The Fish's Belly

by Craig R. Kirkby

  Marco was out of the car in a flash, his binoculars against his face.

  “What?” he gasped. “Can it be?”

  Then he chuckled.

  “William McArthur. You are still here. Cheeky spy, you must have been tailing me all this time.”

  He swung around to see whether his soldiers were still in sight. The three red Mazdas were long gone.

  He got back in his car, turned it around and headed back towards the warehouses.

  “This may just turn out to be a good day for me. A very good day.”

  23

  Mac strained to get a glimpse of what appeared to be the only two survivors of the plane crash. The midmorning sun caught his eye-line, making it difficult to see with clarity.

  “Two men,” said Donald. “Both in military uniform. Different uniforms though. One plain uniform like the others we’ve seen. The other man’s uniform is more prominent...”

  “The General?” asked Daniel unsure, his own eyes struggling to focus.

  Mac wasn’t listening; he was trying to figure out what he could do to rescue the men. It was a long swim. And even if he got to them in time, they would be hysterical and perhaps wounded…

  “How do I do this?” he chided himself.

  Then the men struggling to stay afloat became conscious of their presence on the shore, and began to scream for help.

  “Oh no! Look!” yelled Donald.

  This time Mac did listen. He had been about to plunge into the water, even though he still hadn’t solved his dilemma.

  “What?” he asked hastily.

  “There!” Daniel had seen them too.

  A float of crocodiles, easily six or seven of them had hit the water. They must have been basking in the morning sun, and were now delighted that breakfast had fallen from the sky.

  Mac still considered diving in, when Daniel brought him to his senses.

  “Dad! … No, Dad!”

  He stopped; a rescue attempt would be in vain. The crocodiles would kill him before he even got to the survivors.

  Mac knew who was propped up on that flotation device … he had recognised his uniform.

  Now the General, clinging on to dear life recognised him.

  “McArthur? McArthur?! Help! Help me! McArthur!!!”

  The General now lifted himself up on top of the other struggling man, dunking his head under water. The soldier fought back until the General took out his pistol and smashed him on the head. Now with the limp body of the soldier underneath him held up by the parachute beneath them both, the General could lift his upper body out of the water.

  It was only then that he noticed the crocodiles … just twenty metres away.

  Terror seized the mad man.

  “McArthur!!! Help me!!”

  He started shooting wildly at the enormous reptiles of the lake, now just ten metres away.

  “Help! Help me!! No, no, noooo ….. Mac!!!”

  Mac grabbed Daniel and Donald away from the scene.

  “Go,” he said, “Run back to Harry and Rache. The emergency services should be here soon.”

  They could hear sirens in the distance.

  “Dad? And you?”

  “I’ll wait for them,” he bit his lip. “Explain what I saw. When Dembe and Agent Smith arrive send them here immediately.”

  Daniel and Donald ran as fast as their legs could carry them. Mac watched them run back to their hiding spot, a thousand thoughts swirling around his head. Moments later a fire engine, an ambulance and three police vehicles burst on to the airstrip.

  Mac went to greet them.

  ***

  Mac had not yet given his account, the emergency services consumed with trying to work out how to salvage the wreck from around a feeding frenzy of crocodiles.

  Just when he thought it might all be over…

  The cold, hard barrel of a gun jabbed him in the back, even as a strong hand gripped his left shoulder.

  “Mac, Mac, Mac. So we have one last showdown, do we?’

  He recognised Marco’s voice immediately. He had totally forgotten about him, having presumed he had escaped.

  “Don’t say a word,” warned Marco. “I’ve got nothing to lose. You have everything to lose.”

  Marco pushed Mac towards a side door entrance of the nearest warehouse.

  “Here,” Marco gave him a key, “Open it. Quickly and quietly.”

  Mac opened the lock knowing that no one would see them enter, the emergency services were engrossed in their salvage operation, and he was out of sight from the others in their hideaway.

  The stench of fish almost overwhelmed Mac as he entered the warehouse.

