow fonder.' I don't think that I can remember truer words... at least not while I'm running for my life.

Traveling through this part of the world is always tricky, but when territorial disputes turn into small wars, it tends to make things a little more lively.

Thoughts of home were fond indeed, and I was a whole world away from where I wanted to be. I also would've been a lot fonder of a certain pack of Afghan terrorists-- I've never met a bunch of guys who could hold on to a grudge tighter than those boys-- if they were a little more distant. Unfortunately, they were hot on my trail... and getting hotter. And it was already hot enough here in the desert. I needed to find a place to hide, for myself and my ride.

Dingo was putting forth a fine effort but he'd been on the job as long as I had, through four deserts and six countries as we circled around and hunted for the men I had been sent to find.

We found 'em all right. And now they were about to find us.

MacGyver urged Dingo over the next dune, hoping that there would be something besides more sand on the other side. He had to do something if they were going to avoid getting caught, and the chances of that happening out in the desert were slim. He knew that they couldn't keep going like this much longer; they were both near exhaustion. Still, it wasn't in his nature to just give up.

Dingo surged over the top of the dune and then half-slid, half fell down the further slope. It was steeper than they had expected. Mac let out a yell as he tumbled off of the camel's back, rolling along at gravity's mercy while Dingo bellowed and scrambled, his long, heavy legs becoming entangled with each other.

They came to a graceless stop at the bottom of a pit. Mac bit back a cry of pain; there was a very heavy camel lying on his legs. Luckily, the sand was soft and nothing felt broken. Dingo let out a series of grunts and didn't move.

"Come on, boy," Mac groaned, pushing at his hairy hide. "Get up! If we just sit here, they're gonna find us for sure. We left tracks that a blind man could follow across this desert."

Dingo answered Mac's pleas by lifting his head and snapping his long yellow teeth at him. "You just don't care if we get caught or not, do ya?" Mac grumbled in frustration, trying to dig his legs free. "But then, not much can worry a mammal that tips the scales at three-quarters a ton. You big wooly slug!"

Mac's Voice-over:
Well, this mammal was worried!

I scrambled and strained, but I was stuck. The edges of the pit rose above my head, a sheer crumbling wall. Even if I still had possession of my legs, I doubt I could've climbed it. Dingo was gonna have a devil of a time getting out without some serious help.

Mac looked around sharply. This wasn't just a trough between the dunes... it was a pit! A great vast hole straight down into the sand and definitely not a result of natural erosion.

There came sounds from above Mac's head, up outside of the pit. For a minute Mac was sure that they'd been found. His heart fluttered in his throat. He was a sitting duck; the proverbial fish in a barrel.

The sounds grew louder, and suddenly the mouth of the pit began to shrink. Trickles of sand came cascading down into Mac's eyes. The noise succeeded in motivating Dingo to roll onto his belly and off of Mac's legs. He sighed with relief, staggering upright to keep from getting buried in the miniature landslide. To his dismay, he found that not only was the opening above getting smaller, but the pit was getting deeper, too. They were sinking—not into the sand, but into the depths of the earth!

A metal roof closed over the opening of the pit like the petals of a lotus in reverse bloom. Light was completely cut off. Mac felt around for Dingo's lead rope and catching it, spoke softly to the trembling animal, trying to keep himself from being trampled to death.

A grinding, whirring sound came from one wall of the pit, and a reddish light fell on Mac's face. A doorway that had been perfectly concealed opened, revealing a man. He was a little less tall than MacGyver was, with a fit build and a head-full of thick, wavy black hair. He was holding a lantern and a handgun.

He and Mac stared at each other for a few moments, then the man said-- in perfect English colored with a downtown Chicago accent--"What in H___'s name are you two doing down here?"

Mac's Voice-over:
Meeting someone from back home in this place-- and at this particular time-- was like walking into the Museum of Ancient Antiquities and finding the mummy of Tutankhamun wearing my L.A. Kings Hockey jersey!

