Cut for Life

by Lucinda E Clarke

  “Look, Amie, believe me, I’ve been badgering London for ages to let me go out in the field. I’ve had it with office work. They’d agreed, then backed down. I waited to hear from you, what happened? I tried your phone over and over.”

  “Long story,” Amie pulled at a tuft of unburnt grass, twirling it in her fingers. “Since I started this trip I’ve lost two cell phones and the mini laptop. Someone nicked it on the plane, I think. I’ll fill you in later. So, go on”

  “Anyhow the shit really hit the fan when your picture appeared in the press, and they realised you were probably in trouble. I contacted Bill in Pretoria, and here I am.”

  “Once again I’m stranded without a passport, driving licence and anything to prove who I am, or supposed to be. I’ve been lucky I wasn’t stopped with all the miles I’ve covered.” Amie sighed.

  “Ah, that’s one less thing for you to worry about,” Simon smiled. “All sorted. I have a brand new set of documents, just in case.”

  “In the same awful name I suppose?” for a moment Amie was hopeful.

  “I’m afraid so, you’re still Felicity.”

  “Ugghh. How I hate that name. If I ever get to meet the person who rechristened me, I’ll wring their neck.”

  Simon laughed, the tension between them easing a little. “But it looks as if you have a much better idea of what’s going on than we do. Our orders are to try and find this girl, and when you were accused of kidnapping, it was the only tenuous link they had. So our first job was to find you. You’ll need to fill me in.”

  Amie brought him up to date. “It’s a barbaric practice, Simon. They cut off the clitoris and the labia and in some cases they sew the skin together leaving only a small aperture to pee through. Can you imagine what hell it must be when they lose their virginity? Jean-Pierre explained to me how they have to slice them open again before they give birth. It’s excruciatingly painful for them. How can they do this to women? Not even women, young girls!” Amie choked back a sob.

  Simon moved over and put his arm round her. “Don’t take on so,” he murmured, “We’ll see what we can do to get them all back home again.”

  “But not one email from you!” Amie kept her voice low. “Why?”

  “I suspect they could have been intercepted, who knows?”

  “Uh, are those guys, you know, regular embassy staff or ...?”

  “Somewhere in between I guess,” Simon whispered into her ear.

  From what she could see in the torch light, they certainly looked as if they were army trained and she had glimpsed a small armoury in the back of the truck when they unloaded the food. So far, not one of them had said much, offered no personal information and kept to themselves. They had nodded briefly to Amie to acknowledge her presence, but after that studiously ignored her. Now, they leaned against the open tailgate of their truck dismantling and cleaning their guns, while Jake opened one packet of chewing gum after another; his jaw was in constant motion. They were neither friendly, nor unfriendly but invited no conversation and their body language told her they would not welcome a barrage of questions. Perhaps this is how real spies behaved, mused Amie, distant, self-contained, haughty. So different from herself which just goes to prove, she reasoned that she was never meant to be a spy in the first place. Fine by her she would resign instantly if she could. If only she could.

  Beehive was restless, and in the predawn gloom, he was shuffling from one foot to the other and after a few minutes indicated he would go and look for Jabu. He loped off in the direction they had been following before the stampede.

  A long period of silence followed, broken at last by Jean-Pierre who had reappeared as silently as he had left. “It is not possible for Beehive to see anything. It is still too dark!” he exclaimed. “The fire, the animals, the rain, there is nothing left to see.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Simon snapped back. “He’ll be looking for twigs broken in a particular way, bent grass outside the path of the stampede, tyre indentations in places where the rain didn’t reach. When you know Africa, you’ll understand these things. Also, these guys see a lot better than us even in this light.”

  Amie shook her head. There was no doubting Simon’s animosity towards Jean-Pierre.

  “So,” Jean-Pierre drawled, “just how long have you been in Africa then? C’est Simon, n’est-ce pas?”

