by Jon Cleary
At seven in the morning they caught a taxi out to the airport. ‘We want to get away before Luba comes to see us.’
But Luba, in a khaki uniform this morning, peaked cap set rakishly on his head, was waiting for them. ‘As I told you, our job is a twenty-four-hour one. We never rest. I came to wish you bon voyage, I’ll send a radio message to Gaston that you have left and are on your way.’
‘No, don’t do that!’ This was a Michele Sally had never seen before: nervous, edgy almost to the point of panic. ‘I – I want to surprise him. He doesn’t expect me back for another week. And he doesn’t know about Mile Beaufort.’
Which was true. Michele had explained to Sally that she could not communicate with her husband openly. A cable had been sent from Zurich but all it had said was: Medical report satisfactory. Arriving as arranged. Gaston Onza would know that Michele had obtained the money and would be bringing it in at the appointed meeting place with the mercenaries. He would not know that Sally would also be coming.
Luba smiled, winked a big dark eye. ‘Just as well Gaston is the faithful type. I don’t think I’d want my wife arriving back from somewhere to surprise me. Well, bon voyage. May he be surprised. He is a very fortunate man. Doubly so,’ he added, smiling at Sally.
They took off into a pink morning. Sally had not slept well because of the heat and humidity and she opened a window of the plane; even so, the wind that blew in was hardly a tonic. The Congo did not seem to flow but stood still beneath them, a silver-green border touched with pink reflections, between two jungles that looked exactly alike. A small paddle-wheeler came downstream, trailing a peacock’s tail of wake behind it; a canoe, a single man standing up in it, floated on the water like a stick insect. A cloud of flamingos rose up, got above the sun’s rays and turned into white herons; rocks moved at the river’s edge, as at an earth tremor, became hippos on the move. The cloud-cover enveloped the plane for a minute, then they were above it and heading south-east. I’m committed, Sally thought.
Their range was going to be stretched to the limit to make the rendezvous that Michele had marked on their map. Sally kept the cruising speed down to a minimum, conserving fuel; but knowing at the same time that she was not at all eager to put down at the rendezvous. She was afraid, no longer excited by the thought of adventure. She wondered how all those women adventurers she had read about as a girl had felt when they had set out on their first passage. Jane Digby, Isabelle Eberhardt, Amelia Earhart: had they all wanted to turn back once they had taken the first step? She looked at Michele for some sort of answer, but the latter was resting her head against the window, eyes closed, dreaming … Of what? Of being the President’s wife? All at once Sally knew her own journey had been futile. Once they had landed Michele would no longer need her. Or would be dead.
But there was no turning back: they had reached the point of no return. They flew on, each of them silent for her own reasons. The clouds evaporated and Africa burned bright beneath them. Then it was time to start looking at the map, comparing it with the contours of the land below. Hills came up ahead of them and beyond them a low range of mountains. Sally checked her bearing, saw the landmarks Michele had told her to expect, knew she was on course. Whatever else she might be, she knew she was a good pilot and a good navigator. She put the plane’s nose down, looking for the landing strip between the river and the road. There it was, exactly as Michele had described it.
She did a circuit, looking for the trucks that were supposed to be there waiting for them. Then she saw them, a dozen or so, parked like elephants beneath a screen of thin acacias. She straightened up, put down her wheels and went in for the descent. Then she saw the Land-Rover swing out from under the trees and speed down the strip towards her. She saw the driver frantically waving a hand at her, but there was nothing she could do. She was out of fuel and she had to land here.
‘Take it up!’ Michele shouted. ‘There’s something wrong!’
Sally was about to argue, then changed her mind as the window behind her suddenly cracked as a bullet hit it. She gunned the engine, lifted the nose and took the plane up in a steep climb only feet before the plane would have touched down. She banked steeply, climbing away from the strip. She was trembling with shock, but she was still in control of the plane. She looked down past Michele and saw the Land-Rover swing off the edge of the strip and disappear again into the trees and scrub.
