by Peter Tonkin
‘Rape and eat a stranger might be stretching it – but basically OK. Rape and eat your sister and it’s a really big no-no. Something along those lines?’
‘Something along those lines,’ said Richard, suddenly worried about how seriously Ivan was taking this.
‘Gods and spirits.’ Ivan smirked. ‘Primitive superstitions!’
‘They’re a useful way of laying down the basic ground rules,’ Richard persisted. ‘If you go there or do this then Ngoboi will get you and so forth. Keeps the Poro kids in line just as effectively as it does with the kids in the Army of Christ. Same as it does with kids all over the world. Do this and the bogeyman will get you. Break that and you’ll have seven years’ bad luck … Watch that black cat doesn’t cross your path … Don’t walk under that ladder … The sea’s awash with superstition. Never mind the jungle.’
‘Point taken,’ admitted Ivan. ‘Spit on wood … Never carry an empty bucket … Never move house after dark … Never put an empty bottle on the table … Never give knives as a present … Never give a single girl a corner seat …’
‘But there’s more,’ interrupted Richard. ‘On the one hand, some of the rituals like circumcision are a bit dangerous if not done carefully; on the other hand that’s true of an enormous number of religions and societies. It seems to me that some of the more unique rituals associated with the Poro gods do have a positive side – even if they seem a bit barbaric. They teach the kids endurance, individual strength and self-reliance as well as mutual trust. They make them more of a unit. The natural drugs, the dancing, the rites of passage, the visiting of the spirit plane when they’re exhausted, stoned and awash with adrenaline – it is all brutal but effective team-building. And I bet your men are doing something equivalent now – testing each other in increasingly dangerous and painful ways, seeing who they can count on when their life’s on the line.’ Richard didn’t mention such concepts as stripping weapons while sitting naked underwater. He didn’t need to. Ivan nodded, a good deal of his thoughtlessly patronizing expression vanishing.
‘Even at the end of the ritual, when the kids get covered in scars across their cheeks and chest, they’re supposed to represent the claws of the gods dragging them back into the real world and up into manhood. The bigger the scars, the harder the gods had to pull, the greater a warrior they think you’ll become. But in many cases the cuts originally made are relatively shallow – then the huge scars are built up by having herbs and so forth rubbed in them. But the point is clear. The rituals build calmness under extremes of pressure and tolerance to extremes of pain.’
‘Hmmm …’ said Ivan.
Richard thought back to the men Robin and he had seen training aboard Volgograd. ‘Even the scars are a bit like the tattoos some of your men have all over them.’
‘OK,’ said Ivan with a slightly guarded laugh. ‘But your point is – Kebila’s point is – that because most of his men have gone through this, they know the jungle – the battleground – better than my men ever will.’
‘And each other. Most of them have not only been through it, they’ve been through it together. And themselves come to that – how much pain they can take. They know the jungle, the situation, the enemy and each other inside out, in a way not even the strongest and best trained of your guys ever will.’
‘Until we’ve been up there. I’m a quick learner.’
‘Until you’ve been up there,’ said Richard quietly, ‘and come back out alive and in one piece.’
‘Hmmm …’ said Ivan again. Then he apparently changed the subject slightly. ‘This Ngoboi. The leader of their gods. What does he look like?’
‘Google him,’ said Richard shortly and suspiciously. ‘He’s on the Web. Better make it Ngoboi Poro that you type in. There are videos and everything.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Nope.’
Over dinner back at the hotel that night Robin and he discussed the tension between the two groups of men and then retired. Fortunately, neither of them was romantically inclined, because no sooner had they switched off the light and settled down side by side than the phone rang. ‘Wow!’ said Robin. ‘That could have been a bit inconvenient.’
‘We wouldn’t have had to answer it,’ Richard replied, lifting the handset. ‘We’ve ignored the bloody thing often enough before. Yes?’
‘Usually with disastrous consequences,’ whispered Robin.
‘Captain Mariner? It’s Andre Wanago here, sir. Major Kebila wonders whether you could join him at the harbour. He has sent a car.’
Richard looked at his Rolex. ‘Kebila’s sent a car for us. Wants us at the harbour.’
