Cut for Life

by Lucinda E Clarke

  “This isn’t the way to the airport! Where the hell are they going? Don’t lose them Jean-Pierre. Keep up.”

  “Ma cherie, this is as fast as I can go. Look, the road is long and straight we can still see them. We will find them I promise you.”

  Amie looked behind her where Jabu and Beehive sat; cool, calm and collected. They probably thought these Europeans were a little mad.

  “We follow, yes?” Amie waved at the road ahead. “I’m sorry if ...”

  They nodded, unconcerned.

  Two hours later they were still following the Datsun. A few clouds skittered high in the sky heralding the start of the rainy season that was long overdue. Water was the most precious commodity in Africa, to the extent that in Botswana they called their currency ‘Pula,’ the Tswana word for rain. Right now, the land all around Apatu was parched, craters had appeared like miniature rift valleys; the bushes were scraggly, and the few animals scrapped over what little grass was left. It was going to make following Tony and Charlie easier; vehicles would be visible for miles.

  Amie wanted to scream in frustration. She’d thought the children were safe and she’d let them down. She blamed herself. She couldn’t rely on official help now. This was down to her and Jean-Pierre to deal with.

  As far as the eye could see, the road stretched out before them, mile after mile after mile. In the very far distance it was just possible to make out the pale green Datsun as it sped along the road far ahead of them. The only time they lost sight of it was when they dipped down over a hill, but as soon as the Land Rover reached the peak, there it was again in the distance. Until they crested one ridge and the car was nowhere to be seen.

  Jean-Pierre took his foot off the accelerator.

  “But where ...?” spluttered Amie peering through the windscreen. “They can’t have gone over the next hill, it’s too far away. We’ve lost them.”

  From the back Jabu tapped the Frenchman on the shoulder signalling for him to drive slowly in the middle of the road. They wound down the back windows and hung out, one each side staring at the terrain.

  “They turned off! The guys are looking for their tracks.”

  “It is very difficult to see where one car has gone,” Jean-Pierre scoffed.

  Amie said nothing. She had faith in these Africans; if Ouma Adede had chosen them, they would be the best.

  Some distance up the road Jabu grabbed Jean-Pierre’s shoulder and motioned for him to stop. He jumped out of the Land Rover and trotted off the road, peering closely at the ground. Satisfied, he waved for the vehicle to follow him.

  The tyre tracks were easy to see in most places, but in stony areas, Amie couldn’t figure out how Jabu knew which way the green Datsun had gone. They drove carefully over an area where large, flat, grey, slabs of rock littered the surface, but not for one moment did Jabu hesitate, continuing his loping stride, never seeming to run, but moving much faster than Amie could walk.

  Suddenly, he turned and held up his hand. He gabbled a little and held up several fingers. Neither Amie nor Jean-Pierre could make any sense of it, until Beehive indicated the people were close.

  “How can he be sure?” murmured Jean-Pierre.

  “I have no idea,” Amie whispered back. “There is so much that is magical about Africa, I have given up trying to fathom it out, it’s easier just to accept it. If Jabu reckons they’re close, they’re close. I’d stake my life on it.”

  “But how close?”

  “I don’t think we’re right on top of them. Jabu knows they have stopped. So, what do we do now?”

  “We need to be clever about this. They may be armed. Oh my Amie. I am so sorry, ma petite. This is all my fault. I see them in your embassy. I speak with your people there, they tell me all will be well, the children will be safe. What have I done?” The Frenchman released the steering wheel, put his head down and covered his face with his hands.

  Amie thought he was crying. She put her arm around him. “No, it wasn’t your fault, just one infuriating circumstance after another. You’re not to blame. We’ll rescue them, there are four of us against two of them.”

  The Boeing 747 touched down onto the tarmac at Apatu International Airport and before it reached the terminal Simon was already wrestling with his seat belt in preparation for being first down the steps. He nodded to Bill and they lost no time in catching a taxi that, after a hair-raising drive, deposited them at the gates of the British Embassy. Someone must have been expecting them because they were immediately admitted and shown straight down into an underground conference room.

