On The Riverside Of Promise

by Vasileios Kalampakas

  * * *

  Ethan opened his eyes to a room filled with darkness, except for a narrow slit of light seeping under the door. The air was stale and damp; it smelled of oil and rust. Ethan’s eyes adjusted to the dim light and looked around. He could barely make out the rough edges of crates, vanes and pipes pouring out from the wall next to the door. A sharp smell assaulted his senses suddenly; cordite.

  He was lying down with his back against the wall. He flexed the sore muscles on his feet and feltsomething weighing them down. He heard the sound of rustling chains; he was in shackles. Whoever these people were, they weren’t taking any chances.

  The back of his head brushed against the wall; the concrete was coarse but warm. The temperature was tolerably hot, but the humidity felt like it could choke him. Surprisingly enough though, he was still alive. He smiled bitterly to himself; the thought that he had taken the risk to follow Nicole into a trap didn’t trouble him as much as the fact that he had actually fallen for it like an amateur. Whatever would happen next, he felt as far away from ever finding Andy again as ever. Right about the time when he thought he was so close. When he knew his brother was alive.

  His thoughts were then suddenly interrupted when he heard voices from outside and the clanging sound of boots on a metal floor. He could hear two male voices exchanging a few words in French. He then heard the sound of a lighter, followed by the echo of steps moving away. The guard on the door had been changed. Whatever kind of facility he was being kept prisoner in, there seemed to be lots of Nicole’s friends.

  They had taken away his boots and naturally his knife and the Browning. They’d been thorough enough to search his socks and rip the pockets out of his shirt and trousers. In a perhaps strange bout of decency, they hadn’t left him naked.

  The small storage room gave away few clues about his whereabouts; it could be underground, or in some old, disused building. Wherever he was though, there was ample humidity but there was nothing special about that. He could still be somewhere near the river, or in a remote part of the jungle. Perhaps he was being held somewhere in the Delta, further south. Someone should bring him some food and water eventually. If they wanted him dead, Nicole had had ample opportunities before.

  His thoughts wandered then to James. Everything suddenly seemed to rest on him at that point. When he came looking for him and Ethan was nowhere to be found, what would he do?

  Without knowing exactly where he was and with no clue about how long he’d been out, their prearranged landing zone could be days away. And even if by some stroke of luck or genius that he couldn’t really bother to believe in at that time he did somehow escape, there was no telling whether he’d be on time. No, he corrected himself. If they’d be there in time. Him and Andy.

  Because if he was being held captive in this place, there was a good chance Andy would be around as well. Unless they had a whole network of caches, outposts and storage facilities made out of concrete, he could very well be in the next room.

  Outside, he heard someone approaching once more. The steps sounded different than before; more quiet, less pronounced. Someone with a smaller, lighter build. Once the sound of steps stopped, he half-expected whoever was outside to have a talk, perhaps a routine check. He heard nothing of the sort, but instead the sound of heavy metal locks clanging and bars lifting could be heard. Soon the door opened and light shone through brilliantly. The sudden contrast made Ethan flinch away.

  He then blinked furiously for a while before taking a look at the door with some reticence. A shapely shadow obscured some of the light. When he looked up, he saw Nicole holding a key-chain. She then pushed the door wide open to reveal the form of the guard, an Igbo by the looks of him.

  What had at first looked like a bath of shiny and brilliant light revealed itself to be nothing more than a sickly yellowish light bulb. Nicole simply nodded and the guard stood behind her holding his rifle with both hands, the butt of the stock extended, ready to smash a couple of bones if the need arose. They were indeed handling him very carefully, even though he had no great misconceptions about his place there and then.

  They seemed to be communicating well enough without words.

  “Good. You’re finally up,” said Nicole with heartening approval.

  “How long was I out?” asked Ethan and cleared his throat.

  “You’ll have to do better than that, Captain. Stand up now,” she said in a mildly authoritative but not unkind way.

  “Am I being held as a prisoner of war?” asked Ethan rather dejectedly.

  Nicole grinned widely as she was searching for the right key in the chain.

  “The Geneva accords?” she asked and shrugged. “There’s no reason for that, we’re all civilized here,” she said and looked straight at Ethan before asking him, “Aren’t we?”

  Ethan repeated himself in the same monotone voice as before:

  “Am I being held-”

  “For God’s sake, just stand up and let me unlock the shackles.”

  “I thought these were meant for me,” said Ethan with an expression of mock naivety, shaking his head and raising his brow.

  “That was just protocol,” replied Nicole as she bent down with the key in hand.

