Star of Africa (Ben Hope, Book 13)

by Scott Mariani

  ‘I wouldn’t provoke them, Jeff,’ Tuesday advised him with a frown. ‘Especially chubby cheeks there. He’s just itching to blow us away, first chance he gets.’

  Gerber and Hercules each had one of Condor’s arms, without which the sick man couldn’t have remained upright for long. ‘What the hell is this place anyway?’ Gerber said. ‘Why’d they bring us here?’

  Hercules nodded grimly towards the largest of the buildings, the one with the heavily bullet-cratered wall. ‘You blind, homes? Don’t you see that wall right there? It’s a motherfuckin’ execution yard, is what it is. They ain’t takin’ us inside. They’s gonna line our asses up along that there wall and put us down like a buncha dogs.’

  ‘We’re not dead yet,’ Jeff said.

  ‘Move! Move! You walk!’ the fat soldier barked, urging them on. Then, scowling at Condor, ‘What wrong with him?’

  ‘He needs a doctor,’ Ben told him in Swahili. ‘Either leave him alone or go and fetch one, right now.’

  ‘No doctor! No doctor!’

  ‘Then get us some water,’ Ben told him. ‘For God’s sake, these men are thirsty.’

  ‘No water! No water!’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Hercules shook his head. ‘No doctor, no water, ’cause why waste it on a dead man? This is it, my friends. End of the line, I’m tellin’ you. But not for all of us.’

  Releasing Condor’s arm for a moment, Hercules opened up the flap of his baggy jacket pocket and let Murphy clamber out onto his hand. Hercules raised his arm up high.

  ‘Go, Murph. Get out of here. Go!’

  The parrot blinked at Hercules, then flapped its wings and took off. Hercules watched it go, nodding wistfully to himself.

  Then the boom of the fat soldier’s shotgun cut through the desiccated air like a grenade blast. The flying bird exploded in a cloud of feathers. Murphy’s mangled carcass dropped to the earth floor of the compound. Laughing, the fat soldier walked over to it and crushed what was left of it into the dirt with the heel of his boot.

  That was the last thing the fat soldier would be doing for a while. Because when he turned back round to grin at the prisoners, he was met by Hercules’s ham-sized fist coming at him like a wrecking ball with two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle behind it. The punch spread his nose into a bloody pulp across his face and slammed him hard to the earth. With a roar of pure rage, Hercules was about to finish the guy off with a stamp to the head when Jeff and Tuesday rushed forwards and grabbed Hercules by the arms to restrain him.

  ‘You want to die, big man?’ Jeff said in his ear. ‘Keep it up.’

  ‘Gonna die anyway. Fuck’m! Fuck’m all!’

  The fat soldier was stone unconscious. His comrades were all yelling and screaming and jabbering and waving their guns. Khosa turned to see what was happening. More of his men came running. In two seconds, Hercules was surrounded by rifle muzzles. Ben, Jude, Jeff and Tuesday stood shoulder to shoulder with him. Ben eyed the nearest yelling African and got ready to make a grab for his rifle. If this was how it was going to end, then so be it. You could have death, or you could have glory, but sometimes you had to settle for both at once.

  Then Khosa shouted, ‘Stop! Hold your fire!’

  The circle of guns backed off and opened up to lead the way.

  The seven prisoners were marched towards the large building. Hercules shooting glares of grief-stricken hatred at every man who dared come within punching distance. Jude helping Gerber to steady Condor on his feet. Ben and Jeff glancing at each other and both wondering the same thing. Why had Khosa stayed his men?

  Ben was worried. Because he had a feeling he knew the answer.

  Hercules had been wrong. The soldiers didn’t line them up along the wall to be shot, but instead prodded and shoved them inside the building. It was a bare one-room shell inside, long and low, cool and dark and dank. The compacted earth floor was littered with broken glass and garbage, but most of all it was littered with empty cartridge casings. Piles of them, two or three deep in places, trodden into the dirt. Ben felt them underfoot as he stepped inside and instantly knew what they were, even without looking. Just as he knew that the fired shells would be mostly concentrated at one end of the room. Just as he knew why, without needing to peer into the shadows to examine the far wall and make out the craters that scarred the inside of the blockwork as well as the outside.

