I hadn’t worked on my escape plan in too much detail – in fact, I hadn’t given it any thought at all. As the vehicle slowed down slightly I dived, Superman-like over Fred’s shoulder and rolled into the surrounding jungle. Hardly able to penetrate the dense undergrowth, I pushed forward for only a few yards before crawling under some low-lying vegetation, burrowed myself into the earth as much as possible, and lay still.
I heard footsteps running towards me and then Fred’s voice shouting out, “Go for it mate. See you back at the bar and make mine a flaming Drambuie.” Followed by his booming laughter.
The pain in my shoulder was starting to overwhelm me as I lay motionless, hardly daring to breathe. I reckoned that, if I could stay hidden for another hour or so, then, under the cover of darkness, I would have a reasonable chance of making my way back to Bo. Once there, with any luck, I would be able to contact the chief, who I knew would be more than happy to help. My plan was starting to come together nicely.
Fred was still laughing as I was dragged squealing, like a stuffed pig, back towards the vehicle.
“Mate, I could see you from here,” he chuckled.
My heroic break for freedom had lasted a full five minutes, and the pain in my shoulder made it too difficult for me to break into a smile, let alone laugh.
The LAPD wannabe was far from happy. He held his pistol to my head and screamed something incomprehensible to me, but I think I got the gist. ‘Don’t you dare do that again.’
Fred just gave me a sideways glance, with raised eyebrows, and shook his head slowly, as a headmaster might do to a naughty schoolboy.
In later years, he would take great pleasure in taking the piss out of me. Often relating the story of me diving into the dense jungle, burying my head under a few leaves, and sticking my arse up in the air for all to see. Sometimes even comparing my ‘great escape’ to that of Sir David Sterling’s exploits during the Second World War.
The ‘basha-up Beatles’ were taking to the air as we passed through the shoddily-constructed gate at the entrance to a small compound, surrounded by bamboo fencing and barbed wire.
(‘Basha-up Beatles’ were so called because they tended to get airborne in the jungle just before last light. A timely reminder that it was then time to get one’s basha or bed, erected before it got too dark.)
We were lead into a small pitch-black cell. One of our captors lit a candle, exposing windowless walls, two rickety beds and a bucket in one corner.
With a rifle pointing ominously towards us, our handcuffs were removed. Before closing the door, the policeman made a point of making us aware of the armed guard seated just outside.
My roommate was a qualified ‘patrol-medic’, having passed the course when he was starting his career in the regiment. After checking out my shoulder, by pulling my arm about and putting me through agony for, what seemed like an age, he proudly declared that I was ‘fit to fly’, and nothing was broken. He then strongly recommended that I get some rest, and save ‘the great escape 2’ until we had had a chance to see what we were up against in the light of day.
Chuntering and feeling very sorry for myself I took the advice and settled down for a few hours’ rest. At some point in the night, a hatch was opened in the door, and a plastic bottle filled with water and a metal dish containing, what looked vaguely like rice, was passed through to us.
At night, the jungle comes alive with noise. From the distant roar of some large predator to the chatter of monkeys, the drone of flying insects, the rustle of creatures crawling around the floor and the constant buzz of mosquitos. And for us, there was the incessant plodding, and sometimes tuneless humming, of the all-too-vigilant sentry.
Shards of light breaking through the numerous cracks in the walls of the flimsily-built prison-cell woke me from a fretful sleep.
Fred was already awake, sitting on his basha, and cleaning his teeth with a small splinter of wood.
The only time we were allowed out of our cell was each morning to empty the bucket into a stinking trench at the far side of the compound, and, even then, one of us had to remain behind. As pathetic as it may seem, that walk across the small enclosure was our only bit of recreation, and we looked forward to it. The morning promenade also gave us the opportunity to scrutinise the fence and identify any possible weak spots.
It didn’t take long for our military ‘combat survival’ training to kick in. In no time at all we had organised an escape committee and, because of my previous experience, I was voted in as chairman. We sat on our bashas facing each other and, on the very first committee meeting, came up with an escape plan. Which I thought was highly commendable.
The first thing we would need was access to the compound, so we started by scraping away at one of the walls. In keeping with the finest traditions of World-War-Two escapees, we masked any excess noise by humming merry tunes, whistling or simply by talking very loudly. Any superfluous scrapings were dumped in the bucket and duly disposed of. In only a few hours we had loosened an area of the wall large enough for Fred to get through, and felt reasonably confident that it would take only a gentle push to provide us with a large enough opening for us to get our break-out underway.
On a chosen night, we would wait until just after midnight and then, carefully, listen to the sentry. If, and when, we could both confirm that the guard was sitting on the chair by the door, then I would try to attract his attention in some way. Not enough to alarm him, but just enough to raise his interest and keep him in that position.
Now, I must admit that the next part of our plan was, somewhat lacking in detail. But it was all we had.
Once through the hole in the wall, Fred would then sneak around, behind the distracted guard, snaffle his rifle, and subdue him whilst I bound and gagged him with the bits of nylon twine gathered from the beds.