I wanted to laugh with relief, but I wasn't sure that what I saw was real. The gun seemed real enough, though...

~~~Next Chapter: A Smuggler and a Gentleman

[Primula]

Yip yip!

We likes sequels, yes yes.

[Silivren Ithildin]

Yes, Precious, we do like sequels, yess, yesssss

Sil

[Ladyhawk Baggins]

PRICELESS: There's an old saying that comes to mind; 'Distance makes the heart grow fonder.' I don't think that I can remember truer words... at least not while I'm running for my life. Such a MacGyver thing to say.

What's this turn of events?

[mousechief]

huzzah!

[Lothithil]

Unbreakable Camels
part two, A Smuggler and A Gentleman

MacGyver and Dingo both looked at the man. The man looked between Mac and the camel, waiting.

"Hi," Mac said, raising one hand in welcome. The man with the gun flinched a little, and then relaxed when he saw that Mac was not holding a weapon. Mac wiggled his fingers slightly. "Don't shoot before I get a chance to thank you."

"Thank me?" The man seemed as startled to hear Mac speak, as Mac had been to hear him. "English?" he asked hesitantly. He lowered the gun and raised the lantern. "American?" he added, his voice sounding hopeful.

"And proud of it." Mac stated. "You're from Chicago, right?"

"South side." He spun the gun around his finger like a gunslinger. "And you?"

"Minnesota."

The gun slid smoothly into a holster that the man wore strapped to his hip, western-style. "I would have placed you a little further north. You've got more than a touch of Canuk in your accent."

"I got lost a couple of times on Boy Scout hikes and wound up in Manitoba." Mac nodded toward his hairy companion. "This is Dingo. He doesn't bite... well, yes he does, but only when he has a good reason... most of the time." He slapped the beast affectionately on the flank. "My name's MacGyver."

"Anthony Sullivan," the man said, prodding himself in the chest with his thumb.

Mac extended his hand, "Thanks, Anthony."

Sullivan smiled and took Mac's hand eagerly. "You don't know how good it is to meet someone with manners in this godforsaken country!" He pumped Mac's hand heartily. "Everyone calls me 'Tony'. And what are you thanking me for?"

Overhead, there came the muffled sound of hooves pounding across the sand. Rough voices barked orders in a strange language, angry, confused, and frustrated. They sounded as if they were right on top of them.

Mac pointed up. "I'm pretty sure you just saved my life."

Tony looked up, listening. "Life's pretty cheap around here, MacGyver. Don't thank me yet."

Mac frowned. "Why not?"

"Because those might be my buyers. Didn't I say?" Tony smiled and gestured for Mac to precede him through the door. "I'm a smuggler."

⌂

Mac regarded his new friend with some trepidation. "...And what is it that you're selling, Tony?"

Tony laughed at Mac's worried tone. "Not my fellow Americans... so you can relax. Come on," he said, walking ahead of Mac through the doorway. "Leave your pet camel here for a while. He'll be fine... but we'll have to move him before long... I'm expecting a drop-off."

Mac followed him slowly. The way was dark; Tony had taken the lantern with him. The door led to a tunnel that turned at a sharp angle within a few feet, then opened into a hallway. The walls were made of metal. Light filtered from ahead, silhouetting Tony as he proceeded Mac.

The hallway led out onto the floor of a large room, about half the size of a hockey rink and nearly two stories high. It was well lit, and stacked with many crates of all sized and shapes. There were racks along two of the walls stacked with different kinds of weapons, from guns as small as 22. caliber pistols to fully automatic machine guns. Boxes labeled 'ammunition', 'grenades', 'tear gas', and 'smoke', were piled around neatly. In the middle of the room stood a 50. caliber mountable machine gun, gleaming new as if it had been made yesterday.

Along another wall there was a shelf of books. Mac selected one and looked at the cover. It was a maintenance manual for a '66 Corvette Stingray.

"Boys' toys, I guess you could say," Tony said, belatedly answering Mac's question. He took the book from Mac's fingers. "They're almost as popular as the girly magazines. You'd be surprised how much money one of these will fetch."

"The manual… or the car?" Mac looked around at all the instruments of destruction displayed around him and suppressed as sigh.

Tony laughed out loud. "If I could get a Corvette over here, I could sell it for enough money to become a sheik myself and retire!" He turned off the lantern and set it on a table. "Don't look so depressed, MacGyver! You're safe down here. Unless they know exactly what they're looking for, they'll never find the missile silo or this bunker; it is so well camouflaged that even the government can't remember where they built it! It's owned by-- my employer-- and besides him, only me and the pilot that makes the pick-ups and deliveries knows exactly where the entrance is."

"That's not what worries me, Tony," Mac said. He gestured wearily around him. "All these weapons... it's like pouring gasoline on a fire! How can you sell them to terrorists?"

"Not everyone in Afghanistan is a terrorist, Mac. Some are just folks trying to live their lives without being pressed into someone's army or enlisted for the next weekly jihad. It's them mostly that we run the guns to... oh, there's more money in selling them to the baddies," Tony grinned at Mac, "and I'll probably catch all kinds of heck when I get home about that-- but hey!-- they sent me here to sell the guns... so I'll sell 'em to whoever I want to!"

"Who are you selling them for," Mac asked distantly; The room seemed to be getting darker and his arms and legs were feeling like they were made of lead.

"You don't want to know," Tony answered evasively. "Hey... how 'bout a drink?" He opened a drawer under the table and brought out a brown, flat bottle.

"No, thanks, I don't really drink very much. But if you've got some water--" Mac began to say. Tony noticed that he was leaning rather heavily on the table.

"You're about beat, aren't you? Here... sit down before you fall down! I'll bring you some water and then scare up some food."

Mac sank into a wooden chair and managed to stay awake long enough to drink some of the water that Tony brought him. It tasted wonderful. "Thanks again, Tony," Mac said, his head rolling to rest on the back of the chair.

"Hey, don't conk out yet!" Tony said. "There's a cot over there under the stairs. Let's settle you there. Upsy-daisy!" He pulled one of Mac's arms over his shoulders and helped him walk to the cot.

"'m gonna get sand all over your sheets," Mac mumbled as he laid down. The canvas-covered frame and thin blanket felt like a down-filled mattress to Mac as he sank down gratefully.

"I'm used to it," Tony assured him. "Take it easy for a while. I'll take care of your camel."

"Be careful..." Mac warned groggily, already half-asleep, "... he bites."

Tony let the burlap curtain fall and then pushed a rack of gas masks in front of the curtain, concealing Mac's hiding place.

"Don't we all?"

~~~Next chapter: Dangerous Goods

[Ladyhawk Baggins]

Oooooooo... and I could see Mac doing that wave he does! Poor guy.

[Lothithil]

I was at the Kerrisdale Arena, lining up a slap shot. We were in sudden-death overtime, and all of my teammates were in the penalty box, cheering me on. The other team was lined up in front of me, ready to defend their goal. There seemed to be rather a lot of them, and strangely, they were wearing turbans instead of helmets and in their hands they carried AK-47's instead of hockey sticks. Curious.

It wasn't until a camel went skating by that I began to suspect that I was dreaming. Rationality takes a back-step, and in the moments between realizing that I was dreaming and waking up, I figured that I'd better take my shot while I could.

I swung my stick back and gave it all I had. The puck burst into flames as it soared toward the goal. The other team lifted their guns and fired at it, but they all missed. The small, smoking missle flew unerringly toward the goal.

The goalie leapt out of the way as it burned toward him. It struck the net, but instead of burning through, the net stretched like a rubber band and sent the puck flying back toward me. I watched it grow larger and larger, but I couldn't move out of the way. My legs were buried in sand.