  Bad things had happened here. Maybe even worse things than could be done out in the open of the compound. The earth floor had soaked up the stench of it. The indelible scent of death from the terrible, inhuman atrocities that he could imagine taking place on this spot. And perhaps some that he didn’t want to imagine.

  Ben wasn’t surprised. It was all pretty much what he expected, and the reason could be summed up in the same three neat little letters he’d been running through his mind while observing Khosa’s soldiers. T.I.A.

  The acronym was a wry old saying often repeated all over this continent, by people who knew the score. To remind others that things here didn’t work the way they did elsewhere. To encourage them never to forget that when you set foot in this land you were suddenly in a very different place, where you had to forget everything you thought you knew about the world and the people in it.

  T.I.A. This Is Africa.

  All that really needed to be said. If you knew, you’d get it. If you didn’t, you soon would.

  The tall, broad figure of the commander filled the doorway, silhouetted against the dust-hazed light from outside. His booted feet braced a little apart, hands clasped against the small of his back, chest thrust proudly outwards. He nodded to his men, and they drew back from the prisoners. He walked into the building. More of his soldiers crowded through the doorway in his wake and spread out behind him with drawn weapons and scowling faces. Khosa himself was wearing a contented smile. As well a man should be, with an incalculable fortune in precious stones bulging his pocket and his enemies subdued and powerless before him.

  ‘I am General Jean-Pierre Khosa,’ he said to them. ‘Welcome to my army.’

  Chapter 40

  It was what Ben had been afraid Khosa was going to say. Why else hadn’t he ordered them to be killed after he’d got the diamond, or left them to die of thirst on their raft, or let his men shoot them to pieces after what Hercules had just done to one of their comrades?

  Ben took a deep breath. So now his suspicions were confirmed. He had to tell himself it wasn’t the end of the world. There were worse things than this, torture and execution being two of them. But there weren’t many.

  Gerber was the only one of the seven who spoke in the stunned silence. ‘You gotta be kidding.’

  Khosa turned to look at him. His smile had gone. He didn’t look at all as if he was kidding, and he didn’t look like someone used to being challenged or questioned, either. His men flashed glances at one another. A couple of them repressed grins. They knew their commander’s ways. They were looking forward to what would happen next.

  Ben was thinking the same thing they were. Keep your mouth shut, you bloody fool.

  Khosa walked slowly over to Gerber, stepping close until their faces were just inches apart. Except Khosa was a good four inches taller, so he was looking down and Gerber was looking up. Khosa’s eyes seemed to bore deep into him. Gerber swallowed. He couldn’t maintain the eye contact. He looked down at his feet and cleared his throat nervously.

  ‘This one is very old,’ Khosa pronounced after a long silence. ‘His legs are bandy, his belly is round and his beard is white. I have no use for a weak old man.’ He turned to his men. ‘And he looks like a goat. Do you not think he looks like a goat?’

  The men nodded and murmured their concurrence with the General’s wise opinion that the old man did indeed look just like a goat. Khosa seemed pleased. He gave a low chuckle. ‘Goats are for eating,’ he declared loudly. ‘They are animals to be slaughtered. For what do I need a goat man in my army?’

  Gerber kept looking down at his feet. He was gulpi
ng and sweating profusely.

  Ben had to speak out. ‘He’s a veteran of the American armed forces. A former non-commissioned officer of the United States Marine Corps. Marines don’t get weaker with age. They get tougher. He’s a more worthy warrior than half your men put together, General. Do yourself a favour.’

  Gerber looked at Ben in horror. Ben raised an eyebrow back at him. I just saved your life, old fellow.

  Khosa pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘That is interesting. United States Marines. Interesting.’ He considered Gerber a few moments more, then nodded. ‘We will see about you, Goat Man. Yes, we will see.’

  Khosa moved up the line, hands still clasped behind his back. The senior officer inspecting his troops. Next he stopped at Hercules. Now it was Khosa who had to look up. Hercules was shaking, but not for the same reason as Gerber. He looked ready to tear Khosa’s head off.

