The Temple Covenant

by D C Macey

  Helen stood up as the group approached. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How can I help?’ About five or six paces off, the group stopped as one. The older man took a single pace forward. He leant on a sturdy walking stick, was dressed in a plain black robe and a small black hat that looked for all the world like a little milk pan. Suspended on a shining chain around his neck was a large and highly stylised cross.

  ‘Good day,’ he said, bowing his head slightly. Close up she could see his skin was heavily wrinkled. He was a priest and looked too old to be making journeys into the bush for no good reason.

  ‘You’re a long way from anywhere. It’s a hot day to be out and about - are you lost?’ said Helen.

  ‘Not lost, searching.’ He raised his head and made eye contact with Helen. ‘For you, I believe.’ His eyes smiled from a travel weary face. ‘And you are right. It is a hot day for travelling, but at my time of life, every day is too hot.’

  Helen was suddenly a little cautious. She glanced beyond the old priest to where Sam had been crouched; he was gone. Casting about, she was relieved to see he and his companions were heading back towards camp for lunch; they would arrive back in just a couple of minutes.

  ‘I don’t know why you would want me, but let’s go down to the camp and you can explain to my companion at the same time.’ She pointed towards the little group walking towards the campsite below.

  The priest looked out across the campsite and nodded. ‘Yes, I was told you had a … a friend.’ With a sigh, he started the climb back down the slope.

  ‘Wait, can you manage? Here, do you want to take my arm?’

  The priest waved her offer away and they both worked their way down in silence, closely followed by the escorts.

  As soon as they returned to camp, Sam and his companions had spotted the newly arrived 4 x 4, and the three were gathered, waiting outside the canteen tent, when Helen led the visitor off the slope towards them.

  As Helen escorted the old priest towards the canteen, Eric Halpern gave a loud chuckle. He thrust out a hand and stepped towards the man. ‘Fana Iyasu, welcome. What are you doing out here?’

  The men shook hands warmly and Rosie stepped forward to greet him too. ‘Fana, come and eat with us. In all these years, I’ve never known you to get more than ten miles outside Jinka. Why on earth are you here?’

  They guided Fana under the canteen awning and introduced him properly to Helen and Sam. More hands were shaken then they sat around a trestle table.

  Rosie glanced between Fana and Helen. ‘Two ministers at table. I wonder who would like to say grace?’

  Fana stretched an open palm towards Helen. ‘Please, you must.’

  Helen obliged. As soon as grace was finished, Fana snatched up his bottle of chilled water and devoured it in one go. He waved the empty bottle at the cook’s assistant who quickly provided a fresh replacement. Then the camp cook appeared and moved methodically round the table, ladling servings of an aromatic stew into the bowls before them. His assistant followed behind, placing warm flatbreads beside the diners.

  They started to eat. The stew was tasty; though Helen did not recognise the meat, she didn’t bother asking. She’d learnt that the Halperns gave their cook a lot of freedom over the menu and they invariably labelled the dish of the day as bush beef and tucked in regardless. Now she just followed suit.

  Rosie looked across the table at Sam and Helen. ‘Our base in Jinka is not far from Fana’s church, where he’s the senior priest. In fact, let’s get it right, he’s the senior Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church priest there.’ She turned to look at Fana as she spoke, seeking his confirmation.

  ‘Exactly so, Rosie. And let me tell your visitors that it has been a pleasure to have had you both as the church’s neighbours all these years.’

  Eric laughed a little deprecatingly. ‘He wants something.’ The others joined in the laughter. ‘Seriously, Fana, what are you doing out here?’

  Fana’s smile remained on his face for a moment, and then the expression faded. Suddenly serious, he looked from Eric to Helen and back. ‘I’ve come to deliver an invitation to Miss Johnson, Helen.’

  ‘But you don’t know her,’ said Eric. ‘What’s this all about, Fana?’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t know her. Please allow me to explain.’

  Eric nodded. Now cautious, Sam and Helen watched Fana; in their world, trust was a commodity that needed to be earned.

  ‘I have come with a message from my Church, from Addis Ababa. From Bishop Ignatius, the patriarch’s right hand. He would like to meet the Reverend Johnson in the cathedral of St George, at a time of her convenience, the week after next.’