Sand? No, no... this wasn't how it was supposed to go! Who's dream was this, anyway?

Unbreakable Camels
part three, Dangerous Goods

The sound of an angry voice pulled Mac from the dark, comfortable place where he had been lying. "This is not part of deal that I make with your boss!" The man was speaking broken English with a heavy Middle-eastern accent.

Mac opened his eyes and looked around before he moved. It was dark, but he could see a line of light coming in between the edge of the curtain and the wall. Moving carefully to avoid making the cot creak too loudly, he rose and peered out of the crack.

Tony was talking to a short, stout man with dark skin. They were sitting at the table, glasses and an open bottle between them. Tony poured the man a drink, saying, "Well, I'm amending that deal. Besides, you owe me one, Alfie... remember that shipment of ladies undergarments I had sent here from the States just for you... tell me, did her husband ever catch you two spooning?"

The man called Alfie grumbled in his native language, but he clicked his glass against Tony's in a silent toast. It became obvious to Mac that this was probably just a friendly argument between confederates. He gave a silent sigh of relief, but then his breath caught in his throat at what he heard next.

"Smuggling underwear into Afghanistan is lot less risky than try sneak American out under Capitan Rafe's very large nose! This man has a price on head... very big! And if I am spotted... ooh, my head it will be-- displayed on pole over Rafe's private latrine! You ask much for one simple favor, Antony."

"Tell me again... who was that woman married to, Alfie? Prince Abu-something-or-other, wasn't it? You call that 'less risky'? Ha! If he'd seen you with her, it wouldn't've been your head that he'd stick up on a pole, you know. It would've been your--"

"Enough! You have make your point!" Alfie interrupted hastily. "But what really you know about this man, this Mac-Aver? What if he is spy?"

"If he is... so what? He's not spying on me-- or on you! If a piece of garbage like Rafe wants him dead, then that makes him my hero!" Tony drained his glass and poured another. "Will you do it or not?"

"What choice do you give me? None!" Alfie grumbled. "When?"

"I'm not sure yet. He's still asleep. Once I've talked to him I'll know more. Just plan to make the pick-up like we've discussed, and avoid Rafe's men for now. I'm supposed to meet with His Holiness later tonight."

"Brrr! Better you than me, my friend! That man has the eyes of reptiles," Alfie said with a shiver. He drained his glass. "You going to need lift, yes?"

"Nah, I'll take the Tumbler."

"Fine. I'll see you tomorrow then. Don't get head shot off, please," Alfie implored.

"Awww, Alfie... I didn't know you cared!"

"I don't!" Alfie said roughly, but added with a grin, "If you get killed I don't get paid!"

"I'd miss you, too." Tony laughed, throwing Alfie his hat. "And don't spook the camel this time! It took me an hour to catch him when he ran off after you landed!"

Alfie's grumbling faded as he walked away. Tony poured himself another whiskey, but sat and stared at it without drinking.

He waited until the sounds of Alfie's exit faded completely. "You can come out now, Mac," Tony announced, swirling his drink in the glass.

Mac moved the curtain aside, then stepped around the rack of gas-masks that blocked the entrance. "You heard me?"

Tony laughed. "Yeah, there's not much that goes on in the hollow tin-can that I can't hear. Ol' Alfie there-- Abdul aFeyd is his real name-- he's been flying a chopper for so long that he can't hear half of what he says himself!" Tony swallowed the bourbon in one shot. "How much did you hear?"

"That you plan to have him fly me out of the country," Mac saw no reason to hedge the truth. "And that you're planning to meet with someone named Rafe whom, I gather, is not an altogether pleasant person."

Tony laughed loudly. "Not quite. Oh, Rafe is a goat of a human being... that much is true! But he is not who I am meeting tonight. He's the one who searched this quarter of the desert for about ten hours after you disappeared under his nose yesterday. Whatever you did to him... he's got it bad for you!"

"How much money is he offering?" Mac walked up to the table, but he didn't sit down. Instead, he put himself through a series of stretches. His back muscles felt like a Gordian Knot after sleeping for so long on an army-issue cot.

Tony capped the liquor bottle, and then put his feet up on the table. "A thousand American dollars. That will get the rat-catcher's attention, but it's not sweet enough to interest me. I don't do business with the likes of him. I'll leave that to His Holiness."

"He's your boss, huh?" Mac asked. "Does he know I'm here?"

"No." Tony stood up, looking uncomfortable. "I'm hoping that you'll be out of here before I have to tell him anything. Alfie agreed to take you to the nearest American Embassy. You can get out of this country before Rafe raises the price high enough to tempt Alfie." He opened a cabinet that turned out to be a makeshift oven. Using a towel, he took something out of it.

"I'm not leaving," Mac said softly.

"Why the h--- not?" Tony turned around, two MRE's in his hands. "Chicken or... chicken?" he asked, squinting at the labels.

Mac accepted one package. "Thanks. As long as it doesn't taste like sand, it sounds good."

"The wonders of chemical heating! I can't risk a stove... the smoke might be spotted. And besides-- lighting a fire around all this ordinance?-- forget about it!"

Talk was suspended while Mac ate. After he finished his MRE, Tony pushed the second one toward him, too. "G'on, I got a crateful," he said. "You're as skinny as that camel of yours. Who is eating me out of palm-leaves and compost, I might add!"

Mac laughed. "Dingo makes efficient use out of anything edible, and a lot of things that aren't!"

Tony waited until Mac was done eating and had drained his water bottle twice. "So, what's this about you not leaving... after I went to all the trouble of arranging it?"

Mac frowned. "I don't want you to think that I'm ungrateful, Tony, but I can't leave just yet."

"And again I ask... 'Why the heck not?' What are you doing here, anyway?"

Mac smiled, "You don't want to know."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Sure... throw my own words back in my face! That's gratitude!" He seemed more pleased than annoyed. "So, we both got secrets. Just tell me this-- honestly-- you aren't here to bust me, are you? You're not a cop or anything, right?"

