The soldiers stepped back grudgingly.
Pierre reached into his top pocket and pulled out the diamond. “This is my secret, my star,” he said, holding it up, like a challenge.
Adash put the machete into his left hand and snatched the diamond out of Pierre’s grasp. “Where did you get this?”
“Why should I tell you? You are going to kill me.”
“If you tell me perhaps I will let you go.”
Pierre said nothing.
Adash slapped his face with the flat blade of the machete. Pierre yelped and fell to the ground. He had a thin gash across his face, which swelled with blood that began to run down his cheek. He lifted himself up on one arm. He was panting.
“If you don’t change your mind by morning, I will kill you then.” Adash held the diamond out at arm’s length and watched it sparkle in the afternoon sun. “Tie the Dog up outside my villa and fetch him a bowl of water.”
“What about the miner?”
“He will come to us when he is desperate enough, and that won’t be long.”
*
Jim had seen the gruesome scene enacted by tiny figures on the horizon through the almost useless pair of binoculars he’d had in the pack. He had practically howled when he saw the figure in white hit Pierre with what looked like a sword and had nearly cried with relief when the boy had kept moving. He watched the indistinct blobs tie up the boy and leash him to a beam that held up the veranda roof of Mycock and Higgins’s bungalow. They would probably come for him next, he thought, but running didn’t seem an option. If they hadn’t caught him by nightfall, he’d have a try at freeing Pierre. If he was caught he could maybe buy them both out, but if he pulled it off, they’d make a run for it. It might be a week’s march to Goma, but he’d worry about the practicalities of that later. He took the jungle knife from the pack and strapped it to his leg. It was an evil-looking piece and razor sharp. He imagined stabbing the man in white in the gut with it. It would do the job nicely.
Baz was checking in for his flight to Kinshasa. The selling had gone well – the market was insatiable, gobbling up his stock. Ralph was doing a good job; on the phone he’d seemed genuinely upset and worried about him. He’d do better to worry about Jim Evans, who was either hopelessly lost in the jungle or having tea with the nastiest people in Africa. Good riddance to him, and hello retirement. He watched a beautiful Congolese girl walk by in a bright green and white dress. Every step he took away from that hole, the better he felt. Leaving a scam usually made him feel a bit sad but not this time. This time nothing would bring him back to the game, however much he loved it.
34
Jim was examining his tiny Sony mobile phone. The battery was different from the sat phone’s and would not replace it. He glanced up frequently but there was little going on in the mining camp, save the occasional arrival of small groups of soldiers who pitched tents near the barracks. Jim calculated there were perhaps around a hundred men and wondered if some would soon be heading his way. He reassembled the small phone and set the alarm to vibrate at three a.m. He hoped that would be the optimal time at which to rescue Pierre.
At least there were no dogs to wake and bark – or, at least, none that he could see. He wound his Rolex Cosmonaut and put it back on his wrist, shoved the phone in his top trouser pocket and settled down to watch the camp. The sun would set in an hour and then he’d be a lot safer. He would eat something and go to sleep. He examined the night-sight goggles, and was pleased to discover that their battery was full of life.
Thank God for Stafford, he thought. He looked at the inside of his all-weather blanket. It was lined with silver foiled material that would shine like a beacon in the dark with the night-sight goggles on. He would hang it on the bush when he left and its reflection would lead him back to the pack. That was all good in theory, but first he had to make it that far.
The night-sight goggles were almost as sinister as the hunting knife. There was something demonic about both articles. Black straps fitted eyepieces to his face and a snout poked out at the front above his nose like a stubby telescope. It could see ahead about half a mile and would run for ten hours. Thirty minutes after leaving his hideout, he would be back – or, more likely, captured or dead. He laid the goggles on their black nylon carrying pouch and put the pack down so he could use it as a pillow. The sun was setting fast and in six hours the alarm would go off and he would start his foolhardy rescue mission. His life must be like a pixel in one of Davas’s crazy financial models. He was the single tiny chaotic element in a universe of data that flicked on and off at random and sent its neighbours cascading into waves of unpredictable turbulence. In other words he was totally fucked up. He was like a giant lightning conductor poking up into the sky as a black Kansas stormcloud rolled in.