  “So I’m not a prisoner?”

  “That will depend,” said Nicole standing upright again and tossing the shackles away.

  “On what exactly?”

  “On your answer,” she replied flatly. The cold, calculating stare on her eyes was hint enough that she was dead serious about whatever the question was. Ethan stood on his heels and stretched. He felt his blood circulating more freely and flexed his arms and legs. The guard then made a sudden motion towards him that was only interrupted by Nicole’s outstretched palm. The look on the Igbo guard told Ethan that he should stick to simply walking for the time being.

  “What is the question?”

  “Let’s have dinner first, shall we? We need to talk some things over.”

  “What about Andy? Are we talking about him?” he asked, rather miffed. Nicole’s answer came with a thin, gracious smile.

  “Him too, I assure you. Your boots are right outside,” she said and nodded while the guard cast his eyes on Ethan like a bird of prey.

  Ethan went outside to put on his boots. There he saw another two men standing guard on a small corridor to the left. One was having a smoke, while the other one was chewing on some leaves. Both wore a mix and match of fatigues and loose shirts, green-hued and quite appropriate for the jungle. These men looked like irregulars but they had the air of a trained soldier.

  While Ethan put on his boots, Nicole gave the men a nod and made a hand signal. They both nodded, took a last look on Ethan, turned the other way and left. Behind Ethan stood the Igbo, safely a couple of paces away.

  None of Nicole’s men had spoken a word or asked a question. That meant they’d been together for some time. Whatever these people were, they didn’t seem like a rag-tag crew of rebels on the run, looking for some quick, hard exchange. They looked like a unit; a cohesive, well-disciplined military unit.

  “After you,” said Nicole and pushed him gently down the corridor. Ethan started walking towards what appeared to be daylight coming down through a shaft. It seemed like they were inside a small underground complex. He walked past two corridors that seemed to turn after a few yards. He knew that every piece of detail might save his life later on, even if Nicole was trying to convince him all this looked like some sort of terrible misunderstanding.

  She didn’t seem to care though about using a mask or hood so as not to divulge sensitive info about their facility. Whether or not they knew he was trying to put every detail in memory, they were either too sloppy or just overconfident. And these were both qualities that never paid off.

  The corridor had a low ceiling and was wide enough for three, maybe even four people. They passed through a part of the corridor that was littered with mechanical equipment, tools, rods, and all sorts of metal boxes with screens and d
ials. Electronics equipment from the looks of it, probably communications but not some sort of radio he was familiar with.

  As they came closer to the open hatch that led to the ground he could feel a waft of fresh air. Warm though it was against his face, it was a welcome change. As he stepped on to the ladder, he could see the guards waiting for them outside, one rifle aimed straight at Ethan and the other one searching for a threat from their perimeter.

  Once he was outside and on his feet, he saw nothing other than a wide, frothing river with small isles dotted in its flow. There was an old-looking fishing hut build right on the sandy estuary and a couple of sand-blasted boats. Right behind him he heard Nicole’s feet tousle the thick grass. She had taken off her shoes, holding them in one hand.

  “It’s this way,” she said and Ethan turned to see a small two-story mansion sitting nicely between a hillock of mangroves and a small farm of oil palms. Built in early French colonial style, it looked impressively well-maintained and almost picturesque.

  He noticed more guards, two on the first floor and two more on patrol around the farm. These were dressed in plain, simple peasant clothes, practical for the heat and unassuming. They didn’t carry rifles, but he noticed they all had a machete sheathed across their backs. One of them carried a handgun, its large grip protruding from one of his pockets.

  “Don’t be shy,” said Nicole and this time led the way through the front yard, where various bushes had been planted but left to grow wildly. Ethan could identify some; wild strawberries and something that looked very similar to cranberries.

  A gentle breeze carried an obnoxious smell that reminded Ethan of the Obofia forest. They must’ve been close then, he realised.

  “The Orashi,” said Ethan who stopped and pointed towards the river.

  “No, that’s the Otamiri,” said Nicole half-way on the steps leading to the front porch.

  “Another stream?” asked Ethan with curiosity.

  “No, that’s the Niger alright,” she replied with the hint of a smile in her voice.

  “Why do they call it that?” asked Ethan and then heard a strange sounding voice that he hadn’t heard in a long time and thought he might never hear again.

  “That’s Igbo for `great water’,” said the voice and when Ethan turned around he saw a tall man wearing glasses, his hair greyed out. He hadn’t seen him in years, but Ethan knew it was him alright. It was Andy.