"I am not a cop, and I am not here to bust you," Mac said.

"Good," said Tony, reaching for his liquor bottle again.

"But you might be able to help me find who I am after," Mac added.

Tony froze in the act of pouring. "Be careful, Mac," he said softly. "There are lines that it would cost me my life to cross."

Mac nodded. "Syndicate, right?" Tony's eyes widened slightly, but Mac raised his hand to keep him calm. "I'd already guessed as much. No one else has the capital to run an operation like this. But like I said, I'm not with the Justice Department or Interpol. I'm looking for a traitor to our government. You may be a smuggler, Tony, but I think that you're also a patriot. Will you tell me what you can?"

Tony nodded. "But it won't be much," he warned.

"That's okay. I already have an idea who I'm looking for. Rafe's men have been chasing me for a while, ever since we fouled up a little kidnapping caper that he tried a few weeks ago. A team was sent in to rescue his hostages, and I was given the task of learning who was feeding him information from the Pentagon. I've tracked him down to a small city not far from here. He's an American, but he can probably pass off as European very easily. He's high-profile, in a position where he's trusted by the local government. Now, how many people like that can there be?"

Tony looked dazed. "Not too many, Mac. Only one, actually."

"You know who I'm talking about?" Mac asked excitedly. "Can you tell me who it is?"