  “Yes, not very pleasant is it,” chuckled Marco as he closed the door behind them. “While the fish are wonderful money-earners to be honest, they serve mainly as a smoke-screen … or a stink-screen,” he cackled at his attempt at a joke, “for the bigger picture. The real vision…”

  “He’s sounding more and more like the General,” thought Mac.

  “Well Mac, aren’t you going to beg for your life, or are you too proud?” Marco was getting an obscene amount of pleasure from this. “I can assure you, only one of us is leaving here alive. And as a betting man myself; your chances are zip, zero, zilch. Nada!”

  Mac saw an evil glint in Marco’s eyes; his murderous intent blatantly evident. There would be no reasoning with him.

  Then he saw Marco pull out a silencer from his pocket and begin to twist it on to the front of his gun. Mac thought of darting at him while he fastened it, but with more than five metres between them, would he make it? The old pro that he was, Marco had the silencer attached before Mac had made up his mind. Marco’s eyes hadn’t strayed from Mac for even a second.

  “Don’t worry; no one will hear a thing. But I do want you to beg. If not for your life; for the life of your kids.”

  Mac flinched ever so slightly; Marco didn’t miss it.

  “Yes, that’s your soft spot. A spy with kids, how foolish. I know they’re here, somewhere close no doubt. I saw your boy running down to the water’s edge with you and the orphan … I never did like Donald,” Marco spat on the floor.

  “And Rachel … little Rache … she must be close, no?”

  Mac kept silent, he knew the children were safe. They were with Harry … and Dembe and Agent Smith were surely on their way.

  Perhaps if he somehow stalled Marco?

  “To think a day that started so bleak for me,” Marco continued, “now I get to rub out the witnesses to my crimes, and then I assume the General’s mantle. All in a morning’s work. Not a bad day at the office, eh? Oh, and you do know your friend Harry is dead do you…?”

  “What?” Mac shrugged his shoulders. The man had a motor-mouth and he wasn’t going to stop him.

  “Ironic really. He, like the General, crocodile food!” Marco laughed feverishly. “Really, I couldn’t make this up if I wanted to. Now I step into the shoes of the General … and carry on the monumental work he has begun. Of course, after he stepped into the shoes of some other fallen general. Short careers we tyrants have. Oh well, I better make the most of it…”

  Marco pointed the gun at Mac’s head.

  Mac breathed in deep, saw the sadistic glee in Marco’s face, and closed his eyes.

  He knew he was out of options.

  It was time to commune with his God.

  “Father, if it is my time, please protect Danny and Rache,” he prayed out loud. “I know they’re in good hands, but comfort them as only You can. If it is Your will that I survive this, please intervene…”

  24

  He had planned to pray until Marco silenced him.

  But no gun went off.

  Mac opened one eye, unsure of what to expect.

  Fear … no terror would better describe it.

  Terror contorted and twisted Marco’s face into a hideous crumple.

  His gun hand hung limp at his side; with his other hand, he tried to shield his face from … something.
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  His eyeballs, bulging large as golf balls, were fixed on something behind Mac … something behind, but a metre above Mac’s head.

  Or someone?

  Then Marco dropped the gun. It clanged loud on the cement floor.

  Dropping to his knees, his hands now clasped in front of him, praying, begging, entreating the something … the someone.

  “Mercy! Mercy, please!” he shrieked.

  Mac felt them.

  It was a familiar presence to him.

  This time though, it was stronger than he had ever experienced before.

  It was that sense he felt whenever he worshipped God.

  Now, he felt as though he was bathed in the tangible peace of God.

  He chose not to look behind him, not because he was scared, but because he thought perhaps it was respectful not to.

  “Have mercy on me,” pleaded Marco, his terrified hysteria in complete contradiction to the elation, the euphoria, the heavenly joy Mac experienced.

  “Angels!” screamed Marco. “God … don’t kill me, mercy!”

  Mac suddenly knew what to do.

  Walking over to a shelf near Marco, he grabbed two strips of cable ties. He bound Marco’s hands even as the man continued to sweat and squeal for mercy, and then tied his feet together. The smell of urine drowned out the smell of Perch for a second.

  The General-wannabe collapsed on the ground, trembling.