He could practically feel the air filling to rupturing point with electricity.
Was his fabulous luck at calling the markets matched by a balancing curse? Was his meteoric rise about to be followed by a spectacular crash to earth? Stocks went up like a rocket and fell back like a stick. Maybe he was now the biggest short in history. Was he Icarus?
He tried to get comfortable. He drew the chart of his life, which went on and on. Yet one day he knew his predictions would be wrong and tonight he was more likely to be wrong than at any time before.
It was getting darker by the second, so he closed his eyes and tried to drift off but he couldn’t fall asleep. It was seven thirty. He was just going to have to stay awake all night.
Adash walked out on to the veranda, a jug in his hand. He came to stand over Pierre, who was bound hand and foot with cord. The metal chain leash around his neck had a leather handle, which had been threaded around a post, tethering him like a guard dog.
Adash poured water from the jug into an empty bowl set out for the boy. “Drink,” he said.
Pierre looked at the bowl and then at Adash. His face was full of hate.
“Drink, little Dog, or you won’t be strong enough to take me to the diamonds and then I will have to cut off your hands to make you sorry.” He smiled. “And perhaps your nose and lips, too. You know I will do it, so drink and maybe if I am happy I will just send you away.”
“You would never do that,” said Pierre, trying to challenge him to do the opposite.
“And not let you return to tend your family’s grave?” said Adash.
Pierre rolled on to his knees and elbows and started to drink from the bowl. Adash only spoke lies so maybe what he had said meant he would be killed soon, maybe it meant his family lived, maybe both.
Adash pushed him away with his foot and Pierre rolled awkwardly on to his back.
Adash laughed. “I have complete power over you,” he said. “Worship me and you may live.”
“God will smite you,” said Pierre, wriggling on to his knees.
Adash laughed. “There are no gods to smite me.” He lifted his boot to kick Pierre with his heel. The lights of the camp went out. Adash stopped mid-stride and his foot returned to the wooden boards. He looked into the dark of the night, then walked back into the bungalow muttering to himself.
35
Jim woke because something was buzzing in his pocket. His mind caught up. It was his semi-useless London phone, vibrating to wake him. He pulled it out. It was three a.m. He switched it off and struggled in the dark to stow it. He had fallen asleep and not even noticed. He grabbed the goggles, fitted them on to his head and switched them on. They gave off a little turbine-sounding whine and lit up green. He could see everything as if a giant green candle illuminated the world. He picked up the blanket and stepped out of his hiding-place, opened the blanket up, turned it inside out and hung it on the tall grassy reeds. Through the goggles, green light shone from it like an emerald lighthouse as the infrared bounced off the insulating foil and back down the optics and electronics to his retinas.
He looked through the few feet of cover at the walk downhill to the mine. He could just make out Pierre curled up on his si
de. A figure sat ten feet away from him in a chair, a rifle in his arms. The generator had gone off and wouldn’t come on again until mid-morning.
He took a deep breath and strode forwards.
He could hear his every breath as he walked, the knife in his hand. There looked to be a deer to his far right grazing and bats flew above him. His feet were loud in the undergrowth as he picked his way forwards, his heart drumming in his chest. His eyes were watering and sweat was pouring off him. The compound was still, not a single light shining from anywhere but the sky. It was just a five-minute walk but each step felt like a minute passing. He reassured himself that if anyone came out they couldn’t possibly see him but his nerves were on fire with anticipation. He was breathing deeply as, one foot at a time, he paced through the rough grass and tussocks that covered the uneven space between the bush and the mining camp. He moved on to the rough, dusty pathway that led from the jungle to the camp. A pair of eyes stared out at him from a spindly tree – some kind of bird, he thought. He was fifty yards from Pierre and maybe thirty from the guest bungalow he had slept in just a few days ago – it felt like years.