  ‘This one is very dangerous,’ Khosa said. ‘Perhaps we should not take a chance with him. Or perhaps he may still be of use to us. I have not decided.’

  The guards thought this was funny, but nobody laughed too loudly.

  Khosa moved along the line. Now he reached Jude, and smiled down at him with a look that could have been mistaken for benevolence if everyone in the room hadn’t known better. ‘He is a fine boy,’ Khosa said. He grinned at the soldiers. ‘Do you not agree he is a fine boy?’

  The soldiers all readily agreed that he was.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Khosa chuckled. ‘Did I not tell you we would meet again soon, White Meat?’

  ‘Go to hell,’ Jude said, staring Khosa straight back in the eye. ‘I’m not a boy. And I’m not anybody’s meat.’

  Khosa boomed with laughter. ‘I like you, White Meat. You have changarawe. In my country, this means “guts”. I need men with guts.’

  Khosa moved on. He stopped at Tuesday, scrutinised him long and hard and then passed on without comment.

  Next Jeff. Jeff stared back at him with calm fury in his eyes. ‘This one is interesting too,’ Khosa said. ‘Look how he defies me. Many men would be very frightened of such a man. What is your name?’ he asked Jeff.

  ‘Dekker,’ Jeff said. ‘Remember it.’

  Khosa narrowed his eyes and the terrible scars on his face crinkled like rubber. ‘Do you think I am frightened of you, Dekker?’

  Jeff said nothing.

  ‘Are you frightened of me, Dekker?’

  Jeff said nothing.

  ‘You will be,’ Khosa said. ‘Soon, you will be.’

  Condor had been standing unaided too long. His knees gave way under him and he collapsed to the earth floor. He gave a heave and then lay still, his arms folded under him and one leg splayed outward.

  ‘What is the matter with this one?’ Khosa demanded, pointing down at the unconscious man.

  Ben spoke out again. ‘He has a severe concussion. He was injured when our ship went down. He needs a doctor, and rest. He’ll be fine in a few days. He’s a good man.’

  ‘He does not look fine to me,’ Khosa said, peering down. ‘Concussion. I know all about this. He does not need a doctor. I will test him myself.’

  What happened next was a surreal parody of a medical examination. Khosa crouched down next to Condor, leaned close to his ear and asked, ‘What is your name?’

  Condor made no reply. Not a sound. His eyes were closed and he barely even appeared to be breathing.

  Khosa looked up. ‘He does not know his name,’ he said with a look of consternation that Ben couldn’t tell was real or put on. ‘Who is the president of your country?’ Khosa asked Condor.

  No response.

  Khosa looked up. ‘He does not know who the president is?’

  ‘He’s unconscious,’ Ben said. ‘Give the man a chance.’

  Khosa grunted. Then asked Condor, ‘Now tell me. Look at me. Who am I?’

  Once more, Condor gave no response. His eyelids opened a glimmer, then closed again.

  ‘How can he not know who I am?’ Khosa said, straightening up and shaking his head with what Ben now believed was genuine incredulity. ‘It is very serious. The man has brain damage. You do not need to be a doctor to know this.’

  ‘With respect, General,’ Ben said, choosing his words cautiously. ‘It’s just a grade three concussion.’

  Khosa shook his head once more, gravely. ‘He is a cripple. No. How do you say? He is a vegetable. I have no use for a vegetable in my army. This,’ he declared, pointing down at Condor, ‘is not acceptable.’

  Then Khosa signalled to his men. ‘Kill him.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Ben said. He took one step towards Khosa and half a dozen Kalashnikov rifles instantly snapped in his direction, and he froze before he could take a second step.

  ‘Are you telling me what I can and cannot do, soldier?’ Khosa asked in a voice silk-lined with menace.

  ‘Please,’ Gerber said. ‘You want to kill someone, then kill me. I’m old. Just like you said. I’m no use to anyone.’

  Khosa laughed. ‘Maybe you are right, Goat Man. Perhaps afterwards we kill you too. What do you think?’

  And then they dragged Condor into the middle of the floor and got started on him.

  Ben had seen plenty of men meet a bad end before now. He’d witnessed ugly, brutal death up close and personal, more times than he cared to remember. But he’d never seen anything like this. And he never wanted to see anything like it again.