  Without looking up, Mac turned and walked out the door Marco had led him in through.

  The fresh air was most welcome, and the warm sunlight pleasant too after the cool warehouse. He pulled the door closed behind him.

  “Dad!” Rachel’s voice carried to him, although he couldn’t see her among the crowd. The amount of emergency service workers now had tripled.

  “Dad!” Mac heard Daniels voice, and now located the direction from where it came.

  “Danny! Rache!”

  Daniel and Rachel bounded towards him and jumped into his arms.

  It was so good to feel the warmth of their bodies and the beat of their hearts.

  “Where were you?” asked Rachel.

  “Gee Dad, you had us worried,” added Daniel.

  “Sorry, I’m so sorry. I … I had a run in with—”

  “Mac! Mac, so good to see you…” It was Agent Smith.

  “Agent Smith!” Mac was relieved to see him, too.

  “Looks like you didn’t need me after all,” joked Smith. “Where were you?”

  “Agent Smith,” Mac’s face broke into a grin. “In the warehouse, you’ll find a gift.”

  “What?” Smith was confused. So was Daniel and Rachel. Harry, Donald and Dembe had also arrived on the scene, all puzzled by where Mac had disappeared to.

  “The new General…” Mac pointed to the warehouse.

  Only now that they concentrated could they hear the faded drone of a man’s hysterical voice emanating from the closed door.

  “Who?” asked Rachel.

  “Marco,” answered Donald.

  “In the warehouse?” gasped Harry.

  “There’s his car!” Daniel pointed out the silver Mercedes parked between two warehouses.

  “Did he hurt you, Dad?” asked Rachel.

  “No, sweetie,” replied Mac.

  “What did you do to him?” grinned Daniel.

  “Agent Smith,” smiled Mac, “You’ll find him tied up, gift wrapped for you.”

  “Who? How?” Smith was impressed.

  “Just be careful, he stinks! The wannabe warlord … has wet his pants.”

  ***

  Back at The Fish’s Belly, with a wonderful lunch spread before them, Mac explained what had happened in the warehouse.

  “I just can’t believe it, really. I can’t believe how awesome our God is!” beamed Rachel. “Thank You Father!”

  “Angels!” shook Harry in that sense of believing disbelief every Jesus-follower knows well.

  “Dad, you knew it was the General out there, but you were still going to rescue him,” Daniel couldn’t contain his admiration for his father.

  “It was a long shot, but we had to try…”

  “Father,” Donald looked at Harry, “How should we feel about the General’s death? In a way I’m happy … is that wrong?”

  Harry thought for a moment. “Don, to be honest, I’m happy, too. But not that a man died today. But that a desperately wicked man with a notoriously evil agenda has been stopped. We will all face death, and through death we will all face our Maker. Today, the General will give a full account of his life. “Vengeance is Mine says the Lord”. I guess I’m relieved and sobered. We must live our lives for an audience of One; knowing we too will give account for our lives.”

  “Well said Mzee,” affirmed Dembe. “In that same passage of Scripture, Paul calls us to “overcome evil with good”*. Today we can rejoice that good has overcome evil.”

  “Amen,” said Mac. “And as we eat now, Agent Smith is doing what Agent Smith does best … confiscating a warehouse and cargo plane load of illegal weapons!”

  “Praise the Lord!” cheered seven voices, among them was Suzie.

  * Romans 12:19, 21

  As they feasted together, the conversation turned to more jovial matters.

  “Oh yes, Dad,” Daniel remembered something, “you said you’d explain who Zachnoid Tumble-something is.”

  Mac laughed and after explaining the context to Harry, Dembe and Suzie, that they had used this strange name as a code word, he outlined the origin of Mr. Tumbleweed.

  “Shortly after I had joined WCI as a young doctor, the pastor of a church asked to see me. He had heard of our work and wanted to ‘adopt me’—his words, not mine—as a missionary that the church he lead could support.”

  “Which church Dad?” asked Rachel.

  “Doesn’t really matter, dear. Anyway, we had coffee together and he asked for a photograph, preferably one of me ‘in action’…” Mac let his voice tail off.

