Night Must Wait

by Robin Winter

  "Sir Voinadagbo is right when he says we must face that foreign charitable aid is the reason we haven't finished this war. An all-out assault on civilian targets and charity units must commence."

  She saw the objections gathering in his posture, the way he turned to her.

  "Sir, I know you feel we must act as civilized as possible to palliate the international community…"

  "Not act civilized," he said. "Be civilized."

  "But there could be errors," Lindsey said. "Mistakes in maps. We could be very sorry, afterwards. That would be sufficient."

  "You will be at the War Council meeting tomorrow," Gowon said. "My secretary will contact you."

  He nodded permission for her to leave and Lindsey almost missed her cue to rise, blood burning in her face. The War Council. She had made it at last. Keep your face still, unmoved, nod a polite good-bye, replace the chair.

  The War Council. She hardly felt the floor under her heels.

  Chapter 49: Sandy

  August 1968

  Ibadan, Western Region, Nigeria

  Have it out. Easier said than done. Pacing over the path alone in the overgrown garden at Ibadan, Sandy couldn't phrase her argument to Lindsey in a neat package. There must be better words. She turned, and saw something among the green leaves. Wilton had tried to teach Sandy to spot snakes, so when she noticed something in the hedge under the west dining room window, Sandy's first alarm said snake. Still, unmoving, velvet brown. No, not a snake at all but a patch of rounded brown skin. Human. A child almost entirely concealed among the branches.

  Wilton always scolded that vegetation up against the house endangered them. Especially here, in an old Ibadan house whose gardens butted up against the Agricultural Experiment Station with its rubber and cocoa tree plantations. A wilder area than many in the suburb, almost forested in patches, with all the animals that came in for the shelter of thick plantings. Chameleons, hedgehogs and snakes, innumerable birds.

  But Lindsey only smiled.

  "I'll take a few risks for my flowers. I think I'm owed a touch of color. Besides, Wilton you go clambering about in overgrown places without a second thought. Don't overprotect us. We deserve a little fun. In the long run it won't hurt us."

  Sandy agreed. The servants spotted snakes with great skill and chopped them up with machetes even in the house itself. But neither she nor Lindsey ever encountered one on their own.

  She heard someone moving toward her, fast, and looking up saw Oroko, his face intent as a hunter, coming right at her with a gleam of metal in his hand. Revolver. God he was fast. How'd he known something strange had happened? He must have been watching her, but from where?

  This might just be another human being, who hid here in the bushes, but suddenly her mouth went dry and her heart pushed in her throat and she backed away from the hedge, moving aside onto the lawn so that she'd be out of Oroko's way. A person hiding in the bushes of their private garden. But it had to be a kid.

  "Oroko, lay off. It's a child. A kid. Don't shoot."

  She addressed the hiding person and saw the brown skin twitch.

  "You'd better come out," she said. "We see you."

  Oroko's hand on her arm pressed her back, firm and urgent. The patch of skin remained where it was between the leaves, as if the owner imagined that stillness might erase what she'd said. A prank? A relative of one of the servants come to beg a job?

  The branches shuddered then a boy about twelve years old rolled out onto all fours, looking up, slitted wary eyes and a narrow compressed mouth. Oroko had him covered.

  "Who are you?" Sandy said.

  The face wasn't good. Made her think of eavesdropping and theft.

  Oroko shoved her back, shocked her.

  "Go in, madam," he said. "It's no child. This man is here for murder."

  "But you can't," Sandy said, looking into the quiet of Oroko's face behind those harmless spectacles.

  He was steady on task, not even a flicker of a glance at her. It seemed that he spoke to her by his stance, saying that of all the words she could possibly use to him—can't—was not one.

  Sandy saw now an age of feature in the boy that she'd missed before, and settled lines about the mouth. Only the whites of his eyes and the way they showed now in the pitted brown of his face had any illusion of youth. Thin, not young. Dwarfed. Raging. Waiting for any opportunity to reverse the situation.

  She had to get out of Oroko's way. She backed up, then moved faster, feeling her chest hurt as if it tightened against her lungs. The man she'd found would run, if not now, then later, and Oroko had given her an order.

  This was why Wilton sent him. To kill for them. This. Maybe it was some change in the whites of the captive's eyes that told her he would break. She felt a coward for hoping he would wait until she couldn't see.

  But he didn't. He jerked into movement, running.

  Oroko's revolver made a sharp pop. The intruder spasmed in midstride, flung down upon the stones and grass with a sliding thud. She saw some blood on the back of his shirt, but not as much as she expected. He moved, his arm reaching, making a noise without words. Oroko looked, then turned back to her as though he knew he didn't have to do anything more.

  "Was it my fault?"

  "He was here for Lindsey," Oroko said. "Go on in, madam."

  Sandy came across Wilton in the hallway by Lindsey's office. Wilton had been using their Lagos guest room but Sandy hadn't seen her in days. Thank God Wilton missed the man killed in the garden. She'd make sure no one mentioned it.

  "Look what the cat dragged in," Sandy said and was sorry for the choice of words.

  Wilton looked indeed too thin and beaten, her posture bent. Had she been roaming again on her strange secret business, hair hidden in a wig, boy's clothes and skin dye giving her passage? Was there a trace of dark color in the creases around her fingernails? Could be. Sandy didn't know how she could verify anything without making it clear to Wilton what she suspected.

  "C'mon in," Sandy said. "I think Lindsey's back from her meeting with the boss."

  She watched Wilton from behind and thought about that pounding Wilton had taken in Lagos when Oroko had rescued her. Wonder if those old wounds ever ache?

  "So, I finally get to see you, Wilton," Lindsey said when they came in. She settled into her chair, pushed the clipped pages away from her and then drew them back.

  "I had to observe. I need to tell you what I saw," Wilton said. "You must bomb civilian targets, the Catholic charities, the Protestants. They hold the Biafrans together, feeding and supplying them. That must stop, or this war will go on forever. Hear me, Lindsey."

  "You do nothing the easy way, and that's your choice." Lindsey looked down once more at the typed report on her desk. "You said this before."

  "Yes, and you've waited. Give me warning before you act, Lindsey. You can hit other villages and towns but keep Umuahia off the target zone a few weeks more."

  Lindsey made an assenting noise but her gaze returned to the report.

  "What is it?"

  Sandy hadn't noticed until Wilton asked, but yes, Lindsey's mouth was tight in anger.

  "A report from my people on the Biafran side. Read it. Did you know this already?"

  Sandy busied herself with pouring Wilton a glass of water. Wilton always had a thirst on her.

  "Damn Gilman," Lindsey said. "She must fancy it's romantic. Harlequin Book romantic. Why did she have to get involved in such a stupid way?"

  "Involved?" Sandy questioned, at a loss. She looked at Wilton as though she might find a clue in Wilton's bent head. The pages fluttered in the ceiling fan's pulse.

  "You're sure...?" Wilton asked.

  "Oroko's sources are reliable." Lindsey's pale cheeks showed a stain of color. "They always are. You said he was good."

  "Hey," Sandy said, annoyed at the evasions. She could see Wilton draw in. "What's Gilman doing?"

  "Bedding a white merc," Lindsey said. "Playing the slut."

  Wilton winced alo
ud and stood up, the pages scattering, her hands clenched. She turned from both of them as if she could not bear to read or hear more, and with a sudden violence opened her fists and thrust the palms heel first through the thin glass of the bookcase door.

  Sandy returned from the run to the clinic with Wilton. She slammed into Lindsey's office, glancing about to check that the glass and blood had been cleaned up. Hardly a sign of the earlier incident remained, save that the desk had been drawn away from the bookcase, which stood with its door removed.

  Lindsey walked across the floor in a rare display of restlessness, pacing, her pale face cold. Sandy sat down on the edge of the desk and waited. This would be bad. Whatever Lindsey had to say, Lindsey didn't want to say it.

  "Spit it out, Lindsey."

  "Wilton," Lindsey said.

  "You thinking what I think you're thinking?" Of course she was. Sandy felt rage, honed by the scrambling frantic past hour. The eerie silence of Wilton while the medic removed splinters of glass from her oozing fingers and palms. It turned Sandy's stomach. She jerked herself back onto her feet. Sandy felt her face flush hot.

  "Wilton's unbalanced."

  "Goddamn it, Lindsey, you've gone too far. You've become a fucking machine. You don't let anything show and sometimes I goddamn well think you don't even feel anymore. Look at you. It's un-fucking-believable."

  Lindsey stared and the stare goaded Sandy.

  "Come on, stop playing mind games. You and I used to know Wilton pretty damned well. Yeah, this war's hard on her. It's her own country, for God's sake, but she isn't frigging crazy yet. Don't you start getting ideas about putting her away, 'cause I won't stand for it."

  Sandy shook her head. She was sure Lindsey had an objection coming. A counterargument, dispassionate and terrible.

  "It's no easy time for the kid. You're a sodding ass if you don't understand that. She wants to smash something—pound on the wall, and has the farting bad luck to hit the glass. Now you're ready to lock her up."

  "Sandy," Lindsey interrupted. "I'm not about to lock her up. Relax."

  "Oh." Sandy paced across the carpet, feeling the heat dying from her face. She didn't feel relieved. She felt lied to, misled or misdirected somehow, though not by Lindsey. By whom? She had to say something.

  "Sorry," she said. "Guess I went off the deep end. Gotta go take a drive. Take a walk." She headed for the door.

  "I'll see you later," she said, barely hearing Lindsey's agreement.

  Sandy hardly saw the corridors or the people she passed, moving her head in a nod when she heard someone greet her. She needed to get out. She'd claim her car from the auto pool, fight her way through the damned fucking downtown traffic and the beggars and goats and chickens and try to kill no one but herself. She took the steps two at a time. Action. Anything was better than thinking too goddamn much.

  Sandy took the car keys from the uniformed attendant, slipping him two shillings as an afterthought, seated herself in the Bentley and turned the key. The world convulsed white and blue and green around her. She flung her arm up over her face, felt herself thrown, flying. She hit something, then came pain, and silence.

  Chapter 50: Oroko

  September 1968

  Lagos, Western Region, Nigeria

  "I am sorry," Oroko said. He looked at Sandy propped up against the pillows, her broken arm in its cast supported by the sling and he felt a burn of shame. Her eyes looked like they'd been punched into her head, bloodshot and surrounded by bruised flesh. He knew she would recover, but would he?

  "I did not anticipate this. You should sack me."

  "Hah," Sandy said. "Fucking hell, no. I know better. You've had me watched for months even though I'm not supposed to be a target and I never told you to protect me. Only her. I was pissed off at you—wondered if you were behind Lindsey telling me to stick to town and no more field work."

  She took a deep breath.

  "I'd have fired you for that, but I'm not a complete idiot and I figured out it wasn't your idea. Not your style. So they blew up my car. So I get myself a bodyguard too. End of discussion."

  Oroko looked at her crooked grin, her face lopsided with contusions. He turned toward the hospital door, because he had too many words in his mouth and he did not dare to let them out, uncontrolled. He paused.

  "I killed them." He managed to say that naturally enough and it encouraged him. He crossed back to her, looked into the face that held no laughter now. "I found out who ordered it and why. I killed him too."

  Her eyes went wide.

  "Yes. Many times they have attempted Lindsey's life without success. They thought you an easier target and that by taking you, they would cripple Lindsey Kinner. They thought you lovers."

  Without understanding, he felt himself bend forward and down, then the warmth of her cheek brushed his lips. He fled.

  Chapter 51: Gilman

  September 1968

  Uli Area, Biafra

  Three weeks after the night she spent with Jantor, on a cloudy quiet day he appeared in her clinic doorway. Gilman was trapped by dreadful shyness. His uncertain smile made her grin back. He kissed her, his mouth lingering on her face, brushing her lips again before he let her loose. A laugh born of relief broke from her.

  "Sit," she said. "I'll try to find you something to eat."

  Gilman stepped out the door, relieved to escape his intent gaze. She walked over to the mess tent, trying to move with casual aplomb, giving a nod to the soldier guarding the kitchen. She gathered up a few items for Jantor's meal. Sister Catherine came into the kitchen while Gilman rummaged.

