Ahead of the company, Pyotr scrambles up the bank of the oued then atop a low rise – mountains stretch in all directions, bleak and inhospitable. The Ukrainian’s eyes detect no sign of movement on the ridgetops, but most of the canyons are screened from view, creating an incomplete picture.
Looking up the sharpshooter sees a pair of black wings – a vulture, gliding through the air, riding the thermals offered by the rough landscape.
Marcel listens to the Arab’s words as he bandages the lacteration on the boy’s arm – there’s a nagging sense that something isn’t right, that he’s not telling the whole story. Finishing the dressing, he pulls a candy bar from his pocket and offers it to the boy.
The young Arab takes the candy bar without a word, clutching it in his raised hand and staring at the ground ahead of him. The medic rises and turns to find Lt. Ramadier standing behind him. Marcel gives his report – the platoon commander says nothing.
As Marcel works, Kat looks about then leans over to Nedjar. “Take Burhan and go find Pyotr,” he says softly. Nedjar nods, taps Burhan on the shoulder – the two slip up the oued with weapons held at the ready.
Lt. Ramadier looks at the rope recovered from the bag, then at the two men. “Ask him why he has an extra,” the young officer says to Kat. The sergent repeats the question to the older man.
<Arabic>“We could not find the third donkey,” </Arabic> he replies with a shrug, his eyes shifting away momentarily as he answers.
This time Marcel is sure he’s hiding something.