  The windowless space was dominated by a large oval table, polished to a lustrous sheen surrounded by sixteen chairs. In front of each one was a pad, pens, two bottles of water and a glass.

  “Take a seat, please. His Excellency will be with you in a moment.” The clerk left the room.

  Simon looked round and grinned to Bill. “At least they’re prepared to listen,” he said.

  Bill frowned at him and inclined his head towards the walls.

  “You don’t think ...?”

  Bill shrugged. “You never know, cover your arse is everywhere these days.”

  Simon pulled a chair out and sat down, stretching his legs out after the cramped seating on the four-hour flight. No sooner had he settled than the door burst open and the Ambassador for Her Majesty’s Embassy in Togodo marched in. He was not an impressive specimen with flushed cheeks, red-veined nose and watery eyes. He was, guessed Simon, in his early thirties, the sort of chinless wonder whose daddy pulled strings getting him assigned to this backwater of an African country; either that or they’d been bloody desperate to get him out of London. He didn’t blame them and his suspicions were confirmed the moment Timothy Barclay opened his mouth.

  “I hope this is bloody important. You do realize, it’s Saturday, don’t you?”

  “Maybe introductions are in order,” Bill replied calmly, stepping forward to offer his hand, only to have it ignored as Barclay threw himself into the chair at the head of the table. “Bill Carruthers and Simon Peterson, Pretoria and Durban respectively.” Bill introduced them both in spite of Barclay’s rudeness, raising his eyebrows to Simon.

  “This better be important,” his Excellency whined. “Can’t be too long. Charity golf match at ten.”

  Bill shot a look of disgust in Simon’s direction, but they both sat down anyway.

  “We’re worried about one of our operatives, code name Tiny. Last heard of she was sent to observe a child trafficking and illegal female genital mutilation operation,” said Bill.

  “Goes on all over this godforsaken continent. So what’s new?”

  Simon resisted the urge to get up and punch this patronizing specimen squarely on the nose.

  “True, but these are British children,” Bill replied. “Taken from their families in supposedly good faith but with no intention of returning them.”

  “And you think they’re here in Apatu?” Barclay rolled his eyes. He picked up his glass, went to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous measure of whisky. He did not offer any to his visitors.

  “Not sure but the last communication we had from Tiny was from an internet cafe IP here in town.”

  “What am I supposed to do about it? I only have your word for it. I’ve heard nothing from London.”

  “But surely ...” Simon was half out of his chair before Bill’s firm grip on his arm pulled him back.

  At that moment there was a sharp knock on the door.

  “Come,” barked Timothy.

  It was the same young clerk who’d shown them in. “This just came in for you, Sir.” He placed the message on the table then turned on his heel as if he couldn’t wait to get out of the room.

  Timothy Barclay read it before looking up. “Seems London are in a tizz, but only because one of the little girls who’s been abducted, the lot you’re talking about, happens to be the daughter of one of the cabinet ministers.” He rose and threw the message onto the boardroom table.
“I’ll instruct my attaché to help you, lives the other side of town though. Benson will let you know when he arrives.” With that he tossed his drink back in one go and marched back out of the room, shutting the door loudly behind him.

  Simon was ready to explode, but all they could do was wait.

  22 BUSH FIRE

  “How far out of Apatu are we?”

  Jean-Pierre peered at the odometer. “About ninety kilometres on the tar and I’m not sure how far off the main road.”

  “I wish Jabu would hurry up,” Amie fretted. The diminutive, smiling African had gone ahead on foot. Several hours had passed and he’d not returned. He’d been adamant they not follow him in the Land Rover but stay where they were.

  They were concentrating so hard looking in the direction the Datsun had taken, they were startled when Beehive suddenly gasped and pointed behind. They could see a huge cloud of dust, and it was coming straight for them.

