The 5th Amulet

by SJ Hailey

  ‘No problem.’

  After a rapid descent and landing, Archer pushed his boat out and inflated it with the disposable gas bottle, loaded his gear and got clear quickly. He put on his night vision goggles and checked the area, he could not see the Navy ship, but he knew it would be on its way. Juan would draw them away while Archer rowed inshore.

  Enzi had arrived in Colombia a few hours before flying into La Florida airport, hiring local men to support the twelve he brought with him, and two powerful boats. He made his way forty miles south into Ecuador, staying close to the coast before reaching the estuary of the Rio Cayapas. His local guides showed him the best route, and he dropped off a small four-man team on the beach five mile from the river mouth, the Arcadia just visible two miles away.

  ‘Watch the boat, light no fires, wait ‘til dawn, then board the Arcadia and disable any communications.’

  The men offloaded a small zodiac being stowed on the rear of the motor boat attached the outboard motor to it. Each had a small machine gun for close combat.

  Archer had been rowing for about an hour and a half, and was within sight of the land, he was south of the river estuary, the strong current from the freshwater outflow pushing him away from shore. His night goggles revealed the team of four men on the beach; they had lit a fire and were cooking. He moved ashore about half a mile down from them, the dark moonless night masked his approach.

  Enzi was moving the boats upstream slowly, the engines barely murmured, not wanting to wake the locals or camp upriver. The jungle was alive with noise, a chorus of a thousand frogs all seeking a mate, and every nocturnal mammal out for food, never peaceful. The level of noise and activity was unnerving to Enzi and his men; they were used to the peace and quiet of Mabalia, arid grasslands and coast, never nightlife on this scale. The men were jumpy but Enzi liked that, their heightened instincts would assist him the following day.

  They moored the boats south of the camp, and Jones and two other men moved forward in the jungle to assess the camps facilities and defences, a feast for the mosquitoes who were less active now than at dusk, but still an annoyance.

  Archer moved through the low-lying undergrowth on the edge of the beach, the occasional tree and bush provided adequate cover. He had used odourless insect repellent so his scent did not tip off his prey, and he could avoid being bitten. He looked towards the four men camped, they were very relaxed, laughing and joking around the fire. One of them had an MP3 player on and was nodding his head to the rhythm, was he from the farm in Mabalia? Archer levelled his M4 the night vision sight showed all his targets, he was debating a short burst to take all four men out; not to kill them, but wound, so he could interrogate them. He was only a hundred feet away and the power of the M4 would be devastating at this range.

  He waited, two of the men lit up cigarettes, the other two objecting and told them to go away. They moved down the beach towards Archer’s position. He shouldered his weapon and drew his knife, waited crouched just off the sand. The two men walked past, only handguns in holsters, no rifles. He moved quietly and swiftly, jumped up with the knife pointed out away from his right side.

  He slashed the first man in the throat, the deep cut severing his larynx. While the second man reached for his pistol Archer was on him, slammed into his body, knocked him to the ground his hand over his mouth and knife buried in his chest as the sand cascaded around them. The man’s eyes rolled back and he stopped struggling, the blood hot on Archers hand from the wound. The second man was lifeless behind him, his neck open and head back in the sand, the blood no longer pumping out of his body.

  He could see the other men by the fire had not moved, the crashing waves masked his attack. Archer dragged the remains of both men into the bushes, removed their radios, kept one and threw the other into the sea.

  He moved up the beach, took off his night goggles, to stop the flare from the fire temporarily blinding him. He shot the two men at the campfire, the first in the head he fell forward into the fire; the second in the left lung, disabling him. He pushed him down, knelt on his chest, the pain in the man’s face obvious.

  ‘I need information, how many men are upriver?’

  The man’s pain did not deter him from being defiant ‘I will tell you nothing!’

  ‘Fine, is Enzi with them?’

  The man looked surprised ‘How do you know about Enzi?’

  ‘Oh now you are chatty? We are old pals from Mabalia.’

  ‘You are the man who escaped from the farm!‘

  Archer saw the look of concern in his eyes. ‘He is there, Enzi, and he will kill you for hurting me!’

  ‘Well we will see about that’

  After more questions, all of which the man refused to answer, Archer got up from his chest, the radio and sidearm tossed into the ocean. ‘You can stay here, while I give Enzi a welcome gift.’

  As Archer backed away the wounded man reached underneath to his belt, Archer saw a blade glinting in the firelight, and reluctantly shot the man in the forehead. ‘Your choice.’

  With the ability to monitor Enzi’s radio transmissions, but unable to contact his father, he had no choice but to move upriver. He returned to his boat, and rowed back towards the river estuary, to stop Enzi before he achieved his goal. His only true concern was what to say to his father, after months of blanking him; he still had a duty to protect him.

  Enzi was comfortable in the forward cabin of the boat, his men and the hired hands were outside with the insects and humidity. He sat in front of a small air-conditioning unit, sipped a brandy he had discovered in the storage compartment. His satellite phone buzzed, Mastasson again, Enzi answered it, using no names ‘Hello again, what can I do for you now?’

  ‘I thought you should know that I have arranged for a block on all communications from the camp, they will think it is local interference.’

