His bout of self-recrimination was interrupted by the Polisario colonel, with the uninjured guard from the main gate at his heels.
‘James, the others are ready to leave for Bir Lehlou,’ Sulamani said. ‘We will eat first, but the sooner you leave the better. This man will drive you.’
The guard bowed and Sulamani sent him to wait in the hall.
‘I asked that all Polisario units in the Free Zone be told to set up roadblocks and search for your IPD400,’ he went on. ‘But it seems the order had already been given. I don’t know how they knew about it.’
James didn’t either, but he could guess: whoever had tipped off the Polisario about the Moroccan raid was also after Little Sister. This had the Playpen written all over it.
‘Are they searching for me, too?’
‘I told my CO you had escaped, not that you came back,’ said Sulamani. ‘I thought it best.’ He shifted awkwardly, evidently unwilling to explain why he had lied.
After a pause, James said: ‘There’s a Light Gun in the warehouse.’
Sulamani nodded. ‘We captured it five or six years ago.’
‘It might be useful tonight.’
‘I am not trained to fire it.’
‘I am. Let’s say the Moroccans attack soon after midnight. Your reinforcements are due around dawn – that’s a long time to hold off a Special Forces unit. What if we tow the Light Gun out of the compound and fire on them from several different positions, convince them they’re being shelled by a much larger force?’
‘They will not retreat,’ said Colonel Sulamani. ‘Retreat would be disgrace.’
‘No, they come after us and we play shoot and run. We play it all night if we have to.’
‘We? You wish to fight alongside the Polisario? Why?’
‘The Light Gun can make the difference. We’ll need the mortar, too – Salif can manage that. Which leaves you and Benoit to deploy, fire and strike an artillery piece that usually has a crew of four trained men.’
‘And Younes, too. But this is not your concern.’
‘I got you into this. If I hadn’t burdened the world with the IPD400, and then allowed myself to be captured because I was too stupid and arrogant. . . ’
James felt himself reddening. He did not want to admit that the events of the day had left him feeling desolate – nor that the promise of a fight was making the blood race in his veins.
‘I owe it to you to finish the job.’
‘You owe us nothing. These are not good reasons to risk your life.’
‘If your people get the IPD400 back off Zender, I’ll owe you a lot. In fact, the whole world will owe you a lot.’
The conversation was curtailed by the arrival of the rest of their party. Salif had been out to fetch the Mercedes, and he, Benoit and Mikhail had changed its oil and made running repairs to its battered suspension. Meanwhile, Nat, Anton and Nikolai had been exploring the arms cache in the warehouse. The opportunity to tool up had been irresistible to the Ukrainian men, and some of the arsenal now lay packed into the Mercedes’ boot.
‘Are we going to eat soon?’ said Anton. ‘Micky hates to lose too much body mass.’
‘We can start with an aperitif, courtesy of Monsieur Zender,’ said Nat, indicating the bottles on the sideboard.
Glasses of whisky were passed round. Salif drunk his in one gulp and immediately became garrulous. ‘This Polisario base now. All Polisario weapons safe,’ he kept saying.
‘They were safe when Zender and his guards were here and the Moroccans were hiding behind their wall,’ Colonel Sulamani observed.
Undeterred, Salif took Mikhail to one side and started to tell him the story of their assault on the guardpost, illustrating the narrative with vivid enactments of the critical moments in their triumph. Aware that the others were watching, Salif’s gesticulations became extravagant, and ended with a noisy imitation of Benoit vomiting beside the bodies of the injured men.
‘I see people dead, I feel bad also,’ said Mikhail with a conciliatory glance at Benoit. ‘Fuck it.’
‘Kiev doorman, Saharan tour guide – now he’s gone philosophical!’ said Anton. ‘I see people dead, I feel bad also. Fuck it. You’re a genius, Micky, you know that?’
Nikolai was shaking with laughter. ‘Feeling bad? Fuck it!’ he shouted. ‘Fuck it! It’s the secret of happiness!’
‘Make a joke about everything,’ said Mikhail crossly.
‘He has spoken!’ said Anton. ‘Make a joke about everything. This stuff is going to change my life.’
