Decisive

by David Hickson

“They’re shooting at us,” he said, his voice strangled with panic.

  “Does the sunroof open?” I asked.

  “No.” Bibata shook her head, her eyes fixed on the smudge of the approaching car.

  “I’m going to break it,” I said. “Keep us moving towards that car. Don’t slow down and don’t change your course no matter what they do. When I call to you, go around that car to the right, then pull in behind them, and slam on the brakes.”

  Bibata gave no response.

  “Repeat that,” I said.

  “Drive at them,” said Bibata. “When you call, go around. Then stop.”

  “Good. You can do it Bibata, don’t worry.”

  I swivelled about in my seat and lifted my legs to the sunroof above me. The tinted perspex was old and cracked from years of exposure to the blistering sun. I rested the soles of my shoes against it, then kicked with all my force. The perspex flew upwards and disappeared. Alassane turned to watch it crash to the ground behind us.

  I pulled the Makarov pistol from the holster, squeezed my shoulders through the narrow hole, and stood upright. I turned my eyes forward, gauging the distance to the approaching jeep. It was still travelling fast, probably assuming that we would correct our course. The driver was not concentrating. Then, with less than fifty metres between us, he realised we were driving straight towards him, and he did what I hoped, and slammed on his own brakes, skidding to the safety of the verge and producing an enormous cloud of dust.

  “Now!” I called and felt the car beneath me swerve to the right as Bibata over-steered. I turned to face the blue car. It was still gaining on us. I raised the Makarov. A moment later I saw what I expected: an elbow and the form of a weapon poking through the passenger window.

  I fired at them, but as I squeezed the trigger Bibata hit the brakes, and my shot went wide. Dust was billowing about me as I regained my balance. Found my target. Squeezed the trigger again. The front windscreen of the blue car shattered. But I realised it wasn’t the people in the car I needed to hit. That was a mistake. I had no idea how many of them there were, or how many weapons they had. I had to do something that would take care of all of them. And for that, I would need to wait until they were almost alongside us.

  Our car shuddered to a standstill. I drew a breath, held it, raised the Makarov. The blue car disappeared behind the cloud of dust, but then suddenly it was upon us. The driver had not noticed we had pulled to the side or stopped. They came tearing towards us, and at the last moment noticed where we were. Their car wobbled. That was my moment. I squeezed the trigger. The Makarov was a few pips off: I caught the flash of the headlight bursting. Another squeeze on the trigger. The near front tyre flung a strip of rubber into the air.

  They were travelling too fast. The sudden jerk on the steering wheel as the driver saw us, and the loss of the front tyre caused him to lose control. I saw the face of a man above the barrel of an AK-47, grimacing with ferocious concentration. The barrel was jerking. I felt the sudden searing pain of a bullet ripping the flesh of my arm, just below the shoulder.

  Then they were past us, and the face of the man above the barrel was rising into the air. The car was rolling. There came a series of dreadful sounds. Metal crunching and scraping across the hard dust road. A moment later they had disappeared into the billowing dust.

  I ducked back into the car. Bibata was staring at the place the blue car had disappeared. Alassane had wide eyes, his long arms holding him off his seat as if he was about to jump off the edge of a cliff. Bibata turned to me.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  “It’s a scratch,” I said. “Turn around, and drive out of here.”

  Bibata opened her mouth to protest, but Alassane shouted from the back seat, “Drive woman! Drive!”

  Bibata shoved the car into reverse, went a little too far so that the rear wheels dropped into the ditch, then revved too much and scattered more gravel and dust as we leapt forwards and travelled back in the direction from which we had come.

  Outside, sounds were rushing in to fill the space left by the cacophony of the crash. Voices, people calling out with panic.

  “Is there somewhere we can go?” I asked.

  “They were shooting at us,” said Alassane, as if he was still trying to figure out what had happened.

  “We need to go somewhere,” I said. “To think. Reassess. Somewhere close, somewhere no one will think to look.”

  “My grandmother,” said Bibata. “She is close.”

  “Take us there,” I said.

  Alassane’s eyes were on my arm. It looked worse than it was. The left sleeve of my shirt was peeling off like a loose flap of skin. The sleeve had soaked up the blood and was dripping onto my pants and the seat of the car.

  “Fast as you can,” I said. “I need to clean up.”

  “We must cancel,” said Alassane, his eyes still wide, his breathing shallow. He was in a state of panic.

  “We don’t cancel,” I said. “We clean up the mess and take a few deep breaths. This is not over yet. It’s only just started.”

  Five

  The grandmother’s house was a small cube in a row of identical cubes on a tiny, dusty street. There were three rooms, the rear one a kitchen, with an open door onto a backyard which had a vegetable patch. Neat rows of lovingly nurtured vegetables.

  Bibata’s grandmother was a smaller, wizened version of Bibata. Also made up of round shapes, with wide, friendly eyes above plump cheeks. She asked no questions, but boiled water for tea and to sterilise the wound.