  ‘A church courtesy visit? You’ve driven all that way through the bush to deliver an invitation?’ said Eric.

  ‘But what a waste of time,’ said Rosie. ‘We’ll all be travelling back to Jinka this afternoon. You could have just called round to our compound to deliver the message then.’

  ‘Why would Bishop Ignatius want to see me?’ said Helen.

  ‘Yes, why? She’s not even here on Church business, just accompanying Sam on his trip,’ said Eric.

  Fana shrugged. ‘I am just the messenger. Bishop Ignatius is an important person; it’s not for me to question him. I have just done as he instructed. Nothing more. But I would say he is not a man who expects to be ignored.’

  ‘Sounds mysterious, or maybe they just want to be seen to be nice to an American Christian cleric. Everybody needs friends,’ said Rosie. ‘Seriously though, Ethiopia is a Christian country and the Orthodox Tewahedo Church is the State’s official church, so Fana rushing out here can’t just be on a whim. It must be important.’

  Helen reached out a hand and squeezed Sam’s forearm, then she looked at Fana apologetically. ‘But we can’t meet your bishop, Fana. We’re flying up to Addis Ababa from Jinka tomorrow morning and getting a flight out to Nairobi later in the day. I’m sorry, I won’t be in the country to meet him when he suggests.’ A real advantage of Helen’s wealth was access to transport. She had chartered a little plane that would be waiting for them at Jinka’s airfield in the morning to fly them up to Addis.

  Sam nodded support. ‘That’s right, I’m afraid we’ll be gone.’

  Fana’s face dropped. ‘Are you sure? There are so many things to see in our country, so much history, surely a few days more …’ As his voice trailed off, his face reflected first disappointment then what might have been worry.

  ‘Sorry, Fana, our onward flights from Addis are already booked and arrangements made in Kenya.’

  He nodded and said nothing more. It was clear that Fana was a small cog in a big machine, and clear too, that he had never thought for a moment that he might fail in his mission. He had told all he knew and had no persuasive arguments to present. He shrugged, resigned. Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood, Eric ribbed his friend over his unnecessary journey into the bush, and it was clear from Fana’s expression that he wished his bishop’s instruction had arrived just a day later.

  As the meal continued, the sounds of fresh activities reached them from outside. Tents being struck, transports loaded, and then somewhere out at the edge of camp, the diesel generator spluttered and stopped. It was immediately replaced by the sound of a 4 x 4 manoeuvring into position to hook up with it, ready for the tow back to Jinka.

  ‘We’d better get moving,’ said Eric, standing up from the table. He lifted the rear flap of the canteen tent and gave the cook and his assistant a thumbs up. ‘Great food, thanks men.’ The other diners started to stand, and they too called their thanks towards the catering staff, receiving cheery waved acknowledgements in return. Through the opened flap, they could see that the kitchen was already almost packed.

  ‘You’re taking everything?’ said Helen.

  ‘’Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘We never leave anything unattended with the rains due. It’s only what we call the Small Rains. The Big Rains come around March-April time. But last year they weren’t so big, pretty much failed, and
everywhere is really struggling for water now, though they’ve got it much worse further south into Kenya and Tanzania.

  ‘Anyway, I know it looks like we’re well above the river here, but when the rains come, even the Small Rains, water can do some weird stuff. The river can rise; water can flood down off the hills. Sometimes a little campsite like this can just fill with water from above and be washed away into the river. If it’s not got roots, it’s not safe to leave out. Really, I mean it, leave anything and it’s likely to be gone when you get back.’

  ‘Or stolen?’ said Sam.

  ‘Maybe, but unlikely here about. We are on good terms with all the local tribes. They frequently fall out amongst themselves, but we do hire local tribespeople.’ She waved towards several men who were busy helping pack away the camp, the ubiquitous AK47s slung over their backs. ‘They consider it a matter of pride that things aren’t stolen on their patch. It’s the rains that are our main problem.’

  ‘Let’s move,’ said Eric. ‘It’s a long drive to Jinka, and I don’t want to be caught out in the bush unprepared after dark. That’s a recipe for disaster.’

