‘That’s a long story,’ I said. ‘You’ve been in Kodowa lately? Then you’ll know what it was like there. The hospital wasn’t usable so we turned the rig into a travelling hospital. We’re trying to get the patients to Fort Pirie. Perhaps you can help us, Captain.’
He looked at me unbelievingly. ‘Why didn’t you take them to Kanja? There’s a hospital there and it’s closer.’
‘We tried. But there’s a bridge down in between.’
Apparently he hadn’t known that, because he fired questions at me about it and then called a couple of messengers and rattled off orders to them. Then he turned to me and said curtly, ‘I am leaving soldiers on guard here. You will stay until I return or until the Colonel arrives.’
‘We’re going no place, Captain,’ I said. ‘Not until morning, at any rate. Then perhaps you can help us get the rig across the bridge.’
He gave another order and the car swung round and drove off. A circle of soldiers, rifles at the ready, stood around us. The guns they held were Kalashnikovs.
I sighed and sat down.
‘Well done. You’re quite a con man,’ Wingstead said.
‘Cool it, Geoff. God knows how many of them understand English.’
Then we realized that the soldiers had orders to do more than just stand around watching us. A sergeant was doing what sergeants do, and corporals were doing what corporals do; passing orders from top to bottom. They began to swarm over our camp and vehicles and I heard the sound of breaking glass.
‘Hold on! What are you doing there?’ Kemp asked angrily.
‘We follow orders. You go back,’ a sullen voice answered.
I turned to a sergeant. ‘What’s the name of your colonel?’
He considered the question and decided to answer it. ‘Colonel Maksa,’ he said. ‘He will be here soon. Now you go back.’
Reluctantly we retreated away from the vehicles. I hoped to God the soldiers wouldn’t try clambering over the rig too, and that they’d respect the doctors and nurses.
We stood around helplessly.
‘What the hell do they want?’ Kemp asked.
‘You could try asking Colonel Maksa when he arrives, but I don’t recommend it. I bet he’s another man who asks questions and doesn’t answer them. I’m pretty sure these are rebel troops; the regulars would be more respectful.’ But I remembered Hussein and doubted my own words.
‘Are you going to send that signal to Sadiq?’
‘Not yet. Let’s keep that ace in the hole for when we really need it.’
Kemp said, ‘Bloody terrorists. Don’t they know they can’t win?’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ Wingstead said. ‘And I wouldn’t use that word too freely. One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter. No doubt they see themselves as glorious liberators.’
The doors of the warehouse opened and light streamed out. Soldiers were manhandling two men into the open; they were Dan Atheridge and Antoine Dufour, who had retired to sleep on the cotton bales. Atheridge was writhing as someone wrenched his broken arm clear of its sling.
‘Good God, what are they doing to them?’ Kemp asked in horror.
‘I’d like to know,’ I said grimly. ‘Those two are about the most pacifist of the lot of us.’ I wondered if it had anything to do with the shotgun I’d hidden.
Into this scene drove two staff cars; in one was our blackgoggled Captain and in the other a large, impressive man who must have been Colonel Maksa. He had the Arabic features of many of his countrymen, marred by a disfiguring scar across his face. His uniform looked as though it had just been delivered from the tailors, in marked contrast to the bedraggled appearance of his Captain and men. He stood up as his car stopped and looked at us coldly.
I tried to take the initiative.
‘I must make a formal protest, Colonel Maksa,’ I said.
‘Must you?’ This was a more sophisticated man than the Captain, and just those two words warned me that he could be very dangerous.
‘We are a civilian engineering team. Your soldiers have been interfering with our camp and assaulting our men. I protest most strongly!’
‘Have they?’ he asked indifferently. He alighted from his car and walked past me to look at the rig, then returned to confer with his Captain.
At last he turned back to us.
‘Line up your men,’ he ordered. Wingstead gestured to the crew and they came to stand with him in a ragged line. The soldiers brought Dufour and Atheridge and dumped them among us. Both looked dazed. I glanced down the line. The two Lat-Am men were there, Burns at his most belligerent and being restrained by a nervous Zimmerman. So were both the Russians, and I hoped that Zimmerman would remember that if they were slow in obeying orders because they couldn’t understand them there might be trouble. It would be ironic if they were killed by Moscow-made weapons.