‘At this time of night?’ demanded Robin loudly, clearly deciding whether or not to be outraged.
‘At this very moment, if possible,’ said Andre, who had clearly heard her through the phone.
‘Sounds important,’ said Richard. ‘I’ll be there, Andre. Five minutes.’ He hung up. ‘You want to come?’
‘Yes,’ answered Robin shortly.
‘At this time of night?’ he mimicked, stepping into his underwear.
‘At the very worst, it’ll be better than lying here wondering what mischief you’ve got yourself involved in!’ she snapped, rolling out from under the silk sheet and reaching for her panties.
Within ten minutes they were dressed and down. The car awaiting them was a Jeep and the driver was familiar to both of them. ‘What’s up, Sergeant Tchaba?’ asked Richard as he settled into the rear bench seat beside Robin.
‘Bad thing!’ the sergeant grunted with unusual rudeness as he engaged the gear and drove away at top speed.
When Sergeant Tchaba eased the Jeep to a halt at the dockside, Richard was shocked by how bad things actually seemed to be. Beneath the flat sodium-yellow glare of the dockside security lighting, the better part of one hundred men stood in two tense groups on the dock, facing each other down. It seemed as though both sets of soldiers were crowded at the sides of their respective hovercraft and only the greatest efforts of their commanders were keeping them from going at each other like rabid animals. It was certainly instantly clear why Kebila had not risked phoning Richard directly and had simply sent Tchaba in the Jeep. The dapper colonel was, seemingly, single-handedly holding back his usually highly disciplined troops, almost leaning against the front row, arms spread like a policemen in front of a crowd of football hooligans. Richard saw Ivan standing opposite him, in much the same position. The air between them crackled with tension and the threat of immediate violence. It was only when they got a little closer that Richard could see Captains Zhukov and Maina with their respective ships’ security teams backing the commanders and just about keeping the peace. Like the Earp brothers in Tombstone.
On the ground between the outraged soldiers lay what looked like a big pile of straw. Richard recognized it immediately. ‘Oh my God,’ he said.
Robin, who had not been privy to his talk with Ivan earlier, was a little slower on the uptake. But not by much. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ she asked as they hurried forward, side by side.
‘Looks like it,’ said Richard shortly. ‘Looks like someone’s shot Ngoboi.’
Confrontation
‘Colonel!’ called Richard in English as he strode across the concrete towards the fallen god. ‘Senior Lieutenant … Has either of you called Mr Asov?’
‘I did,’ called back Ivan. ‘He and Mr Makarov are on their way.’
‘Then I would suggest to your men, Senior Lieutenant,’ bellowed Richard in his rough, workaday Russian, certain that every man behind Ivan could hear him loud and clear, ‘that if they wish to continue working for Bashnev/Sevmash and have any hope of a ticket home that they had better get back aboard.’ His voice seemed to echo off the flanks of the massive hovercraft as they crouched side by side on the slipway, making a kind of steel-walled valley in which the two mobs confronting each other seemed trapped like gladiators in the Coliseum.
‘But that’s Pavel Zaytsev!’
called an anonymous Russian voice.
The whole scrum of Russians surged forward, until Ivan bellowed, ‘Vernis! Get back!’ And Caleb Maina’s men cocked their weapons with a crisp precision which reminded Richard all too forcefully that many of them were local and – in spirit at least – on the side of Kebila’s troops. Just as the men backing Kebila were from Zhukov’s crew. And Russian to a man. And, now he thought of it, Caleb Maina, the man commanding the armed guards holding the Russians back was a cousin to Laurent Kebila, whose men they were threatening. And, as Kebila had already explained, that relationship here could be closer than that between brothers or father and son in the West. Christ! This was getting complicated!
‘Tishina!’ bellowed Richard in his foretop voice, rapidly running out of patience. ‘Shut up! If it’s Pavel Zaytsev, what in Hell’s name is he doing dressed as an African god?’ He was beside the fallen man now, kneeling at the edge of a puddle of blood that looked black in the yellow light. He pressed his fingers to a stubbled throat as rough as coarse sandpaper and checked gently but in vain for the throb of a pulse.
