"That's it," Giordino said happily.
"You won't find any transportation traveling to Timbuktu before noon tomorrow," said Digna.
"There must be a good vehicle of some kind in Bourem that we can rent," said Pitt.
"Bourem is a poor town. Most of the townspeople walk or ride motorbikes. Few families can afford to own autos that are not in constant need of repair. The only vehicle of sound mechanical condition currently in Bourem is General Zateb Kazim's private auto."
Digna might as well have prodded a pair of harnessed bulls with a pitchfork. Pitt and Giordino's minds worked on the same wavelength. They both stiffened but immediately relaxed. Their eyes locked and their lips twisted into subtle grins.
"What is his car doing here?" Giordino asked innocently. "We saw him only yesterday at Gao."
"The General flies most everywhere by helicopter or military jet," answered Digna. "But he likes his own personal chauffeur and auto to transport him through the towns and cities. His chauffeur was transporting the auto on the new highway from Bamako to Gao when it broke down a few kilometers outside of Bourem. It was towed here for repairs."
"And was it repaired?" Pitt inquired, taking a sip of beer to appear indifferent.
"The town mechanic finished late this evening. A rock had punctured the radiator."
"Has the chauffeur left for Gao?" Giordino wondered idly.
Digna shook his head. "The road from here to Gao is still under construction. Driving on it at night can be hazardous. He didn't want to risk damaging General Kazim's car again. He plans to leave with the morning light."
Pitt looked at him. "How do you know all this?"
Digna beamed. "My father owns the auto repair garage, and I oversee its operation. The chauffeur and I had dinner together."
"Where is the chauffeur now?"
"A guest at my father's house."
Pitt changed the drift of the conversation to local industry. "Any chemical companies around here?" he asked.
Digna laughed. "Bourem is too poor to manufacture anything but handicrafts and woven goods."
"How about a hazardous waste site?"
"Fort Foureau, but that's hundreds of kilometers to the north."
There was a short lull in the conversation, then Digna asked suddenly, "How much money do you carry?"
"I don't know," Pitt answered honestly. "I never counted it.
Pitt saw Giordino look strangely at him and then flick his eyes at four men seated at a table in the corner. He glanced at them and caught them abruptly turning away. This had to be a setup, he concluded. He stared at the proprietor who was leaning over the bar reading a newspaper and rejected him as one of the muggers. A quick look at the other customers was enough to satisfy him that they were only interested in conversing between themselves. The odds were five against two. Not half bad at all, Pitt thought.
Pitt finished his beer and came to his feet. "Time to go."
"Give my regards to the Chief," said Giordino, pumping Digna's hand.
The young Malian's smile never left his face, but his eyes became hard. "You cannot leave."
"Don't worry about us," Giordino waved. "We'll sleep by the road."
"Give me your money," Digna said softly.
"The son of a chief begging for money," Pitt said dryly. "You must be a great source of embarrassment for your old man."
"Do not offend me," Digna said coldly. "Give me all your money or your blood will soak the floor."
Giordino acted as if he was ignoring the confrontation and edged toward one corner of the bar. The four men had risen from the table and seemed to be waiting for a signal from Digna. The signal never came. The Malians seemed infused by the utter lack of fear shown by their potential victims.
Pitt leaned across the table until his fate was level with Digna's. "Do you know what my friend and I do to sewer slime like you?"
"You cannot insult Mohammed Digna and live," he snarled contemptuously.
"What we do," Pitt calmly continued, "is bury them with a slice of ham in their mouth."
The ultimate abhorrence to a devout Muslim is any contact with a pig. They consider them the most unclean of creatures and the mere thought of spending eternity in the grave with so much as a sliver of bacon is enough to cause their worst nightmares. Pitt knew the threat was as good as a wooden stake pressed against a vampire's chest.
For a full five seconds Digna sat immobile, making sounds from his throat as if he was being strangled. The muscles of his face tautened and his teeth bared in uncontrolled rage. Then he leaped to his feet and pulled a long knife from under his robe.
He was two seconds slow and one second too late.
Pitt rammed his fist into Digna's jaw like a piston. The Malian lurched backward, crashing into the table surrounded by men playing dominos and spilling the game pieces before sprawling to the floor in a twisted heap, out for the count. Digna's henchmen all launched themselves against Pitt, circling him warily, three of them drawing nasty-looking curved knives while the fourth came at him with a raised axe.
Pitt grabbed his chair and swung down on his lead attacker, breaking the man's right arm and shoulder. A shout of pain went up as the room erupted in confusion. The stunned customers crushed against each other in their panic to escape through the narrow door to safety outside the bar. Another exclamation of agony exploded from the assailant with the axe as a well-aimed bottle of whiskey thrown by Giordino smashed with a sickening thud into the side of the man's face.
Pitt lifted the table above his head, his hand gripping two of its legs. In the same instant came the sound of shattered glass and Giordino was standing beside him, his hand thrust forward, clutching the jagged neck of a bottle.
The attackers stopped dead in their tracks, the odds now even. They stared dumbly at their two friends, one swaying on his knees, moaning and holding a badly skewed arm, the other sitting cross-legged with hands covering his face, blood streaming through his fingers. Another downward glance at their unconscious leader, and they began backing toward the door. In the blink of an eye they were gone.
"Not much of an exercise," Giordino muttered. "These guys wouldn't last five minutes on the streets of New York."
"Watch the door," said Pitt. He turned to the proprietor who stood completely unperturbed and unconcerned, turning the pages of his newspaper as if he regarded fights on his premises as regular nightly entertainment. "Le garage?" Pitt asked.
The proprietor raised his head, tugged at his moustache, and wordlessly jerked his thumb in a vague direction beyond the south wall of the bar.
Pitt threw several francs on the sagging bar to pay for the damage and said, "Merci."
This place kind of grows on you," said Giordino. "I almost hate to part with it."
"Picture it in your mind always." Pitt checked his watch. "Only four hours before daylight. Off we go before an alarm is turned in."
They exited the dingy bar and skirted the rear of the buildings, hugging the shadows and peering furtively around corners. Their precaution, Pitt realized, was largely an overkill. The almost total lack of street lights and the darkened houses with their sleeping inhabitants voided any chance of suspicion.
They came to one of the more substantial mud brick buildings in town, a large warehouse-like affair with a wide metal gate in the front and double doors at the rear. The chain-link fenced yard in back looked like an automotive junkyard. Nearly thirty old cars were parked in rows, stripped bare with little left of them but body shells and frames. Wheels and grimy engines were stacked in one corner of the yard near several oil drums. Transmissions and differentials leaned against the building, the ground around soaked from years of leaking oil.
They found a gate in the fence that was tied shut by a rope. Giordino picked up a sharp stone and cut through the rope, swinging open the gate. They moved carefully toward the doors, listening for any sound of a guard dog and peering through the darkness for signs of a security system. There must have been little need for theft prevention, Pitt decided. With so few cars in town, anyone stealing a part to repair a private vehicle would have immediately been suspect.