Sands of the Scorpion

by Bear Grylls

  They all raised their glasses – wine for Mrs Chalobah and Al, fresh fruit juice for the boys – and together they drank a toast to the future.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next day the delegates started arriving for the conference. Beck and Peter saw Al briefly at breakfast.

  ‘Got to go,’ he said, draining his coffee and standing up. He fumbled for his wallet and pressed some banknotes and coins into Beck’s hand. ‘Here. In case you need anything. I’ll meet you this evening. Bye!’

  And after that they were on their own.

  Beck had learned that the currency of Sierra Leone was called the leone; Al had left them with the equivalent of about fifty pounds. They investigated some leaflets in the hotel lobby, but they had to admit that the small town in up-country Sierra Leone wasn’t really geared up for the tourist trade.

  ‘Fifty quid would be great if we were in London or Paris or New York,’ Peter said thoughtfully. He looked sadly at the handful of flyers. ‘Not really that many sights to see. Can’t wait till we get to Morocco for the real holiday . . . ’

  ‘We could collect coins off the bottom of the pool,’ Beck suggested with a grin. He swam like a fish and could easily dive down three metres to the floor of the deep end. Peter could barely make it six inches below the surface, but he had spent a lot of the previous day trying.

  Peter smiled back. ‘Race you!’

  * * *

  And so the boys spent the morning in the pool. Beck showed Peter how to jack-knife his body on the surface so that his head was pointing straight down and his legs sticking straight up.

  ‘And that way,’ he explained as he demonstrated for the umpteenth time, ‘you just slide down . . . ’

  Beck kicked his legs into the air and glided down to the bottom of the pool, retrieving several leone coins he had thrown in. The water roared in his ears and he kicked his way back up to the surface. ‘Go on, try it again . . . ’

  The merest drop of water up his nose made Peter feel like he was drowning. He would invariably convulse and splash about like a break-dancing whale before he emerged, gasping for breath. But finally he was able to convince himself he could do it. After so many attempts that they had both lost count, Peter’s fingers finally brushed the bottom of the deep end and grasped a coin.

  ‘I did it!’ he shouted triumphantly as his head broke the surface again. ‘I did it!’

  He just keeps going, Beck thought. He just keeps on trying. He was proud of his friend.

  After that Peter got out of the pool and filmed Beck diving from as many different angles as he could think of. He tried to film him swimming a length of the pool underwater, but the sun sparkled off the surface so brightly that Beck didn’t actually show up on the video. It looked like Peter had filmed up and down an empty pool for a minute.

  ‘I think I’ve got enough . . . ’ he said eventually. He examined the skin of his forearm. ‘And I think I’m burning.’

  ‘Didn’t you put on any of your sun cream?’

  ‘Yeah, but it probably all washed off in the pool. Dad always says the moment it starts happening I should get out of the sun.’ He gave Beck a smile. ‘Look, I’m going to try taking some other shots inside.’

  ‘OK. I’ll be out in a minute.’ Beck somersaulted into the water and disappeared beneath the surface.

  He kicked his way up and down the pool but eventually he decided he should get out too. He was very glad he had the kind of skin that didn’t burn easily, but this was Africa. He lay down on a lounger beneath a large sunshade and let the warm air dry him naturally. The sun was just a bright glowing light through the cloth above him and he could look at it directly.

  It was strange, Beck thought. The sun’s warmth gave life to the planet. Without it the Earth would be just a frozen ice-ball. Even when he had been stuck up on an Alaskan mountain, the sun had still, almost imperceptibly, been keeping him warm.

  In England it had been a record-breakingly wet summer. They had been grateful for any sun at all. It wasn’t hard to see why ancient peoples had worshipped it.

  But the sun could wear out its welcome very easily. As a young boy, Beck had been taught by the San bushmen of the Kalahari Desert in southern Africa, and by Aboriginals in the Australian Outback. He had been taken there by his parents, who had worked for the environmental direct action group Green Force. He had learned to have a very healthy respect for the sun. These desert peoples knew that it could kill you in no time at all. In hours, in fact, if you got it wrong.