  ‘And do I need to know how you achieved this?’

  ‘I have a friend in camp, he will give assistance when it is required, but for now I need his identity to remain confidential.’

  ‘Is he in a position to obtain the artefacts and information we require?’

  ‘He is the best source of information there is, so treat him with care.’

  ‘I will. We are going in at first light, before the people spread out over too wide an area.’

  ‘Good, leave some of your men to guard the camp, but warn the people of the penalty for pursuing you.’

  ‘Oh they will be in no doubt.’

  ‘Excellent, by tomorrow we will have the artefacts and then with the fourth item and my friend we can obtain the bow.’

  ‘I hope so, and then I can dispose of my President.’

  ‘That I will arrange for you, I know how you don‘t like to get your hands dirty, I have someone in New York awaiting word.’

  ‘I have a drink in my hand, I toast our success and our enemies’ demise.’ Enzi did hesitate to order death, but never took action himself.

  NINETEEN

  West Africa.

  Enzi was fourteen years old the first time he had killed anyone with his own hands, and it had been someone he loved and someone he hated. His father had been murdered by a local warlord some years before, he could not remember when, time became blurred. His father’s crime was refusing to join the local militia, become what he detested, what he wanted to escape. Shot in front of his family not in the head, but the stomach and legs, it took him hours to die. The warlord made the whole village watch, and Enzi had to stand by with his mother, while his father bled to death in agony.

  The warlord took Enzi’s older brother and all the other men in the camp without resistance. The warlord returned each month, to ensure that the food aid the village received was taken and controlled by him. He would wait until the western aid workers had left, then come into camp at night and take everything. The villagers would bury and hide some grain, using any container they could, sometimes he would find it; sometimes he would not.

  On that day, the la
st day, he found the grain that Enzi’s mother had buried in the floor of their house. After he had his men dig up every floor in every house, discovering all the hidden food, he punished the perpetrators. All the women in camp were systematically raped, while the warlord watched from his jeep, Enzi’s mother sat next to him trembling. Enzi had objected, but been pistol whipped into submission, now sitting bleeding by the front wheels of the jeep. The warlord wanting to show his prowess and power to his men, tied Enzi’s mother to the bonnet of the jeep, and with Enzi sitting only feet away, took what little innocence he had, and any dignity his mother had retained.

  The warlord left the village, informing them that any future lack of cooperation would mean the village and its occupants would be burned alive.

  Enzi waited for the Warlords return, gathering other young boys from the surrounding villages, hesitant frightened angry young men.

  The warlord’s visited on his usual schedule, and was told that all the grain was stacked up in one of the deserted houses for him. The arrogance and confidence that drove him was to be his undoing. The usual band of brutes that accompanied the warlord were absent, even Enzi’s brother was not among them. The warlords confidence arose from his previous atrocities giving him respect through fear, Enzi would exploit this lapse in judgement.

  The warlord entered the house, the grain stacked as promised; he stabbed some sacks with his knife, checking the contents. He heard a scream. Outside by his jeeps the eight men he had brought with him, who had been relaxed and smoking when he entered the house, were all dead. In their heads and chests embedded with spears. He retreated inside the house reached for his revolver, but it was not in its holster. Then he heard it click behind him.

  He turned slowly not wishing to antagonise the holder, his knife still firmly in his left hand. Enzi was standing in front of the stacked grain sacks, hidden just behind them when the warlord had entered. He had lifted the revolver from its open holster, even though he had never held one before, he felt its power.

  ‘You will not harm me or my mother again!’

  ‘Shut up boy! Give me my gun, young fool!’

  Enzi shot the warlord, first in the shoulder, the kick from the old gun surprising him. Then he fired again, hit him in the stomach, his intended target, the force and close range knocking the warlord from the house and into the dirt outside. The rest of the village were outside watching the destruction of their tormentor. A third shot, hit him in the groin, by now the warlord was screaming and cursing, his knife falling from his hand as the pain coursed through his body. Enzi fired again, hitting his left side, blood spraying out of the man’s mouth as his lung collapsed. Then Enzi stopped, looked at his mother who was in the entrance of their meagre home, she was crying. He left the bleeding man, running to his mother, the gun smoking in his hand. ‘What is wrong mother? Why are you crying? I have killed our tormentor, the man who defiled you?’

  ‘And that is why I am crying?’

  ‘I don’t understand? I have stopped him, I will kill him!’

  ‘And through your hand, taking his life, his blood will be on your hands forever. Your father and I never wanted that for you.’

  Enzi paused looking at the man lying on the floor, wheezing, bleeding into the arid soil. He turned back to his mother, who was looking at the gun. ‘Enzi, you have become like him, like your brother. I cannot live with what you have become.’

  ‘So what can I do? What can I do to make it right?’

  ‘Give me the gun my son.’

  Dutifully Enzi passed his mother the gun, and looked at her, she stepped back, and without hesitation shot herself in the head. The young boy looked at his hands, the blood from his mother on them, the spray from the warlord on his chest. He could not take the gun from his mother’s hand, could not go near her. He wanted the last bullet in the gun for himself, but could not touch her body, approach her staring eyes.

