Free Thunderstrike in Syria by Nick Carter Page A

the men and women displayed the habitual mixture in dress, many were outfitted in Western garb with the traditional forms of headgear, while others wore strictly Arab clothing. Some of the women even wore the chadri, a light black garment, part of which was used as a veil.
    Some dirty-faced children yelled obscenities at me as Miriam and her gun-toting aides marched me to a huge black goatskin tent and shoved me inside.
    It was easy to spot Mohammed Bashir Karameh, although I had never seen a photograph of the man. AXE and Hamosad didn't know what he looked like. Unlike many other Arab terrorist leaders, Karameh reputedly had a passion for anonymity. We suspected that his real reason was more practical: as a precaution against assassination.
    I figured the man positioned so confidently at the head of the large circle of men sitting on cushions must be Karameh. But I did recognize the man seated to
al-Huriya's
right — Ahmed Kamel, Miriam's brother.
    Miriam went over to a table and placed Wilhelmina and Hugo in a wooden chest; then she hurried to Karameh and her brother and sat down on a cushion between the two men and began whispering to the SLA leader. Several of my guards shoved me roughly to my knees in the center of the circle, one remaining behind me, the muzzle of his assault rifle pressed against the back of my neck.
    Karameh motioned to the man. "It is not necessary that you keep your weapon on him," he said in a well-modulated voice. "He's not in any condition to cause us trouble."
    "My leader, this swine is extremely dangerous!" protested the guard. "He killed two of our comrades. Another man died before we could get him to camp. This man" — he poked me with the assault rifle — "is a devil."
    Karameh stared at me for a moment, then turned to Miriam Kamel.
    "It's true," she admitted. "He's Nick Carter, but he's not superhuman. As you can see, he's handcuffed, and I doubt that he can snap steel."
    "In my opinion, he should have been killed on the spot," Ahmed Kamel growled. A roundish man with blotched skin, he was as ugly as his sister was good looking.
    Karameh waved the guard away and looked at me with serious eyes. Dressed in dark green fatigues and wearing two pistols on his belt, he was muscular, with an intelligent, yet slightly-cruel looking, face. Well groomed, he had dark wavy hair, long sideburns and a neatly trimmed mustache. But instantly I spotted his weakness — vanity! It shone from his eyes and was evident in the tilt of his chin, held a bit too high.
    "You are Nick Carter," he said, his voice crisp but not unfriendly.
    "He'll deny it," Miriam snapped. "But he can't deny he's an agent of AXE. The AXE tattoo is on his inner right elbow."
    I saw no reason to play games. "I'm Carter," I said in Arabic, smiling slightly at Karameh who sat ten feet in front of me. "And you are Mohammed Karameh, better known as the Hawk. Personally, I think chicken would be a much better appellation. You seem to be terrified of letting the world know what you look like."
    There was an angry muttering from many of the men in the circle, one of them, short and stocky with traces of a black beard and deep-set eyes, warning me in a snarling voice, "Careful, pig. We will not tolerate any of your insolence!"
    I assumed the man was Khalil Marras, since he was sitting next to Karameh. As for the Hawk, if I had insulted him, he didn't show it. His face remained pleasant and he only laughed a soft, long sound.
    "Have patience, Khalil," he said, looking straight at me. "Mr. Carter thinks that by using foolish insults he can impress us with his bravery. Pay no attention to his braying. The camel does not bow before the jackass."
    He smiled without amusement and when he spoke to me his voice carried more than a slight trace of annoyance.
    "Yes, Carter, I am Mohammed Bashir Karameh. At the moment I'm curious as to how you must feel knowing that you have failed, to realize that we have outsmarted AXE and the Hamosad. It must be