The ground in front of the bungalows was gravelled and made a loud grating noise as each step pressed down on it. The guard was asleep, his mouth open in a quiet snore. Pierre was asleep, too, and as Jim approached he saw how swollen and battered the boy’s face was after the beating he’d received.
Jim’s breathing was quickening and his heart racing. He was trying to stay calm but losing the battle. He was at the wooden pillar where Pierre’s leash was fastened. If the boy woke with a start they were screwed. He lifted the leather handle, put his blade between it and the pillar and tried to slice through it. The leather was tough and wouldn’t cut easily, the knife gnawing into it. The chain rattled a little. He glanced at Pierre, who had woken without Jim realising and was looking up at him, his eyes wide. He checked the guard, ready to rush him if he woke, but the man was motionless.
The handle was two-thirds cut through. He hauled on it with everything he had, holding his breath, and heard a tearing crunch as it gave.
Jim took the chain and lowered it carefully into Pierre’s lap, knelt down quickly and cut the boy’s ankle bonds as if they were paper. The knife was razor sharp, after all. Pierre didn’t need his hands to run so they could make a break for it now if they had to, but Jim threaded the blade gently between Pierre’s wrists and, with a quick careful movement, severed the rope. Pierre was standing and pointing at the soldier and his gun. He drew his hand over his throat.
Jim shook his head. He wasn’t going to cut anyone’s throat.
Pierre motioned to Jim to give him the knife.
Jim shook his head again.
Pierre clenched his fist in frustration but Jim grabbed his hand and pulled him in the direction of the jungle. Perhaps they were both going to live after all, he thought. The silver blanket shone like a beacon half a kilometre in front of them and every step was one step closer to a dangerous kind of safety.
Pierre looked at his saviour, who was just a faint outline in the moonless night, only inches in front of him. Like a leopard, Jim could see in the dark. Tomorrow Adash would be hunting them both: the Dog and the Leopard.
Jim pulled down the blanket and towed Pierre into the bush. “We must keep going,” said Pierre. “In the morning they will come looking for us right away.” He was undoing the neck collar.
“OK,” said Jim, stuffing the blanket into the pack.
“I will carry that,” said Pierre. “I can go faster than you weak people.”
“Thanks,” said Jim. “Be my guest. Where shall we head?”
“To the Pygmies.”
“Pygmies? You sure?”
“Christ Reunion is more scared of them than we are. They are gentle people.”
“OK,” said Jim, “that’s not what you said a couple of days ago.”
“Compared to the Reunion they are gentle people.”
They clambered out of the bush and Pierre threw the pack on with a grace that underlined his strength. He pushed ahead of Jim. “I can find the way,” he said.
“How?” whispered Jim.
“My eyes and my feet,” he said, “they follow the trail uphill. When we find a stream, we follow its course.”
“Fine,” said Jim, following as Pierre picked his way into the bush.
The soldier woke as the first light of day fell on to his eyelids. He looked down to where Dog Bites Man lay and jumped out of his chair. The boy was gone – and Adash would spill his guts, then hand them to him as he died. He leaped off the veranda and ran down the hill out of the camp. He could maybe get two miles away before anyone noticed he or the Dog was gone. He was running fast now, running for his life.
Adash stepped out of the shower and pulled on his long flowing robe. The diamond looked even better wet and he marvelled at its size. No wonder this mine was worth a billion. If they had found diamonds of this size and so many of them that they were giving them to their servants it must be a mine of unlimited treasure.
Diamonds were power and these would buy him enough, perhaps, that he would again answer to no one. He stepped into worn brown sandals and sauntered to the door of the bungalow. He walked out. Dog was gone and so was his guard. He sat down on the chair and waited. Someone had rescued the boy and the guard had sensibly fled. Who would rescue Dog Bites Man? Surely not some miner. He went back into the bungalow and picked up the papers found in the next villa.
They were emails to a Jim Evans: he owned 10 per cent of the mine, or so Adash thought the English said. If it was him, he was brave. That was good, because the brave were much easier to trap and kill.