‘Hey, Micky, tell us some more,’ Nikolai demanded.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Fuck it. Make a joke. Fuck off. Life in a nutshell!’ Anton raised his glass in toast while Nikolai roared with delight. ‘He always makes me laugh, that boy,’ he managed to say.
Nat was thinking about the guards at the main gate, puffing out their chests and grinning at her. Now one of them was dead and another badly injured. The moment of hilarity passed her by, and she felt glad when it was brought to an end by a knock on the door: the boy Adel, bearing a tray with two large clay pots. He rushed away and returned with a stack of flatbreads, then arranged the side table so the eight of them could sit round it. Nat observed the three Sahrawi men opposite her: they ate reverently and with great consideration, passing the food to others before helping themselves, taking modest mouthfuls and chewing carefully. Sulamani’s expression was bleak. Salif was keeping his head down, while sneaking surreptitious glances in her direction. His nephew was surveying his empty plate as if wondering whether it would be acceptable to lick it. Nat pushed the remains of the stew towards him. The Moroccans will come expecting twenty-five well-armed men, she thought, and they’ll find these three.
‘One of the guards they left behind is a local man,’ said Sulamani, breaking the silence. ‘He will drive you to the Polisario HQ in Bir Lehlou – it is a complicated route, and there are minefields. But it is safer than trying to get to Smara, especially with Moroccan Special Forces about. I hope the Mercedes is strong enough for the journey.’
‘It may be,’ said Nikolai. ‘But with six people inside it, we’ll be lucky if it gets to the front gate.’
It seemed absurd to be stymied by such a mundane problem, but after several minutes’ discussion, no one had come up with a solution. The meal over, they went up to the warehouse to try it out. With all six of them stuffed inside, the Mercedes bottomed out on the rail across the entrance, which was barely an inch off the ground.
‘Maybe unload the boot,’ Nat suggested.
Mikhail and Anton unpacked the weapons they had pilfered earlier, taking care to avoid Colonel Sulamani’s indignant gaze. It helped, but not enough to make the Mercedes a viable means of escape.
‘You’ll need water in the back anyway,’ James said. ‘Try without me.’
He got out and the suspension rose several inches. Mikhail engaged gear and the elderly vehicle sailed forward. He drove them down to the gates and back.
‘Amazing,’ said Anton. ‘Almost twice walking speed and it’s still in one piece.’
‘James, we’re not going to leave you,’ said Nat. ‘What about the Uni-thingy.’
‘The Unimog,’ said Colonel Sulamani.
‘You need the Unimog to tow the Light Gun,’ said James. ‘If you can only fire from one position, you’ll be lucky to survive an hour, let alone the whole night.’
‘It’s the Colonel’s decision,’ said Nat, ‘not yours.’
Sulamani looked down at his hands, then over to the horizon, then back at his hands. Finally, he cleared his throat and said:
‘My orders are to defend the compound. The Light Gun is our only hope and it is useless without the Unimog to tow it. James, you offered to stay and help us. I accept, with deepest gratitude.’
Before the Ukrainian contingent set off for Bir Lehlou, Nat led James to Zender’s room.
‘Why don’t I try and persuade Sulamani to give up this place? We can all drive east togeth
er. It’s a lost cause, isn’t it?’
‘There’s too much at stake for the Polisario. Sulamani would rather die than run.’
Nat was disappointed, and made no attempt to hide it. ‘You actually want to fight, don’t you? You’re kind of addicted to it.’
The truth, so baldly stated, was unsettling, but how could he admit that she was right? Her candour made his reticence seem shabby.
‘What about Sarah?’ Nat said.
‘I don’t have any idea where she is. Anyway, I’ll be delayed by twelve hours at most. When it’s over, Sulamani will let me have the Unimog – it’ll be much quicker over the desert than the Mercedes. I’ll catch you up before Bir Lehlou.’ He paused, reluctant to have their conversation end on this accusatory note, then asked: ‘Do you think your brother is up to the journey?’
