by Chris Ryan
‘What was that?
‘Fucking rat.’
‘They’re everywhere.’
Again we endured a few minutes’ silence.
‘Gen?’
‘Hello.’
‘I’m thinking about the delay when we arrived here.’
‘What about it?’
‘The woman must have been briefing Mr Arsehole on who we were and what we’d been doing. Obviously she’d been in cahoots with him before. But it was only when she got to the convent that she could make contact with him. That was her first chance since the crash.’
‘Sounds about right. What’s her role, though? What’s their relationship?’
‘You tell me. I reckon she’s been acting as a courier, taking diamonds out. Maybe she’s a dealer. When she came for the big stone, the guys in the plane were just pilot and escort. The stuff about big-game surveys was a load of crap. Ditto the story about coming from Mozambique. I reckon they nipped in from Namibia early that morning and were on their way back out.’
Genesis gave a muffled curse as he shifted position, trying to ease his arms. ‘A stone that size has got to be worth millions.’
‘Hundreds of millions. That’s what Boisset said — one of those would finance a whole war.’
We both went quiet again for a while. My ribs were aching all down my left side. I’d got quite a few kicks there when I was on the deck. The cuts on my head had stopped bleeding, but my left eye was puffed and swollen, my mouth the same. The back of my neck felt rigid, swollen from the blow that had knocked me down.
After a while, I said, ‘What have they done with his body?’
‘They won’t waste energy burying him. That’s for sure.’ For once Genesis allowed a cynical edge to sharpen his voice. ‘If this place is on a river, they’ll have thrown him in by now.’
‘It’ll be the same for us if they top us in the open. The crocs or the hyenas.’
Another silence. I didn’t want to ask Gen what he thought the time was. The answer might be too depressing. We probably hadn’t been in the nick for more than an hour; we must have about seven or eight hours to endure till first light.
Soon my mind was going down another alley. ‘I’m thinking about the old magician, Gen.’
‘The witch doctor?’
‘Right. We’ve had another white death. Whinger makes the score five. If us two go, it’ll be seven. Not far to ten.’
‘Ah, bollocks!’ said Gen, with sudden emphasis. ‘That was a load of shite, Geordie. I keep telling you. Pay no attention. I mean, what’s a white death and what isn’t? There must be hundreds of white mercenaries fighting for the blacks all over the continent: South Africans, Germans, Russians, Czechs, Americans, Brits — everything. There’s whites here in Kamanga, we know that. They’re in every country. I bet you more than ten have gone down already, since we arrived in Africa.’
‘Maybe. But the witch doctor meant in our lot.’
‘Okay. So we’ve lost two — Andy and Whinger.’
Gen’s down-to-earth good sense was a comfort, as always. But I sensed that, for once, his faith in the supremacy of good had taken a bad knock. He might talk about God working in mysterious ways, and battling against the power of Satan, but he’d become confused by the apparent influence of the witch doctor. Where did the sin’ganga stand in the scale of good and evil? In our predicament, the devil definitely seemed to have the upper hand. As for me, lacking all religious conviction, once I’d started to believe that events were being governed or directed by some sinister paranormal influence, it was impossible to put the idea from my mind — especially when our very survival was threatened by a crazy dictator and his slapper of a hand-maiden.
TWELVE
I didn’t realise I’d been asleep, but I must have drifted off, because I came to with a jolt, in pain all over. Something had woken me. Rats? No. They were still on the move, back and forth across the floor, but I was used to them already. I listened. A faint thud came from outside the door. Then a chain or padlock rattled briefly. I assumed Muende had got his hands on my GPS, worked out that Waypoint Seven was what he needed, and decided he could bin us without further ado. Now he’d sent someone to take us out and shoot us. I started shuddering, partly from nerves, partly from cold.
‘Gen?’ I whispered. The first try brought no response. At the second he gave a grunt. ‘Something’s happening outside,’ I croaked. ‘I hope to fuck they’re not coming to beat us again.’