All our own men were there save Mick McGrath, and on him I had begun to pin absurd hopes. None of the medical people were present. There were soldiers in front and behind us, and paradoxically the very fact they were behind us made me feel a little better, because otherwise this would look too much like an execution.
Maksa spoke to his Captain, who barked an order.
‘Go into the warehouse.’
‘Now wait a goddamn—’ began Wingstead.
The Captain thrust his black-visored face alarmingly close. ‘I would not argue. Do what the Colonel wishes,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like arguments.’
I didn’t know if this was a warning or a threat. We walked forward between a line of guards and entered the warehouse.
We crowded towards the rear where the cotton was piled. Atheridge collapsed to the floor. Dufour looked dazed still but was on his feet. The doors were closed and a line of Maksa’s troops stood just inside them, holding submachine-guns.
I had to know about the shotgun. I said to Hammond, keeping my voice low, ‘Drift over to the corner behind you, to the left. Get some of the others to do the same. I need a diversion at the door. I want their attention away from that corner for a few seconds.’
Russ Burns said softly, ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Right. Just keep them talking for a few moments.’
He nodded curtly and edged away. I passed Bishop as I moved slowly towards the corner and said to him, ‘Brad, keep Sandy out of this if you can.’
He moved in the opposite direction, taking Bing by the arm as he did so. Zimmerman followed Burns and the two Russians went with him as though connected by magnets. We were spread about, and the five soldiers couldn’t watch all of us.
Burns went up to the soldiers and started talking. They converged on him threateningly and their voices rose. As all eyes were on them I slipped away into the corner, shielded by the little knot of men around Ben Hammond.
I scrabbled at the cotton searching for the exact spot, and my fingers encountered nothing. The sweat on my forehead was an icy film. The shotgun was gone. I rejoined the others as the warehouse doors opened again.
We were being joined by the whole of the medical staff. They were upset and angry, both Sister Ursula and Dr Kat boiling with rage.
‘What’s happening out there?’ Wingstead asked.
‘They made us leave our patients,’ Dr Kat said hoarsely. ‘They turned guns on us. Guns! We are medical people, not soldiers! We must go back.’
The black bars of Sister Ursula’s eyebrows were drawn down and she looked furious. ‘They are barbarians. They must let us go back, Mister Mannix. There’s a baby out there that needs help, and Mister Otterman is dangerously ill.’
‘Where’s Sister Mary?’ someone asked, and Sister Ursula looked more angry still. ‘She’s ill herself. We must make their leader see reason!’
Until the Colonel came there was nothing to do but wait. I considered the two missing factors: McGrath and the shotgun. It was inevitable that I should put them together. When I hid the shotgun, I had thought I wasn’t seen but there was no knowing how much McGrath knew. He
was used to acting independently, and sometimes dangerously so, and I knew him to be a killer. I hoped that he wasn’t going to do anything bull-headed: one wrong move and we could all be dead.
I was still brooding when the warehouse doors opened and Maksa walked in. When I saw the shotgun in his hands I felt as though I’d been kicked in the teeth.
He stared at us then said, ‘I want to talk to you. Get into a line.’ A jerk of the shotgun barrel reinforced the order. He gave a curt command and the soldiers filed out except for one sergeant and the doors closed behind them. We shuffled into a line to face our captor.
He said, ‘I am Colonel Maksa, commander of the fifteenth Infantry Battalion of the Nyalan Peoples’ Liberation Army. I am here in pursuit of an unfriendly military force under the command of Captain Sadiq. I have reason to think you are shielding them in an act of aggression against the Nyalan Peoples’ Republic and I intend to have this information from you.’
‘Colonel, we really don’t—’ Wingstead began.
‘Be silent! I will ask you in due course. I will begin by knowing all your names and your business, starting with you.’ He thrust the shotgun in the direction of Ritchie Thorpe, who was at the far end of the line.