  Beck sighed and stretched. His fingers brushed against a magazine that another guest had left on the table next to him. He picked it up idly. It was a glossy nature magazine, and when it fell open a giant scorpion glared out at him.

  The colour photograph spread across two pages. The creature was a light brownish yellow in colour and it looked to Beck like bits of different insects had been sewn together to make a completely new one. The crab-like claws – spread out as if to snatch the reader into its embrace – were as wide as the scorpion was long. The spider-like legs, pointing in the wrong direction, as if the scorpion was as mobile backwards as it was forwards. And the sting . . . Well, the sting of a scorpion. There was nothing else quite like it. It was like a sharp bulbous thorn at the end of the scorpion’s tail, glistening with a drop of venom, hanging there like water from a leaky tap. The tail was broken into four or five segments, each almost as thick as the body. It curved up and forwards so that the scorpion could grab its prey with those claws and then jab it to death.

  Beneath one of the claws was some text.

  Most species of scorpion reach between five and eight centimetres in length, and despite their fearsome appearance, their sting is no more dangerous or harmful than a bee’s. The exception to both these rules is the Saharan yellow fat-tailed scorpion (Androctonus australis). It averages ten centimetres in length and is quite possibly the most venomous scorpion in the world. Almost as toxic as a cobra’s, its sting can lead to paralysis, convulsions, cardiac arrest or respiratory failure. The species ranges across the deserts of North Africa.

  Beck raised his eyebrows at the creature. ‘I’ll remember not to mess with you—’ he murmured.

  ‘Beck! Beck!’

  His friend’s voice broke into his thoughts and he looked up. Peter was crouched beside him, glancing anxiously from side to side. He was properly dressed again in a long-sleeved shirt, trousers and wide-brimmed hat, skin all safely covered up.

  ‘Hi, Pete. What’s up?’

  ‘Shh!’ Peter looked around one more time, and leaned down so that only Beck could hear him. Whatever was bothering him, he obviously thought it was important. ‘Get yourself—’

  ‘You know, if you’re trying not to make yourself obvious, you’re failing big time,’ Beck pointed out, smiling. ‘Grab this sun lounger beside me. Be a bit more subtle.’

  ‘I’m serious!’ Peter hissed through his teeth. ‘Look, just get yourself dry and come up to our room. I’ve got something I need to show you.’

  * * *

  They sat side by side on Peter’s bed and gazed at the screen of his camera. He had his finger on the fast-forward button so that the footage of Beck in the pool whizzed by. He flew into the air and creamed through the water like a torpedo.

  ‘Look,’ said Peter.

  The footage slowed down. Now it was shots Beck hadn’t seen, the ones Peter had taken on his own. There were people milling about in the lobby. Some looked directly at the camera, saw the eager boy filming them, and smiled. There were other shots out of their window, looking down at the pool. Somehow Peter had found a window on the other side of the building, overlooking the street and the daily traffic chaos.

  And then there was a small butterfly. It was a translucent blue, clinging to a twig somewhere – it was impossible to identify the background. At first Beck thought it was just a photo but then he noticed the body quiver slightly. He was impressed. Peter had been filming it. He had got right in close without scaring it off.
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br />   ‘OK,’ Beck said, ‘you’ve got a future with the BBC Natural History Unit.’

  ‘Not that.’ Peter thumbed the volume control, turning it up to maximum. ‘Listen.’

  Beck leaned closer to the tiny speaker. In the background you could hear a faint voice. A man’s voice.

  But with the sound turned up like that, every other noise picked up by the camera’s microphone was also magnified. Beck could only hear snatches above the background racket.

  ‘. . . product . . . along the path . . . ’

  Then there was the voice of another man:

  ‘. . . being loaded now . . . clearance . . . ’

  ‘. . . papers fixed . . . can’t afford . . . ’

  And, most intriguing of all:

  ‘. . . disguised as . . . ’

  ‘Disguised as what?’ Beck said, trying to replay the clip. After straining to hear the recording, his own voice sounded very loud.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Peter replied.