"Mac," Tony said, drinking straight from the bottle, "I think you got a chopper to catch tomorrow."

~~~next chapter: Cue the Bad Guy!

[Ladyhawk Baggins]

ooooooooo... I do hope the next chapter is coming soon.

[mousechief]

I love the chapter titles!

[Lothithil]

Author's note: I haven't the foggiest notion of what Afghanistan is like or what the customs of her people might be, so please excuse any outright errors I am undoubtedly committing. For the purposes of this story, let's just pretend that I know what I'm talking about.

Some of you folks might remember Anthony ‘Tony’ Sullivan from the MacGyver episode entitled ‘Three for the Road’ (the unfortunate friend of Mac’s who was tied up in the Syndicate and ended up ‘buying the farm’). Originally, this story was supposed to offer a few details about how their unlikely friendship MIGHT have begun. I know that I have taken outrageous liberties with his character… so if you didn’t recognize him, blame me!

While I was at it, it occurred to me that this might be a good way to introduce one of Mac’s major baddies, too. I’m sure that you’ll remember him…

Unbreakable Camels
part four, Cue the Bad Guy

A sand-scoured stone and wrought-iron fortress served the small city of Jiru as both center of magistrate and secure accommodations for local dignitaries. Half of the sprawling buildings were decorated with the finest furnishings available, bought with the flow of money from the desert oil-barons seeking favors from those men who passed for law-keepers in this wild corner of Afghanistan. Offices, suites, and an elegant restaurant attracted what money in Jiru there was to be spent, and the men who could be found there were finely dressed and had eyes that only lit up with lust or with greed.

The remainder of the buildings in the compound were rough and cold and filthy, and they served the common residents of Jiru as locations for tax collection, lock holes for dissidents and petty criminals, and of course, a small dead-end courtyard used for executions. Like the two faces of a coin, they never looked at each other, and yet together they made up the whole.

Just outside of the gates of the fortress and across a packed-earth road, a tavern did brisk business in the heat of the day. There, a man could buy a drink and a meal, or for a little more money he could buy a cold drink and a good meal, as well as other valuable things. The term 'talk is cheap' was unknown in this place; here, talk cost money, and if it was the right kind of talk, it could cost as much as a life.

It pleased Dave Ryerson to come to this place to conduct his business. The teakwood and silk furnishings inside the fortress annoyed him. His business was a dirty one, therefore it was fitting that the place he conducted that business should be dirty, also.

He took a seat at his usual table, where he had a clear view of all the exits and was far enough away from the bar and other tables to speak without being casually overheard. The bartender was well paid to make sure that it was always reserved for him. Even as he sat down and took off his white panama, the skinny man with a stained apron came rushing over, carrying a bucket of ice. Inside the bucket were bottles of American beer, kept on-hand solely for his consumption. Ryerson refused to drink the swill that passed for the local brew.

He reached into his vest pocket and brought out a silver churchkey, which he used to open one of the beer bottles. Taking a long swallow, he sat back and waited. He was a bit early for his appointment, but that was fine with him. He preferred to be the first to arrive; it made it difficult for anyone to get the drop on him. Not that many would dare try. Still, Ryerson hadn't gotten where he was-- a trusted arm of an American crime syndicate and an international mercenary-- by trusting people.

This early in the day the tavern had few patrons, so Ryerson watched the street. An old derelict man came ambling along the wall of the fortress. He stumbled and lurched, throwing out an arm that lacked a hand to catch himself from falling. He slouched down on the ground, either in exhaustion or despair.

Ryerson sipped his beer.

Within minutes two men in uniform appeared. They shouted at the old man to remove himself, then when he did not go fast enough they grabbed him by both arms and dragged him. They threw him down in the middle of the street. By the time he managed to crawl the remaining distance to the kerb, where he collapsed, the guards had already returned to their posts at the entrance to the fortress.

Ryerson opened another beer. The bartender discreetly collected his first empty bottle. He could refill it with inferior brew mixed with formaldehyde and sell it to the locals. Most had never tasted real American beer and wouldn't know the difference.

Half an hour passed. A robed figure appeared in the street, coming from the direction that the old man had been heading. By the movements of this person, Ryerson guessed correctly that she was a woman. By her dark colored and unadorned clothing, she was probably the nun who worked at the mission on the edge of town. Ryerson rolled his eyes as he took another drink of beer. "Do-gooder," he mumbled, saying the words as if it were some kind of curse.

If she heard him, she made no sign. She knelt next to the broken man, speaking softly to him. Then she helped him to his feet and supported him as they walked together back toward the mission. Ryerson watched them, wishing that the bartender hadn't taken away his empties. He would have liked to throw something at them, but his bottle was still half-full and he didn't want to waste a good beer.

At the crest of the hill over which the road ran, the couple suddenly moved to one side. A rumbling sound was growing, preceded by a plume of dust. A vehicle appeared, traveling slowly and carefully avoiding the walking pair. A jeep with fat tires and exaggerated roll bars came growling down the street and skidded to a halt outside of the tavern. The man driving was wearing goggles and had a dusty red bandana tied over his face like a cowboy bandit. He climbed out of the dune buggy and removed his goggles. He tugged the bandana down to reveal a toothy smile. "Hiya, Dave!"

This always irritated Ryerson. Which was exactly why Tony always did it.

"You're late, Sullivan," Ryerson grumbled.

"Am I?" Tony asked cheerfully, sitting down at Ryerson's table. A cloud of dust followed him, reminding Ryerson of a character in a comic strip who's name he couldn't remember.

Ryerson glanced at his watch, and then pointedly flecked a few grains of dirt from his sleeve. "It doesn't matter... this time. But if you're ever late with a delivery..."

"When have I ever been late with a delivery?" Tony countered, pulling an iced beer out of the bucket without asking. He didn't have a bottle opener, and of course Ryerson did not offer his. Tony didn't need it. He gripped the cap in one strong, callused hand and twisted it off easily.

"Help yourself," Ryerson said sourly.

"Mmmm," Tony answered, drinking deeply. "Ah! Milwaukee's Finest! All I need now is a bowl of pretzels and a pretty blonde to flirt with... and I'd be a happy man!" Tony took another swig, winking at Ryerson. "No offence there, Dave. You're just not my type."

Ryerson cracked a smile. "You're a smart-aleck, Sullivan, but you are funny. Okay, let's get to business... have you got the latest shipment ready?"

"Of course," Tony responded, gesturing widely. "All sorted and assembled. Alfie's making the pick-up as scheduled. Why wouldn't it be ready?"

Ryerson offered a grin that was more like an evil leer. "I heard that there was some excitement out near our stretch of sand. Captain Rafe and company lost a spy that they had been tracking." Ryerson watched Tony carefully. "You haven't seen anyone suspicious?"

"Can't say that I have," Tony lied smoothly. "Alfie's ugly face is the only one I've seen in the past six days."

"Are you sure? He told me where they lost his trail, and it is right around the location of the silo. If they keep looking, they might find the bunker."

Sullivan finished his beer. "They won't find it. That silo is buried more than six feet in soft sand when it is shut. Alfie knows to do a sweep before he makes an approach, and he'd see anyone who was out there long before they saw him. Besides, if they do much more than look around, they'll blow themselves sky-high on the anti-personnel devices that are seeded all through that area. And who's going to complain about a few less terrorists?"

"I'll complain... if you blow up any of my buyers," Ryerson said in a soft, dangerous voice.

Tony was not intimidated. "It won't be me blowing them up, Dave. The Afghans buried those mines and burned the maps. Everyone knows to avoid that place, and anyone who doesn't know..." Tony swallowed a sudden fear as he realized that MacGyver probably didn't know about those minefields. He prayed silently that the man didn't get it into his head to leave the bunker by himself. "Anyone who doesn't know will get what he deserves." Tony finished his sentence coldly.

This seemed to satisfy Ryerson. "Well, if you see anyone, tell me first."

"What? D'ya need some extra cash 'cause Hussin raise the price of your Old Millwaukee's?" Tony cracked, reaching for the last beer in the bucket.
Ryerson watched him open it with a sour eye. "Rafe's offering a pittance of a reward, but I'm more interested to learn which country has an Intelligence agent creeping around in my territory."

"Ask Rafe. Do you really want me to risk revealing the location of our base to play 'international spy'?" Tony asked incredulously. "I'm not that bored yet, Dave... and that definitely isn't in my job description!"

"Just keep your eyes open," Ryerson hissed angrily. "Why don't you finish that on the road?" he added, staring at the bottle in Tony's hand.

"Never drink and drive, Dave," Tony said. He upended the bottle and drained it. "You might spill some!" He set the bottle down on its side and gave it a spin. By the time it slowed down and stopped, he was already kicking up a cloud of dust, roaring down the street in his dune buggy.

Ryerson watched him go and didn't notice that the bartender had been standing nearby, hoping to collect the empty bottles, and that he had heard every word.

⌂

MacGyver watched from his hiding place beneath a thick cluster of fronds outside of the walls of the city as Tony drove away, heading back toward the oasis where the entrance to the bunker was concealed.

Mac's Voice-Over:
Following Tony had been harder than I thought that it would be. The wind covered tracks pretty quickly out here. I spotted what I believed was a cloud of dust kicked up by his dune buggy, but it turned out to be smoke from someone's house inside the city walls.

I had to watch where I put my feet. The information that I had read about these old military installations suggested booby-traps, and I had no idea where they were buried. I walked softly and prayed that the mines were buried beneath enough sand that my stepping over them wouldn't trigger an explosion. Eventually I came to the city, though I smelled it long before I saw it.

A faded and pitted wooden sign identified the city in some Arabic dialect that Mac couldn't read. He strolled through the gates boldly, trusting that whoever might spot him coming in from the open desert would take him for a down-on-his-luck local boy. There was light traffic inside the city and he made an effort to blend in. What little of his face showing above his scarf was tanned darkly enough not to attract attention, and he made sure that his turban concealed his fair-colored hair. No one glanced at him twice.

The first sizable structure that he came across upon entering the walls of the city was a building with a run-down and abandoned look. There were no windows, and some of the walls had large holes in them that had been covered by wooden planks. The smoke that he had followed was billowing out of a clay chimney that rose above the roof.

Mac paused in front of the building, listening. He could hear voices coming from within, but he could not make out what was being said. He turned to move along and collided with two people who were walking slowly up the street; their heads were bowed with effort, one supporting the other to walk.

Mac caught the arms of the man before he could fall, but the woman went sprawling into the street with a cry. Mac hurriedly set the man down on the kerb and held out his hand to help the woman stand up. "I'm sorry!" he said in his broken Arabic.

The woman waved off his offered hand. She stood up by herself, cradling her wrist. She said something in Arabic, and then looked at Mac expectantly.

Mac had no idea what she had said. He hesitated, meeting her eyes with a question in his own. Her eyes were light brown.

The woman sighed and then spoke again, this time in French.

"Oui, um... ma’am." Mac caught enough to understand she wanted his help with the old man. He ducked under the man's arm, ignoring the musty smell of his clothes. After all, Mac realized that he probably didn't smell much sweeter himself. "Um… Voulez?"

"Voila," she responded. Then she cocked her head and said, in plain and unflawed English, "You speak French atrociously."

Mac ducked his head and smiled. "You should hear my Russian."