‘Uh…Mister Wingstead?’
Wingstead nodded gently. ‘As the Colonel says, Ritch. Just tell him your name.’
‘I’m Richard Thorpe. I work for Mister Wingstead there. For Wyvern Transport.’
The gun’s muzzle travelled to the next man. ‘You?’
‘Bert Proctor. I drive a rig for Wyvern. I’m English.’
‘Me too. Derek Grafton, Wyvern Transport.’
‘Sam Wilson. Driver…’
The roll call continued. Some were sullen, one or two clearly terrified, a couple displayed bravado, but no-one refused to answer. The nurses, clustered together, answered in Nyalan but Dr Kat refused to do so, speaking only English and trying to get in a word about his patients. Maksa brushed him aside and went on down the line. Once the flow of voices stopped Maksa said icily, ‘Well? Do you refuse to name yourself?’
Zimmerman raised his voice.
‘Colonel, they don’t understand you. They don’t speak English.’
‘Who are they?’
‘They’re Russians: truck drivers. Their names are—’ and he supplied the two names which the rest of us could never remember. Maksa’s brows converged and he said, ‘Russians? I find that most interesting. You speak Russian, then?’
‘Yes, a little.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Harry Zimmerman. I’m a blaster for Lat-Am Oil, and I’m an American. And I don’t have anything to do with your war or this captain you’re after.’
Maksa looked at him coldly. ‘Enough! Next?’
As he looked along the line his sergeant whispered to him. The next man was Russ Burns.
‘Russell Burns, Lat-Am Oil, a good Texan, and one who doesn’t like being shoved around. What are you going to do about it?’
Burns was looking for trouble once again.
‘My sergeant tells me he has already had trouble with you. You insulted my soldiers. Is this true?’
‘You’re damn right I did! I don’t like being pushed around by a bunch of bastards like you.’
He stepped out of the line-up.
‘Burns, cut it out!’ I said.
Zimmerman added, ‘For God’s sake, Russ, take it easy.’
The shotgun rose in the Colonel’s hand to point straight at the Texan. Burns gave way but was already too late. The Colonel stepped forward and put the muzzle of the shotgun under Burns’ chin and tilted his head back.
‘You are not very respectful,’ Maksa said. ‘What is this—has someone tried to kill you already?’
The shotgun rubbed against the bandage round Burns’ throat, and he swallowed convulsively. But some mad bravado made him say, ‘That’s none of your damn business. I cut myself shaving.’
Maksa smiled genially. ‘A man with a sense of humour,’ he said, and pulled the trigger.
The top of Burns’ head blew off. His body splayed out over the floor, pooled with blood. The line scattered with shock. Maksa backed up near the door and his sergeant flanked him with his own gun at the ready. Someone was puking his guts out, and one of the nurses was down on the warehouse floor in a dead faint. The bloody horror of war had caught up with us.
TWENTY
Horror gave way to anger. The men started to voice their outrage. I looked down at Burns’ body. Nine one third inch lead slugs, together weighing over an ounce, driven with explosive force from close range had pretty well demolished him. It was the quickest of deaths and quite painless for him; but we felt it, the bowel-loosening pain of fear that sudden death brings.
Maksa’s voice rose over the babble.
‘Be silent!’ he said. He hefted the shotgun and his eyes raked us. ‘Who owns this?’
Nobody spoke.
‘Who owns this shotgun?’ he demanded again.
I was debating what to do when Maksa forced my hand. He stepped forward, scanning us, and then pointed. ‘You—come here.’ The person he had indicated was Helen Chula. After a moment’s hesitation she walked slowly towards him, and he grabbed her by the arm, swung her round to face us and jammed the shotgun against her back. ‘I ask for the third time, and there will not be a fourth. Who owns this gun?’
I had never found violence of much use in solving my problems, but it seemed to work for Maksa. He could give McGrath pointers in terrorism. I said, ‘It’s mine,’ and stepped forward.
Maksa thrust Helen away. I heard her sobbing but could see nothing but the muzzle of the shotgun as it pointed at my belly. It loomed as large as a fifteen inch navy gun.
