by Dan Gleed
Fortunately, the Jeep started at the third attempt. It had seen little use since Roz had arrived at the coast, but the hot weather had kept the battery in reasonable order. And now it was going to be needed as never before. I had no other means of transport, and I was going to have to move quickly. It didn’t take a genius to realise that Fatih’s failure to report back would, sooner or later, alert those in control of the slaving and drugs partnership. ‘Sooner’ being rather more likely than ‘later’, given the caution inherent in those notoriously jittery trades.
Chapter 65
So it was that, early the next day, I set out with little likelihood of ultimate success, but an utter determination to see through this, now full-fledged, one-man mission to destroy Ahmed, Giuseppe and any associate who might chance to get in the way. A sober assessment of my predicament would have seen me switching off the engine and dismounting the vehicle there and then. But I was in no mood for such defeatism (realism?). The police had lost track of me. I had a gun. I probably still enjoyed an element of surprise and, above all, I harboured a burning sense of injustice, which was feeding an insane desire to kill or be killed. The final outcome being largely a matter of indifference, as I’d either wreak havoc and destroy the perpetrators of the foul trade that had created my personal Hell of the past few months or, after what I hoped would still be a suitably ferocious and successful act of revenge on my part, those same activities would end my own miserable existence. And of course, trapped in my private Hell, unreachable in the profound torment that drove me and utterly lost in the misery that comes with deep grief, I cared not one whit for how the world might perceive my proposed behaviour.
However, like everyone else who drove the coastal road and was thus beholden to the ubiquitous chain ferries and poor roads, I had no option but to endure the several hours it took to reach Mombasa, even at the sometimes reckless speeds I employed. And nor did it help to have to circumvent some irritating hold-ups behind endless processions of old and rickety African buses. Which meant that, by the time I arrived, the sun was already drawing close to the western horizon. Still, the monotonous hours had produced a bonus, in that they had allowed me time not just to think, but also to cool down, metaphorically speaking. To edge towards rationality and start to map out a halfway sane strategy for dealing with the problem, in so far as I could determine. Anyway, by the time I crossed from the mainland onto Mombasa Island, I had decided to waste no further time in procrastination, but go straight to the Jouberts, tell them the whole story and throw myself on their mercy. With that decided, I quickly navigated my way across the island, finally merging into the lane that led to their long, low house with its wrap-around veranda and comfortable sofas shrewdly placed to avoid the direct sun. Fortunately, they were both in, so I didn’t have to tell my story twice. They greeted me warily enough, almost as though anticipating more bad news, but, for all that, their hospitality was impeccable. Anyway, who could have blamed them had it not been so? I wasn’t going to be anyone’s flavour of the month. So, whilst my arrival drew some heartfelt tears from Jill, her husband Malcolm, of whom I’d heard so much, welcomed me civilly enough. Moreover, between the two of them, I was soon ensconced on one of the sofas with a chilled beer in one hand and a welcome plate of hurriedly prepared food in the other.
It wasn’t easy. It was never going to be. But in the end, I convinced them that whilst I was entirely to blame when it came to the two of us dropping out of sight, I was far from being the villain of the piece. I wasn’t even close to being the architect of the terrible calamity that had overtaken us. Moreover, I was able to explain, at some length, the relationship Roz and I had developed since she’d rescued me. Something I was determined to confirm, because not only did I feel absolutely beholden to Roz, not only did I remain utterly in love with her, but she needed to be decisively vindicated in her friends’ eyes. I had to admit that we had become so completely engrossed in each other, that I had done little more than encourage a fleeting contemplation of family and friends, only realising too late just how much this must have hurt all concerned. With some degree of shame I now admitted essentially preventing Roz from making any outside contacts, despite her protests. So in this respect, but in this respect alone, any fall from grace was entirely my fault. Which involved me in a number of profuse apologies, coupled with a heartfelt acknowledgement of guilt that went some way towards mollifying their reaction. After all, not only had the two sitting in front of me been more or less forced to accept an esoteric responsibility for Roz, they’d then had to acknowledge to their friends, the Lescals, that they’d lost all contact with their charge and didn’t have a clue as to where she might be, search though they had. I marked with a certain grim humour that there was no one quite like our native friends for clamming up once they had undertaken to keep a secret.