There was practically nothing we could do to prepare ourselves for an assault. But at least we were awake. If someone had come to top us, he’d get a good kick in the crotch first.
The next sounds from the door were the scratch of a key turning in a lock and another faint clink of chains. I was still bracing myself for a confrontation when I realised that the noises were furtive; not the confident clang of a gaoler going into his charges, but the careful tinkering of somebody who had no business to be there.
A moment later, the door opened inch by inch, and a voice said in American-accented English, ‘You guys there?’
I tried to speak, but couldn’t. My mouth was so dry that no sound came out. I swallowed a few times, and at last managed to croak, ‘Who’s that?’
‘Friend,’ came the answer. ‘Hold quiet. I’m coming right over.’
There was a scraping sound as he dragged something into the cell, and a scurry of rats departing. Then I felt, rather than saw, a man approaching along the wall. A hand settled on my left arm and ran gently down to my wrist.
‘Cuffs,’ whispered the voice. ‘Okay. I have some keys.’
I smelt the fresh, minty tang of chewing gum. Hope surged up inside me as I heard and felt unseen fingers trying different keys. At last one turned in a lock, and my wrists came free. With incredible relief I brought my arms slowly round in front of me and flexed them.
‘Wait there while I see to your buddy.’
Starlight was flooding through the open door. In it lay the bundle our rescuer had dragged in: the body of the guard. Moving stiffly, I went across and ran my hands over it, searching for weapons. No luck there. The man was wearing a holster, but it was empty.
From across the cell came the scrape of a key and whispered curses. I stepped back from the dead gaoler and tripped over something else. Crouching down, I reached out a hand and felt a boot, a bare leg. Another corpse, but this one was cold. Whinger! Instinctively I whipped my hand away, fearful that my fingers might come up against his congealing intestines. Then another horrible thought hit me. That was where the rats had been heading all night; it was Whinger they’d been eating.
I knew where his legs were. I ought to be able to find his head, without running my hands up his body. Aiming off about four feet, I reached down again. My right hand landed on the side of his face. I felt the puckered, slimy skin. I ran my fingers down his neck and got them under the paracord that held his ID discs. I was so absorbed in my task that I hardly noticed the movements behind me. Then came a touch on my shoulder, and a soft voice said, ‘Okay. We gotta go.’
With my left hand I lifted Whinger’s head, and with the other slipped the loop of cord free.
‘Leave him!’ said the voice. ‘Move!’
The head fell back on to the earth floor with a thud. I stood up, and the voice whispered, ‘Follow me. Keep right on my ass.’
Outside, the cool air made me feel less sick, and the starlight seemed bright as day. We waited a moment while the American reset the outer padlock; then, pocketing the keys, he led us silently along the side of the building and across an open space towards some big sheds in the distance. Behind us only a couple of fires were glowing, and the camp was almost entirely dark.
Walking was an effort. In order to keep going, I began to count the steps, and reached two hundred before we came to the sheds. In deep shadow behind them, out of line-of-sight from the rest of the barrack blocks, our escort stopped and turned to us, letting out a big breath of relief. ‘Okay,’ he announced, quietly
. ‘We made it so far.’
‘What about the guard?’ I went.
‘He got a broken neck.’
‘Yeah, but won’t someone find his body?’
‘Not for a while. He’s locked in there for the duration, and I have the keys. How’re you doing?’ He shone a torch briefly on my face, and exclaimed, ‘Boy, you got a beating!’ He gave Gen a quick scan as well, saw he was much the same, and asked, ‘Well, what do you need?’
‘Water.’
‘Okay. Something to eat?’
‘Maybe, but water first. Any liquid.’
‘Sure. Stay here. If the alarm goes up, head thataway.’ He pointed to the south. ‘There’s a group of trees right out there. If you have to, hide in them, and I’ll come get you. Otherwise, stick around here. I’ll be back.’
He slipped away round the corner of the shed.
I felt breathless, barely able to believe we were out. ‘Gen,’ I whispered, ‘somebody answered your prayers.’