‘So,’ said Maksa. ‘We have an American civilian, wandering around with a weapon during an armed conflict. A dangerous thing to do, would you not agree?’
‘It’s a sporting gun,’ I said with a dry mouth.
‘Can you produce your licence?’
I swallowed. ‘No.’
‘And I suppose you will also tell me that you do not work for your CIA.’
‘I don’t. I work for a British firm, and no-one else.’
‘Backing the corruption of our so-called Government?’
‘Not at all.’
‘A man can have two masters,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You Americans and the British have always worked in double harness. You imperialists stick together, don’t you? You give up your colonies and tell the United Nations that now Nyala is self-governing. But you don’t leave my country alone after that.’
I kept silent.
He went on, ‘You say we are independent, but you keep the money strings tight. You choke us with loans and reap the profits yourselves; you corrupt our politicians; you plunder us of raw material and sell us the so-called benefits of Western civilization in return, to take back the money you gave us. And now you have been joined by the dogs of Moscow: the old Czarist imperialists ally themselves with you to loot our oil and ruin our country.’
He drew a long breath, controlling himself, and then changed tack.
‘Now, about Captain Sadiq. Where is he and what are his plans?’
I said, ‘Colonel Maksa, the Captain pulled his men out early today and went away. We know no more than that.’
He said, ‘I have talked enough to you. You weary me. I can get more from the others.’
I stood frozen. The Colonel slid his hand down the gun barrel, and then a new voice cut in from high up and behind me. It wasn’t very loud but it was very firm.
‘If you lift that shotgun I’ll cut you in half, colonel.’
Maksa glared over my shoulder. I spun round to see a big black-faced man aiming a sub-machine gun at the Colonel: I turned swiftly and took Maksa’s gun away from him.
The man on the cotton stack swung the machine gun in a slow arc to point it at the Nyalan sergeant. Without a word the soldier put his gun down and backed away. Hammond picked it up and we held both men unde
r guard. The man with the black face and McGrath’s voice swung himself down to the floor. Voices murmured in recognition and relief, and then fell silent again. The atmosphere had changed dramatically, despite Russ Burns’ body sprawling at our feet.
I said, ‘Maksa, you’ve seen what this gun can do. One twitch from you and I’ll blow your backbone out.’
‘If you shoot me you’ll bring the soldiers in. They’ll kill you all.’
‘No they won’t,’ Hammond said. ‘They didn’t come in when you shot Russ there.’
McGrath, his face and arms covered with blacking, slung the gun over his shoulder. ‘Raise your hands and turn round, Maksa,’ he said. Trembling with anger, the Colonel turned as McGrath’s hand came out of his pocket holding the cosh. He hit Maksa behind the ear and the Colonel dropped solidly.
McGrath turned to the sergeant. ‘Now you, son. Turn round.’
He obeyed unwillingly. Again there was a surge of movement and McGrath said, ‘Keep it down, you flaming fools. We’ll have the guards in if they hear that going on. Just you keep quiet now.’
Relief made my tone edgy. ‘Where the hell have you been, McGrath?’
‘Out and about.’ He began to strip off the colonel’s uniform jacket with its red brassard on one sleeve. ‘Give me a hand. Tie him up and dump him back there in the cotton. Same with his sergeant.’
‘Goddamnit, we’re taking one hell of a risk, McGrath. We might have been able to talk our way out of that jam, but there’s no chance now.’
‘You weren’t going to be given much more time to talk, Mr Mannix,’ he said mildly. He was right but I hated to admit it; to be that close to death was hard to accept.
McGrath went on, tugging on a pair of trousers. ‘Do you know what they’re doing out there? They’re piling up petrol drums. They were going to burn down the ware-house.’
‘With us in it?’ Kemp asked in horror.
Someone said, ‘For God’s sake, we’ve got to get out of here.’
‘Take it easy,’ said McGrath. ‘They won’t strike a match before the Colonel’s out.’ He was dressing in the Colonel’s uniform. ‘Who’s for the other outfit? Who fits?’
The Spoilers / Juggernaut Page 52