~~~ Next Chapter: Angela of Mercy

[Ladyhawk Baggins]

What fun!

[Lothithil]

Author's Note: And now I beg your forgiveness for the sins I am about to commit against the French language. I blame my high school Languages teacher... she should never have passed me!

Unbreakable Camels
part five, Angela of Mercy

Mac followed the nun into the run-down building that he had been looking at earlier. The man leaned heavily on him for support, mumbling rapidly in Arabic. Mac just smiled at him, shaking his head a little to show he didn't understand. The man continued to ramble as Mac helped him over the threshold.

The first room they entered inside of the building was as dilapidated as the outside. Leading the way, the nun motioned for Mac to continue to follow her as she pushed aside a heavy blanket that was strung over a doorway. Mac obliged, entering a hallway that turned a corner and led to another blanket-draped doorway. They went through this and entered a larger room. Mac looked around, mildly surprised to see neat beds lined up along clean-whitewashed walls. It looked like footage from old 8mm reels of WWII hospitals.

Mac eased the old man down on one of the few empty bunks. There were many people in the room, some lying prone and others moving around slowly. Those who were not asleep stared at the newcomer suspiciously. Some tried to sink down beneath notice, turning their faces away in fear.

The nun knelt by the bed and spoke to the old man. He began waving his one good hand at her, as if shooing her away. She tugged at his bloodstained shirt, saying something insistent, but he growled something at her and crossed his arms, refusing to let her examine him. She sat back on her heels and sighed.

Mac watched them, feeling useless. "What can I do to help you?" he said.

"Shh." With one hand she drew a blanket over the man on the bed, then motioned for Mac to follow her again. She said something soothing to the rest of her charges and they settled back, no longer unconcerned about Mac's presence.

She led him to a small room adjacent to the ward. This room was filled with shelves to hold supplies, though the shelves were mostly empty. She turned toward him, her eyes intense over the veil that covered her face.

"You should not be here," she whispered angrily. "You must leave at once!"

Mac backed up a pace, startled by her anger. "Um... you asked me to come in."

"Non, I do not mean here... I mean in Jiru! This is a dangerous place for an American! This is a dangerous place for the people who live here!" She gestured back toward the ward full of injured and sick people.

"You don't have to tell me how it is, Sister," Mac said softly. "I don't want to be here at all, but I have a job that I have to do. If I manage to do it, then maybe I can help you, too."

"Je ne pas... I-- I don't need any help," she retorted, her voice breaking as she began to cry. "And don't call me Sister! I am not a nun!"

Mac wasn't quite sure what to do. He gently put his arm around her and patted her shoulder. At first she stiffened at his touch, but then she turned her face toward him and stifled her sobs against his chest.

"My name is MacGyver," he said, grasping for something to say that might calm her. "Um... what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

She coughed a little, laughing through her tears. "C'est terrible! Do you often come to third world countries to try to pick up dates?" She pushed herself away a few inches, pulling the veil down to uncover her face.

"I can't afford the fancier places," Mac said with a smile. "I'd offer you a handkerchief, but I'm afraid I'm fresh out."

She laughed again and used the veil to dry her eyes. "A gentleman as well as a hero! Merci, monsier. All you need now is a bar of soap and a bouquet of flowers, and you'd be the answer to my prayers!"

Mac chuckled, brushing at his filthy robe self-consciously. "I'm trying to blend in." He looked at her closely, a curious expression on his face. "If you're not a nun, then why are you here?"

She turned away from him to look out of the small window, the light of laughter leaving her face. Through the dirty glass, Mac could see a courtyard of dirt. Along one edge of the yard were several raised mounds; freshly dug graves.

Her voice was so soft that Mac had to move closer to hear her words. "I'm supposed to be a nun... to look like one, anyway. That was my cover when we came here. Padre Deigas," her voice caught a little, and a single tear escaped from her eye, "Padre Deigas needed an assistant, someone with a little medical training who could help support his work, who could speak the local languages. I... I volunteered to help, but I... I never dreamed that they... that they would..." She closed her eyes and wept again.

"Tell me what happened," Mac said gently.

"Padre Deigas was working for..." she stopped, turning toward him with her eyes wide and fearful. "Who are you? I mean... why should I trust you?"

Mac spread his hands in an open gesture. "Because you can. Because I want to help."

She sighed, leaning her forehead against the small windowpane. "I guess that there's no reason no to tell you... it isn't like they don't know who Padre Deigas really was."

"Tell me something first," Mac said, touching her shoulder to get her to look at him. "What is your name?"

"Angela," she answered weakly, "Angela Marquis. Or... as I have come to be known here," she added, lifting the veil to cover her nose and mouth, "Seour Anne Christine. My patients call me 'xêhær'." She let the veil drop and began to massage her injured wrist gently, her eyes drawn to the dingy window again.

