by Attila Orosz
Alex had changed his mind about the African, and it was time to let Peter know.
“There’s something else here. You see with this guy in tow,” he said, nodding towards the African. “We risk too much with him. We must leave him behind, to his fate. Or whatever it is he believes in.”
“No fucking way!”
“We really have little more chance!” he insisted.
Alex had already thought it over and come to the conclusion that the African must be discarded. He had become too great a risk. Now he was making an even greater delivery, a live guard, who was in no situation to refuse joining the HUM. Alex was sure he could persuade Peter or, if he could not, Crowley would. The man had some real great powers of persuasion. The leader of the HUM had a presence that demanded respect. Nobody would argue with him. And Alex would be rewarded for this delivery too, he was sure of that.
“I said no!” snapped Peter.
“Keep your voice down! We don’t want too much attention, right?” Alex tried to hush his own anger. “And we really have no other choice.”
“Fuck your choices!” said Peter in a restrained yet still angry voice. “My only chance to get out of this is that man right there. We make sure he sits on that train at whatever time it leaves, and I’ll be sitting right next to him! He got me into this, and you! Now the two of you will nicely cooperate and get me out of it. Guess he would not know much about that, anyway.”
Alex followed Peter’s glare. The African was at it again, hugging himself and humming slowly. One of his hands was constantly massaging his hip. He must have hurt it in the explosion.
“OK, and how exactly do you want to do that?” he asked.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care, but I will not let you get in my way now! How much time did you say we have before the next patrol?”
“Fifteen minutes at least,” said Alex.
“So wait for me here. And don’t lock that door,” concluded Peter and got up to leave the room, but Alex blocked his way.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll have a look around, then we move out.”
***
Peter shut the door, as slowly as he had nerve to. He looked about himself. It must be here somewhere. He remembered it was a small green box on the wall that nobody ever opened; he was only hoping it still worked.
He had made up his mind, the American was not to be trusted. The bastard thinks he can trick me. Not today. He would hand them over, both of them, but only after he had shown him the way to his underground HQ.
Peter turned the corner and found what he was looking for. He waited for what he judged to be about ten seconds and listened. Nobody was coming, nothing moved. He slowly crept up to the box that was fixed on the wall.
There must be some handle… there it was. On one side there was a small recess in the cover. He put his fingers in and snapped the cover open. Underneath he found some ancient electronics, with knobs, buttons and strange displays he had only seen in textbooks. He tried some of them, but nothing happened. There was something that looked like a receiver. He picked it up. There was a button. He pressed it. Nothing. Poking around the box, he found a switch on the upper right hand corner. He flipped it and the contraption came to life. A light flashed on one side, under a smudged label. He could not read what it was. Crackling came from some hidden speaker. So it was a radio. He had never used one, but he knew about them. Apparently, in the old days armies had relied on these.
He picked up the receiver and spoke a few timid words into it. Nothing. He tried pressing the button. The contraption went quiet. He spoke again. Nothing. He noticed another label, thick dust obscuring the writing and wiped it off. It was a table of frequencies, with names and numbers. He found the one saying Central Command. He read the number. Where do I enter it? He tried speaking it into the receiver, but nothing happened.
He wiped another dusty surface; it looked like another cover. He pried at it with his fingers, but it did not budge. He tried some of the knobs at random, but nothing happened. Just how the fuck do you operate one of these things?
He pressed another button. The small cover snapped open and a green display lighted up over it. Under the cover there were buttons with numbers written on them. He typed the number associated with Central Command. He heard a beep and then static noise. It seemed to be working. He took up the receiver and spoke into it.
“Does anyone hear me?”
A crackle came, but no answer.
He repeated it louder.
“Is anyone there?” He dared not speak too loud, lest he drew attention. Then a voice crackled from a speaker over his head.
“Station calling, this is Sunray. Identify yourself, over.”
“I’m Lance Corporal Peter Markovic, identification LC-103FL. I’m in the tunnels with two captives. I’m headed for their headquarters,” said Peter, and released the button of the receiver.
“Lima-Charlie-One-Zero-Three-Foxtrot-Lima, I need to verify your location. State your coordinates, over.”
“I’ve no time for that! I’ve lost my equipment! I’m in the tunnels, approximately three hundred paces from exit number forty-six.”
“Lima-Charlie-One-Zero-Three-Foxtrot-Lima, are you aware of your situation? Over.”
“I give a damn about my situation, you hear? I’m doing a service! I’m about to identify the location of the secret headquarters of the HUM! You hear? I’m not a deserter! I’m going undercover!”
“Where did you get the authorisation for that, over?”
“I don’t need any authorisation! The situation presented itself! I have an American HA with me and I’m going to—”
Peter was interrupted by a voice from behind him.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” It was the American HA.
“Stand back!” said Peter, raising his gun as he turned around. “This is my only chance to straighten things out, and I swear to everything that is holy, I will!”
Peter stepped closer to the American, and away from the receiver.
