Bolan scanned the high ground. Somewhere between those contorted ridges was a track through to the sand sea and the Fortress of the Rock. But would the traditional paths, those centuries-old routes of the slaver caravans, still be safe? Would any of them still be open?

Hassan Zayoud had used his viceregal powers to declare this whole corner of the country, from the jebel to the disputed fringes of Khurabi, a militarized zone, off-limits to everyone except duly authorized personnel. The tracks across it were probably blocked with barbed wire, mined or obliterated entirely by detonated landslides... and yet the bedu still knew of a secret way through these hills.

He spotted a movement across the backdrop of the topmost cliff. Had Hassan posted lookouts up there? Bolan swept the peaks with the binoculars.

"What is it?" asked Danny.

"Birds. Small vultures of some kind," Bolan told her. They had seen few signs of life on the trek in: some tracks, droppings, but not the desert creatures that had made them.

Dusty shrubbery and yellowed grass grew in isolated patches along the face of the jebel, sure signs of deep wellsprings and stagnant puddles among the rocks, and where there was water there was life.

"Not much out here," said Danny. "Jerboas, sand hares, the odd snake... maybe a fox or some oryx on the top slopes."

"That's all they need," said Bolan, still watching the patient raptors circling on the updrafts. "Over there, see that swayback ridge? Looks like there might be a trail that doglegs up behind it." He handed the binoculars over to Danny.

"Yes, that looks like our best bet. What's the plan?" There was still an hour of daylight left.

"Let's drive up there. Must be about three miles. If things look clear, we'll try to slip over the top at dawn."

It was better than four miles of hard punishment before they reached the hollowed slopes behind the ridge. In the debris-strewn gully they were well covered from any watchful eyes on the plains far below; in fact, they could only be spotted by someone on the cliffs directly above their position.

The final elevation still appeared daunting. In places the rock face was formidably sheer, but here and there it was scarred deeply by falls and erosion.

One of those clefts held the key to the Jebel Kharg. "This is a good spot to make camp. I think we can risk a small fire. It'll be another cold night, particularly at this elevation." Bolan parked the Hog but did not cover it this time.

Danny set up their camp between the Jeep and the cliff, then cast around for some smaller slabs of rock to build a sheltered fireplace. He removed what dead bushes he could find between the cracks and crevices, hacking off the tougher ones with his Teflon-coated blade. He slid the knife back into its ankle sheath, gathered the bundle of precious kindling together and brought it back to the dell.

"There is a way through up there somewhere," announced Danny positively. "I went out to gather some fuel myself — look what I found!"

"Camel dung."

"Very old, very dry, but somebody else had passed this way, too."

"Okay, you get the fire going. The supplies are in that box there. It ain't exactly cordon bleu," said Bolan, his hopes recharged by Danny's sharp-eyed discovery. "I'm going to scout that trail up there."

With the Uzi slung on a shoulder strap, Bolan followed the twisting path that threaded through the tall boulders above their campsite. A withered thistle, which had bloomed briefly after a shower some seasons past, still held an errant strand of camel hair.

He searched the mottled mauve-and-brown rocks for signs of the trail the drovers must have taken. None of the clefts looked very promising.

A fan of loose shale, too treacherous even for the Hog, marked the one rift the traders might have come through. Bolan worked his way farther to the right, but found nothing passable. And it was getting darker by the moment. He began circling back toward the camp.

The velvet night sky was spangled with myriad stars. After the broiling heat of midday, it was amazing how cool it became once the sun had vanished.

What if he had to go the rest of the way on foot?

Bolan began to recalculate his timetable with half a mind, while the rest of him concentrated on keeping his footing among the tumbled rocks.

He got a tingling jolt from his internal warning system just as he approached the camp. He thought he saw two darkly bundled figures scrambling over the ridge above the Jeep. He unslung the Uzi in a flash. But it was too late.

A white-robed man with an evil gold-capped smile was already squatting by the fire. An ancient Lee Enfield was resting across his lap, his finger curled about the trigger. And the muzzle was only inches from Danny's heart.

In that small circle of flickering firelight the old man's leathery face looked even more like the mask of some evil djinn. With the hand that cradled the rifle he signaled for Bolan to come closer.

"No, sah'b... no touch gun! No need for gun." He made a small patting motion in the air to indicate that the big foreigner should lay down his weapon.

With Danny's life in the balance as a bargaining chip, Bolan had no choice but to comply.

The other two men — both younger, probably the rifleman's sons — jumped down onto the track.

They both wore khunjars, the curved and bejeweled daggers given to every male when he reached manhood. One had a cast to his eye that gave him a menacing, retarded look.

"Closer, sah'b!"

Bolan stepped forward, trying to figure the odds.

He could see the man was not quite as old as he'd first thought. These bedu wanderers were traditionalists if put to the test, where did their loyalties lie? He had to guess they would probably pick Hassan's fundamental fanaticism were they just being cautious about stumbling onto strangers in the middle of nowhere?

Or did they intend to kill them both right here and now? The rifle had not budged an inch. There was less than a hairbreadth between those two possibilities, and Bolan was not going to bet on the difference. Not yet.

He spread open his empty hands, palms showing, "Whatever we have is yours — please, share our meal."

The leader appreciated the courtesy, even though both he and Bolan knew the old-timer was in a position to take what he wanted. Yet he was still more curious about their mysterious presence here than eager for the coffee, which was boiling by the fire.

Danny glanced across at Bolan as he squatted on his haunches. Then she quickly looked away, ashamed and angry at herself for having been taken by surprise.

"What you do here, sah'b? Long way from city."

"Oil. We're looking for oil," Bolan lied easily. "Geologists. We're a search team for Allied Oil."

"Ah, you think you find oil up here?"

"No, not around here, old friend. We want to prospect on the far side of the jebel." Bolan's casual wave at the cliffs above them made one of the other men bring a British army service revolver to bear. They were very jumpy.

The man by the fire translated Bolan's explanation for his companions. None of them looked too convinced, and Bolan observed the puzzled looks on their faces, as they wondered, perhaps, why these Americans would be out here in the deep desert.

"Tell you what," suggested Bolan, appearing as affable as could be, "I could hire you guys as our local guides. The company gives me funds for that. I'm willing to pay You well if you'll show us a safe way across the top of the jebel. Will you do it? Here, let's have some coffee and discuss a fee."

The old man smiled greedily, his gold fillings glinting in the light of the campfire at this mention of money.

"There are ways through the hills," he conceded. "But this territory is forbidden, sah'b. Very dangerous to be here."