  “We must hide.” Amie was already half out of the Land Rover, grabbing a bag for water bottles and some of the food.

  “Ma cherie, what is the panic?” Jean-Pierre hadn’t moved. He was sitting relaxed in the driver’s seat.

  “Don’t be so dense. We’re out in the middle of nowhere, this may be a meeting place and those ...” she paused to point at the approaching vehicles “... may be more kidnappers! So get your butt off that seat.”

  “Of course, you are right. I did not think.”

  Jean-Pierre locked the Land Rover and the three of them backed off into what low bushes they could find. Amie spat into her hands and scooping up the dust, rubbed it onto her face and arms. She snatched off her dark glasses, aware the sun could reflect off them and pushed them into her pocket even though at the moment the sun was obscured by ominous clouds.

  Scattered in different hiding places, the three pairs of eyes watched as a vehicle drew up and stopped beside theirs. They heard doors open and close and the murmurs of voices. Amie groaned, she’d left the Glock in the glove compartment, it wouldn’t protect her now.

  The new arrivals were fanning out, it wouldn’t take them many minutes to track them down, even from where she was crouched Amie could see her own footprints in the soft sandy soil leading to her hiding place. Who were these people? Amie glanced round, if she cut further away and circled back, would she be able to reach the Land Rover and grab the gun? She peered through the bushes, there was no sign of her companions, everyone had raced off in different directions. She took several deep breaths, filling her lungs with air as she prepared to make a run for it. She could see several pairs of bush boots, there were at least four of them. She heard a click as someone took the safety catch off; armed and ready. She shuddered and realised that one small hand gun would be useless against rifles even if she could reach it. That left her one option, tackle one of the men, immobilise him then threaten to kill him if the rest didn’t lay down their weapons. Hopefully, Jean-Pierre was planning to do the same thing.

  Someone was approaching her hiding place. She watched the boots close in. She would wait until they turned and then spring out, using her momentum to give her the advantage.

  “They’re around here somewhere,” a voice said in English. That was enough to send Amie scrambling through the bush at such a rate that she barrelled into Simon and nearly knocked him flying.

  “Simon!” she squealed, completely forgetting the enemy was not too far away. “Oh, Simon, what are you doing here?”

  He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet and twirling her around. “Looking for you, you idiot.”

  They stood there for several seconds, oblivious to everyone else. She was so thrilled to see him that she didn’t hear Jean-Pierre swear as he emerged from his hiding place.

  “How, how...?” she began before Beehive suddenly appeared by her side, grabbed her arm and put his fingers to his lips. She nodded, but clung on to Simon not wanting to let him out of her sight.

  “You’ve come to help? Did Maddy send you? How many of you are there?” she whispered.

  “Four.”

  “Only four? Don’t they understand what a big operation this is? Four isn’t enough.”

  Jean-Pierre and Beehive stared at Simon and his three companions, but then the African sniffed the air waved his arms urgently and put his finger to his lips asking for silence before kneeling in the dust and putting his ear to the ground. He listened intently for a few moments, looked up, shook the sand from his ear and listened again. He stood up and pointed once in one direction and then in another.

  “What’s he trying to tell us?” Simon asked as Beehive contorted his body backwards and forwards, swaying as if in a trance, doing his best to get the message across.

  “We don’t know. We have two trackers but Jabu went on a recce after the car we were following with the aid workers and four of the children.”

  Beehive was now almost hysterical because he was failing to get his message across. He kept scribbling in the sand but no one could make any sense of it. He paused as if trying to remember the few words he knew in English. Then his face lit up, he drew himself up to his full height of five foot six, thrust his chest out and shrieked “Animals!” Then “Come. Here bad, we go now, now! We go now. Now!”

  The African glared at the Europeans before bending over and then making several leaps forward, holding his hands to his head, fingers extended to imitate horns. He seemed agitated and eager to move.

  It was one of the men who’d arrived with Simon who got the message. “He’s trying to tell us there’s a stampede of animals on the way and I guess we’re right in their path.”