“Lima-Charlie-One-Zero-Three-Foxtrot-Lima, come in, over,” crackled the radio.
“Who the hell is that,” said the American. “Who did you call?” His surprise seemed genuine.
“Now don’t give me that innocent look! You knew it’s either me or you! Put your hands above your head where I can see them! Turn around! Right. Face that wall, feet apart! If you are not taking me there, I will make you!”
Chapter Thirteen
The Captain put down the radio receiver in his private control room. This was extraordinary, the patrolman had just made contact. It was an unexpected and most welcome turn of events. Even though he still had no information about their location, the Lance Corporal’s words were reassuring.
The Captain felt excitement building up in him. He would not usually allow such emotions to disturb his judgement, as emotions and duty did not work together, but this time he could not restrain himself. Brilliant as his previous plan seemed at first, it was all unnecessary now. The patrolman would take care of everything, and he would only need to play along.
He was quite glad that not a single report had been filed yet. There was a certain degree of risk that he might not have taken into consideration when he thought up his original plan. But now the situation seemed to have just sorted itself out. The units would not need to be kept busy beyond schedule, which could have attracted questions or inquiries, would anyone care to look inside the files after closing the operations. Everything would go back to its normal way; the special units would take care of it all. Everything is to be washed white, the original plans to commence once again. And he would not allow emotions or pride to take control of him, not again.
Nobody will get hurt, and it’s better that way. Not that smuggling was a capital offence, but it could cost them their ranks. Even with the supply in high demand, officially the trade was non-existent and Brussels wanted to make sure it remained that way, at least on paper. They would need sc
apegoats at any point something went amiss, and he was sure the first finger to be pointed would be towards himself and the Colonel, as soon as he made the slightest mistake. Well, it would not be them, not now.
Only he would need to stay clear of the old fashioned radio channels. He was not aware of the unit the deserting patrolman had used for reporting in, and its mere existence was a liability in itself. It meant that there could be any number of old, forgotten radios, so their communications could be easily intercepted. But this was only a minor glitch.
The Captain rarely admitted having made a mistake, even to himself, but he was as close to it now as he would ever get in his life. Thinking about almost providing evidence against himself, made him uneasy. It was an uncomfortable feeling, something that reminded him of childhood guilt, and it was clouding his judgement right now just like his pride had before. He needed to focus, calmly, and sharply.
He pulled himself together. There is a new situation, a new task to focus on. Everything worked in his favour, and nobody needed to know any details. Of course he would tell the Colonel, but he would understand; he saw the situation as clearly as the Captain himself, he would know the necessity and that under the circumstances there was no other way. He tidied his uniform, hardened his features and left his control room.
***
The Colonel was standing beside his desk, drumming on the heavy table top with his fingers. His mind wanted to wander, go far away, yet some uneasiness kept pulling it back to his office. He might have given just too much liberty to the Captain. The Colonel never doubted his ability, but still thought his aide to be too young to handle so much responsibility. A senior officer ought to watch over the actions of his subordinates, especially in highly sensitive situations, like that was building up right now. When the Captain had announced that he would be in his office after a few minutes, he had decided to withdraw some of his previous orders.
But at least the youngster had learned not to come without warning. His desk communicator lighted up.
“The Captain, Sir,” said his secretary’s voice.
“Send him in.”
There was a determined knocking on the door.
“Yes, do come in!” he said somewhat impatiently. The Captain might just be overdoing it this time.
“We have made contact, Sir,” said the Captain, after a more than usually official greeting. “In fact, he has made contact.”
“Who, the trafficker?”
“No, the missing patrolman.”
“That is interesting.”
“Yes, Sir, even more so, because we can recall the regular units—”
The Captain seemed to have stopped abruptly and for a faint moment he appeared hesitant. The Colonel looked more intently, but on second inspection he was not able to discern any trace of hesitation. Yet he could have sworn it was there just a moment before.
“What’s with the regular units then?” he said, when the Captain did not continue.
The Colonel felt an unbelieving shock taking over his composure. “Just what exactly have you done?” he asked in a calm tone that still betrayed his rising anger.
“I made them report to me. In writing. That was to keep them from raising quest—”
“Is there no end to your idiocy?” the Colonel’s voice now roared across the room. “I trusted you to be of sound judgement! This was the worst mistake to make at the worst time! You have proven yourself totally unworthy of your position! We cannot allow any trace, especially not written, to lead back to us! There is a bloody inquiry going on right now, for God’s sake! Do you understand?”
The Captain was silent.
“Do, you, understand?” roared the Colonel.
“Yes, Sir!” said the Captain.
The Colonel thought that the Captain’s lips turned somehow whiter. He seemed to be biting them in the inside, but his face remained emotionless. The Colonel took a deep breath and calmed himself somewhat. Looking at the young man’s unmoving face, he felt he ought to show at least as much dignity.
“What is the intel then?”
“The communications ended abruptly. The former patrolman has used an old field radio that is attached to the walls in the tunnels. It was not one that our units would usually use, they have confirmed that much, but we have a good general idea of their coordinates.”