But I also discovered that because my action, or lack of it, had instigated a particularly diligent, if ultimately unsuccessful search, the undertaking had produced an encouraging effect on Malcolm’s injuries. Within a couple of weeks or so of Roz going missing, Malcolm had dragged himself back onto his feet and, despite what must have been some pretty intense pain, had managed to get the raw wound in his side and the flayed muscles of his back working in approximate harmony again. Even managing to return to some semblance of fitness, although he was by no means the Malcolm of old. Nevertheless, as he listened to my explanation, I could see his eyes beginning to light up and his mind to revolve around my proposals. He, too, had every reason to loathe the same people. Both for what they had done to him and for what they had done to Roz. In fact, once I’d covered most of what had happened in the days since I’d first been captured, I could see I had made a good and useful ally. It was clear that I’d been right to start with the Jouberts. Malcolm even offered to call the Lescals and fill them in on the latest details, but for all my appreciation of his gesture, I knew I had to make that call myself.
Just two days later I’d put the Lescals completely in the picture, having decided to confide fully in them. Consequently, and despite their heartache, they had agreed to keep my whereabouts secret. For his part, Malcolm was as ready as he was ever likely to be, given the lack of sufficient time to heal properly from his bullet wound; Jill’s repeated protests had finally been silenced and I was recovering physically, if not emotionally, from the events of the past few days. Thus it seemed appropriate to put our hastily sketched plans into action.
Very early on the Wednesday morning, long before there was even a hint of light in the eastern sky, Malcolm and I sneaked out into the cold night air. Making sure we didn’t wake Jill, we rolled out his old Jeep and made our way swiftly back to Mombasa. Only this time we drove directly to the square outside the old harbour, where we intended to park up before pursuing the hunt on Shank’s pony. The time for pussyfooting around was over and we were each armed with a knife and a Colt 45, the rifle having been left behind as of little use in the close confines of the streets and homes we intended to visit. Always provided Fatih had stuck to the truth, the intelligence I had gained from him would be invaluable, so we were first going to call on two of Ahmed’s principle collaborators, both of whom were, by all accounts, to be found in the harbour area. Which meant the time for testing the validity of Fatih’s material had finally arrived. Not only that, but also the time for assessing the rationality of my somewhat unorthodox methods for extracting that information. Albeit we were rather too late to do anything about it if he’d been lying, just to stop the pain. And there lay the problem. If he had, we could be frustrated before we’d even begun. A point not worth dwelling upon.
Chapter 66
The first address proved to be a small, dingy-looking terraced house in a dark and smelly alley just off the old harbour entrance. No sound or light emanated from it and although it appeared unoccupied, we nevertheless jemmied a ground-floor window shutter as quietly as possible, discovering it just to the left of a solid-looking entrance door. Carefully done or not, the sound of
the latch bursting in the predawn silence sounded to us like the proverbial thunder clap, but, making sure we hadn’t been seen, we climbed swiftly inside. Nothing. Just a couple of empty rooms and not a trace of any previous owner. It was as though, before leaving, someone had been determined to clean every last suggestion of human activity from memory. But perversely, that in itself gave us some small hope. Any normally vacated house would surely contain some hint of its former occupant? It was only if a resident needed to wipe away all trace of himself, to vanish into thin air without fear of pursuit, that it would be so thoroughly cleansed. And surely, only someone whose activities wouldn’t bear the light of day would be interested in doing that? So we began to hope that this first address wasn’t the start of a complete fiasco, from which there could be little hope of recovery. Rather, we decided to look upon it as an indication that Fatih hadn’t actually sold me down the river. More likely, what it did do was indicate the preternatural wariness inevitable within the feral world of the criminals we were after. A hasty look around the remaining room confirmed our first impressions, and we got out as quickly and quietly as possible. Strike one.