‘What do we do?’ She tried not to panic, but she was staring at the fuel gauge. ‘We’re out of gas!’
‘How much do you have?’ Michele looked and sounded less frightened than angry.
‘Five, ten minutes’ more flying. No more. I’ve got to put down soon. What’s happened down there?’
She had taken the plane up to what she guessed was a safe height but she had no idea how far a rifle or machine-gun could shoot. The strip was down to their starboard side, seemingly deserted; they could see nothing, not even the trucks now. Then Michele suddenly pointed. A train of dust was belting its way through the scrub, coming in their direction. Sally, no longer watching the gauge because it now stood at Empty, cautiously took the plane down lower. Then they recognized the Land-Rover at the head of the train of dust. She swung the plane round in a wide circle, came in above the Land-Rover. The driver now had another man with him, who was looking up at the plane and pointing ahead. Sally waggled the wings, went in above the Land-Rover, climbed and saw the flat stretch of ground up ahead and the straight strip of dirt road running through it.
‘Hang on!’
She put the nose down, heard the engine cough but ignored it: they were going to make it. They were less than a hundred feet above the ground when she saw the three trucks coming down the road a mile or two ahead of them. But she could not gun the engine this time, could not lift the nose again. She put the wheels down, felt them bounce in the ruts, fought to hold the aircraft steady as they went down the rough bumpy road that had looked so smooth from the air. Then the plane slewed sideways, tilted and out of the corner of her eye she saw the port wing fold like a piece of cardboard. The seat-belt cut into her and she banged her head against the window. There was a crumpling sound, then a roaring as the engine gunned itself on the last of the fuel; the plane stood on its nose, turned turtle, then everything seemed to be falling apart around her. She felt a dreadful pain in her right leg and she thought she screamed, but didn’t hear herself. Then she smelled the fuel and saw the first tongue of flame.
She undid her belt, flung herself against the door and it fell open. She dropped out into the thick dust, dimly aware of Michele tumbling out after her. She began to crawl away as there was a sudden whoosh! and the plane was engulfed in flames. Black smoke shot up, blotting out the sun, and she crawled desperately away, like a broken-legged crab, through choking darkness. She could feel the heat of the flames, felt them reach out for her; then she was out in sunlight again, scrabbling her way through the dust, whimpering like a madwoman. Then abruptly she stopped, remembering Michele.
She looked back, saw Michele lying beneath the black volcano of smoke, just beyond the reach of the flames but not beyond their heat. Michele stared at her out of a mangled face, one hand outstretched; then the hand dropped and the face fell into the dust. Sally swung round, screaming as the pain of her leg bit into her again, and crawled back. She grabbed Michele, tried to pull her away from the fire. She could feel the heat threatening to crack her skin apart; she shut her eyes, afraid that they would boil in their sockets. She was screaming and yelling at Michele, but could not hear herself. Unable to get leverage from her right leg, she had to put all the strain on her left as she dragged Michele away through the smoke.
Then she felt the strong arms lift her by the shoulders, saw the two dim figures through the swirling smoke, then everything went black. But not before she had looked up into the face of Tim Davoren.
4
Before she opened her eyes she could feel the terrible pain in her leg, right at the knee-cap. Her nose and mouth were chok
ed with dust and smoke and, from the inside, like some fantasy feeling, she could feel the brittleness of her scorched skin. She could hear loud cracks quite close to her and a man’s voice was cursing. Cautiously she slid back her lids, shut them again instantly as she looked straight up into the sun.
‘Put them in the truck!’ The voice was familiar, but she knew she was dreaming. ‘We’ll make a run for it!’
‘Where are those other bastards?’ That voice was guttural, not familiar at all.
Then the man, smelling of sweat and tobacco, picked her up and almost threw her into the back of the truck. She cried out with pain, but he paid her no heed, had turned round and picked up Michele. Sally, eyes wide open now, saw Michele, blood running from a gaping wound in her face, dumped in beside her. Then the Land-Rover took off with a jerk. Only then did Sally become aware of the bullets hitting the small truck.