  A little while later, their convoy of assorted 4 x 4s pulled out, leaving behind an empty clearing, a space that the wild would almost instantly reclaim. There was a four-hour drive ahead of them and only slightly more daylight.

  3.

  Tuesday, 22nd October - Evening

  His meeting over, Colonel Bob Prentice was at last off-duty. More than anything, he needed a shower and some sleep in a proper bed. The past month had been spent up at Nanyuki, the British Army’s specialist live firing ranges in Kenya’s remote northern bushlands. Until this morning, he had been roughing it in the bush with his team, carrying out field tests on the ACE system. The tests had come to a very satisfactory conclusion that morning. Immediately thereafter, he had been picked up by helicopter and flown to Nairobi, leaving his men to wrap things up and make the long drive back to Nanyuki base.

  The rest of his day had been spent providing reports, answering questions and trying to dampen the wilder responses of a group of very senior NATO staff officers. Finally, when he was about ready to drop, they let him go as they all headed off for a celebratory dinner.

  Walking along Kenyatta Avenue’s pavement, he was enjoying the still warm but relative cool of the Nairobi evening. Even at this time, the broad street was thronged with vehicles hooting and jostling for position as pedestrians wove precarious routes through the traffic. The drivers’ apparent disregard for any rules seemed to present a defiant challenge to the order offered by all the impressive new buildings that had sprung up in the years since Bob’s first visit to the city. Here at least, the buildings gave every appearance of a modern capital.

  In spite of appearances, he knew to be careful. The city was full of poor and desperate people. Young men and women, boys and girls, innocents born in the city’s gutters and back lanes to grow up with only one future - to populate the street gangs. In growing up, they quickly learnt just two simple lessons. The only way to get food for today was to take it by whatever means came to hand, and nobody outside the gang could be trusted, ever.

  Bob understood the situation. This might be a relaxed stroll but he remained alert. Life was cheap, and he knew there were plenty on the streets who would consider taking a Westerner’s life a worthwhile risk for the contents of their wallet. Here in the centre of town, many of the old back lanes had been cleared away, making space for more and more new-build commercial buildings, but he wouldn’t stray off the main drag at night unless he had to. That would be asking for trouble.

  At the junction with Kimathi Street, he took a right, heading for the Hilton. Just five minutes’ walk from here and he could finally relax. His bag had been dropped off earlier in the day. There, he had a room for the night, and tomorrow, he would fly back to the UK. He paused as a vibration in his trouser pocket flagged an incoming message. Shifting to the side of the pavement, he positioned his back against a hoarding, put up to shield pedestrians from the next big construction. He pulled his phone from his pocket. A text from BATUK.

  ACE taken. Be alert.

  Even as he read the text, his phone started to ring. It was Brigadier Starling, his direct commander, and one of the team who had spent so many hours grilling him.

  ‘Prentice speaking, sir.’

  ‘Good. Have you heard?’

  ‘Just got a text from BATUK. What happened?’

  ‘We don’t know everything. The convoy was late getting back to base and had gone radio silent. Come evening, the commander sent out a search team. Thank God he did, or we’d still be none the wiser. ‘They’re all dead. Ambush. Complete slaughter. ACE has vanished.’

  Bob Prentice grimaced. It was his team; they had worked together on the project for a long time. Losing his people was a personal disaster, a tragedy. Losing ACE might prove to be a military catastrophe.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘We have no idea. It could have been any one of a score of countries who’d like to get their hands on ACE. Right now, we’re running blind.’

  ‘What’s the plan, sir?’

  ‘Well, whoever it was, if they knew enough about the system to steal it, they’ll know they need you too. So, at this instant, you’re our number one concern. How far are you from the Hilton?’

  ‘Corner of Kimathi Street and Kenyatta Avenue. Less than five minutes’ walk to the Hilton. I can see it from here.’

  ‘Go now, I’ll meet you there. I’m on my way. I’ve asked for an escort to come over from Kifaru Camp, we’ll keep you there tonight and get you back to the UK as planned in the morning.’