  Alassane strode around the vegetables as if he was inspecting them. Bibata removed my shirt and gingerly wiped the blood from around the cut. It was a clean tear through the skin, and would need stitches, but I showed her how to pinch the flesh and strap it tightly to stem the bleeding. Bibata was gentle, her eyes full of empathy, as if she felt the pain herself. She winced slightly with each touch of antiseptic. Her grandmother stood beside her as she worked and watched me as if trying to read something in my eyes.

  After a few minutes, the grandmother said something to Bibata in a language I didn’t understand. Bibata uttered what sounded like a gentle rebuke, then looked at me and gave a tight smile, but offered no translation. The grandmother prompted Bibata, as if she wanted an answer to a question. Bibata gave a small laugh, and a slightly flirtatious glance at me.

  “What does your grandmother want to know?” I asked.

  “She is up to her nonsense,” said Bibata with a smile. “Is that feeling better?”

  She had wrapped the bandage tightly, and it looked as if it would hold. I ripped a length of duct tape off the roll her grandmother had found at the back of a kitchen drawer. Bibata helped me wrap it around the bandage. That would keep the blood in if the bandage wasn’t enough.

  Alassane appeared at the door, then turned back to stare at the vegetables as if they were responsible for what had happened.

  “We must get you out of here,” he said irritably.

  “We don’t know who those men were,” I pointed out. “We do nothing until we have more information.”

  “They were shooting at us,” said Alassane. “The general knows what you are doing here. Can’t you see that? I thought you were a professional.”

  “Those men shooting at us were not soldiers,” I said. “If our target knew of my presence, and purpose here, he would have sent soldiers from his army. That was not who those men were. Our operation is not prejudiced, not yet. Call in to your office, tell them that there was an accident on the road. See what information they have.”

  Alassane glared at me, then turned back to the vegetables. He pulled a phone from his pocket with irritation, tapped the screen, and held it to his ear. He stepped out of the kitchen and out of earshot. Then glanced back at me as he spoke into his phone. I wondered about the mixture of anger and fear in his face. The fear I understood. The anger I was not sure about.

  Bibata’s grandmother spoke again, her eyes still on me. Bibata di
smissed her comment again with a laugh.

  “What is her question?” I asked.

  Bibata’s eyes fluttered to mine, then back to Alassane with consternation. Then she said, “My grandmother is a little crazy sometimes. You must forgive her.”

  “I’m a little crazy myself. What is her question?”

  “She asks whether you have decided,” said Bibata with another glance at Alassane to confirm that he was still out of earshot.

  “Decided?” I said.

  “She says you have an important decision to make today,” said Bibata. “I told you she is crazy.”

  I looked at her grandmother, who was still gazing at me solemnly.

  “What decision does your grandmother suggest I make?” I asked.

  Bibata smiled, pleased perhaps that I was indulging her grandmother. She turned to her and spoke again in their language. The grandmother answered, her eyes still on me. Bibata laughed and shook her head.

  “She says you must not hesitate. That would be a bad idea.” She laughed again. “Is the decision about a woman?” Another flirtatious glance. “Don’t take my grandmother seriously. Everyone around here knows she is a little crazy.”

  Alassane came back into the kitchen, tucking his phone back into the pocket of his funereal jacket.

  “They know nothing,” he announced.

  “You said there had been an accident?”

  Alassane nodded. “It is not unusual here. The roads are not good.”

  “Is the general still expecting us?”

  Alassane watched Bibata as she held my spare shirt for me, and I carefully eased my damaged arm into it.

  “Yes,” he said. “He is still expecting you. But it would be suicidal to go there now.”

  I wondered again about the anger apparent in the way he glared at Bibata. As if dressing my wound and helping with the shirt was in some way a betrayal.

  “It is too late for regrets,” I said. “Suicidal or not, we proceed.”

  The grandmother made us herbal tea, which was surprisingly refreshing.

  “In this heat,” said Bibata, “a hot drink is the best thing.”

  The three of us sat on rustic wooden chairs in the kitchen to discuss our options. A sluggish movement of air came in through the open door from the vegetable patch. The grandmother stood at the gas stove where she was chopping and boiling vegetables.

  “Don’t worry about her,” said Bibata, noticing my hesitation. “She speaks no French.”

  “I need you to tell me,” I said, looking at Alassane, “who else knows about this operation. Who is behind it? How many people are involved?”

  “We should abort,” said Alassane, as if he had not heard my question.

  “Let me explain, Alassane,” I said. “I am not a man who aborts. I have a task to complete, and there is nothing that will stop me. Not even a bunch of bandits with AK-47s.”

  Alassane closed his mouth, and his jaw muscles bulged with silent anger.

  “Who else knows about this operation?” I asked again.

  “Nobody else knows. It’s the three of us, that is all.”

  “There must be someone in the presidential office,” I said. “Or was it you personally who discovered the general’s plans to overthrow the government?”

  Alassane shook his head.

  “Was it you who contacted the South Africans? Asked for their intervention?”

  Alassane shook his head again, then said reluctantly, “My boss. No one else.”

  “Your boss?” I repeated and watched his reaction. The jaw muscles bulged again. “Your boss discovered the general’s plans?” I asked. “Your boss put this operation together? Or was it your idea?”