She cowered down, putting her arms about Michele, pulling the other woman into her. The Land-Rover bumped over the ground, swerving and swaying as the driver hurtled it through the scrub. Dust swirled in on Sally and Michele, but, tossed and buffeted as they were, being bruised with every bump they hit, they hardly remarked it. Sally held her lover tightly and prayed that they could make their escape from whoever was pursuing them.
Then the Land-Rover was climbing a steep slope, the driver slowing it as he slammed it into four-wheel drive. Sally felt herself sliding towards the back, put out her left leg and propped herself and Michele against the tailboard. The truck kept climbing, then flattened out and soon they were travelling over what seemed a relatively smooth track. No more bullets were hitting the Land-Rover and Sally wondered what had happened to their pursuers.
Then at last the truck slowed, came to a stop in a thick stand of trees. The shade itself was like a balm; just to be out of the glare and heat of the sun was a relief. Dark waves kept flowing through Sally, threatening to engulf her; but somehow, through will-power and nothing else, she retained consciousness. She could feel nothing now in her right leg so long as she kept it still. But she was acutely conscious of the still-inert Michele in her arms, of the gashed and bleeding face, no longer recognizable, that was held against her own breast.
The driver and the other man came round to the back of the truck. They swung down the tailboard and she stared at the driver. He was dressed in camouflaged battle fatigues, wore a battered old British officer’s cap with no insignia and had a sub-machinegun slung over one shoulder. His face was caked with the mud of dust and sweat and he no longer wore a moustache. But she knew she was not dreaming: it was Tim Davoren.
‘Sorry about the rough ride, ladies – ’ Then he looked at the unconscious Michele. ‘Get the dark one, Kurt. She looks in a bad way.’
The other man, young and lean, looking not much more than a boy, gently took Michele and lifted her out and laid her on the ground. Then Tim picked up Sally. She cried out in a stifled scream as he lifted her right leg and he instantly shifted his grip.
‘Sorry.’ He carefully laid her on the ground, pulled a pack from the back of the Land-Rover and put it under her head. ‘Kurt, go up to the top of the rise there and see what’s happening.’
The young soldier went off at a run and Tim looked first at Michele, then came back to Sally and gave her a drink of water from his flask. He took out a knife and ripped the leg of her trousers. She glanced down, saw the mess of flesh and bone and almost fainted.
‘Steady, old girl. Don’t look at it. Shut your eyes. Or even try looking at me.’
She shut her eyes, then opened them and stared at him. She recognized the old smile, though his teeth were dust-stained and the black moustache was no longer there as a contrast. The nausea settled in her and her brain began to clear. All at once she realized that he did not recognize her.
‘I’m afraid Madame Onza is in a pretty bad way. Incidentally, I’m Nigel Burgess, the chap you were supposed to meet.’
‘Hello, Tim,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m Sally. Sally Beaufort.’
Even beneath the mask of dust and sweat she saw the pained shock in his face. He sat back on his haunches and returned her stare. ‘Jesus Christ – ’
‘You haven’t changed. Except for your moustache – ’
He was not interested in small talk. ‘How are you involved in this?’
‘I supplied the money. A million dollars in Swiss francs.’
‘You? Where is it?’ Then he sat down abruptly as the realization hit him like a blow. ‘Oh Christ – no! Back there in the plane?’
‘All of it. It was packed behind the panelling.’
‘Then it’s gone up in smoke, every bloody franc of it.’ He stood up, went to the front of the Land-Rover and looked up towards the top of the rise where Kurt was crouched behind some rocks. Then he came back, stood over her. ‘Nobody but me and Onza knew that money was coming in. I trust my boys, but I’m afraid he didn’t – he thought some of them might decide to give up his little war and take off with the money instead. I don’t think they would have, but we’ll never know now. But I think you and I had better keep our little secret for a while. If they knew their pay had gone up in the fire, some of them might decide they’d had enough and move on. I can’t afford that. I need them for another week or two.’
‘Does your friend Kurt know?’