  ‘Where did you get this, anyway?’

  ‘You know those pot plants in the lobby? That’s where the butterfly was. But the plants are right next to these pillars. You know, leading out to the courtyard. The guys were standing behind them. I don’t think they knew I was there. Listen again.’

  They ran through the footage once more. Then they looked at each other.

  ‘Beck . . . ’ Peter looked around the room nervously, even though they were alone behind a locked door and no one was going to intrude. ‘They talked about fixing papers – you know, import papers? And clearance? Customs clearance? And this product is disguised as something?’

  Beck’s face tightened with concentration.

  ‘Beck,’ Peter whispered emphatically, every part of him quivering with excitement, ‘you remember what Mrs Chalobah said? I think they’re smugglers!’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Beck held the serious, earnest gaze. He could tell Peter was really into this: he wanted to be a reporter and here was his very first story.

  But there was a pressure building up inside Beck and he couldn’t fight it. He tried, but it kept growing and growing. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch. He pressed his lips together to keep them straight but he couldn’t stop them.

  And then he looked at Peter’s face and saw that something similar was happening to his friend too. His shoulders began to shake, and then he just had to let it out – a torrent of laughter. Peter broke out into a fit of nervous giggles that turned into laughter of his own. Beck doubled up and Peter fell backwards onto his bed, his chest heaving.

  ‘Smugglers!’ Beck gasped. ‘Yeah, right!’

  He had no idea who the guys actually were or what they had been talking about. He did know that proving anything took a lot more than a barely heard conversation and two active imaginations. The chances were that the guys in the lobby were talking about something completely different.

  ‘You have to admit, it would have been kind of cool . . . ’ Peter tried to continue, but he was laughing too much.

  ‘Hey, Uncle Al, we’ve just busted a gang of diamond smugglers—’

  ‘Tcha!’ Peter rolled his eyes and deepened his voice in an imitation of Beck’s uncle: ‘I just can’t leave you alone for a second, can I, boys?’

  Beck straightened up again, still smiling. But his smile dimmed a little when he remembered what Mrs Chalobah had said. If it really had been smugglers, they would have had to tread very, very carefully: probably tell Al, so he could tell Mrs Chalobah, and then get the heck out of Sierra Leone. Let the authorities deal with it. As Al liked to say, let everyone stick to what they’re good at.

  Someone knocked and they both jumped.

  ‘Boys?’ said a familiar voice, muffled by the door. ‘You in there?’

  Beck went to let his uncle in.

  ‘Hello. There’s a break before the delegates’ next session so I thought I’d check that you’re both OK—What?’ he added suspiciously. Both boys were still beaming broadly.

  ‘Nothing,’ Beck assured him. ‘Yeah, everything’s fine. Isn’t it, Peter?’

  * * *

  The three of them had dinner together that evening, and breakfast the next morning. But the boys didn’t mention anything to Al. He had to leave them again for the final morning of the conference.

  Peter and Beck wandered through the lobby, heading back to their room. One of the lifts gave a soft ding as its doors slid open.

  Peter suddenly pulled Beck over to one side. There was a small, dim passage off the lobby that led to some offices, and that was where Peter had dragged him.

  ‘It’s them again!’ he hissed. ‘The guys I heard talking! They just got out of the lift.’ He nudged Beck forward again. ‘Look!’

  Beck poked his head round the corner. Two men stood in front of the lifts. They looked to Beck like a perfectly normal pair of guys. One African, one maybe European or American. They were dressed casually – just like a pair of tourists.

  The men began to walk towards the entrance, which would take them past the end of their passage. Beck withdrew and Peter pulled him further down the passage.

  ‘So what?’ Beck said, tiring of Peter’s melodrama.

  ‘I wonder what they’re doing . . . ’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe they’re here for the conference.’

  ‘If they were going to the conference, they’d be in suits or tribal dress like all the others,’ Peter pointed out.

  ‘So they’re tourists,’ he said.

  Peter looked at him pityingly. ‘Tourists? Just how much have we found to be touristy about here?’