  Chapter 41

  Condor didn’t regain consciousness right away. Not when the four men grabbed him by the wrists and ankles and hauled him like a sack of rice across the floor. Not when they rolled him over on his back, and not when all four of them drew their machetes from their belts and stood around him in a circle, grinning down at him with glints of dental gold catching what little light was inside the building.

  But when the first chopping blade cut into his flesh, the pain and shock jolted Condor out of his semi-coma and he started to scream.

  The screaming went on for several minutes. It could have been much quicker, but Khosa’s men were experts in prolonging things.

  Lou Gerber sank to his knees and vomited. Jude had his eyes screwed shut and his fingers in his ears to block out the chopping sounds and the awful tortured wailing. Hercules had his head bowed with his chin on his chest and his big fists clenched and trembling at his sides. Even Jeff had to look away. Tuesday watched it all from beginning to end, unable to tear his gaze away, as if frozen into a trance of horror.

  Ben’s eyes stayed on General Jean-Pierre Khosa the whole time.

  The blades kept rising and falling and hacking and chopping in the hands of the silent killers. Condor’s screams reached a sickening pitch that didn’t even sound human any more. Then, mercifully but much, much too long afterwards, they died to a gurgling whimper. Then finally to nothing.

  By the time Khosa’s four men stepped away, panting with exertion and mahogany-shined with sweat and sheathing their bloody blades, Condor wasn’t Condor any more. He was an unrecognisable heap of diced meat and exposed innards and separated body parts and tattered shreds of clothing at the centre of a huge dark stain that soaked deep into the earth.

  Gerber was curled up on his knees with his arms wrapped around himself, racked with sobbing. ‘Tell the goat man to stand,’ Khosa ordered, pointing at him. Slowly, very slowly, Ben and Jeff took Gerber’s arms and gently pulled him upright. Gerber stood bent and bowed, suddenly a very old man.

  ‘I want you to look,’ Khosa said, swivelling his pointing finger away from Gerber and towards the remains of Condor. ‘Look, and remember. This is what happens to men who do not make the grade in my army.’

  None of them did look, but they would always remember.

  It’s nothing next to what will happen to you, Ben was thinking. The stench of death and vomit in the building was sharp and acrid and he had to control his own desire to throw up. He put a hand on Jude’s shoulder. Jude’s muscles were as tight as rope and his skin felt cold through the damp material of his
T-shirt.

  ‘And now,’ Khosa said brightly, spreading his arms wide like a TV conjuror who’d just wowed his audience with a spectacular trick, ‘the show is over. I am sure that my new recruits are hungry and thirsty. We have a long journey ahead of us and I want all my soldiers to have their strength.’

  Seven prisoners had gone into the building. Six came out. Now it was Gerber who needed to be held by the arm to steady him as he walked, like a survivor pulled unscathed but badly shaken from the rubble of an earthquake. His eyes were glazed and he was still trembling violently. Ben was trembling too, not with shock but with rage. He couldn’t look at Jeff. He knew that if he did, that if they exchanged even the slightest glance, the two of them would do something reckless. Nobody spoke. Nobody could find words to say what they were feeling.

  Khosa strode out ahead of them and went off in the direction of the fuel truck to attend to whatever business he needed there. A V-formation of his soldiers trailed closely in his wake, including the four who had just finished hacking a sick, defenceless man to death. Now they were back to their regular duty, until the next time. The General’s personal guard, rifles held in the low-ready position as if expecting a horde of assassins to attack the perimeter at any moment.

  A larger group of soldiers led by the nose picker escorted the prisoners across a stretch of open ground to another long, low, windowless building on the same side of the avenue. The prone body of the fat soldier that Hercules had laid flat was no longer there. He’d either managed to crawl away, or he’d been dragged away. The only remaining sign of him was a patch of blood on the dusty ground. Ben gave it a brief glance and then looked away. He’d seen enough blood-soaked earth today.

  But however sickened he might have felt by what they’d all just witnessed, the smell of cooking wafting out of the open doorway as they approached the building made Ben feel dizzy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything.