Jackal's Dance

by Beverley Harper

  By seven-thirty they were ready to leave.

  Ace realised it would be impossible for the hostages to carry heavy packs and negotiate difficult terrain with their hands secured behind them. There was also a stretcher to consider. His decision to remove the restrictive tape had nothing to do with any concern for physical comfort. Ace didn’t want to be slowed down. He and his men would be at their most vulnerable from now until they were well away from Logans Island. He was anxious to melt back into the all-concealing bush. Escape attempts were unlikely, although he knew from experience that such acts of bravado usually happened within the first twenty-four hours. Only the men might be foolish enough to try it. There were ten in all, but one was on the stretcher. Two would be needed to carry it and another had his daughter to think about. In any event, their packs should sap any excess energy. Besides, all his men were armed. The fact that they had used too much ammunition during the executions was not something his captives would realise. He made the mistake of telling his men not to display empty ammunition belts. ‘Let them think we have plenty.’ Chester understood his words and a tiny flame of hope flared inside him.

  ‘Tell them to stand.’ Ace pointed to the bulging backpacks. ‘There are eight. Sort out between yourselves who carries them. If there is trouble I will shoot this one.’ He indicated Sean, who had just come back from getting dressed.

  Ace made another mistake. He assumed, because it was a game reserve, that there would be no weapons at the lodge. The luxury of an animal sanctuary in a land that couldn’t even feed its human population was unheard of in Angola. Ace only knew about game reserves from his briefing for this assignment. ‘You shouldn’t encounter any resistance. Guns are forbidden.’ It was true enough. Firearms were not allowed. Any tourist caught with one ran the very real risk of a prison sentence. But that rule did not apply to rangers, vets or research teams, although strict regulations still applied. If it became necessary to shoot an animal the perpetrator needed to prove conclusively that no other option had been available and that a life-threatening situation had developed. Culling operations were few and far between and strictly controlled. When not in use, firearms were, at all times, kept under lock and key. On Logans Island that meant a specially reinforced cabinet in Billy’s office. Ace’s men had seen it but an open case of whisky behind the desk was of more immediate interest, especially when they found the gun safe locked. If they hadn’t been celebrating with liquor taken from the bar, and in a couple of cases, torpid from the reefers, they might have been more professional. But these men were undisciplined at the best of times and they ignored the cabinet in favour of quality booze which they rarely got their hands on.

  Ace gave the order to move. Of the nine men standing, only Walter was spared the burden of a pack. Older than most and certainly less fit, he was already weighed down by grief over Erica and responsibility for his daughter. For the same reason he was also exempted from carrying Matt’s stretcher. Loads were shared by the remaining eight, each man carrying approximately one-third of his own body weight. It was already hot. Ace expected that the men would soon show signs of strain.

  They crossed the connecting embankment at a fast pace. It was then that Sean noticed a thin column of smoke rising from the trees about a kilometre distant. It seemed to be coming from the location of a small building occasionally used by veterinarians when fieldwork brought them to this part of the park. Most of the time they were based at Okaukuejo rest camp, seventy kilometres to the south. Sean was supposed to have been helping one of them yesterday. Yesterday! It seemed such a long time ago. What with one thing and another, first the rogue elephant and then later with Thea, Sean hadn’t given Buster Louw another thought.

  When Sean last spoke to Buster just after they’d shot the elephant, he’d said something about a party at Okaukuejo. When was that supposed to be? Last night – someone’s birthday. The vet had planned to go to it. Maybe he didn’t. Perhaps he was still up there. That smoke could be coming from Buster’s cooking fire. If anyone was still there they must have heard the shooting.

  As they neared the scrub line, any hope that the vet must have heard and radioed an alarm was dashed. The thatched structure, if you knew where to look, should have been visible from the road. Sean couldn’t see it. The smoke could only mean one thing. On their way to the island, the soldiers had burned it down. What a dumb thing to have done! Left alone, no-one returning there would suspect that anything was wrong. When they found the place destroyed, their first reaction would be to radio Logans Island to see if anyone knew about the blaze. Receiving no reply, they would drive over.

  The ache in Sean’s head dulled his ability to think clearly. When did Buster say he was coming back? Two days? Three days? That was his plan. Too long. There was another possibility. Without Sean’s assistance the man might not have finished his work. If he’d missed the party and stayed here, his fate was likely to be the same as those lying out on the pan. That being the case, when Buster failed to radio base this morning, as he was required to do three times a day, there would probably be some concern. Okaukuejo would contact the lodge. When? How long would they wait? Maybe until his second call was overdue. Failing to raise anybody, they’d send someone to investigate. If they drove, they could be here early this afternoon. But if they used the chopper . . ? Sean didn’t think that likely. It cost so much to run it was only flown when there was no other option.

  Sean watched their captors. These men, if they had killed the vet, would most probably joke about it on the way past. They didn’t. Either the terrorists were so hardened to taking life that one man’s death didn’t count, or Buster hadn’t been there. Chances were, it would be at least another day before any alarm was raised from that source.