  Beck had to admit he had a point. ‘OK. So they’re doing some kind of business. This is a town, Pete. Business happens . . . ’

  The men paused as they passed the end of the passage. It was dim and they didn’t see the boys lurking further down. One of the men put his head close to the other’s.

  ‘If the pilot doesn’t play ball, we’ll shoot him. Simple.’ he muttered.

  The other man simply looked at him impassively. Then he nodded and turned sharply as they continued towards the hotel entrance.

  ‘Whoa . . . ’ Beck murmured when they were safely out of earshot.

  Peter poked his head round the corner again. ‘They’re calling a taxi!’

  ‘Good.’ Beck followed his friend out into the lobby again. He was just in time to see the pair climbing into the back of a cab. ‘Let them go.’

  ‘Let them go?’ Peter looked at him as if he was mad.

  ‘Yes, let them go!’ Beck said firmly. ‘Look . . . ’

  He had been here once before. A few months earlier, in Colombia, he’d had a run-in with the corrupt chief of police of Cartagena. Ramirez had been mixed up with the narcotráficantes – drug traffickers. Beck knew what it was like to mix with people who might shoot you. Your best strategy was to stay safely away.

  He paused as it all came flooding back to him. Peter used the opportunity to start heading for the entrance.

  ‘I want to know where they’re going.’ He watched as the cab pulled away with the two men inside it. ‘Come on! We’ll get a taxi too!’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait!’

  But Peter was already halfway across the lobby and Beck couldn’t stop him. ‘You . . . ’ He tried hard to think of a good reason that might persuade Peter to stay. ‘You don’t have any money!’

  ‘No, but you do,’ Peter said logically. ‘Fifty quid, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘But that wasn’t for—’ Beck began.

  Peter was at the doors. Beck swore and ran after him towards the line of taxis waiting outside the hotel. He reached his friend just in time to see him signalling the next one.

  The taxi pulled up and the driver leaned over. ‘Where to, gentlemen?’ he called.

  Beck shuffled nervously. No, he didn’t want to be involved . . . but he had a horrible feeling Peter would get involved anyway, and someone had to keep him out of trouble. ‘We’ll follow them, right? But that’s all.’
/>   And, he thought privately, it would be more interesting than another day in the pool . . .

  ‘Sure.’ Peter was already climbing into the back seat. Beck tumbled in after him and pulled the door shut as Peter pointed after the men’s taxi and said, ‘Follow that cab!’

  The driver flashed a huge African smile back at them. ‘I have waited all my life for someone to say that!’

  He pressed the accelerator to the floor and the cab shot out into the traffic.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘So where are you gentlemen from? London? That is fantastic! I have always wanted to visit London. Is this your first visit to Sierra Leone? Are you enjoying our lovely country?’

  The taxi driver grinned broadly as he fired questions at Beck and Peter. More often than not he was looking at them too, which meant he was not looking at the road. Apparently he relied on telepathy to tell him what the traffic was doing. Either that or he was just steering a random course and everyone else was getting out of his way.

  It seemed to be a gift of taxi drivers the world over, and it worked. Beck kept his eyes fixed firmly on the cab they were following.

  ‘Now then’ – the driver finally turned to look where he was going – ‘it seems your friends are heading for the airport. I can’t think where else this road would take them. Will you be requiring a return trip?’

  ‘Yes,’ Beck said.

  ‘Maybe not immediately,’ said Peter. He looked challengingly at Beck.

  Beck sighed. ‘Maybe not immediately,’ he agreed. At least, he thought with relief, there would be other Europeans around at the airport. He and Peter would have a far better chance of blending in. The men probably wouldn’t recognize them and wouldn’t dream that they had been followed.

  Probably. Not that Beck intended to get so close to the men that they could be recognized anyway.

  ‘Well, no sweat. I’ll be in the taxi rank if you want a ride back to your hotel.’ The driver chuckled. ‘“Follow that cab!” I actually had someone say “Follow that cab!” My wife will never believe— Oh.’