The next address was only a few hundred yards away but, in the labyrinthine streets of the old Arab quarter, it seemed more like half a mile by the time we arrived. Once again we were presented with a run-down fleapit, but this time we were immediately sure it was occupied. The hint of a dimly flickering light behind one of the ground-floor shutters gave the game away, deftly backed up by the stench of something indefinable wafting under the front door. We hadn’t expected anyone to be up and about at this time of the morning, so we were particularly wary as we approached, taking care not to disturb a stray dog loitering nearby. However, with the occupant obviously awake, clandestine entry was out of the question so, after a quick debate, we took the bull by the horns, approached the door openly and simply knocked quietly.
Interestingly, from behind the door came abrupt, scuffling sounds, as though someone was attempting to hide evidence (or that’s how it seemed to our suspicious minds), but then all noise ceased for a moment or so. An interval during which we were sorely tempted to try kicking our way straight through the door, until the clatter of bolts being dragged back came as something of a relief. The door opened a mere crack, but behind it we could clearly detect the outline of a short, hooded figure. The figure issued a single, terse demand for identity in Arabic and it was clear there was little likelihood of exchanging pleasantries. Fortunately, I speak the language fairly fluently and, although unable to provide a satisfactory answer to the specific demand, I took a guess that his was the name Fatih had provided and the enunciation of it was just sufficient to hold him, while we threw our combined weight against the door, catching him by surprise and knocking him smartly backwards.
No longer obstructed, we pressed in swiftly before closing and bolting the door behind us. Once in, we could see the room was clear except for our man. The problem was he had regained his feet as swiftly as he had been felled and was now brandishing a rather fearsome curved knife and heading straight towards me. Fortunately, Malcolm is a big man and it quickly became clear why my choice of companion had been a wise one. Stepping between me and my oncoming assailant, arms swinging in a fair imitation of a haymaker on the loose, one of Malcolm’s big fists brought the man to a sudden halt, pitching him his full length along the ground. This time, we took no chances and with Malcolm hovering in the background bemoaning the pain in his hand, never mind his side, I swiftly turned the stunned man over and secured his hands behind his back with the tape we had wisely brought. Then it was a simple matter to sit him upright, prop his back against the nearby wall, bring the lamp closer and take stock. We seemed to have bagged ourselves a middle-aged, reasonably athletic-looking man with the kind of strong, aquiline features that would have marked him out in virtually any social gathering. So far, so good. The fact that he had been prepared to attack told us nothing. We could hardly have expected any other response, given the circumstances of an early morning and definitely unexpected visit. However, something in his demeanour as he began to come round told me we might be onto something here. I had always hoped, indeed assumed, Fatih had included some useful names, not just those of mere ‘rank and file’ criminals. Simply because he couldn’t know how much I already knew, he was far more likely to have mentioned the bigger fish, because he’d still been hoping to get out alive.
Which meant we were now firmly into my type of territory and knowing Malcolm would not approve of what I was about to do, I suggested he keep watch whilst I used my superior command of the language to embark on an interrogation. Fortunately, he readily agreed, although I’m convinced to this day he had a pretty clear idea of what was likely to happen. Wanting nothing to do with what he considered to be distinctly uncivilised behaviour, Malcolm had stepped smartly outside to ensure we remained undisturbed.