  They were heading around the pan in a northeasterly direction. The further they walked, the more the rangers lost hope that someone would see them. They were well away from roads by now. Tourists could not venture off the tracks. Only those with legitimate reasons were allowed to do that. A research team was working with giraffe over near Namutoni, but they had no reason to come this far west. Two botanists were collecting grass samples from the entire park but their last reported position, three days ago, indicated that they’d be spending about a week in mixed bushveld of the south-eastern region.

  Very occasionally, self-drive tourists ignored the ‘Residents Only’ sign at the start of the embankment that led to Logans Island. It happened so infrequently that the chances of it occurring today were practically nil. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to Sean that the hostages and their captors could be inside Angola before anyone realised that something was wrong.

  Matt Grandville showed no signs of recovering consciousness. Although strapped down, he rolled like a rag doll, at the mercy of his weary bearers and the uneven ground. Those carrying the stretcher tried to keep it as even as they could but often stumbled. When the stretcher tilted, Matt slid with it, the constant shifting of his weight taking its toll on already aching muscles. It was a vicious circle. The more tired the men became, the more strain they had to endure.

  The strength-sapping conditions at least took minds off what they’d left behind. Gayle walked alongside the stretcher, still weeping. ‘Oh, Mattie, please wake up. Please, Mattie.’

  The fact that he’d been so quick to her defence had come as no surprise to Gayle. Matt was always protective. She had never doubted his loyalty, but the look of absolute fury when he thought she’d been hurt came from deep down inside him. No actor, no matter how good the performance, could portray such anger and concern as she’d seen on his face.

  That surprised her. She had always assumed that Matt, irrespective of his consideration for her, was like all those before him and using her. He’d stayed longer than most but she expected he’d leave eventually. They all did. When that happened, she’d find a replacement. It never once crossed her mind that Matt’s feelings for her ran any deeper than shallow. Totally engrossed in herself, Gayle read
no meaning into the look on his face when he watched her, or the tender caress of his hands. When he said he loved her – quite often now she came to think about it – she heard only the words, not the sincerity in his husky whisper. When they made love and she felt him trembling, it had been put down to passion, nothing else.

  The realisation suddenly hit Gayle that Matt loved her deeply. Loved her enough to risk his life for her. No-one had ever felt like that about her before. He had to wake up. She had to tell him she knew. That was more important than anything else. She knew. She believed him. Finally, and at last, someone else’s words could be trusted. He loves me for me. Why didn’t I see it? Gayle felt deathly afraid of losing him. He can’t die, he mustn’t. ‘Wake up, Mattie. It’ll be different from now on. I’ll make it up to you, Matt, only please wake up soon. I need you.’

  Gayle sensed that someone had fallen in step with her. Thea laid a hand on her arm and squeezed. ‘I’m sure he’ll be okay.’

  Gayle sniffed. ‘He loves me.’

  ‘Of course he does.’

  Fresh tears fell. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Matt loves you very much. He sees the side of you I saw last night.’

  ‘God knows how. I don’t show it often.’

  Thea linked an arm through Gayle’s. They walked together, drawing comfort from each other.

  Chester caught up with Kalila. ‘Are you okay?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Is your father really a chief?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Chester inclined his head and briefly raised eyebrows, impressed. ‘And a politician?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A silence fell between them until Chester broke it. ‘My father herded cattle.’

  She glanced at his face. He was not trying to be funny. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’m sorry about the condom.’

  ‘Because of who my father is?’

  ‘No. Because I like you.’

  ‘Why did you pretend to use it?’

  Chester shrugged. ‘Would it have been the same if you thought I wasn’t using one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘See.’

  ‘It was dishonest.’

  ‘Only the first time.’

  Kalila managed a small smile. In their current predicament it seemed a funny kind of conversation to be having. ‘True enough,’ she agreed, remembering the feel of his strong body.

  ‘If . . . when we get out of this mess I’d like to see more of you.’

  Her softly spoken reply held anger. ‘How can you think of such things at a time like this? These men mean business.’

  ‘I’m trying to stay positive.’

  ‘Positive! After what happened back there?’

  ‘Don’t,’ he warned. ‘Keep your thoughts ahead. There’ll be time to think when this is over.’

  ‘As you said, we’ll need to survive first.’

  ‘We will. Keep thinking that. Don’t give up.’

  ‘I am a Zulu,’ Kalila reminded him. ‘You do not have to tell me how to die.’

  ‘And I am a Himba,’ Chester said softly. ‘We too know how to die.’

  Kalila glanced at him and saw sincerity and a deep caring. He was trying to help her. ‘I’m frightened, Chester. What will happen to us?’

  Chester felt his stomach churn. He knew what to expect from these men. Nothing he could say would prepare Kalila for what lay ahead. Far better she not dwell on it. ‘We’ll be held for ransom. Do as they tell you and you will not be harmed.’

  She took a shuddering breath and blew air, trying to quell her rising fear.

  ‘I’d still like an answer,’ he persisted, trying to divert her. ‘Or would your father forbid you to see me?’

  ‘I make my own decisions,’ Kalila said defiantly. ‘My father has no control over who I see.’

  ‘You won’t pull rank on me?’

  ‘It’s his rank, not mine.’