‘You know the answer to that,’ whispered Robin in her most withering voice, like a devil at his shoulder. ‘It was a boys’ game. They were teasing each other. Big brave Pavel there wanted to see if he could scare the poor benighted locals. Dress up as their ju-ju leader and do a magic dance. And if they’ve only blown his balls off then he’s lucky!’
‘He’s not lucky,’ spat Richard. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh! Christ! I …’
‘Vernis!’ bellowed Richard, pulling himself to his feet. ‘Shut up!’
He was probably talking to Ivan’s men. But Robin wondered …
Then he repeated, ‘If you’re all still out here instead of back in your quarters aboard Volgograd when Mr Asov and Mr Makarov arrive, then you’re finished. Nee da dyeloni! Totally fucked. Sacked without pay and left to find your own way home. I’ve seen it happen. They did it to a couple of bodyguards called Paznak and Voroshilov. God knows what happened to them. They’re probably out there in the jungle somewhere trying to hitch a lift to Moscow from a passing panther!’
‘Hey,’ called another anonymous Russian voice. ‘I know them! I know about them! Paznak and Voroshilov really are nee da dyeloni. The Angličan is telling the truth.’
‘Of course he is!’ bellowed Ivan. ‘And you do not want to be in the govno like them! Remember it was Zaytsev and his mates who started this.’
‘Zaytsev’s a zalupa!’ called another voice. ‘They’re all masturbators. This whole thing is pizdets. I’m going back to my bunk.’
‘Yeah,’ called another. ‘He asked for it. He got it. He’s a RUS Makaroniki anyway. Yobanyi karas!’
‘Right,’ called a third rough voice. ‘Typical Politsiye mudak!
Suddenly the pressure on Ivan was lessening. It looked to Richard like the men Ivan had pointed out as being army men – the GRU – were giving up on the situation. Though, under the lemony glare, it was hard to tell one bald skull from another.
The pressure on Kebila began to slacken too as his men all began to stream away, round the corner, and in through the gaping front of Stalingrad.
Then suddenly both sets of men were moving slowly and angrily back up the sloping slipways, into the gaping hovercraft and back to their bunks.
So that when Max arrived, slightly the worse for wear, breathing metaphorical fire and brimstone liberally mixed with actual vodka fumes, and with Felix icily at his side, there was nothing to be seen except a circle of men and women with a fallen god lying in a big black puddle of blood at their heart.
‘What’s all the fuss about?’ demanded Max angrily.
‘RUS Sergeant Pavel Zaytsev,’ answered Ivan, nodding down at the bundle of straw and raffia lying on the ground.
‘Why’s he in that get-up?’ demanded Felix, who had less experience of Benin La Bas than the others.
‘He’s dressed as the local god Ngoboi,’ explained Robin tersely. ‘He did it to wind up Colonel Kebila’s men. To see how superstitious they were, how easily frightened. But he screwed up somehow and they shot him. He’s dead.’
‘He was Africa trained,’ said Ivan. ‘One of the experts who was going to instruct the others on local conditions. He should have known better.’
‘He should have known better all round,’ said Kebila with masterly understatement, and a great deal of sheer sangfroid, for he was clearly enraged that this had happened. ‘He should have known better than to put on the costume in the first place. He certainly should have known better than to come out here alone …’
‘Ngoboi always has at least two attendants,’ supplied Richard to Ivan.
‘And he should have known the dance,’ Kebila concluded.
‘Right,’ said Robin pointedly. ‘There’s no use putting on the get-up if you don’t know the right moves.’
Max looked down at the unfortunate soldier. He was also furious and not a little drunk. But he was no fool. ‘How much damage has this done?’ he demanded of the two leaders. ‘Will the men be at each others’ throats now?’
‘My men won’t be too happy that the Russians have committed a sacrilege like this,’ said Kebila. ‘It’s not as bad as defacing the Qur’an is to Moslems. But it’s close enough. All in all, it’ll have strengthened my command internally, though. It’s made Corporal Oshodi a local hero.’ He looked up. It really wasn’t necessary to explain that Oshodi had fired the fatal shot. ‘Even the hard-line Poro men who wouldn’t, unlike him, even dream of shooting Ngoboi think he’s done a good job with a blasphemy like this. At least, that’s how it looks at the moment.’