36
Jim was exhausted: they had gone five miles and he was ready to drop. They were eating some of the last of the rations he had with him, sitting by the huge trunk of a nameless mighty tree that rose two hundred feet into the air. Pierre had snagged some avocados but they were as hard as cannonballs. Hopefully they’d ripen in the heat.
By dark, if he could get a second wind, they’d just about make it to the area where the pygmies had scared the hell out of them. Pierre didn’t seem bothered by the exertion even with the weight of the pack. His face was a mass of swelling and cuts, but he bore it as if that was its normal state. He just walked in silence, occasionally looking back at Jim to make sure he was OK.
They hadn’t said anything since they’d started their trek back up the mountain; the overriding necessity was to move – fast.
Apart from his exhaustion, Jim was happy. He had done the right thing and got away with it. Now all they had to do was march through thirty miles of mountainous jungle. Suddenly he had an idea. He rifled through the rucksack and pulled out the sat phone.
“Light a fire, Pierre.”
“Are you going to cook the phone?” asked Pierre.
“Yeah,” said Jim. “You’ve got it in one.”
“I know it’s dead, but you still can’t eat it,” said Pierre.
“A little cooking will do it good,” said Jim, pulling off the battery compartment.
Pierre put down the rucksack and went into the trees. A few moments later he returned with a branch covered with dead leaves and broke it into kindling. Then he whittled some of the wood into tiny feathers. He rubbed two matches hard against his trouser leg to dry out any damp and lit the little heap he had made. The fire was quickly alight and Pierre built it up to a blaze. “Nothing too wet,” he said. “We don’t want to send smoke above the trees.”
Jim had stripped the battery out of the sat phone and carefully cut off the plastic cover leaving just the plain metal jacket. He stuck the jungle knife into the middle of the fire. It wouldn’t be so sharp when he took it out, he thought. “I’m going to heat the blade and then warm the battery on it,” he said. “With a bit of luck that’ll give it some juice.”
“Maybe it explodes,” said Pierre.
“Probably,” Jim agreed, “but it’s worth a try.”
Jim watched the knife in the fire and imagined it somehow red hot. A simple fire could never do that. The wooden handle was very hot and Jim slid the blade out of the glowing centre of the flames and laid it flat. He licked a finger and dabbed it on the metal. It hissed. “Too hot,” he said, “I think.” He counted a few seconds off and tried again. No hiss. “Here goes,” he said, and dropped the battery on to it. He sat back a bit, expecting the case to pop open and start burning. It didn’t. He counted a few seconds, then turned the battery over with a quick flip. It was hot but not so hot as to blister his fingers. The blade was losing its heat quickly and Jim turned the battery again. It was as hot as if it had been in hard direct sunlight for a long time. He got ready with the sat phone in one hand and snatched up the battery with the other. He snapped the battery in. It was suddenly a very tight fit. He clipped the back on and pressed the on button. “Come on, baby,” he said, “you know you can do it.”
The screen came on, but it had last time, then gone out again after a few seconds. He selected normal transmit mode and held his breath. The phone was searching for a signal. He stood up and tried to find a stretch of ground with little canopy in the way. There was a single bar of power and signal, and they were both flashing.
He went to SMS.
“In deep shit,” he typed, and sent it to Jane. He pulled the message up again and tried to send it to John and Stafford.
The phone rang. “Jane Brown,” read the screen.
He pressed answer but the phone went dead and the screen was blank. He switched it on again and the phone started to boot, only to flip back into darkness.
He stuck the knife back into the fire. “Well, we got through,” he said.
In a couple of minutes the embers had heated the knife again and he laid the battery on the blade. There was a crack, a bang, a fizz and the battery caught fire. Jim and Pierre jumped back as a small spitting white cloud spewed up. Jim grabbed the handle of the knife and spilled the battery on to the ground. It was burning hard, like a badly constructed firework, jumping about in little fits and starts.
The Twain Maxim Page 19