‘No. And he doesn’t need to know. He’s a splendid soldier, but he can get awfully bad-tempered about small things.’ He squatted down beside her. ‘I can’t get you two to a decent hospital just yet. The best I can hope to do is get you to some sympathetic doctor at one of the missions.’
‘What went wrong? Who were those men firing at us?’
‘Government troops. Someone spilled the beans back in Elisabethville. Onza is already dead – we got the word on our radio about half an hour before you put in an appearance. I tried to get in touch with you, but you must have been on a different frequency – I couldn’t raise you. Where did you stop last night?’
‘Brazzaville.’
‘Did you meet an Inspector Luba there?’ She nodded, and he spread a hand. ‘There’s the leak. That chap hated Onza’s guts – ’ He remained squatting beside her, gazing at her as if he did not believe she was who she claimed to be. ‘You and I will have to have a talk. Not now, but later. In the meantime I think it would be a good idea if we didn’t say who you were. What can we call you?’
She thought a moment. ‘Sarah Mann. Sarah is my given name, anyway.’
‘What about Mann?’
‘It was my married name, but I never use it now.’
‘Another one that went wrong?’ he said cryptically. Then he stood up as Kurt came running down the slope. ‘Don’t forget my name. It’s Nigel Burgess.’
‘Our chaps have gone back.’ Kurt was a young German. He was no more than twenty and Sally wondered what had brought him here to fight small unsuccessful wars in Africa. Was it adventure or money or idealism? Whatever it was, he seemed to see this as just another day in the life he had chosen. A crashed plane, wounded women, a gun battle with government troops: they were all just part of his young way of life. ‘They’re probably trying to push those government bastards back over the river. What are we going to do?’
‘We’ll head for Simka. Father Lebrun should be there.’ Tim looked down at Sally. ‘That’s a medical mission station. Father Lebrun is the priest in charge. He’s also a doctor.’
He and Kurt lifted the two women into the back of the truck. Michele was still unconscious and Sally looked worriedly at her. ‘Is she going to be all right?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Mann. I’ll get there as quickly as I can, without bumping you around.’
None the less it was a bumpy, uncomfortable ride. It took them two hours to reach Simka, a collection of huts, two of them with wide verandas, on the banks of a narrow, swift-flowing river. Dusk was turning into night as they pulled up on the outskirts of the mission. Sally heard a bell tolling as Tim switched off the engine.
‘The Angelus. Ju
st in time for a few prayers from you, Kurt. You’re a Catholic.’
The boy laughed as he got out of the truck. ‘Don’t tell Father Lebrun – he’s got more on his mind than trying to re-convert me. I’ll go in and see if there’s anyone around.’
As Kurt went off Tim said, ‘We don’t want to get Father Lebrun into any trouble.’
‘Whose side is he on?’
‘Nobody’s. He’s a true Christian, I guess. How is she?’ He nodded at the still unconscious Michele.
Sally stroked the head lying in her lap. ‘I’m worried for her – ’ She felt the tears running down her cheeks, but could do nothing to stop them.
‘Sally – how did you get into this, for God’s sake?’
Sally touched the once-perfect face, marred now by the ugly wound; but she could not see Michele any longer, the face was shadowed and indistinguishable in the sudden darkness as night came down. She knew that Michele was dead and it no longer mattered if anyone was aware of what they had been to each other.
‘We used to live together. We were lovers.’
‘Oh Jesus, Sally – ’ She could not see his face, either; he sounded as if he had sighed deeply, almost like a sob. ‘We joked about it once – the lesbians in the pits at Indianapolis. Did you know about it then?’
‘No-o …’ But it was difficult to remember. ‘I’m glad you don’t act shocked. A lot of men would.’
He felt for her shoulder, touched it. ‘Sally, I don’t judge people any more. We all love in our own way.’
Then Kurt came back with Father Lebrun. The priest was dressed in a ragged white soutane; he wore a piece of rope instead of a cord round his middle. He was middle-sized and middle-aged but in tomorrow’s light Sally would be surprised at how old he looked.