‘My men will have to do some team-building,’ said Ivan bitterly. ‘Or rather, I’ll have to do it with them. Maybe right back to the start. They’re not happy with Kebila’s men for killing one of their own, no matter how stupidly he was behaving. But that doesn’t mean they’re unified. Quite the reverse, I’m afraid. Everyone’ll have a down on the Politzia – not that they didn’t in the first place. They’ll be down on the RUS for certain – on the assumption that it was Zaytsev’s mates that dreamed this up with him – and probably the Vityaz as well because they and the RUS hang around together. Though I don’t know which way the FSB will jump – they tend to side with the Politzia against the GRU under normal circumstances. And the army men think the internal services – Politsia and FSB – are a bit of a joke. The whole command could come to pieces. It’ll require some very delicate handling.’
‘Well, you have to handle it – delicately or not – and you’ll have to do it on the run,’ snapped Felix. ‘We’ve no intention of hanging about here while you mollycoddle a bunch of prima donnas.’
‘Ballet dancers,’ whispered Kebila with a sneer. And Richard really, truly hoped that no one else heard or understood the colonel.
‘Box him up and send him back,’ decided Max brutally, his narrow, bloodshot eyes still on the late Sergeant Zaytsev. ‘If you find any of his cronies was involved, do the same for them.’ He looked down at the bundle on the ground. ‘He’s lucky he’s dead,’ he decided at last. ‘If he’d caused all this trouble and was still breathing, I’d have throttled the stupid durak with my own bare hands.’ And he obviously meant it.
‘That was a point well made,’ said Richard as he and Robin sat in the Granville Lodge Hotel’s twenty-four-hour bistro, nursing cups of coffee and waiting for the adrenaline to work its way out of their systems.
‘What point?’ asked Robin guardedly.
‘If you put on the costume you need to know the dance …’ Some time ago Richard had planned to disguise himself as Ngoboi, hoping to perform a rescue. Only the fact that he didn’t know the complex ritual steps of the god’s magic dance stopped him. Someone else had put the disguise on instead. Richard had gone in after them a little later. In a Russian T80 Main Battle tank.
Robin nodded. ‘It’s part of a wider point, though, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Ivan’s boys need proper intelligence. In-depth br
iefing from someone who really knows what he’s talking about.’
‘Someone who isn’t part of the situation. Someone they’ll listen to.’
‘It can’t be Kebila or Caleb Maina. They’re tainted in Russian eyes.’
‘Who else do we know, then? Who else can we suggest?’ mused Richard.
‘What was the name of the man who commanded the squad that went in alongside you and the tank when I managed to talk you out of dressing up as Ngoboi and going in undercover the last time we crossed swords with the Army of Christ?’ asked Robin.
‘By the grace of God you did …’ Richard nodded.
‘Hmmm. But what was his name, Richard? What was his name?’
‘Huge guy. Really good commander. Steady as a rock. Moro? No … Draco? That’s not it. But a top-flight soldier all the same – just the man we need to keep the peace between the two warring factions if we can get him. I know,’ said Richard insouciantly, ‘let’s go to bed and think on it. Maybe something’ll come up in the night …’
Robin tilted her head a little sideways. The corners of her grey eyes crinkled into a knowing smile. ‘You’re still full of it, aren’t you, sailor?’
‘Adrenaline?’ he asked innocently. ‘I certainly am! How about you?’
‘Fizzing,’ she admitted. ‘And this coffee hasn’t helped at all. How on earth are we ever going to get to sleep?’
‘I’m sure we’ll think of something. Let’s go.’
Richard and Robin attended a brief planning meeting at eleven the next morning; the earliest a clearly hungover Max could manage. ‘I’ve sent the lot of them back,’ he snarled. ‘Those damned RUS clowns were more trouble than they were worth.’
‘And that confrontation has shown us that it would be better to move the men for the time being,’ added Felix. ‘What’s left of Ivan’s group would be better aboard Stalingrad with the Russian captain and crew while Kebila has agreed to move his men on to Caleb Maina’s Volgograd. But that still doesn’t solve the problem of losing a dozen or so RUS men.’