"And that means..." Mac asked, leading.

Angela sighed. "It means... it means 'sister'," she responded reluctantly.

"Well, if everyone else gets to call you 'sister', why can't I?" Mac asked in a mock-petulant tone.

Angela turned toward him with a laugh, but her amusement turned into puzzlement. "I guess you can... what are you doing?"

Mac had been looking around as she spoke. He found a bottle of alcohol and a couple of thin towels. Aware that her supplies were limited, he folded one towel and stuffed it into a plastic bag which he pulled out of his pocket. He poured some alcohol into the bag, soaking the cloth, then sealed the bag. He took her hand from her and gently applied the homemade icepack to her bruised wrist.

She made no sound to show her discomfort, but the skin around her eyes tightened. "Can you move those fingers?" Mac asked, concerned about broken bones. "I might be able to cobble together something to use for a cast..."

"Non, it is not serious... just a sprain." She flexed her wrist slowly, wincing in pain. "I'll just have to limp on it for a few days." She looked at him with gratitude, and Mac found himself wondering what kind of terrible things she must have endured, to find so much to be grateful for in a simple act of kindness.

As if sensing his thought, Angela dropped her eyes. She took her hand from his, still holding the cold bag on her arm, and withdrew a few steps. "Padre Deigas was a man of God, but he worked also for an international organization that promotes peace. His assignment was to come to this place and learn the identity of the men who have been stirring up conflict to this region. Of course, missionaries are not terribly popular in the Middle East, but we were accepted by the populace of Jiru simply out of desperation for aid. The people are barely living above poverty, and anyone who cannot work is useless to Them," the implied capitalization was clear in her voice. "Padre Deigas was given this building to use for his mission only because the population threatened to riot if he was not permitted to stay. They allowed us to build our hospital, even donated supplies once in a while... when they needed the goodwill of the community. That didn't last long.

"What They were really doing was giving Padre Deigas enough time to reveal himself as an agent. He told me one night that he had learned who was bringing weapons into the region, and that he suspected that this man was working closely with the magistrate to keep the border wars going and increase the demand for weapons. Just for the profit!." Angela spat in disgust, as if her own words tasted bad.

"One day, Padre Deigas received a request that he should come to the Fortress." Angela's eyes filled with tears again, but she didn't stop talking. "No one saw him for two weeks. A few days ago, he was thrown on the doorstep in the middle of the night. He was already dead."

Angela raised her face and though full of tears, her eyes were burning with anger. "I knew Padre Deigas, and he would never have told them his purpose here. They must have killed him simply because he was trying to help people!"

Mac wrapped his arms around her, trying to provide some comfort to her in her misery. "Why don't you leave now? There's no reason for you to stay here alone..."

Angela shook her head, her face buried again in Mac's shoulder. "I can not... I am needed here. There is no one to take care of these people... I can not just leave."

Her robe hood had slipped down to reveal a mass of wavy hair the color of brandy. Mac laid his face on the top of her head. He felt sick to his soul to see anyone so upset, and he understood how trapped she must feel. "You can't stay here alone, Angie. What if they come for you next?"

She trembled in his arms, and he felt like an idiot for frightening her. But she lifted her head and laughed. "Do you know how long it has been since someone called me 'Angie'?"

Mac smiled at her. He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Angie, what you've been doing here is a wonderful thing, and I know that these people needed your help. But you have to let them go. You have to get out of here and report what happened to Father Deigas."

Angela became uncertain as his words sank in. "I... I don't know who to talk to... I was just hired to help. I'm not one of the agents..."

"That doesn't matter," Mac said firmly. "Can you be ready to leave by tonight?"

"Tonight! I don't know... Iban is injured. And Falgas refuses to take his medicine..."

Mac took her chin in his long fingers, forcing her to look at him again. "He'll remember to take it if you aren't here to wait on him. Believe me... I know. Men are big babies as long as there's a woman around who's willing to take care of them!" He took the veil that she'd been using as a handkerchief and wiped her face. "Now, since you're working one-handed, I expect that you'll need a little help. Tell me what to do. But by sundown we need to be going.

"But what about your job," she asked, fighting the return of tears. "Did not you have something important to do here?"

"Nothing more important than this," he said gently. "And besides, I think the answers are going to start coming quicker now." He moved over to the basin and began to wash his hands thoroughly. "We'll have a look at our friend with the bruises out there, and then maybe you can tell me what's been going on around here and who's behind it all." He dried his hands on the clean towel.

"Listen, Angela. It might be that they already knew about Father Deigas. It doesn't really matter why they killed him, but because they did, we're going to make them know that they can't get away with it. But in order to do that and make them pay for what they did, we have to get out of here with the truth." He ducked his head a little, searching her eyes for something. "Are you with me?

Angela stared back at him and nodded. As she did so, she felt the skin of fear that she had worn since coming to this forsaken country slough off from her. She let Mac fashion a sling for her arm from a scrap of torn bed sheets, and then they went out into the ward to help the man that they had brought into the hospital.