That done, the ex-Fijian rugby player would hurtle himself towards the pre-reccied soft spot in the fence, with me bringing up the rear, and rhino-charge straight through it. We had no idea, of course, what lay on the other side of the fence.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Considering that it would be far too dangerous to simply wander into the centre of Bo, we decided that a better option would be to make our way to Blossom’s village. Once there we would be safe and able to dispatch someone to get help.
A military strategist, or indeed anyone who might know the first thing about planning operations, would probably criticise our proposal for being too simplistic, naive and almost certainly be doomed to failure. But we were determined and reminded ourselves, time and again that ‘who dares wins’, and, anyway, we didn’t fancy another night in that hellhole.
Fred was already starting to get unusually grumpy – probably due to the appalling diet of nothing but rice, with indescribable chewy-stuff thrown in. He was almost twice my size so I surmised that that aspect of prison life hit him much harder than it did me.
Regardless of the risks, we were resolute. We were going to make a break for it, so we decided to be ready to go soon after midnight that night.
We lay on our bashas, nervous with anticipation, and waited for the next few hours to pass.
With the prison compound creating a break in the jungle canopy, a high level of moonlight, and plenty of cracks in the walls of our cell we were, just about, able to make out each other’s faces.
I listened intently to the sentry as he slowly trudged around the small building, made his way back to the door and, with a slight cough, plonked himself back in his chair.
The time had come. All I needed to do then, was to create some sort of gentle distraction. The vice-chairman of the escape committee stood, circumspect by the weakened wall, eyes glued on my, barely visible, hand, waiting for my ‘thumbs-up’, as a sign for him to burst through the wall.
I emitted a sort of squeak, sounding something like a puppy in distress, or perhaps, a rusty gate in need of a squirt of oil, and scratched at the ground by the door.
I clearly heard the guard getting t
o his feet. Just as I was about to give the ‘thumbs-up’, he spoke.
I held back. A few seconds later, to my horror, I heard a second voice – and it was just as close as the first one.
I waved my hand frantically, ensuring that, at no time, did my thumb ever pass through the horizontal, and jumped to my feet.
“Stop. Stop. There are two of them,” I whispered.
“Bollocks,” came the reply.
There then ensued a two-way conversation from behind the door, interspersed with rounds of laughter.
It sounded almost as if the two of them were settled for the night, and enjoying each other’s company, whilst tucking into a healthy dose of the local ganja.
We had no alternative, other than to abort our mission.
The next day we were down, but by no means out. We would try again that coming night.
Or so we thought.
As we lay on our bashas, swatting away the various types of flying bugs intent on settling onto any area of our exposed skin, and enduring the stifling heat of the day, the cell door opened.
Two guards, rifles at the ready, as usual, came in.
“Come. Come,” one of them said.
We were lead towards the ramshackle shed which acted as the prison headquarters, the offices and the guards living accommodation.
The tiny office was empty apart from a desk and one chair, which was occupied by a man who was, clearly, a figure of authority. He was much better fed than anyone else in the camp and wore a uniform which looked as though it had recently been washed and ironed. On each shoulder, there were emblazoned two pips, donating the rank of a police inspector.
The inspector didn’t look up, as the guards told us to stand in front of the desk. He spent time carefully reading from a notepad, which I assumed contained details of our ‘crime’ and ‘criminal record’ – or some such nonsense.
Eventually, he deigned to look up at us.
“Mister Marafano,” he said with a smile. “You are free to leave. I hope your stay has not been too uncomfortable. Please give my regards to Chief Norman.”
He turned his eyes towards me. “Mister Riley.” This time said without a smile. “You are free to proceed to Freetown only. Once there you will be required to appear in court to face charges relating to the illegal possession of diamonds.”
He handed our rucksacks to us which, rather amazingly, still contained all our money, and said to us, “There is someone at the gate waiting to meet you. Goodbye.”
That someone was Juba, the pilot. He shook our hands, in the, by now familiar, convoluted African manner, and then drove us towards Kenema, where the helicopter was waiting to fly us back to the capital.
On board was a cool-box containing enough food and drink for Fred and I and the four-man crew. The two of us tucked-in, and emptied the box almost before we got into the air.
As soon as we landed in Freetown I made straight for my hotel room. Without wasting a second I grabbed my passport and what few possessions I had and made my way to the airport.
My sole intention was to get out of the country before the police had time to get themselves organised and stop me from leaving.
The first flight displayed on the ‘Departures’ board was a Kenyan Airways flight to Nairobi, which was in completely the opposite direction to where I wanted to go. Having managed to elbow my way through the crowd and purchase a ticket, I sat nervously, in the chaotic departure lounge and waited for the flight to be called.
It wasn’t until the following morning as I sat in the Business section of a British Airways Jumbo-Jet, on route from Nairobi to London, that I felt able to relax.
Some weeks later, back at home, on the edge of the West Pennine Moor, I received two letters from The Republic of Sierra Leone.
The first was from the Department of Justice in Freetown, instructing me to appear in court to face charges of ‘Smuggling and Tax Evasion’, crimes which carried a maximum sentence of twenty years’ imprisonment.