  He was saved from a reply when Beehive returned with Jabu, their feet seeming to float over the ground as they covered the distance in an amazingly short time. They gathered round Simon, and Jabu began to draw patterns in the damp earth with a charred stick.

  At first, they couldn’t make out what they were seeing, why had he drawn a ship when they were miles inland from the coast? He’d never have been able to reach the sea and return in the time he’d been away. With helpful pantomimes from the tracker and the few words that Beehive could translate it became a little clearer.

  “It’s not just them now!” exclaimed Jean-Pierre, “they have met up with other people.”

  Simon pointed to the rough sketch and asked Jabu how many people there were. Beehive interpreted while the tracker drew little figures frantically in the dust.

  “He not know how many. Too many to count.”

  Privately Amie thought it was unlikely Jabu could count. But from his drawings she guessed there were a few dozen little people and at least twenty adults in the camp. While Jabu might not be able to read or write, he could certainly draw. They could easily recognize tents and the fire in the middle of the compound and even the frame where they had strung up what looked like a kudu. But it was the large square box shape that had them all puzzled. It was huge, far larger than the tents; far larger than the trucks.

  Jabu kept pointing to the ship, banging on it with his stick over and over again.

  “The perspective must be wrong,” argued Simon and Jake nodded. Simon’s companions didn’t appear to have a clue either; they all stared at Jabu’s artwork and shook their heads.

  Amie hit on the truth. “It’s a container, one of those you put on the ships, that’s why Jabu has drawn a boat. They must be planning to load the children into it to take to a ship.”

  There was a horrified silence broken only by Jabu chattering to Beehive as they packed the foodstuffs back into the truck.

  Jean-Pierre strode over. “We have eaten now, and it is getting light so we leave now to see the lay in.”

  “Lay out,” muttered Amie without thinking, “Sorry!” she winced as he shot her a reproachful glance.

  The others ambled over and began to pack up their gear.

  “One moment,” Bill said, taking a photograph out of his jacket pocket. He passed it round. “This is the girl we are looking for, a government minister’s daughter. She’s the one girl we must rescue at all costs.”

  Everyone studied it closely. When it was handed to Amie she only looked at it briefly, as far as she was concerned they were here to rescue every single one of them. She was about to pass it on when she looked at it again and gasped. It was a picture of Fazia.

  24 DANGEROUS RECCE

  Amie spluttered, “Oh! No! Jean-Pierre, look.” She passed the photo over. He took it, gazed at it for a few moments, and nodded his head. “I know this girl,” Amie continued. “She was one of the four kids we brought out of Ruanga. We took them to the British Embassy in Apatu where they’d be safe.” She turned to Jean-Pierre, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “We thought they’d be safe in the embassy,” she repeated. “Jean-Pierre met Tony and Charlie there – they are two of the aid workers – they said they would be flying home with them the following day. We found out where they were staying so we could say goodbye to the girls, but when we arrived they were driving out so we followed them. But they weren’t going to the airport at all.”

  Simon and the other three men looked shocked. “When was that?” barked Bill.

  “We dropped them off a couple of days ago, spent another night in Apatu and then followed them and here we
are.”

  “This girl, Fazia, was never in the embassy,” said Jake. “If the girl had been safe there, they wouldn’t have sent us to look for her.” He got up and moved a little way away to use his cell phone but returned a moment later. “No signal,” he snapped and sat down again.

  “It’s not only about Fazia.” Amie shot back at him. “There’s a whole crowd of children who’ve been abducted for this barbaric practice and God only knows what the kidnappers have planned for them after that.”

  “Are you sure the children were in the car with the aid workers?” Simon asked.

  “Yes! I told you, we saw them when they walked out of the hotel with them, the Grand Hotel.”

  “The kids must have trusted them,” Simon remarked.

  Suggestions flew back and forth about how they were going to rescue the children, but it was agreed that nothing could be done until they’d sussed out the size of the camp and how many men or guards they were up against. It was time to do a complete recce.