  Alassane hesitated. He looked to Bibata then back to me. “She insisted we keep it quiet,” he said. “Only my boss and I know about it. And this morning I briefed Bibata.”

  “Your boss is a woman?” I asked.

  Another nod, a dishonest shift of his eyes, and a bulge of the jaw muscles.

  “How many women are there in the presidential office?” I asked.

  Alassane shrugged. “Several women,” he said.

  “Is your boss the vice president?”

  Alassane gave me a blank stare. The three of us sat in silence for a moment. Bibata’s grandmother chopped a carrot noisily.

  “Do you think it is possible that your boss has changed her mind about the operation?” I asked. “And sent those men to stop us?”

  “No,” said Alassane. “It is not possible.”

  He fell silent, and his eyes twitched with anxiety. The heat pressed down upon us. The grandmother chopped another carrot.

  “How late are we going to be for my meeting with the general?” I asked.

  “Not too late, if we leave now,” said Bibata.

  “Then let’s leave now.”

  Alassane and Bibata both looked at me as if I had not used the language we had in common. Neither of them wanted to get back into that car.

  “There is glass all over the back seat,” complained Alassane.

  “Why don’t we clear that up?” I suggested. “The car is still operational. It will get us there.”

  Alassane looked at Bibata as if it was his opinion that clearing glass off the back seat of the car was something she should be doing.

  “Let me fetch a brush and dustpan,” said Bibata.

  “If you don’t mind, Bibata,” I said. “I would like you to check the dressing on my arm before we leave. I am sure Alassane wouldn’t mind clearing the glass.”

  Alassane said nothing. He didn’t need to use words to explain that he did mind. About clearing the glass, and about the fact that I was the one giving orders.

  Six

  When Alassane had left the room with his brush and dustpan, Bibata’s grandmother turned away from the stove and said something to Bibata in her singsong language. Then she looked at me in the manner of someone waiting for a translation to be conveyed. Bibata was standing beside me and looking at the dressing on my arm. The layers of duct tape were holding, and there was no sign of any blood.

  “Your grandmother has something more to say?” I asked.

  Bibata was looking at me with some confusion. It was obvious the dressing on my arm had not needed an inspection. She clicked her tongue, and said, “The dressing is fine.”

  I rolled my sleeve down. “What does your grandmother say?”

  “Why did you want me to stay here?” said Bibata. “With Alassane not here with us.”

  The grandmother reached out to Bibata, took her arm and spoke with insistence. Bibata turned back to me and shrugged.

  “She wants you to know that my boss is not of our tribe. But pay no attention to her. She speaks always in riddles.”

  “Why is that important, that he is not of your tribe?”

  The grandmother spoke again as if she had understood my question.

  “She says you should not trust him,” translated Bibata, and she gave a dismissive laugh. “But I think already you do not trust him.”

  “Why shouldn’t I trust him?”

  “No reason. My grandmother does not trust him. That is all.”

  “Does your family harbour resentments after all? Alassane dismissed that idea, but your grandmother is resentful about what happened a thousand years ago?”

  “Nobody is resentful. It would be absurd, but I tease Alassane because he is so proud of his heritage and the Mossi tend to think they are superior. I told you: my grandmother is a little crazy.”

  “But she doesn’t like you working with Alassane?”

  “She tells me he plans to do awful things to me, but that is her craziness, and because she dislikes him. Not because of his heritage, but because he is an extremist – he hates the French, as you must have realised. He is such an angry man. But a job is a job, isn’t it? Better than having no job at all.”

  The grandmother nodded and smiled as if she had understood our conversation and was pleased to have conveyed her message. She spok
e again and Bibata laughed.

  “My grandmother wishes to thank you for what you will do,” she said. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “And she is confident that you will make the right decision.”

  I smiled and said nothing.

  “I think it is about a woman,” said Bibata. “All the important decisions that men need to make are about women.”

  I picked up the lightweight linen jacket, which we had washed as best we could. It still had a few smears of blood on it, and my trousers had several dark red patches. But if I carried the jacket carefully, I could cover the blood. I hoped that would be enough to prevent alarm at military headquarters. With my back to the grandmother so that she could not see what I was doing, I handed Bibata the Makarov pistol in its leather holster. Bibata looked up at me with surprise.

  “Put this in your bag,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  Bibata shook her head.

  “You need it,” she said. “For the general. I know what you need to do in your meeting with him.”

  “They won’t let me walk into military headquarters with this. I will use something else.”

  Bibata opened her mouth, but then closed it. Her eyes were troubled.

  “It’s easy to use,” I said. “All you need to do is make sure this switch here,” I showed her the safety, “is in this position. Then point and squeeze the trigger.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

  “If you don’t need it, I will get it back from you later.”

  “Why would I need it?”

  Before I could answer, the door to the kitchen opened, and Alassane came in, his dustpan filled with pebbles of glass.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “If we are late, it will cause more problems.”

  Bibata shoved the Makarov and its holster into her handbag. The grandmother insisted on holding my hand for a moment and gazing into my eyes before we left. She said nothing, but I found her intense gaze a little unnerving. The comments she had made had unsettled me. They had broken my focus, and that was a dangerous thing to have happen this close to the conclusion of the operation.