  Enzi called over the other boys and told them to finish the warlord, while he sat in the jeep, blood and bodies around him. The boys beat the warlord to death, taking the little remaining life in exchange for rage, revenge and blood lust. When they had finished, they returned breathless to Enzi, looking to him for guidance. He took them to the river, where they all washed off the blood, then went back to the warlord’s compound, and ordered the boys to kill all of the remaining militia who had not fled, he fired no shots himself. The grain and other goods were distributed back to the villages they were stolen from.

  Enzi never went back to his home, his brother buried their mother. Enzi never told him how she died. The dreams of that day resurfaced, he tried western drugs, hypnosis, but the memory remained, her blood invisibly staining his palms, it would never leave, never fade.

  Mastasson brought him back to his senses, cautioning him against apathy. ‘It will not be straight forward, taking the camp you should precede carefully.’

  ‘They are merely scientists what harm can they do to me?’

  ‘You are forgetting Jacob Mathias.’

  ‘He is of no consequence, he may be the leader, but he is nothing.’

  ‘You are mistaken Enzi, and you must ensure that he is neutralised, he is not to be underestimated.’

  ‘Why not? What do you know about this man?’

  ‘He is, was, with me in my old job, he was Head of Special Operations for a time, he is a former Ranger and it was rumoured he did work with the CIA or another agency before resigning.’

  ‘This is unacceptable, I am not prepared for anyone with military training, I only have twenty men and a few local mercenaries!’

  ‘My contact will get him out of camp before you arrive, but you must send a second team upriver to ensure that he is taken care of.’

  ‘You might have told me this before I left!’

  ‘I did not know he was coming until yesterday, he only arrived in camp a few hours before you, so adjust your tone!’

  ‘Fine, I will do as you say, but your contact better do his job, I do not want an ex-special forces man destroying all my work!’

  ‘My contact is reliable, and don’t you mean our work?’

  ‘Yes that is what I said, I will see you tomorrow.’

  Enzi closed the phone assured that anyone intercepting the message would not understand their intentions, but concerned on how much information he was being given by his partner.

  TWENTY

  New York City

  Alexander Uncotto entered his limousine in the underground car park of the Four Seasons hotel. His security team in SUV’s in front and behind, two men inside the car in the screened front area. His aide sat beside him, checked his itinerary, and the profiles of all the dignitaries he would be meeting at the United Nations today. Alexander always prepared a list of all potential guests, memorising their partners and children’s names, favourite hobbies and habits. He wanted to appear knowledgeable and friendly; it was always helpful to provide a positive lasting first impression in politics.

  A second set of security vehicles were in the car park, many more than his contingent. Its occupant walked over to Alexander’s vehicle, knocked on the window. Through the tinted glass Uncotto’s security officer could see who it was, and with a nod from Alexander opened the door. The gentlemen got into the car, and sat down next to Uncotto’s aide.

  With a gentle southern drawl, ‘Good afternoon Mr President, I am Arthur Jarrett, Under Secretary for International Defence.’

  Alexander extended his hand to meet his guest, ‘And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’

  Jarrett firmly gripped his palm, shaking and squeezing it, ‘I thought I could ride and chat with you, informally?’

  Jarrett glanced at the aide, who promptly exited the car, joining the security team in the front vehicle, and informing them of the change in passengers. They were already aware, and had discussed it with the Secretary’s personal security detail; always having some latitude built into their close protection assignments.

  ‘So as we are chatting, info
rmally Mr Jarrett?’

  ‘Just two men from different nations, attempting to resolve a situation.’

  ‘And what situation would that be Mr Jarrett?’

  ‘The one where your country, or should I say, you, do not cooperate with development of your nation.’

  Uncotto raised an eyebrow, surprised at the bluntness of Jarrett’s approach. The motorcade pulled off, the lead SUV belonged to the DSS took point, followed by another from the Secretary’s detail, one behind the limousine and finally a DSS team at the rear.

  The journey to the United Nations building would only take a few minutes, and Jarrett wanted to get his point across as plainly as possible.

  ‘Mr President, I need you to allow us to develop your country, and for it to be done on terms that we control.’

  Uncotto wanted to verbally attack Jarrett immediately, but retained his composure, ‘I see Mr Jarrett, what is the issue with us developing our own country, and deciding what is best for it?’

  ‘Mr President, we have sent peacekeeping troops into your country to ensure aid reaches its destination.’

  ‘And Mr Jarrett you have used that to send Special Forces in to deal with issues, without consulting anyone.’

  ‘If that happened I am sure that it was in the best interests of your country.’

  ‘Decided by you. Not anyone from Mabalia!’

  Jarrett did not rise to the outburst, ‘I am sure that you can decide what is best, but our substantial experience in developing nations would greatly assist you.’

  ‘Experience, what countries have you assisted? Remind me.’

  ‘Historically we have helped in South Korea, Germany, Japan, Afghanistan, Iraq, Grenada, Panama, El Salvador, and the Philippines.’

  ‘Yes I can see, just to remind you, all those countries were involved in wars either with you or against you correct?’

  ‘That is not strictly true we were invited or felt compelled to assist them.’