  “Are they sending more people to help?” Amie asked, packing the last dishes away after wiping them as clean as she could with some wet leaves.

  “I think we convinced Timothy Barclay to get off his butt. At first he was more interested in his golf match, but I think London screamed loud enough. Problem is they don’t have any spare personnel on hand for this kind of operation. They’ll have to fly more men in if we need them. Then of course there’s the diplomatic angle, liaising with the Togodo Government. So, for the next few hours, it’s just us four to scout and report back. Sorry, that’s five.” Simon glared at the Frenchman who’d just reappeared from around a boulder. “Anyway, we’ve collared most of the embassy weaponry.”

  “Ah oui, you have the thermal imaging glasses,” said Jean-Pierre poking his nose into the back of the Toyota. “So, you can see how many people there are in the night. It is so clever, no?”

  “Yes, that’s the plan. Hopefully we’ll be able to make out the difference between adults and children.”

  “Make out?” Jean-Pierre raised his eyebrows. “But I thought that was with a lady and a man when they make the passionate love.”

  Amie groaned she could do without this. “Make out means to see, perceive, tell, figure out Jean-Pierre, please!”

  Jean-Pierre took one look at Simon’s face and chuckled. “Don’t worry, ma petite. It is only my little joke!”

  It was decided they would do an initial recce, with Jabu leading the way, leaving Beehive with Amie and the vehicles. She wasn’t happy at being left behind, but watching them pack up all their specialised equipment she knew better than to ask. Someone had to stay at the camp with the trucks.

  Simon gave her a little squeeze and a grin then set off with the others. Jean-Pierre had no equipment and Simon wasn’t about to lend him any but he was an extra pair of eyes and ears so they all set off at a good pace.

  They were so focused on getting Fazia back but Amie prayed they would rescue Linda, Maisie and little Winnie as well. The other children may not be connected to important people in power but their lives were just as precious. Funny, if she’d had to guess which one of them was the offspring of a minister she would have said Linda without hesitation. She was the one who could never keep her mouth shut, who was always in charge, who had the most confidence. She was angry with herself for not seeing the obvious. There was no doubt Tony and Charlie were the enemy. She’d promised to protect those little girls and all she’d done was deliver them back to the same people who were determined to harm them.

  There was no point in sitting here, the small fire they’d lit in a deep hole in the ground had long since burnt itself out, so Amie climbed into the back seat of the Land Rover and tried to get as comfortable as she could. She dozed on and off in the heat, wondering how far away the kidnappers’ camp was. Hoping the men would not be gone too long. Every little rustle, every loud roar or elephant trumpet had her attention, wondering what had disturbed them. The only constant noise was the cicadas, as they contracted their rib cages over three hundred times a second to produce their unique whirring to attract females. It was one of the comforting and familiar sounds of Africa.

  The night passed and the following day dragged on and on. Amie was restless, but there was nothing to do in the camp apart from tidy the trucks and cook the meals, if you could call opening cans of food cooking.

  As darkness fell on the second night, Amie curled up on the back seat of the Land Rover and Beehive wrapped himself in his blanket and slept on the ground beside it.

  Amie woke early, crawled out of the truck and stretched. Beehive was already busy. If he was worried the men had not returned yet, he wasn’t showing it. He was hunched over the hole they had dug, lighting a small fire to heat up the water.

  Already the air was warming up as the pre-dawn light appeared in the east. Little by little the dark shapes became trees, rocks, boulders and termite mounds. A few of the birds began to chirp, a far off lion roared, the weaver birds chattered in a yellowwood tree and she caught a brief glimpse of a couple of baboons on the far rocks. Early morning was Amie’s favourite time of day in Africa. There was always the raw sense you never knew what the day would bring, there was no such thing as predictability in the wilderness. Never again would she get up, travel to work like millions of others, spend her day in a shop, office or factory only to return home on the same route each night to watch a screen that showed other people living. A much safer existence she mused, but not for her, not any longer.