There was a brief pause. The Colonel decided not to give any sign of approval, even though he was quite satisfied with what he was being told.
“He has also confirmed that he is making them lead him to the secret HQ of the humanitarian movement. He sounded to be eager to return to service,” concluded the Captain.
“Good. It is not as bad as it all seemed at first. Now, make sure it remains this way. I have decided to take personal care of this. You will report to me any moves you make before you even decide to make them. Is that perfectly clear?”
The Captain pressed his lips even tighter.
“Yes. Sir.”
“Fine. You may leave now.”
“Orders, Sir?”
“Yes, continue surveillance. Keep a tight eye on them. If that patrolman gets where he promised to get, we’ll have all our problems solved with a single stroke. Oh yes, and don’t forget to cancel your previous order about written reports. We really don’t need any further complications now, do we?”
Chapter Fourteen
Jumaane opened his eyes and looked around himself. It had been too quiet for too long now. Looking around confirmed his suspicion. He was alone. He hesitated for a second, then made up his mind. He might not get another chance. The other captive, the white man, had probably made his escape already, or the soldier had taken him out to get rid of him. In either case he was on his own now. And he was not going to wait for his captor to come back.
He felt the metal rod he had been hiding in his trousers. It was cold and heavy. He had to exaggerate his limp to hide it, and he had to pretend to have constant pain in his hip, so that he could hold it with his hand. He took it out now. It would be as good as any weapon. He tried to recall the route they took when coming here, it must not have been long. It could be done. Probably even before his absence was discovered, he would be outside again.
The door was open. He peered outside but saw nothing. Recognising the corridor, he had turned to leave when he heard shouting from the other direction. It was the soldier’s voice, and then that of the other prisoner. The white captive was still alive then. Jumaane felt with every particle of his body and mind that now was the time to stop caring, but he could not just leave the other man behind. He crept to the corridor as slowly as he could. There was a third voice as well; it sounded strangely distorted. It was the loudest now, the others had quieted down. There was a faint click, too familiar, the safety catch of an automatic weapon being undone. It would happen any second now.
Jumaane gathered up his strength and peered around the corner. The scene before him was familiar. The captive was facing a wall with hands on his head, the soldier standing behind with his weapon ready. He would make his prisoner kneel down first, thought Jumaane. He knew. He had seen it too many times.
The soldier was showing his back to Jumaane. This was his chance, he decided. He stepped out, standing right behind the guard. Nobody noticed him. He gripped the metal rod. It was heavier than before, and somehow it was slippery.
Jumaane realised that despite the cold his hands had begun sweating. His heart thumped louder and louder. He still heard the soldier’s voice, but it was becoming distant. His blood roared in his ears, drowning out the noises of his surroundings. He felt his eyes widen. His nostrils flared. He pressed his jaw so tight that his teeth nearly cracked. His knuckles lost colour as he gripped the rod which was starting to shake in his hand. A second later his whole body was trembling. He could not hear anything but his racing heart. He could only see the back of the soldier’s head. He heard a yell coming from inside his own body. All his rage was concentrated in the sound that made him leap across the corridor and fla
il the metal rod at the head that was now filling his field of vision. He felt warmth on his face. Something covered his eyes, and he could no longer see anything.
***
Alex heard a yell and a thud, and then there was silence. He turned around. What he saw made him sick; his stomach was turning and so was the world around him. The African stood there, his expression, murder. The blood that covered his face and painted his eyes red only intensified this effect. In his hand there was a truncheon. Blood was dripping from it.
Alex looked down and his head began to spin. A corpse lay before him, which was only moments ago a young man. Under the body there was a quickly increasing pool of blood, and the back of the skull was badly damaged. He tried to think, but his brain refused to work. His body was also frozen. He looked up at the African, who just stood there motionless, still gripping the bloody truncheon. Alex began to sink into his own head. It felt peaceful in a numb way, the scene before him becoming more distant with every heartbeat. He knew somewhere deep inside that what he felt was not real. It was not the warm, fuzzy feeling it appeared to be, yet he wanted to sink into it and let it engulf him. It would be so easy. Everything would be just fine. Everything will be…
He had to fight himself out of it. His mind was dazed but with an enormous effort he kicked his thoughts back into movement. The world around him slowly appeared to be coming back to life too. As his eyes looked down, he could once again see the pool of blood growing. He could faintly hear the panting of the African. He looked up. The man was still gripping his weapon.
Suddenly the world was sharp again, he could hear all the sounds, he could see all the lights, maybe even more pronounced than usual, and he could breathe freely. He gasped for air, taking a deep breath that felt like restarting his heart. His brain too seemed to have clicked back into gear. His intellect, as if racing to catch up with the lost time, assessed the situation in a flash. Peter is dead.
The paralysis of shock turned into anger in a fragment of a second. With a sudden, sub-conscious decision, he reached down and grabbed the automatic rifle that now lay beside the dead body of the young soldier, and pointed it at the murderer.