Night of Knives

by Jon Evans

  He tries to fight, but he is weak and handcuffed, and Casimir is incredibly strong. One punch to his solar plexus, followed by a kick to his testicles, and by the time Jacob can think of anything other than breath and agony, he is bound to the same ropes that held Lysander, and Casimir is hoisting him up. The hook that holds him doesn't even wobble as his feet leave the ground. Casimir ties the rope off around the leg of the bed, anchoring Jacob, leaving him hanging diagonally in midair.

  Athanase takes the steak knife and begins to cut Jacob's clothes away. Jacob closes his eyes and tries to pretend he isn't there. As Athanase works he makes a point of cutting his victim, the knife rips into Jacob's skin, tearing into his ankles, the insides of his legs, his stomach, his armpits, and despite his best attempts he jerks and moans. Soon he is dangling naked and bleeding from the ceiling.

  Then he hears the Zippo flick open again.

  "Please," Jacob begs, opening his eyes, abandoning all hope and all stoicism. He begins to weep. It is hard to breathe, his voice is so weak he can hardly hear himself. His shoulders already feel like they're slowly being pulled out of their sockets, and blood drips from a dozen shallow but agonizing cuts onto the floor below him. "Please, no, please."

  "Tell me everything."

  "Please. There's nothing to tell. Please, God, no, please." He is no longer addressing Athanase, but there is no God, no merciful God would allow a life to come to this, would ever have created beings capable of suffering so much physical pain. It already feels like almost more than he can bear, just from his shoulders and the cuts, and he knows it has really not yet even begun.

  "Alors." Athanase smiles and ignites the Zippo. "On va voir."

  Chapter 35

  "And what do you intend to do with her?" General Gorokwe asks.

  His voice is low, powerful, accustomed to command. Veronica looks at Danton, wide-eyed, awaiting the answer, trying to look as pitiful as possible. She hates him with every cell of her being, but right now her only hope is his forbearance.

  "Nobody touches her," Danton orders. "She was my wife."

  Susan says, "We can't let her go."

  "I'm not talking about letting her go."

  "We can't ever let her go. Even after it's over."

  Danton says, "We'll worry about that when it's over. She won't be a problem until then."

  "She doesn't have to be a problem at all," Gorokwe says.

  "No. She was my wife. You're not giving her to those monsters."

  "It doesn't have to be Athanase. It can be quick and painless. Only say the word and you will never see her again, it is as simple as that."

  But Veronica isn't worried. She knows what Danton is like when someone tries to argue with him after he has made up his mind.

  "I said no," he repeats, in a tone of voice all to familiar to her, petulance more than anger, as if perhaps the problem is just that he has not been heard correctly until now.

  "We don't even know what she knows," Susan says.

  "Rockel will tell us." Danton considers Veronica. "But I'll talk to her."

  Veronica looks meekly at the floor rather than aim her venomous gaze at him.

  "In private," Danton says archly.

  Susan and Gorokwe look at one another. Eventually Gorokwe nods. Both of them stand and depart the room. As they reach the door Veronica sees Susan put a familiar hand on Gorokwe's back. It is the touch of an intimate, a lover. She remembers Susan saying that she lived in Zimbabwe before she came to Uganda.

  "I told you to go home," Danton says, when there is no one in the room but the two of them. "I gave you a second chance."

  Veronica looks around for a weapon. He is a strong man and her arms are cuffed behind her, but this is the only chance she has. Maybe he has handcuff keys on him. Maybe she can kill him, free herself, burn down the hotel or something, liberate Jacob and escape. It doesn't seem particularly likely but it seems like all the hope she's got.

  "Who else did you talk to?" Danton asks. "We know Prester. Who else? Who got you to the Uganda border?"

  "What are you doing?" she bursts out. "You stupid asshole. What the fuck are you doing? Trying to prove yourself? Trying to show the world you're not just some useless rich kid, you're as good as your daddy? What the fuck are you doing, Danton?"

  He is so taken aback by her unexpected verbal assault that he actually recoils. Then he says, "Don't you understand? Do you still not understand? We're saving Zimbabwe. And half the Congo. We're doing a great thing here. You're getting in the way of something wonderful."

  "Something wonderful. Murder, civil war, you're in bed with man who committed genocide. What's going to happen to Jacob? What are they doing to him right now?"

  "I'd worry about yourself, if I were you, not your new boyfriend."

  "I'd worry about yourself if I were you too. You think I'm the only one who knows too much? You really think you're going to get out of this country alive after they shoot down Mugabe? Don't you see? Once they've gone and spent your daddy's money you'll be totally fucking expendable."

  Danton's face flickers, and she realizes she has just given away how much she knows - but she almost doesn't care, it's worth it to have scored a point.

  "We know they're not trustworthy," he says quietly. "We know Gorokwe is volatile, he's a good man but he needs a short leash. We know Athanase and his men are monsters. We've made arrangements. They'll be taken care of when it's over. And in turn they know that if I disappear, certain revelations will come to light all around the world. I've made video recordings, copied documents, everyone will be exposed. I'm the opposite of expendable. They know that."

  "A short leash, huh. Looks to me like you're the one on it."

  "No. And don't judge the general. You don't know him. He's a good man. Brilliant, too. Unpredictable, volatile, but he wants an African renaissance more than anyone, and he's the one man who might actually make it happen."

  "Or so he's convinced you."

  "This isn't about me," Danton snaps. "Or the general. This is about what we do with you. And about trying to save your boyfriend's life before it's too late. If you tell me right now everything there is to know about his evidence, his backups, I'll go down that hall and stop what's happening."

  "I don't know anything, he never told me," Veronica says, and she sees as she says it that Danton knows it is the truth.

  "So. Too bad for him."

  Danton picks up the phone. Veronica knows this is her last chance, she has to rush him now - but she has no weapon, no chance of victory, the idea is too ridiculous, too pathetic. She just sags into a chair and listens as he orders soldiers to the room to escort her away.

  In the distance she hears a scream, muffled but soul-curdling. Veronica moans loudly in response, she can't help it. She knows it is Jacob. She knows they are torturing him. When they are finished they will kill him. There's nothing she can do, no way to stop it. He shrieks again, several times in quick succession, they're like sounds from a nightmare, animal and desperate. But she can't even try to convince herself that this might be a nightmare. Nothing has ever felt so awful and so real.

  Danton winces. "He has to just tell them. He will. He has to do it now."

  She stares at her ex-husband with genuine horror. "Look at yourself. Listen. How can you do this? What are you doing?"

  He stares at her for a long moment. In the distance Jacob screams like a child.

  Danton looks down to the floor and says, softly, in the boy's voice he used when they murmured in bed together, when they were married, "I don't even know any more. I swear, I never knew it was going to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I'm sorry. But it's too late now."

  She can't think of anything to say.

  Danton says, "I'm going to get you out of here. Eventually. I promise. Nobody's going to touch you."

  * * *

  Two burly men in plainclothes march Veronica down the velvet-carpeted stairs to the huge, vaulted main entrance, where she learns that this is th
e Leopard Rock Hotel. Behind her Jacob has gone silent. She hopes he just told them everything. It doesn't even matter whether their evidence gets out. There wasn't much to it anyways. She should have tried to explain that to Danton.

  Two soldiers wait behind the reception desk. Gorokwe's troops have obviously taken over the whole property. After a brief Shona conversation she is propelled outside, down the circular driveway, and into a parking lot crowded with military Jeeps and black Mercedes and BMWs with opaque windows and no license plates. She is still handcuffed. The hands on her arms are firm but not crushing. Danton told the men who have taken her into custody several times that nobody was to touch her, no matter what. She supposes she should feel grateful.

  She is hustled into the back of a black Mercedes. One man drives, the other sits beside her, the doors are locked. The road out of the Leopard Rock climbs upward, winding around the huge cliff that looms above the hotel, through dense forest on either side, very different from the dry plains of central Zimbabwe. These must be the eastern highlands near Mozambique that Lovemore described.

  The route they take snakes through rippling ridges of steep, folded hills and valleys, covered by grassy plains and rainforest and shot through by tumbling rivers. The only signs of life come from clusters of crude wooden shelters whose denizens stare sullenly at the passing vehicle. Countless red dirt tributaries extend from the main road into the hills.

  After a long descent they skirt a busy city, Mutare from the signs, climb around a huge koppie and back up into hills that seem more raw and rugged. Several times the road winds along the base of sheer forty-foot precipices. They pass a few slopes covered by burnt bare ground and sparse trees, with fire-blackened trunks jutting from the ground like fence stakes. They pass through a military checkpoint, and then another. Veronica supposes they're going to some kind of military base where she will be imprisoned.

  She doesn't really believe she will ever be released. Maybe that's what Danton intends right now, in a sudden burst of guilty morality, but he will eventually come to realize that his own interests are best served by Veronica's death. And it seems likely Gorokwe will take matters into his own hands if necessary. Either way her imminent death feels as good as foreordained. She supposes she will probably at least outlive Mugabe, they have bigger things to worry about than her right now. She will live long enough to be a loose end, and then she will be tied up. She almost wishes they would just get it over with now.

  The faded sign on the fence topped with barbed wire says REZENDE. The gate is guarded by two bored-looking soldiers. The gravel parking lot is occupied by Jeeps, white vans, and a few yellow Caterpillar industrial vehicles. Beyond, a complex of low and battered buildings is set into the side of a steep and rocky hill. Outside the fence, a dozen gargantuan heaps of yellow dirt, like termite mounds fifty metres high, loom above the scrub brush and trees.

  The car doors open. Veronica emerges willingly, no sense resisting now, and is led past broken windows to a kind of courtyard where weeds grow through cracked concrete and patches of gravel. A generator buzzes somewhere inside the largest nearby building. Here a half-dozen armed soldiers guard what looks at first like some bizarre Rube Goldberg contraption. Four metal legs support a roof of corrugated tin over a massive piece of machinery festooned with gears, wheels, and pulleys. This machinery in turn holds a big metal cage directly above a hole in the ground. The cage is about three metres by two, the hole slightly larger. Four rusting chains dangle into the corners of the abyss. It takes Veronica most of the walk across the parking lot to figure out that the hole is a mineshaft, the contraption above an elevator, and the huge piles of yellow dirt are heaps of processed and discarded ore. This is a semi-abandoned mining complex. She thinks of the open-pit coltan mine in the Congo.

  The men lead her to the cage and pause long enough to chat a little with the soldiers, she can't understand the words but can tell that they are asking about her, and are amused by the answers. Eventually the conversation ceases and the cage is opened, its whole wall hinges inwards, and Veronica begins to understand exactly where she will be imprisoned.

  "No," she says weakly, staring at the cage door as if it is a fanged jaw that might devour her. Her heart begins to pound. Being buried alive has always been her greatest fear. "No, please. Put me somewhere else. Not down there. Please."

  The men exchanged amused smiles as they pull Veronica inside. She groans weakly. The cage is just high enough to stand upright. Its floor is rusted sheet metal. A strong, hot updraft rises from the pit beneath.

  The door clangs shut. One man lights the paraffin lamps that dangle from hooks on the ceiling. Veronica feels dizzy, her skin is damp with sweat, it takes all her will to keep the trembling seed of terror within her from flowering and conquering her mind and and body. Then the generator noise hits a new register and the cage lurches suddenly downwards. Veronica almost falls to her knees.

  They continue to descend, a little more smoothly. The chains at the corners clank loudly as they rise. They fall into darkness, lit only by lamplight. The air grows steadily warmer. It feels like sinking into hell. Like being buried alive.

  "No," Veronica moans. There is a roaring sound in her ears and her whole body fills with a electric tingling. She can't get enough air, there is a painful tightness in her chest as if her lungs have been squeezed shut. She closes her eyes, sags down the cage walls to a sitting position with her arms wrapped around her knees, and tries to forget where she is, to just focus on breathing, on not passing out.

  An eternity seems to pass before the panic attack subsides. When it does Veronica feels completely exhausted, like she has just run a marathon, but at least she can think and breathe again - although she can still feel the panic lurking darkly in her mind, a crouching, howling beast ready to spring and savage her again.

  Warm air blows up the mineshaft past them, wind from the center of the earth. Veronica opens her eyes. They fall past a dark opening in the sheer stone walls, an abandoned corridor like an open mouth. There is a faint glow from below. Veronica looks up. The mouth of the mineshaft has shrunk to a tiny dot, like a single pixel in a computer screen. The sight nearly triggers another attack.

  One of her escorts pulls a cord that dangles from a corner of the roof. A cable runs up one of the chains that holds the cage, some kind of signalling mechanism. Their descent slows to a crawl as they approach an opening in the stone walls around them, lit by flickering lamplight. The man pulls the cord twice as the cage grows level with the opening. They come to a halt about two inches below the lip of the opening. Gaps around the edge of the sheet-metal floor reveal that the mineshaft continues below.

  The corridor is about as big as the cage itself, eight feet wide and six high. Its walls and ceiling are sheer whitewashed stone. Narrow rail tracks begin at the edge of the mineshaft and continue down the corridor into darkness.

  "He says we must not touch you," one of her escorts says, the first words that have been directed to her. He sounds darkly amused. "Very well. We follow orders. None of us will touch you."

  The other pushes her in the back, ungently. "Go."

  Veronica has no choice, she starts down the corridor. The two men follow. One carries a paraffin lamp. The stone ceiling grows lower, and Veronica has to stoop to keep her head clear. Pipes and cables run along the ceiling, rusted and in several places severed. She hears murmuring voice. They reach a little alcove where an old wooden desk stands beneath a dust-covered sign warning that SAFETY IS EVERYONE'S JOB. A half-dozen soldiers with rifles are here, seated on crude wooden stools, chatting quietly. After a brief conversation four of them stand to join the procession.

  They continue into the mine, soldiers in front, then Veronica, then the two men in street clothes. The soldiers' boots echo hollowly on the stone floors. Other, smaller passages intersect this one, and connecting shafts ran diagonally upwards and downwards, covered by grids of old wood, presumably to stop rockfalls. They pass two small passages entirely blocked by ru
bble. In several places the ceiling is supported by wooden pillars with bases carved into sharp points.

  The faintly drafty air is dense, hot and dusty. The lamplight is dim and flickering. At first the only sounds are occasional drips of water, distant tik-tik-tik noises, which she took to be miners working with hammer and chisel. Then Veronica begins to hear voices, so distant that she wonders at first if they are her imagination. They pass a large chamber with whitewashed walls, where two more armed soldiers sit on a wooden bench.

  Veronica turns her head to look, then suddenly stops walking and stares. She knows the two gleaming coffin-shaped boxes stacked behind those soldiers, close enough that she can read their etched Cyrillic letters. The Iglas, the missiles, the weapons that will assassinate Mugabe.

  Her guards shove her onwards hard enough that she stumbles. When she looks back she sees them glance curiously into that chamber themselves. Her mind whirls as she continues on and the voices grow louder. It makes sense that they're here, it's hard to imagine a more secret or secure hiding spot than half a mile underground, and probably very few of Gorokwe's men know what is in those boxes and why. Maybe even her two escorts don't know that Mugabe will be shot down the day after tomorrow. Maybe she should tell them, maybe they will find a burning patriotism within and try to save their country from bloody ruin - but that doesn't seem likely, and anyways it's too late, they have stopped in front of a wall of rusted iron bars.

  The metal grille is set into the walls and ceiling, blocking the corridor completely. It has been crudely but firmly welded together, blobs and seams are visible. The door in the middle of the cage is chained securely shut. An unsettling chorus of dull, hoarse voices emanates from behind the iron bars: dozens of voices, maybe more. The air stinks of filth and sweat.

  A man grabs her wrists and unlocks her handcuffs. The guards turn to the bars. Two of them point their rifles inside; the other two activate flashlights and aim them inside. Veronica gasps with horror. Her first impression is of a solid mass of naked human misery. There are maybe sixty men inside, crammed into a space maybe thirty feet square. When the lights come on they fall silent and shrink back from the guns, press themselves against what look like metal walls in the middle of the chamber. All are black, naked or stripped to their underwear, covered in dust and filth, many with bleeding or swollen faces.