  “What does that mean?” asked Daniel.

  “Well, I asked the same question. He said one where I’m ‘holding a sick little baby’ would be good…”

  “No way?” gasped Harry.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what he said. He wanted a photo and a brief biography from me. He wanted to pin it up on the information board in the church building to envision mission or something like that.”

  “And?” asked Donald, hooked.

  “I asked him how he wanted to support WCI; I didn’t really know what else to say to him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, he seemed a little caught out by the question. Then he said the congregation would keep us in their prayers. I said I was grateful and asked if he had thought about training a team for a short term mission, suggesting he lead the team…”

  “Yes?” Even Dembe was captivated.

  “He was taken aback by my suggestion. He said he didn’t do mission teams; he was a ‘pastor after all’—again, his words not mine—and didn’t think the congregation would buy into it.”

  “Buy into it?” snickered Harry.

  “I then asked if he would consider a monthly donation to WCI. Of course, my salary is paid so the money wasn’t for me, I explained, but the projects WCI take on are extensive, and every bit helps…”

  “What did he say?” asked Daniel.

  “He was mortified that I should ask for money saying something about the immense value of prayer and the like. Needless to say, the time wasn’t a positive experience.”

  “So, where does Zachnoid fit into it?” asked Rachel.

  25

  Mac knew how to tell a story.

  His audience were desperate to know how Zachnoid Tumbleweed fitted into his account.

  As Mac allowed a long pause to drag out, Daniel groaned: “Come on Dad, how does he fit in?”

  “Okay, okay,” Mac decided to put them out of their misery. “Well I left the meeting and thought I wouldn’t hear from him again. He phoned me a week lat
er and asked whether I was going to send him the photograph and biography I had ‘promised him’…”

  “You’re kidding?” gasped Harry.

  “Not kidding,” replied Mac matter-of-factly.

  “So, what did you do?” begged Rachel.

  “I’m not proud of what I did next,” confessed Mac, doing his best to keep his smile hidden. “I was young and naïve and idealistic and overly passionate for my own good…”

  “Dad! Tell us!” pleaded Daniel.

  “Okay, okay,” smiled Mac. “I took a photo of myself with one of those cameras that skew your face up…”

  “No!” gasped Rachel.

  “Yes!” continued Mac. “It distorted my face something awful, my ears were several sizes too big, my mouth took up three quarters of my face…” he suppressed a grin, “…it didn’t look like I had a nose…”

  “Yes, yes,” Daniel was overly eager.

  “I had it framed with a brief bogus bio typed underneath it and sent it to him. The label read: Zachnoid Tumbleweed, missionary to the lost island of Lagoogoo!”

  “Nooo!” gasped Rachel amid an uproar of laughter.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Daniel thought his sides would split.

  “What did he do?” asked Donald chuckling.

  “I never heard from him again,” said Mac grinning. “I’m not sure why…”

  “You’re a great story-teller Mac,” smiled a delighted Dembe, who knew well the art of storytelling.

  “You let him off light,” said Harry.

  “Of course, wise as I am now,” Mac grinned, “I wouldn’t do it today. It was a juvenile thing to do…”

  “Yes but it’s too easy for Christians to say a token-prayer for a token-missionary and maybe send some token-dollars … and neglect the opportunities God gives them every day to serve the needy under their noses,” Harry spoke with conviction. “Or to engage personally, intentionally and sacrificially in the support of missions around the world.”

  “Preach it, Harry,” smiled Mac. “Maybe you should go have coffee with him next time!”

  They all laughed again.

  “You’re right, I’m getting a bit hot under my collar here,” smiled Harry. “But oh, that God’s people would catch His missionary heart to serve the world!”

  ***

  Mac was able to secure plane tickets for first thing Tuesday morning. They were returning to Zimbabwe, the project there was just four to five weeks from completion. Mac and Harry had already booked five nights accommodation at The Fish’s Belly with Suzie, as they would have to return within the next few weeks to liaise with the government officials regarding project “New Hope”. This time the meetings would be the real deal.