  Jean-Pierre tried to question Beehive and find out how far away the animals were and how quickly they were coming but the African couldn’t tell him. He kept pointing back towards the far hills, and finally everyone understood.

  Of course! Despite her years in Africa, Amie had never experienced the annual migration, herds driven by a primeval instinct to move from one area to another along centuries-old routes only they could remember. It might be an amazing spectacle to sit and watch from a distance; being right in the middle of the stampede, was another matter altogether.

  Time to evacuate.

  To their horror they could now see a huge cloud of dust swirling above the bushes, coming closer and closer at a phenomenal speed. A faint drumming got louder and louder, creating shock waves that made the ground shake as hundreds maybe thousands of hooves thundered over the bare earth. A group of large wildebeest were the first animals to appear, galloping flat out, looking neither right nor left, the whites of their eyes glistening through the rising dust. All that could be seen behind them was a mass of panicking bodies, pushing and shoving, bumping into each other, the younger ones flung to one side, several running in circles trying to avoid the flailing hooves unable to find their mothers in the rising clouds of sand. The charging animals stretched across the open plain, hell bent on fleeing some as yet unseen danger.

  It all happened so fast, the leading animals were almost upon them as they raced for the vehicles. There were thousands of them, kicking up the choking dust and obliterating their view. It took Jean-Pierre several attempts to start the Land Rover, as the engine turned over again and again. Amie was holding her breath, her hands gripping the seat willing the car to start, as the creatures charged past on both sides.

  At last, the engine roared into life, several of the beasts swerved to avoid them, their huge bodies all around them only inches away from the truck. It was impossible to turn either right or left. Jean-Pierre tried to reverse, muttering in French as first one animal and then another bumped against the tailgate, rocking the vehicle dangerously from side to side. For several minutes Amie thought they would never get away. Then Jeanne-Pierre jammed his foot hard down on the accelerator and they shot forwards, the truck lurching in the same direction as the racing horde. They were in the middle travelling along with the panic-stricken animals, an alien metal box on wheels among the heaving, frightened, sweaty
creatures; ears back, eyes wide with fear as they all surged forward pushing, snorting, drooling, panting, shoving and leaping over anything in their path.

  Suddenly there was a lull in the stampede on the right and seeing the gap, Jean-Pierre made for it, breaking out to the side of the main herd. They were free but it was impossible to see where they were going through the clods of earth kicked up by thousands of hooves. For a moment, it looked as if they were travelling straight back into the mass of animals until suddenly the dust swirled and they could see the way ahead.

  Jean-Pierre drove full pelt until he could turn the truck far enough away from the stampeding herd. As far as the eye could see, from left to right, the thundering mass was galloping at top speed, none stopping even for a moment. Amie spied more young ones on the fringes looking for their mothers. They were running backwards and forwards unsure which way to go buffeted on all sides by other animals. Zebra bumped against gazelles, the larger wildebeest bulldozed their way through, using brute strength, every animal moving forward as fast as it could.

  “I didn’t think the migration was as frenetic as this,” Amie whispered. Beehive leaned over from the rear seat and rattled a box of matches in her ear and then pointed. To their left, just visible through the turbulent dust clouds, it was possible to make out a red glow close to the ground. Then, the dust swung round again blocking it out once more.

  “Fire! They run from the fire!” Jean-Pierre pointed.

  “No wonder they’re so panicked” They’d escaped the desperate stampede of flailing hooves and galloping bodies, only to be chased by a wall of fire. Did the other truck make it out safely? How was she going to find Simon again?

  “Did you see which way Simon and the other men went?” she asked. No one answered.

  “We need to find a river, if there is one near here.”

  “Maji? Mto?” asked Amie looking at Beehive who nodded and pointed over to the right.

  “Of course, the animals would be making for the river as well,” murmured Amie.

  “If we can get there and cross before the fire reaches us, we can escape, maybe.” Jean-Pierre turned the wheel and began driving in the direction of nature’s fire break.