‘Madame Mengele is seeing to his stitches now. Maybe the Mercedes can tow the gun. We could at least try. If not, Anton and Mikhail can walk.’
She was searching his face again, but he could not take her gaze.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘You get ready for your heroic fun and games with the Polisario and we’ll get ready to leave you to it. Please come and kiss me goodbye.’
They assembled beneath the Polisario flag at the front of the building. The air was silky warm now, soft as fleece on the skin. The desert to the west seemed to ripple and flex as the shadows of evening unfurled. Their elongated silhouettes danced along the wall behind them.
Their driver was called Suli. Relief at being allowed to leave and terror that Sulamani might change his mind had put him in a wretched state of obsequiousness, and he would have fawned over them for several minutes if Sulamani had not ordered him to sit in the driver’s seat and keep his mouth shut.
‘The limousine,’ said Nat, eyeing the Mercedes with fresh misgiving. ‘Why do I think we’re going to end up pushing it to Algeria?’ She’d decided that she owed the men a good-humoured parting, though really she felt overwhelmed by melancholy.
James shuffled awkwardly. He was still smarting from Nat’s accusation of bloodthirstiness. Now she was standing in front of him, looking up at him from those impossibly lucid green eyes. He was wondering if she was going to say something challenging, then realised she’d already spoken.
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘I said, look after yourself tonight. Come after us the moment it’s over, right?’
‘I will.’
‘We’ll go nice and slowly, so you can catch up.’
‘Why don’t you two exchange phone numbers and continue this back in London,’ said Nikolai.
‘Get in the car,’ said Nat, ‘and don’t forget the leg.’
She put one arm on James’s shoulder, pulled herself up on tiptoe and kissed him. He felt a little wetness from the underside of her upper lip, cool and sweet on the parched skin at the corner of his mouth. Her breasts brushed his chest, so light a touch he hardly knew it had happened. He breathed a sigh of desire, quite unbidden, and reached to prolong the moment. But it was over. Nat was shaking hands with Salif and then Sulamani, whom she also kissed.
‘Stand at the end of the queue, Micky,’ said Nikolai from the back seat of the Mercedes. ‘You might get one, too!’
Mikhail bolted round to the other side of the car and climbed in.
‘Ouch,’ said Nikolai as the Mercedes moved off and immediately jolted over a rock. ‘Drive carefully, you little shit. I haven’t forgotten that you shot at my friend Salif.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Suli. The car rocked to a standstill.
‘The trip of a lifetime,’ said Nat to her men, ‘and hasn’t it started well.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Darkness fell. James went up to the warehouse to check over the Light Gun. It was old and didn’t look well maintained, but the L118 105mm towed howitzer is one of the most successful artillery pieces ever made because, as well as being powerful and compact, it is virtually indestructible. So was the Unimog 404 to which it was hitched – something like a cross between a tractor and a truck and probably made in 1960-something, but it still looked like it could churn its way across the Himalayas. He fitted the gun’s A-frame, cleaned the loading chamber and lubricated the transom and running gear. For crossing rough ground you could reverse the barrel of the gun and clamp it to the trail. That done, he loaded the ammunition trailer and hauled the rig out of the warehouse behind the Unimog. At just over 4,000 lbs in weight, the Light Gun’s lightness was relative, but the Unimog didn’t protest and after a trial run round the compound, James was satisfied. The firing mechanism was battery operated and needed a re-charge, so he plugged it in, then went down to find Sulamani.
The Polisario colonel was standing by a crater left by a mortar bomb which had overshot the barracks. A puddle of orange flame flopped and flared in the charred hollow. Benoit was prodding something with a shovel, releasing a smell of burnt petrol and human flesh. It was as if the fabric of the place had been blown open and here were its twitching entrails.
‘Mansour?’ asked James.
Sulamani nodded. Salif arrived with a crate of documents and started to feed them into the flames. James took the Polisario colonel to one side.
‘Do you have an idea who might be commanding this Moroccan force?’
‘Most likely it is Hassan Zaki. He is the nephew of a member of King Mohammed’s inner circle. The other Special Forces commanders are pure fighting men, and this mission may be thought too sensitive for them.’