  ‘Can’t the Kenyan authorities help?’

  ‘No chance. Political relations are bad enough with the Kenyans already. And our land lease agreement at Nanyuki is specifically for troop training. If they get wind we’ve been testing this new kit up there, they will kick off big style.’

  ‘Okay, I’m heading for the Hilton now.’

  Bob ended the call and gripped his phone tightly, glancing about. Traffic continued to roll past, horns sounding, and there were plenty of people about. All seemed to be going about their business. Most were ordinary folk, unthreatening. A few dangerous looking types, but that was normal for Nairobi. He set off walking along Kimathi Street. A fast pace but not so fast as to attract attention.

  Almost before he’d started walking, he’d spotted them. Three Asian men, innocently crossing the road but on a course that would intercept his in about thirty paces. The uninitiated would have seen only three separate individuals moving independently in a similar direction. He saw the hunting formation, the staggered approach, preparing to encircle their prey - him. The middle man was making a phone call as he walked; there were more of them around.

  Bob broke into a run. The nearest of the hunters caught him. An arm wrapped around Bob’s neck, a hand clasped across his face. His legs drove him onward in a conditioned response developed through years spent on school and college rugby fields, Bob’s momentum carried the man with him for a couple of paces. In those two paces, Bob had punched the man hard between the legs and turned his face to press his mouth against the man’s cheek. He bit, hard, and with his legs still driving forward he turned his face to spit out a mouthful of flesh.

  The man fell away screaming, his hands simultaneously clutching at face and groin. As the body fell away, Bob picked up speed, then dropping his shoulder slightly, he collided with the second assailant, sending the man and his phone clattering into the gutter. Bob’s phone dropped too, and he cursed. No time to pick it up. Stretching his legs, he thought he might just outpace the third man, might make it.

  Then his heart sank, ahead of him, running from the direction of the Hilton were five, no, six men, a bigger pack. Even with his training, he was outnumbered beyond chance, and then suddenly he knew who they were. His heart sank as he recognised the sixth man, hurrying behind the pack, shorter than the rest, plumper, and smartly turned out in a safari suit.
Bob’s survival didn’t matter now, getting the message out did.

  Coming up on his right was the Stanley Hotel’s entrance. If he played things right, there was still a chance. He stopped dead in his tracks and spun round. The third man suddenly realised contact was going to occur ahead of plan and desperately tried to adjust his approach, but it was too late. Bob took a half step to the side avoiding the third man’s improvised flying kick, the boot passing where his chest had been a moment before. Sticking out a stiff arm, he caught the flying man square in the face.

  With a cry, the man dropped to the ground, clutching his face.

  Not waiting to assess the damage. Bob stepped smartly past the concierge, who was occupied guiding a wealthy guest to his limousine, and into the Stanley Hotel. Approaching the reception desk, he pointed at the phone and asked if he could use it. The receptionist looked uneasy and Bob was suddenly aware of uncomfortable glances from guests passing by.

  He caught sight of his image in the large mirrored wall behind reception and understood why. Dishevelled, unshaven and unwashed, it would have been enough on any day to unnerve the reception team at the Stanley, one of the traditional grand hotels of East Africa. Throw in his shirt, soaked in somebody else’s blood, a series of fingernail scratches raked across his face and fresh blood still trickling down his chin; calling security was the receptionist’s only option. He saw the receptionist’s hand frantically pressing a security buzzer; saw her eyes flitting back and forth from the madman in front of her to the discreet entranceway from where she prayed her salvation would emerge.

  Bob turned and walked briskly away from reception, passing behind a large structural pillar and into the Stanley’s Thorn Tree Café. The receptionist watched him go. A few moments later, security arrived, and she shouted directions to them, pointing after Bob. They rushed in, following his route. Shortly after they disappeared beyond a pillar into the café’s entranceway, Bob emerged from the other side of the pillar and walked back into reception. The receptionist panicked, screamed, and suddenly guests and staff were running in every direction. Bob hurried past the reception towards the street exit. Pausing, he turned towards a high mounted security camera, and making a sign with his hand, he pointed back into the hotel and mouthed a few words. Then he turned and ran out into the street.