But he was gone. The bed where they'd lain him was empty, the blanket discarded on the floor.

~~~next chapter: Hung Out To Dry

[Silivren Ithildin]

hmmmm.......now, where did that guy go to????

Just caught up with my reading, great job as usual, Loth!!!


Sil

[Lothithil]

Unbreakable Camels
part six, Hung Out To Dry

"Who is he?" MacGyver asked Angela, as they searched the mission from cellar to rafters for the missing man.

Angela looked as if she were at a loss. "He-- his name is Iban. He is one of my helpers. He sometimes brings us food... or money... whatever he can beg or find. Padre Deigas would sometimes have to resort to... to the black market-- to obtain hard-to-find medicines-- and he always sent Iban as his contact."

"Father Deigas had connections with smugglers?" Mac frowned at that fact.

"Oui. There was no choice-- some medicines aren't even legally available in this country. Iban told me once that he used to be a smuggler... before he lost his hand," Angela seemed embarrassed, so Mac schooled his features so that he appeared patiently interested. It wasn't her fault that the mission had to resort to clandestine means for support. He gently encouraged her to continue speaking.

"I had been expecting him earlier today. I went looking for him, because he did not come when he said that he would-- mon Dieu!" Her hand flew up to her mouth; her eyes grew round and wide. "That was perhaps why I found him in such a state!"

"What do you mean?" Mac asked. Having searched the house, Angela led Mac outside into the courtyard. On the farthest end of the yard, a garden was being coaxed out of the arid soil. They looked all through the grounds, circling the dry trellises and were now coming back toward the rear of the mission. "What happened to him?"

"I found him down by le chateau de conchon... the tavern. He'd been beaten and was lying in the street. I was helping him back here when..." Angela lifted her eyes to Mac's face shyly, then looked away again quickly, "... when we bumped into each other."

Mac gave her an easy smile. "A fortuitous collision... for me."

They came to a long line where clean white sheets were hung to dry in the sun. Two robed and veiled ladies were putting out fresh laundry. Their thin, brown hands moved deftly, laying out damp sheets and pulling down and folding dry ones. Mac nodded to them as they walked past.

"So Iban is someone you trusted?" Mac asked.

Angela turned to him. "I trust him, but I do not know that you can! Monsieur MacGyver, what if he has gone to tell le conchon that you are here? They are looking for an Englishman, I have heard it said... maybe they will come here looking for you! You should go at once-- before they come!"

"I'm ready to leave when you are," Mac answered smoothly.

Angela grabbed him by the shirt with her good hand, giving him an intense stare. "You truly will not leave unless I go as well?"

Mac looked down at her. She was an admirable, petite package of a woman. Gently, he said to her, "If they come here looking for me, do you think that you'll be safe all alone? Come with me, Angela. Once you are safe, then I'll come back and finish my mission."

"Non! You should not take such risks! Not for... for just me."

"It's not just for you," Mac insisted. "Think about Father Deigas and the people that you've helped."

"Tell me what it is that you seek in this place," Angela said suddenly. "Maybe I know these answers which you so stubbornly seek!"

"Someone is selling American military secrets to terrorists. I know he works out of Jiru and that he's a pretty high-profile character, but I don't know his name."

Angela plucked at her lower lip absently, a habit which MacGyver found endearing. "Hmm. I wonder... I wonder if it is le conchon that is that man?"

"Conchon. Doesn't that mean 'pig'?"

"Oui. If you washed a pig in eau de toilet and dressed it in a suit, it would become Le Conchon! But I know not his true name." Angela looked around desperately. "If only we could find Iban! He would know!"

A crashing sound came from inside the mission. Before Angela could exclaim, a small dark child came running out of the doorway, looking around wildly. He saw Angela and ran to her, whispering something urgently while pointing back at the house.

Angela's face turned white with fear as she listened to the boy's words. "They are here! Mon Dieu! They are already here!"

~~~

Rafka Sri was a hard man. His voice was as rough as his wind-burned skin, his hair dry and wiry and unkempt. His hands were strong, scarred from fighting and from working. But hardest of all his features was Rafka Sri's heart. He believed that one man's success was the result of other people's failures, and it was his goal to make as many people fail as it took to make him comfortably rich... or as he liked to put it, "The ends justify the means-- as long as it is their end and my means!"

Everyone called him Rafe, because Rafka was too soft a name for such a man.

~~~

"Tell your 'sister of mercy' that Rafe is here," he demanded to one of the elderly people who were cowering in the sick ward. He had ordered his men to surround the mission proper and grounds, but to wait there while he went inside. He didn't want to take any chances that his prey would slip through his fingers. He was tired of chasing people.

Before the old man could limp out of the room, Angela appeared in the doorway. Her dark robes and veil were in place. She had a stack of sheets folded over her hands.

"Captain Rafe, what can I do to help you today?" she asked. She handed the sheets to a helper, careful to show no sign that her wrist was injured.

Rafe gave her a leering smile that made her feel as if her robes were transparent. "Sister Anne Christine."

"Yes." She stood before him; small, defiant… humble and yet proud. Inside, she quailed, her heart as tremulous as a candle flame in a draft.

"I have only just returned home from a long journey, and I have heard that my friend Father Deigas... met some ill fortune." Rafe was missing several teeth from his rough life; his smile was as pitted as his soul.

Angela's eyes grew hard over her veil. She said nothing.

Rafe watched her reaction and seemed delighted by her anger. "I was surprised to hear that he was actually a spy. It make one wonder if perhaps one were to look around this mission, one might find more spies."

"What? Padre Deigas was no... you are deranged!" She stepped back, gesturing widely around the room. "Look! Look all you like! You will find no spy in this house!"

"Sister," Rafe said in his gravelly voice, stepping forward to close the space between them, "I'm looking at one right now." His hand closed around her injured wrist in a cruel grip. "Come. Ryerson wants to talk with you."

~~~

Mac watched helplessly from the roof as this monster led Angela away, surrounded by armed men. He had not understood all the words that were exchanged, but he didn’t need a translator to know that Angela was in big trouble.

Mac's Voice-over:
I recognized the man I had chased across Egypt, Israel, Saudi Arabia-- the same one who had been chasing me back through Iraq, Iran, and Afghanistan to this place.

I almost wished that Rafe had come for me… it’s easier for me to slip out of his hands than to try to get in, rescue someone, and get out again alive. But there was no question about it… I was going to get Angela back safely.

How? Don’t ask me that... yet.

And a couple of other things were bothering me: why had Iban fled, and who was he… really?

~~~next chapter: Choose Your Sides