  There was determination in her voice where before had been fear. If he’d been able to help in some small way at all, that was good enough for Chester.

  Kalila thought about Chester’s words. He was right about one thing. There was no point at the moment in thinking about those poor souls left out on the pan. Mental strength had to be conserved, not squandered in sympathy for those beyond caring. Tribal ways, Kalila knew, were slow to die. And these terrorists were tied to the past, not the future. They’d behave in the time-honoured tradition. In fact, the execution of those on the pan was nothing more than an expedient way of ridding themselves of unwelcome baggage. In the old days, raids on enemy villages meant death to every man, old person and young child. Only the women, girls and pre-pubescent boys were spared, the first two for carnal use, the latter to be trained as soldiers to swell the conquering army’s numbers. To be held for ransom – and Kalila agreed with Chester that this was the men’s objective – would not spare the women amongst them. Chester would know that she, probably more than the other hostages, had a fair inkling of what to expect. His attempts to divert her fear were appreciated but they hadn’t worked.

  Beside her, Chester took Kalila’s hand and curled his fingers through hers. It crossed his mind that a walk through the bush with a girl as beautiful as this would normally be a wonderful experience. But Chester carried inside him the greatest of fear. UNITA was not known for compassion. The ideal which drove some of its members towards a political objective was lost on most. He thanked God that Kalila could not understand the language spoken by their captors. But even while he was grateful he knew that in the end his worst fears would be realised. Kalila’s looks had been noted.

  Encouraged by the fact that no-one told Kalila and Chester to be quiet, the others talked quietly as they walked. Angela found herself beside Josie. ‘Why do you think they want us?’

  Josie had been thinking about the same thing. ‘The questions we were asked. Their leader was trying to find out whose family is well off. My guess is they’ll demand money for our release.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They won’t try to . . . hurt us?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Josie said sharply, unwilling to speculate on anything other than being held captive. She’d also been worrying about rape. Death would be preferable.

  Angela was so scared that her legs seemed to have lost all rhythm. She walked clumsily, stumbling often. The horror left behind paled by comparison with the numbing fear of what lay ahead. Like Josie, Angela would prefer to die.

  James Fulton was still fretting about Mal. What had happened to him? Perhaps he’d seen the soldiers and made a run for it. He really wanted to believe that. Please be safe, Blackie. Please be safe.

  Troy tapped Dan on the shoulder. ‘Let me take over for a bit.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dan’s back had been killing him, the pulled muscle screaming a protest.

  Troy relieved him of the handles. Philip Meyer had the front end. Dan walked alongside the student in silence. Both men were thinking the same thing. It was Troy who whispered his concern. ‘The women. Do you think that –’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dan cut in.

  ‘Maybe not.’ Troy tried to stay positive. ‘Chester says we’ll be held for ransom. When the news breaks, journalists from all over the world will want pictures and interviews. Surely it would be in UNITA’s interest . . .’ His voice tailed off. Troy knew it might even work better for the rebels if their hostages were seen to be the worse for wear.

  Dan shook his head. ‘I don’t like it. Some of them have been smoking marijuana. I could smell it this morning. If these men get boozed up as well, anything could happen.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do?’

  Dan took his time answering. The memory of his young love’s abused and mutilated body flashed before him. He knew what men were capable of doing to women. The safety of the hostages balanced on a knife edge. Eventually, he said lamely, ‘Pray that their discipline doesn’t break down.’

>   It seemed a forlorn hope to both of them.

  Fletch relieved Philip. Caitlin walked with him. ‘I’ll take my turn with the stretcher.’

  ‘It’s pretty tough going.’

  ‘I know. But I’m not carrying a pack. At least I can spell you for a bit.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll let you know when I’ve had enough.’

  She lowered her voice and asked, ‘Do you think he’ll be okay?’

  Although Fletch was facing forward, he’d seen how grey the actor looked when he took over from Philip. ‘Hard to say. He should have come round by now.’ He glanced cautiously over his shoulder towards Gayle but she seemed oblivious of anything other than Matt.

  Caitlin caught his look and lowered her voice even further. ‘That’s what I was thinking. There could be internal bleeding. Do any of you know anything about concussion?’

  ‘Megan was our first aid expert.’

  ‘The girl who was . . . taken away?’

  Fletch nodded.

  Caitlin glanced down at Matt. ‘He’s not breathing very well.’ She stretched out a hand and felt his forehead. ‘Ice cold. I don’t like the look of him.’

  Gayle smiled vaguely when she saw Caitlin’s concern but she made no comment.

  Fletch called to Chester who dropped back. ‘We should try to give Matt some water. Can you ask if it’s okay?’

  Chester made the request in Portuguese then returned to Fletch. ‘I’m afraid the answer is no.’

  ‘Bastards!’

  ‘Careful,’ Chester warned in an undertone. ‘The Portuguese equivalent sounds very similar. They’ll know what you mean.’

  ‘So what?’ Fletch was suddenly exceedingly angry.

  ‘Stow it,’ Chester urged. ‘There are more of us than they need, especially South Africans. They won’t hesitate to get rid of a few. The leader has already singled out Sean, so we don’t want any trouble. I don’t think you need his death on your conscience.’