Night Must Wait

by Robin Winter

  God, she wanted to see Jantor, to know he was alive and whole, to feel his mouth on hers. What a hash she'd made of her mission. He might laugh—yes he would, and grab her, nuzzle and tell her he'd known she'd never make a politician.

  Foolish to dwell on what she'd said yesterday afternoon to Lindsey and more foolish still to imagine that if she'd lingered in Nigeria, Lindsey might have her detained. Painful to admit that after hours of waiting and cooling off she began to see some of Lindsey's arguments. Damn Ojukwu. No denying he was the de facto dictator of Biafra, solely in charge of policy. Supreme Commander and all that.

  She knew why Ojukwu insisted on night flights. His Excellency Ojukwu wanted the Red Cross night flights to cover for the arms and ammunition deliveries.

  But they needed arms to survive. Once the Federal troops came charging in, they would slaughter the Igbos. The only choice lay between different kinds of death. Sure, Gowon pointed to the Igbos who remained loyal to the Federal government, living still in Federal territory, but Gilman thought them mere window dressing. Token at best, traitors to their own at worst. Collaborators.

  What if Biafra won? Surely it wasn't so impossible. Hadn't they held out an incredibly long time already? What if the French recognized them? One powerful nation would do it, give legitimacy, power to negotiate.

  Neutrality, she reminded herself, remembering Lindsey's advocacy of that trait. She had to laugh. There's no place for neutrality in war.

  Chapter 74: Gilman

  March 1969

  Uli, Biafra

  Strafing. Fusillade. No. Gilman struggled up out of the thick sleep that strangled her. She was back from Lagos, back in her own tent, Jantor by her side. Returned last night from Nigeria. Oh God, Biafra rises.

  Knocking. It's just knocking. One of Jantor's men—Peter's voice. Naked, Jantor was on his feet, revolver in hand. His problem, not Gilman's. She blinked at him from her nest of sheets, the room dim and blurred with shadows in the early morning light.

  "Sir. It's Commander Steiner," said Peter.

  "He wants me?"

  "No. But come, please sir."

  "He's been shot?" Jantor asked.

  He slipped into trousers, boots. She pulled out his back-up revolver from under the pillow by her head. Ammo.

  He shrugged on a shirt. Gilman passed him the second revolver. He gave her a look like he could fall in love with her if he didn't know better. If they both didn't know better.

  Jantor jerked his head and Gilman popped herself back into bed covering up.

  He caught the door behind him so it didn't slam, as if Gilman were still sleeping. The gesture made her think of Sandy.

  "You hear about the public meeting with Ojukwu this morning?" Allingham tore off his mask. He came out of the steaming operating bunker ahead of Gilman.

  She hadn't, but she wasn't about to say and settled for a mumble and a yawn.

  "First one down," he said.

  She could tell he was enjoying himself. She looked over at his pasty stubble-shadowed face, seeing malice bright in his eyes. "So, tell," she said, knowing he wasn't going to give unless she admitted she didn't know.

  "Ojukwu had Steiner arrested and deported—I'm amazed he didn't shoot the goon. Announced Steiner plotted an overthrow of the Biafran Government and the assassination of the Supreme Commander himself."

  Gilman stopped, stared at Allingham. But he had gone in those few sentences from gloating to quiet, as if his own words gave him pause. She choked her first impulse to hit him.

  "Why?" she said, knowing she sounded bewildered. "Steiner was good. Corrupt as hell, but what do you expect? Do you believe…?"

  Allingham shrugged, lowered his voice.

  "We're down the toilet," he said. "Dunno if there's any truth to yarns about betrayal and assassination, but you don't need to look far to see jealousy against the mercs. But I'll be damned if I can see how to win this without them. Watch your man's ass, Gilman. Get him outta here."

  He shook his head. "Or maybe they won't let him go," he said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I don't know," he said. "Best shut up, if assassination's in the air."

  Chapter 75: Gilman

  March 1969

  Uli, Biafra

  The afternoon sun filtered through the olive canvas of the hospital tent, giving its interior a murky underwater light. Two rows of cots lined the tent, and to Gilman, the moans and delirious murmurs of their occupants contributed to the dreamlike atmosphere. The sharp bark of not-so-distant mortars impinged on the ward's surreal sleepiness.

  She'd been back for less than two days, but the events of her trip faded into a distant past. She knew, with a mixed sensation of terror and regret, that the war was ending at last. Biafra was collapsing. Coming back from bustling prosperous Lagos made it obvious. Steiner deported in handcuffs was one more step toward the end.

  She wouldn't allow herself to slip into numbness, like the children dying of hunger who no longer desired food. Nor would it do to give oneself up to pain, like the soldier at the far row's end, continually whining for morphine. She recalled her shock when Sister Catherine observed that the metal shards they'd removed from his face and neck belonged to someone else's helmet. Comrades became shrapnel. Gilman shook down her thermometer and began her rounds.

  She and Jantor, Sister Catherine and Allingham, could always escape. Perhaps that was the worst of it. They could afford to stay and struggle because they had the ability to leave. Maybe that guilt held them, not the needs of others.

  The sound of a Jeep in the yard, then the tent's wooden door banged open and shut. Gilman stifled her regret that it was Allingham who came to stand beside her. Allingham taut and shaking and reeking of sweat.

  "Gilman, we've got to get the hell out of here. Now. Tonight. No more excuses."

  Gilman's stomach lurched. She set down her chart. No, keep down the panic. If she acted calm, she would be.

  "Why?"

  "Don't give me that shit. You have ears. The whole thing's falling apart. The Feds are pounding hell out of the town. They'll be here within hours."

  "Then we'd better prepare to evacuate the wounded and retreat with our troops." Gilman picked up the chart.

  "For God's sake, they're not our troops. And even if they were, there's not much farther they can retreat. You know damned well what'll happen if we're here when the Feds roll in."

  "You're free to go."

  "Screw you, Gilman."

  "I don't want responsibility for you."

  "I know you don't," Allingham said. "But you've got it. Whether or not you want it. Maybe it'll save your lousy skin."

  "I have a better idea," Gilman said. "When Biafra falls, you can hide in a little hut painted over with red crosses and hail the Feds as liberators."

  "Great idea. Thanks, Doctor. As if the Feds hadn't already made it clear they love to shoot Red Cross personnel." Allingham started back to the door. "You try the hut thing and I'll be taking notes. You're the idiot wants to stay."

  Chapter 76: Gilman

  March 1969

  Owerri, Biafra

  Reversal of fortune. Biafra's troops plunged to a fresh victory in Owerri, a major city that had been in Federal hands for seven months.

  Two in the morning, but the streets of the recaptured town rocked with noise and dancers amid the Biafran crowds. Gilman looked around her and laughed. Every shop, bar, or private residence with smuggled liquor or food showed flickering light from hurricane and gas lamps. Buildings lay in blasted ruins, debris spilling over the unpaved streets, while among the black heaps of concrete a few flames jagged. The air vibrated with a confusion of native music, Beethoven's "Pastorale," old prewar records wailing at full scratchy volume and shouting voices. "Biafra lives!" Pans and tin cups clashed and pinged in the alleys. A captured army truck lurched through the crowd, horn blaring.

  Gilman dressed in her cleanest tans perched on the hood of a parked Jeep and watched the flash of Nigerian shells that passe
d in the night sky. Too distant to be a problem.

  Curfew. If they were wise they'd be hiding their lights and joy under cover now. But there was no real need for secrecy, was there? For tonight the Feds couldn't touch them. According to the Nigerian radio Owerri was still in Federal hands. She savored the joke.

  Biafra could win. Against all odds. Gilman laughed into the night air. So thoughtful of the Feds to provide the celebration with fireworks. Distant shells showed up beautifully against the sky. The tide turned for them all. Remember Bourgoyne's defeat and how it opened the gates of Versailles to Benjamin Franklin and the American cause? Biafra could force Nigeria to the conference table instead of the battlefield. The major powers who witnessed Biafra's will to survive would have to recognize this nation. Maybe France. There were rumors France was considering a move.

  She saw a soldier, trying to balance on another's shoulders, nail a sign that read "Biafra Rockets Bar" over a door. Neither soldier had much of a uniform, only piecemeal salvaged Federal clothing and a band around the upper left arm. A drunken rendition of the national anthem sifted through the night. Gilman leaned against the windshield and mapped out a perfect plan for the capture of Lagos. She imagined rescuing a ragged penitent Lindsey from retribution. Familiar hands closed on her ankles.

  Jantor pulled her toward him. She slid over the edge of the hood. He caught her by the waist and set her on her feet.

  "Where have you been?" she said.

  He held up a key for an answer.

  "How do you feel about a double bed and a private bath?"

  "Who'd you kill for it?"

  "Privilege, Kath. As Allingham keeps reminding you, I have commandos eager to answer my every wish. God knows who's in the room now, but I guarantee they won't be, by the time we get there. And if the water isn't running, I'll have them heat our baths over the kitchen fire."

  Gilman shook her head in mock disapproval.

  "Shh, love," he said. "No time for discussing the morality of it. I don't trust that greedy desk clerk one jot."

  They hastened through the press of celebrants toward the old hotel, now renamed "The Glorious Sun Hotel of Biafra."

  Chapter 77: Wilton

  March 1969

  Ibadan, Western Region, Nigeria

  Wilton sat in the garden where dense green clerodendrum cascaded from the trellis against the wall of Lindsey's house. She looked past the trimmed bush of Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow flowers, in their three colors from intense violet to pallid drooping white. She knew she appeared half asleep, but she saw that no one stood near enough to watch what she did. Of course she was safe, in an enclosed garden with guards at the walls.

  Straight from God. There he was, sleek, twice the length of her arm, moving along the thick branch of the tree. His lidless eye fixed. He paused, forked tongue flickering, tasting her on the air.

  She clutched her pillowcase which lay slack across her knees, empty. When she started to move, she held it in her left fist and stood. She reached with boneless grace. To capture a snake you must become like him, fluid motion.

  Predator against predator. How sweet, how soft. Her hand stroked up the long limb of the cashew tree and ran a light touch over the smooth head of the black cobra before sliding around his throat. Then a firm grip, a practiced gesture. The snake strained back with powerful muscles, but her fingers did not give.

  She dropped the case and with her other hand unwound the lithe form from its place. It had eaten recently, a slight bulge attesting to the death of a mouse or lizard. Wilton settled the snake deep in her pillowcase, slow and careful, the snake too valuable for haste. It did not strike at the fabric when she slipped her grip loose and drew her fingers back along the curve of neck until she could withdraw her hand. She twisted the top tight and picked up the bag full of snake, supporting the weight in her arms. It settled deep with a whispered hiss.

  Chapter 78: Sandy

  March 1969

  Ibadan, Western Region, Nigeria

  Startled awake by a rustle at her bedside, Sandy sprang up and grabbed at the sound. Her fingers caught a slim arm, and she recognized Wilton. She braced against Wilton's panicking recoil.

  "Jesus Christ, Wilton. It's okay. Calm down. God damned nearly gave me a heart attack."

  Her first impulse was to reach for the light switch, but then, as her heartbeat slowed, she remembered Gilman's warning about sudden bright lights and the possible effect on Wilton's instability. Sandy slipped out of bed, maintaining her hold on Wilton's arm.

  "Chrissake, it's all right, Wilton," she said, steering her charge toward the doorway, her other hand on the wall for a guide. She could take Wilton back to her room without turning on lights.

  "No shocks, no probs," Sandy said to Wilton.

  They moved through the blue shadows of the hallway. Sandy felt a change in tension, but wasn't confident enough to slacken her grip. A good thing Wilton hadn't wandered away from this wing of the house and run into the bodyguards. Oroko was off on a trip for Lindsey up North, probably another assassination, and the other guards might not have his exact judgment of when to shoot and when to hold.

  Sandy heard a sound and hesitated in the hallway. She went on after a second's pause, shrugging at her own imagination. Ghosts, they all had ghosts. It had been an unnerving awakening. She pushed at the half-open door and drew Wilton in after her.

  Three steps into the room, Sandy's bare foot skidded on a thing that moved under her. Caught off balance, she lurched against the wall, losing her grip on Wilton. A thick muscular coldness slid for a moment against her ankle, slammed into her leg. Sandy propelled herself backwards, toward the doorway, grabbing for Wilton and thrusting her out into the hall so hard Wilton fell. When Sandy's hand touched the wall switch, she flipped the lights on and stumbled again on the long black form that slipped away from her and reared up to waist height. She'd never seen a snake like this before, tall as a child, staring at her with glassy jet eyes and spread hood. The tongue flickered black. Behind her, Wilton made some noise, then came the sanity of Lindsey's voice.

  "Don't move."

  Over her shoulder Sandy saw the gleam of Lindsey's pistol. She jumped when the shot sounded. The cobra exploded into bloody fragments. Down the hall, the door to the wing splintered under the urgency of the guards.

  Chapter 79: Lindsey

  March 1969

  Ibadan, Western Region, Nigeria

  It took over an hour to quiet Wilton, and when the sedative finally took effect and Lindsey could leave her in bed, Lindsey went back to find Sandy. Surprising that Sandy hadn't stuck around, but perhaps she'd figured her own frayed nerves would only add to the tension. Definitely time for a glass of brandy in the library. Yes—Lindsey looked in and saw Sandy there, leaning against the table staring at the bookshelves.

  "There you are," Lindsey said. "Bet you could use a drink."

  "Lindsey," Sandy said.

  The waver in her voice snapped Lindsey out of her weariness.

  "What?"

  Sandy's face was shock white.

  "Are you all right? Sit down," Lindsey said.

  "Shit." Sandy lurched for the nearest chair.

  "What's wrong? Let me see," Lindsey said, frightened by how fast Sandy responded. Sandy never was obedient.

  Sandy pulled up her striped pajama leg, winced, her gray eyes dilated.

  Already her left leg had swollen to the knee, puffed around two sets of purple puncture wounds. It took Lindsey a moment to realize what she saw. Not much like a leg. Horror surged in her.

  "Jesus."

  Lindsey ran to the closet, snatched down the first aid kit from the high shelf. When she turned, she saw Sandy lift her head with a strange look of defiance, gesturing her back, but they'd wasted time already. Too much of it. Tourniquet whipped into place, Lindsey knelt to steady her razor over the first bite. She cut and cut again, felt rather than heard the gasp that escaped Sandy. She applied the rubber suction bulb, remembering with passionate gratitude how Gil
man had drilled her in this procedure so many years ago. Only then did Lindsey remember to shout for the bodyguards.

  "Get Dr. Yinka—meet us at Saint Elizabeth's Hospital. Tell him snakebite—bring antivenin." When the men raced out, she looked at Sandy.

  "Quit," Sandy said. "Hold up. Fucking stop. Lindsey I'm trying to tell you. It's no good, all this. I'm allergic to horse serum."

  The words left her breathless. Sandy leaned back, bracing herself on the chair arms. Lindsey's bloody hands dropped. She forced her own voice past the constriction of her throat.

  "No," was all that came out.

  Lindsey's hands came up and clutched Sandy's arms as if she would shake her, smearing the striped cotton with lurid streaks.

  Sandy drew back. "I'm not a fucking fool. Her voice cut as final and as certain as a knife. "Gilman gave me a diphtheria series long ago before we came to Nigeria, and I nearly checked out. That's how I know."

  Lindsey straightened, staring at her pajama-clad friend with her thick braid of russet hair pulled over one blood-spattered shoulder. She thought of doctors, of jets to Europe, and read the answer in Sandy's wise and frightened eyes.

  Sandy shook her head.

  "Lindsey." She pushed to her feet. "I think it's time to get out of here. The hospital has morphine."

  In the hospital room Lindsey watched Sandy's fever mount and nausea set in. Sandy vomited for hours, even after she was empty. Her lips cracked from stomach acids and her eyes suffused with blood. She began the characteristic bleeding, from nose, mouth, eyes and ears, until she could no longer even swear.