The second, was from an associate of ‘faithful George’ (the same George who had betrayed us and ran off with our stash of diamonds), asking me to transfer the sum of two thousand dollars into his Western Union account. He explained that he had another friend who was a high-court judge, and upon receipt of the money he would be happy to represent me. He would, he said, be able to deal with the charges raised against me on my behalf, thereby saving my good reputation and the expenses of having to travel back to Africa.
Needless to say – I ignored both letters.
To this day, I have never returned to Sierra Leone, and what is more, I can honestly say that I hope I never will.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
BLOSSOM
After the RUF attack on the village outside Bo, Blossom’s health, both physical and mental, deteriorated rapidly. Shortly after being released from prison, and working under the protective umbrella of Executive Outcomes, Fred visited the village and was shocked by the young woman’s condition.
He was concerned that Blossom was close to death, and without any undue ceremony, picked up the emaciated girl, placed her in the Land Rover, and drove her to the hospital in Freetown.
With Blossom in his arms and his rifle slung across his powerful shoulders, Fred trudged into the hospital reception. He forced his way through the inevitable crowd and demanded that his charge was attended to immediately, and at whatever cost.
For more than a month Fred paid for Blossom to receive the best care available and arranged for food and water to be delivered to her regularly.
The monstrous attack Blossom had endured, and the savage murder of her baby daughter was not the first time she had been tortured at the hands of repulsive and barbaric human beings.
The Juju-man, sometimes known as the ‘Barber-man’, was always busy. He had a large area of responsibility, covering many villages, most of whose inhabitants were only too willing to pay for his services. The visits of the, very important, and powerful, Barber-man were always anticipated with great excitement.
Girls in the village as young as three-years-old were told that, when it was their turn to be treated by the Barber-man, it would be a joyous occasion and a time for much celebration.
The Witch Doctor was the only health-care worker available to the indigenous population and they were in awe of his ability to perform his wondrous acts which often bordered upon magic.
With long, matted dreadlocks, lion’s canine teeth pierced through his earlobes, and a leopard skin draped across his shoulders, he portrayed a formidable and imposing figure. With just a shake of his Juju-stick or a rattle of his bone-filled coconut shell, he had been known to cure fevers or even AIDS. The fingernails on his right hand were carefully manicured, long and razor-sharp. His strong, white teeth had been filed to make them capable of effortlessly slicing through flesh.
At just seven years old Blossom had had to wait a long time for her big day to come, but with so many other young girls for the Barber-man to attend to she understood, and accepted the delay. She was happy and excited, as were her mother, grandmother and two favourite aunts as they lead her towards the ‘operating table’, a tree trunk by her front door.
The tiny, naked girl was held down by the four chattering women, as the Barber-man approached, performing a dance-like shuffle and unintelligible chant as he did so. Blossom began to feel embarrassed and afraid. She turned to her Mama who, by then enthralled by the atmosphere of the ceremony, simply pressed down more firmly on her daughter’s thigh, causing her to cry with pain.
Little Blossom screamed and writhed as the well-practiced mutilator forced the fingers of his left hand inside her and pulled her apart.
As the four-woman team of restrainers worked together to hold their sacrificial lamb to the tree-trunk, a fifth one joined them, gagging the young girl to stifle her screams.
The Barber-man then went about his business, in the style for which he was famous, and widely respected. He located the victim’s tiny clitoris and, nipping it def
tly with his thumb and forefinger, stretched it towards him. With the razor-sharp fingernails of his right hand, he cut away the bloody clitoral-hood, much to the satisfaction of the audience.
Forcing the legs further apart he then bit off both the left and right labia and, with his mouth dripping with blood, spat them out onto his hand. He then proudly displayed the amputated flesh to the onlookers, who acknowledged his workmanship with smiles and nods of approval.
After stitching up the wound with thorns from an acacia tree, he ordered that Blossom should be carried away and the next patient should be prepared for treatment.
Blossoms collarbone was fractured during her desperate struggle, and she was left to consider the advice that a little discomfort was worth enduring if she were ever to become a woman.
Fred decided that a bunch of flowers, and a dish of her favourite cassava leaves and stuffed-orca, would be just the thing to cheer Blossom up. When he arrived at the ward she normally slept in, he found her bed to be empty. She had died during the night.
Right up to his death, many years later, Fred was convinced that Blossom had died from a broken heart, due to the hideous murder of her baby daughter Yaema.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
SARDINIA AND PARIS
The main part of my job with SIS was infiltration and exfiltration of agents. Normally I put together contingency plans to provide escape routes for them out of countries around the globe, in the event of them becoming compromised, and their lives, or the lives of their close families, coming under threat.
I also worked closely with the ‘Increment’, a very small and most secretive element of Special Forces often referred to as ‘The Wing’, or RWW, Revolutionary Warfare Wing. There were many times over the previous few years when individuals or, more likely, four-man teams from the Increment needed to be inserted into a foreign country without passing through any official channels.
One such operation in the summer of 1997 springs to mind.
Kisses From Nimbus Page 17