‘I know. Geordie, how are you feeling?’
‘Stiff as hell, specially my neck. Bruises all over. You all right?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. But I don’t think anything’s broken.’
Gingerly, I touched my lip, which seemed less swollen than it felt from inside. Next I swung my arms round vertically, slowly at first, then faster, to loosen cramped muscles and get circulation going.
In less than ten minutes our saviour was back. ‘Nothing much,’ he said, ‘but it’s liquid, anyway.’
He held out his hand, and I took what I could feel was a water-bottle.
‘Are we okay here?’ I asked.
‘Long enough to take a drink.’
‘Go on.’ I passed the bottle to Gen. ‘You first.’
He unscrewed the top, took a swallow, and said, ‘Champagne!’
In fact it was sweet lemonade, better than anything in the world. I took two long swallows, then handed the bottle over again.
‘I got some food as well,’ said the American. ‘Only MREs, but there you go.’
I took two squashy foil packets and slipped them into the thigh pocket of my DPMs. Genesis pouched a couple as well.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘What time is it?’
‘Ten of three. You guys gotta get out of here. They’re planning to kill you once you’ve done whatever it is they want. Which way d’you want to head?’
‘North, I suppose. Back towards the place we left the rest of our team. Where are we?’
‘This goddamn dump’s called Chimbwi. It’s a decommissioned bauxite mine. The rebel army’s taken it over as a forward base.’
‘How far are we from Msisi?’
‘Never heard of that. What is it?’
‘A convent. It was one, at least. Not a nun left now. That’s where we ran into trouble. We didn’t know the rebels had captured the place.’ I took another drink and asked, ‘Who are you?’
‘Sam Kershon, former SEAL.’
‘A SEAL!’ I peered at him, trying to see his features in the starlight. All I could make out was a neat crew-cut head and powerful-looking shoulders. ‘My God,’ I said, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’
‘I’m with an outfit called Interaction.’
‘Interaction! We know it. Based in London.’
‘Yep. London and Joburg. This guy Muende hired us to smarten up his rabble.’
‘Some job.’
‘You said it. Are you guys British special forces?’
‘Correct. Part of a training team.’
‘For the government forces?’
‘Exactly.’
‘That means we’re on opposite sides. But when I saw you being brought into camp, I thought you looked like Brits. I said to myself, shit, this is too much. Say, what are your names?’
‘I’m Geordie. This is Genesis.’
‘Genesis! Good one! First book of the Bible.’
‘Spot on!’ Gen agreed. Then he asked, ‘How did you get here?’
‘Trucked up from Sentaba, the Afundi headquarters. That’s a hundred miles or so. Eight-hour ride. What about you guys?’
‘We came the opposite way, from the north.’
Talking in fast whispers, I filled Sam in with an account of the crash, the attack on the mine, Joss’s volte-face, the discovery of the big diamond, and his plan to cut our throats in the middle of the night.
‘Nice way to treat your guests and allies,’ Sam said. ‘Sounds like there ain’t much to choose between the two sides.’
‘No,’ I went. ‘But this damned diamond is twisting everything. Until that came into the reckoning, Joss was okay — wasn’t he, Gen?’
‘Better than okay,’ Gen replied. ‘He was good.’
‘Well,’ said Sam. ‘Big money always talks loudest.’
A single shout came from the camp behind us. We listened for a few seconds, but the disturbance died down.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to get the fuck out of here.’
Then Sam sprang a surprise. ‘All right if I come with you?’
‘Why, are you wanting out?’
‘Too right I am. I’m through with this lot.’
‘Well, it’s up to you. It’s going to be some hike.’
‘How far’s this Msisi?’
‘It’s got to be about fifty ks from here. The Zebra Pans about the same.’
‘Sixty ks!’ The American gave a low whistle. ‘That’s over thirty miles. You have any equipment — compass, GPS?’
‘Nothing. The bastards who captured us nicked everything.’
‘Well, I’ve got a compass. Know what heading we want?’
‘Not exactly. Where’s Gutu in relation to Chimbwi?
‘Gee, let’s see. I’d say about forty ks north-east of here.’
‘Then I reckon we need to head north until we hit the river, then turn downstream. Can you get us out of camp?’
‘Oh, sure. That one’s easy. There’s plenty holes in the fence. But we’ve only got three hours of darkness. There’s no way we can make it back to the rest of your guys before first light.’
As the elation of getting free wore off, exhaustion was clamping down on me, and I sat on the ground to think.
‘Any chance of nicking a vehicle?’
‘Tough. The transport’s kept in a compound of its own and guarded pretty good. You’d stir up a hornets’ nest if you tried to get in there. Tell you what, though. Can you fly a plane?’
‘Depends what it is.’
‘A light aircraft,’ said Sam. ‘Very basic.’
‘Christ, that could be okay. Don’t tell me there’s one here.’
‘Sure is. They had it for prospecting.’
‘Is it operational?’
‘Absolutely. Somebody took it up a couple days back.’
‘Jesus!’ I felt my adrenalin stirring. ‘Where is it?’
‘Right over there.’ He pointed. ‘In an open shed.’
‘Any security on it?’
‘Nothing. There’s only one guy knows how to fly it, and he’s an officer, so they trust him.’
‘What about a strip?’
‘Right in front of it.’
‘Fuel?’
‘Should be plenty.’
‘Can we go and look at it?’
‘Sure. Come on.’
He led us to the end of the shed, took a cautious scan round the corner, and set out across the open ground beyond. The moon was already well across the sky. As I looked up at the stars, it seemed incredible that only twenty-four hours earlier our whole team had been driving though the dark. It felt like a month ago.
In three or four minutes we came to a perimeter fence, weldmesh on steel posts. As Sam had said, it was full of holes, and we found one easily enough. Behind us the camp lay silent, but out in the bush hyenas were howling. Walking was hard work for me; I was bruised all over, and my legs hurt when I moved them.
Soon, another large shed showed up ahead of us, black against the sky.
‘This is the
hangar,’ Sam whispered. ‘Wait here while I check it out.’
Gen and I knelt down. Being so used to carrying weapons, I felt defenceless and vulnerable, lacking even a knife. Without thinking, I raised my left wrist to look at my watch, remembering too late that it had gone. I glanced behind us, trying to estimate how far we’d come from the main part of the camp. Half a mile, anyway.
Presently, Sam loomed up out of the dark, and announced, ‘All clear.’
The shed was open-fronted. Just inside it, with its perspex bubble of a canopy glinting in the moonlight, stood a very basic-looking aircraft.
‘Jesus!’ I went. ‘This is all right. You have a torch?’
‘Sure.’ He handed one over.
‘I’m going to have a quick look over it. Keep an eye out while I switch the torch on.’
‘Keep it short, then. Just point it away from the camp.’
I ran the beam quickly over the little plane. It wasn’t any make I recognised, but it looked much the same as other small aircraft I’d flown.
‘Only two seats,’ said Gen.
‘Don’t worry. Sam can sit on your lap. We’ll squeeze him in somehow.’
‘Will it take off with that weight?’
‘Should do.’
A quick inspection showed the plane had a nose-wheel and two main wheels, an ignition switch but no electric start — just a hand-pull on the side of the engine — and a squeeze-ball pump for priming the carburettors.
‘Think you can hack it?’ Genesis asked.
‘Try it, anyway.’
I doused the torch, eased myself into the left-hand seat and felt the controls: accelerator arm, joystick, pedals, handbrake. Everything moved freely. I shone the torch on the transparent tube that served as a fuel gauge. The level was fairly low; it looked as though there were only twenty or twenty-five litres in the tank.
‘We could do with more gas,’ I said. ‘Is there any around?’
‘In the back.’ Sam pointed into the depths of the shed. But there, for the first time, he was wrong. The day before, he said, two forty-five-gallon drums had been standing in the corner. Now they’d gone.