‘If he comes under fire, will he seek orders from on high?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
‘I may be able to knock out the satellite channel they’re using.’
‘That would make him cautious. Can you do it?’
‘As long as Nazli’s lab hasn’t been damaged.’
‘Good. One of the guards they left behind is not badly injured: I will try to recruit him. There is nothing for him here, though all I can offer is a fight in the dark.’
‘Tell him it’s a sure-fire ticket to paradise,’ said James, attempting to lighten the mood.
‘You would like me to make fun of his religion? These boys don’t have much to believe in.’
The rebuke took James unawares. All he could think to say in reply was, ‘I’m not a Christian.’
‘Godless, then.’
‘I believe there is much we don’t understand,’ James said, a little more angrily than he’d intended. ‘But we should face our ignorance squarely, not sanctify it with mumbo jumbo.’
‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Sulamani. ‘But we in the poor half of the world know very well that you in the West are rich at our expense. If it takes the mantle of Islam to save us from this plunder, then I will wear it gladly, whatever I may privately believe.’
‘You think I’m to blame for this?’
‘No – and nor were the clever liberals I knew at Cambridge. But still, your children grow fat, while ours are too weak to brush the crust from their eyelids. You send your rock stars to weep over their graves, while your leaders consort with the financiers who ensure that food is kept from their mouths. You lecture us about democracy, while propping up any tyrant who promises to supply your oil. Everyone says they are not to blame. All I know is that the power to change things lies in the hands of the rich – who have no interest in change, and indeed a great fear of it.’
He spoke like a man who has brooded a great deal but lacks an audience for his thoughts, and so, when he finds one, unleashes a tide of well-turned polemic.
‘But nothing lasts forever, and the West is already in decline. Speculators tear the value from everything they touch. Your leaders squabble over trivial things. We here must watch that we do not get hurt, for the dying empire will lash out terribly.’
‘I’ll try and sink with dignity,’ said James.
Sulamani looked at him steadily. ‘I have offended you. I am sorry. You cannot escape where you come from, but you are a good man, and I lecture you as if you were wick
ed. Salif says I should trust you – he judges men simply by their actions, and no doubt he is right. And yet I know so little about you, Dr Palatine. You have appeared in our midst at a critical moment in our struggle, and now you offer to help us avert a disaster. Perhaps you are a god!’
Explained in this manner, Sulamani’s reservations seemed entirely justified. ‘Half the time I don’t know why I do things myself,’ James confessed. ‘The more I think, the more I flounder. But the doing has a way of setting things straight.’
‘Flounder,’ said Sulamani. ‘An excellent word. We must hope Colonel Zaki will flounder when his satphone goes dead.’
The Mercedes heaved itself east with as much facility as a slug in a sandpit. There was no speed with which Nikolai was content, and Nat could not persuade him to stop his stream of complaints. Darkness fell, pressing itself in on the cramped interior. Anton declared himself ready to get out and walk, which he said would be quicker and quieter. Mikhail sat between them and snored.
An hour after they’d left the compound, headlights flared behind them and the Mercedes was filled with sliding shadows. A pickup lurched alongside. Rap music grunted from a speaker in its rear. The vehicle swung in front of them and bumped the Mercedes to a standstill. A second pickup pulled up behind. Nat saw long, elegant arms resting on the stocks of automatic rifles, skinny chests girdled with bandoliers, chewing teeth and dirty eyes.
‘Suli, are they Polisario?’ said Nat.
The boy was trembling. His hands moved over the steering wheel and gearstick as if contemplating some kind of action that his mind could not.
‘Suli?’
The car suddenly reeked of fear.
‘Not Polisario.’ Suli shook his head. ‘Bad men.’
‘Keep your weapons hidden,’ Nat said. ‘I’ll talk to them.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Nat,’ said Nikolai. ‘They don’t look like the type to talk.’
She threw open the door and stepped out, calculating that the sudden appearance of a beautiful European woman would stall them. There was a shout from the cab of the lead vehicle and the music stopped, leaving a fluttering silence.
Little Sister (A James Palatine Novel) Page 33