“So, Kareef, for that is your name, is it not? You are perhaps wondering why we are here and why you find yourself restrained and, believe me, in some real danger of your life. Ah, I see you don’t believe me. Well, let me tell you a story. There’s a well-known Arab business man operating around here. His name is Prince Ahmed. As I’m sure you know, he runs not just the local slave trade, but drugs and ivory, too, and he often deals with a man from upcountry named Giuseppe. Giuseppe supplies Ahmed with all these things. Now, I have no doubt you know exactly who I am talking about and, for my part, I have neither the time nor the patience to wait while you decide whether or not to tell me where these men are right now, and how well they are guarded. I was given your name by Fatih, whom you also know. He was happy to tell me where I could find you and how you fitted into the picture. Unfortunately, however, Fatih is no longer with us. He took too long to understand that I meant what I said. As a result he died in a great deal of pain. Now, I also know you are one of Ahmed’s enforcers, so please don’t waste my time denying it. Fact is, you do things for him that can’t be entrusted to anyone else. I know, for instance, that if Ahmed wants a slave taught a ‘final’ lesson, you’re the one he turns to. A useful ally, Kareef, aren’t you? One who always makes sure the other slaves get the message, never mind the one you’ve been sent to kill. So, there it is. I don’t really care what happens to you, but I might allow you to live if you tell me now – and quickly – what I want to know about Ahmed and Giuseppe. Oh, and by the way, please don’t think that I will be any easier on you than Ahmed would if you fail to give the right answer.” I sat back, watching Kareef closely, expecting that, if anything, he would be harder to persuade than Fatih. However, my recent experience in breaking Fatih had been a useful and informative exercise. I no longer had any qualms about what was likely to happen, or even how I would go about it. Which made everything relatively easy.
So when, as expected, from underneath his hood Kareef contented himself with glaring defiantly, daring me to do anything about it, I was more than prepared. With a sigh (purely for Kareef’s benefit), I leaned forward, pulled down the lobe of his left ear and sliced it off, figuring that immediate drastic action would have a more salutary effect on him than continuing threats. Moreover, I found I had begun to enjoy inflicting pain. Which, when I thought about it, was rather odd, really, but I put it down to becoming inured to suffering through months of my own intense pain. At any rate, with a hiss of pure malice undoubtedly laced with agony, Kareef jerked his head back against the wall, barely able to believe that a white boy could have the effrontery to do such a thing to him. Feigning indifference, I tossed the segment of human tissue onto the recently lit fire, which was beginning to spark into fierce life in the centre of the room, and stared off into space.
“Kareef, believe me, I’m not playing games here. You will talk in the end and, for your own sake, I suggest you make it sooner rather than later. Next time I will remove something of rather more value to you and I’ll do it with the help of the fire over there. So, I’ll ask you again, where are Ahmed and Giuseppe right now?” I already knew h
ow terrified of Ahmed his men were, so it didn’t surprise me that, at this stage, Kareef preferred to take his chance antagonising me, rather than the boss he knew to be a coldly calculating killer. However, by the same token, I possessed a number of advantages over Ahmed. For a start, I was the one present, the one meting out judgement and then again, I was the one with the now nicely blazing fire, the razor-sharp hook and the insensitive conscience, both the latter bequeathed to me by Fatih. Unfortunately for him, Kareef hesitated for a second time, showing no sign he intended to play ball.
So, once again, sighing ostentatiously, I leant forward and gripped his foot, which, by virtue of his sitting position, was severely hampered in its movement and couldn’t be easily snatched away. Simultaneously, I pulled one of the more substantial and now nicely blazing sticks from the fire, brought it close to the sole of his foot and steadied myself, in order to press it firmly down, with every intention of searing through to the bone if necessary. However, and fortunately for us both, Kareef was beginning to get the picture and to accept that I had few qualms about implementing any threat I might make.
“OK, OK! I knew where Ahmed was a week ago, but Giuseppe is upcountry, and I can’t tell you when he might return. That is all I know.”
“Well, Kareef, you speak with much conviction, but, actually, I don’t believe you. Either you can’t or you won’t tell me. Which is it? Whichever way it is, unless you come up with something rather more convincing as an answer, I’m going to burn your feet until you are permanently crippled.”
As I spoke, I scraped the still-flaming brand across the thick skin on the bottom of his foot and watched him shrink back in agony as a row of blisters formed almost instantaneously. Seeing the glow begin to die down, I put the wood back into the fire and let it rekindle, making sure Kareef was aware of the process.