  She wandered a little way off, wiping the sweat from her eyes.

  At first, she wasn’t sure what she was looking at, the camouflage of its spots helping it to blend in with the shafts of light between the leaves. As her vision cleared Amie realised she was staring at a hyena which in turn was staring at her. Neither of them moved. Time stood still, until it last, it turned and melted away into the undergrowth. She gasped filling her lungs with fresh air, she’d not noticed she’d been holding her breath. The hyena’s jaws were the strongest of all the animals and it could have attacked her. Either it wasn’t hungry or she didn’t look too appetising.

  The day wore on, the clouds parted for a while and the sun beat down on them. Steam rose from the damp ground, though in many places it was already bone dry. The air was still moist and the humidity rose unbearably. Amie tried to communicate with Beehive, to see if he knew how far away the children were, but she could get no real answers.

  Amie continued to fret. She paced up and down for a while, then made herself another coffee and drank it, grimacing at the taste of the powdered milk.

  Beehive snoozed against one of the large, grey, granite boulders which dotted the landscape, some perched on such small bases it was a wonder they didn’t fall over.

  Amie scouted round their small camp making sure all the foodstuff was back in sealed containers and packed away, then she hefted the cool box into the back of the Land Rover.

  Raucous calls came from vultures circling off to her right. Like angels of death, they swooped down lower and lower. Amie was struck with the sudden terror that something had happened to Simon or one of the others. Were the birds attracted by carcases that had been burned in the flames or by freshly killed meat? She couldn’t sit and wait, worrying about the man she loved. Her patience was beginning to run out.

  Amie gazed in the direction taken by the scouting party but there was still no sign of them. They had left the day before yesterday. How long could it possibly take?

  Jabu had led the men to a large kopje and pointed to the encampment on the far side. There were six tents set in a semi-circle, with a small container still on its truck, looking totally out of place in the middle of the African savannah. Even with the night vision glasses, bushes and trees obscured much of the camp. A small fire burned low in the centre of the open space and the thermal imaging equipment indicated there were at least three people moving around in the darkness; all adults, no children.

  It was impossible to see more from th
eir present position so they decided to split up with one party going north and the other circling south around the camp. They needed to get closer to identify faces, ascertain if Fazia was there, and it would be light soon. Several SUVs were parked to one side of the container, but no green Datsun.

  Simon, Bill and Jabu would go one way and Jean-Pierre, Trevor and Jake the other. They would close in and meet back later in the day.

  Another day passed, still the men hadn’t returned and Amie began to get really worried. It was impossible to get any sense out of Beehive as to how far it might be to the large camp: five, ten, twenty kilometres, further? One day’s walk, two? He just shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. All Amie could do for the moment was pace up and down and try not to worry.

  The following morning a sudden shout from Beehive sent Amie scurrying over to see Trevor staggering back along the trail. Blood was seeping through his shirt front like an angry, red sun and even before he reached them he collapsed on the ground.

  Amie bent over him, searching for his wound. “What happened? Can you talk?” She felt his forehead. He was burning up, the sweat pouring from him. She ran and fetched the first aid kit from the back of the Land Rover and pulled open his jacket as gently as she could. There was a wide, ragged knife wound below his ribs. It looked as if the blade had been pushed up and in and done a great deal of internal damage.

  He was gasping for air, unable to speak. A few pink bubbles escaped from his mouth; damaged lungs, for sure; he wouldn’t live long unless she could stop the bleeding.

  She pressed bandages over the wound, desperate to stop his blood running out. She dared not clean the lesion until the bleeding stopped, but if it did, then it might mean he was dead. She gave him a shot of morphine in the arm, and secured the bandages. She had to get him to the hospital. How he’d managed to get back to the camp was a miracle.

  Standing, she pantomimed to Beehive to help her lift him into the back of the Land Rover. The young tracker slid his hands under Trevor’s shoulders and grabbed him firmly under his arm pits while Amie took his feet.