  "They're back, Doctor." The sister's eyes seemed worried and kind behind her spectacles.

  "I know." Gilman blushed a little, but looked Sister Catherine full in the face, meeting the silent inquiry.

  After a moment the nun nodded. "There's a half bowl of egosi soup in that ice chest."

  "Thank you." Gilman watched the white-clad figure leave. So someone had seen and someone had talked. Well, she decided, it didn't matter. She was no teenager to skulk around and deny she had a lover. And a great one too. She gulped down a giggle. She hadn't giggled in a long time. She went for the soup and took an extra second to straighten out her face before heading back.

  Gilman rearranged the flurry of papers on her desk while Jantor ate. She spent more time looking at him than at the notes she handled. Then came a light knock on the door.

  "Come in," she called, frowning over a page of Allingham's knotted scribble.

  She glanced to see who it was when the door opened and sprang to her feet. Wilton, nearly as brown as any Biafran, stepped in, allowing Gilman's hug. Gilman felt her stiffen—was that the physical contact, or was that Wilton noticing Jantor here with her?

  "You're here, great, wonderful, welcome, Wilton. How are you? You okay? So much has been happening. I discovered a better way to deal with those ligatures I was fussing about when you were last here."

  Gilman was glad to see Wilton. She wouldn't explain about Tom—Tom, sitting right here with them looking on with interest. Was Wilton waiting for her to say something? Did Wilton already know? Was it guilt that had Gilman sweating? She didn't feel guilty. She was grown up and what she did in private wasn't anyone's business.

  She went on about the slipknot ligature. She talked about elephantiasis treatments. She told Wilton about her latest fatality from cerebrospinal meningitis.

  "Wilton," Gilman said. "Where'd you come from?"

  "'From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it...'"

  But Gilman paid no attention to the quoted answer though it had a familiar and slightly unpleasant ring. She grasped Wilton's wrists and turned the fingers to the light. She traced the barely healed ridged scars that ran jagged across. Little white marks from stitches.

  "Jesus," she said aloud. "What did you do to your hands? Tendon damage?"

  The hands of an artist. Look at that. Gilman could not help trying to straighten the right forefinger to s
ee if it could move that far. Careful, careful. Would these fingers ever regain their old flexibility, or ever channel again the inspirations that only Wilton knew? She remembered the painted dragon on the wall of Wilton's room so many years ago and blinked frantically to stem her absurd tears.

  "Are you doing exercises to…"

  "They're healed." Wilton dragged them away and put them behind her back. "Lindsey and Sandy say hello."

  "Glass?" Gilman asked. Her mind hummed with unasked questions—surely the accident had happened in the last two months. She felt Jantor studying them both, but he remained silent while Gilman's mind considered supplemental therapies for Wilton's hands. Restricted extension of the fingers. Glass might make wounds like that. But she read the finality when Wilton looked away and for once Gilman shut her mouth.

  "How did you get here?" Jantor asked.

  "Flew. Spent last night in town."

  "How come I didn't hear about your arrival? What came in with you?"

  "Second-hand M16s, ammunition, a few crates of stockfish. I didn't have a reservation."

  "Hell. Hope Steiner got his…But it's too late now. Last night should have been all medical and food."

  Gilman considered Wilton. Had she always been like this, so rigid, so disapproving? No, she'd changed since their last meeting. Was she quite a stranger? Wilton looked at the bowl in front of Jantor.

  "Hungry?" Gilman asked.

  "No. I need water. Only that. I brought more medical supplies, courtesy of Lindsey and Sandy."

  "I bet Lindsey had a lot to do with it," Gilman said.

  "Gilman," Wilton said, "take my word. Lindsey contributed just as much to the project as Sandy did."

  "Sit down, Wilton," Gilman said, both ashamed and annoyed by Wilton's behavior. "You know I didn't mean it. Let me go find you some water and a bite of bread."

  She headed back to the kitchen wondering what Wilton and Jantor would make of each other. Best be quick. When she returned with her supplies, she found both silent, but it felt to her like the silence that comes after talk.