by Jeremy Bates
Fitzgerald had cut the skiff’s engine several kilometers back and switched to the oars. Now he rowed to shore, kissed up against the north bank, and climbed out, sinking into the shin-deep mud. He wrapped the painter line around a tree trunk and secured it with a bowline knot. Then he waded into the water and used a silent breaststroke, careful not to open his mouth and swallow any water. The Ebola virus came from somewhere around here, not to mention a lot of other diseases he could do without.
While he swam he scanned the glassy surface of the water ahead and to the sides of him. It wasn’t another hippo that worried him. Hippos went to shore at dusk to feed, when it was cool enough so they wouldn’t risk sunburn or dehydration. It was the crocs he was now thinking about. He had seen countless of them during the day, lying on the banks of the river, unmoving, some with their jaws cracked wide to regulate their body temperature. They were cold-blooded and usually spent the day heating themselves up, leaving the hunting for the mornings and the evenings.
Or right about now.
Twenty meters from the riverboat Fitzgerald treaded water, watching for movement on either of the two decks. He didn’t see any and continued on. He reached the boat’s hull, grabbed hold of a rubber bumper, and pulled himself up quietly onto the stern deck. He unlaced his boots and slipped them off. Waterlogged boots squished and squawked.
Because the Glock was now resting seven kilometers back on the riverbed, likely next to the carcass of One-eyed Bertha, he slid free his old SAS knife from his canvas ankle sheath. The handle was wood with solid brass rivets. The blade was eleven inches long and as sharp today as when the quartermaster issued it back in 1966. It was responsible for more deaths than his ageing memory could recall.
Many years ago he’d nicknamed it Carnwennan, after Arthur’s dagger in the Welsh legends, which was known to shroud its wielder in shadows. He never called the dagger this out loud, of course; that would be silly. But that’s how he thought of it. Carnwennan. It was a way to personalize it, to make it his own, the same way some men would give a name to their yacht, or residence.
He crossed the stern deck to the main cabin and peered through the window beside the door. He had expected to see Brazza and Cox and however many other hostages tied up inside, probably blindfolded. The room was empty. He frowned. Had AQ shed some of the hostages along the way, only keeping their golden eggs? And if so, were Brazza and Cox up in the aft cabin? No. Because if that was the case, where were the terrorists? He couldn’t see them cozying up next to their hostages in a five-meter-square room. That left only one alternative. They had all gone ashore.
Words in Arabic floated down from the top deck.
Fitzgerald flattened himself against the shadowed wall of the cabin. He listened, but heard nothing more. He contemplated this and decided that a couple sentries must have remained behind to watch over the boat. That made sense, and it left him with two options. Go back to the skiff and spend the night there, wet and cold and hungry. Or clear out the lads upstairs, get a good meal, a good night’s sleep, and set out warm and chipper in the morning. It was not a hard decision to make. Besides, from a tactical standpoint, it only made sense to take out the sentries. If he had to make a quick escape from the jungle tomorrow, he didn’t want to worry about getting sandwiched between the bad guys.
Fitzgerald padded up the spiral iron staircase and stuck his head through the well-hole in the top deck. All clear. He dashed over to the aft cabin and pressed his back against the wall perpendicular to the cabin’s door. He heard the occasional grumble from within the small room. Sometimes there was a response, sometimes there wasn’t. After several minutes of this, he concluded there were only two men inside.
Wood scraped wood—the sound of a chair being pushed backward. The door creaked open. Footsteps crossed the deck.
Fitzgerald peered around the corner of the cabin.
A man dressed in plain clothing stood at the starboard railing, relieving himself. A Kalashnikov dangled from a strap looped over his shoulder.
Fitzgerald snuck up behind him, taking half strides for better balance, stepping down on the outer balls of his bare feet, as silent as the moonlight. The only noise was the continuous patter of urine striking water far below.
Fitzgerald stopped when he was within touching distance. He’d once seen a Polish thug put up a fight for well over a minute with a blade sticking out of his heart, and he knew there was no such thing as a quick and sure kill with an edged weapon. There was decapitation, of course, but without a sword that wasn’t an option. Still, there were a couple close seconds: stabbing upward into the base of the skull, or downward into the soft spot behind the collarbone, severing the subclavian vein and artery, and, if you got lucky, maybe puncturing a lung.
Fitzgerald chose the simplest of all approaches. He grabbed the man by the hair and plunged Carnwennan into the side of the exposed neck, ripping outward toward the throat. The man jerked and flailed. Fitzgerald held him secure. Blood fountained everywhere, coating them both. The man was likely screaming, but he made no noise: he had no vocal cords left. He went limp.
Fitzgerald set the body down, wiped the dagger and his hands clean on the dead man’s shirt, and collected the Kalashnikov. The safety, he noted, was in place. He left it that way. Moving the spring-loaded safety-cum-selector made a loud and distinctive click, which wasn’t very productive if you wanted to keep the element of surprise.
He faced the aft cabin. He thought about simply kicking open the door and cutting down whoever was inside. But he didn’t know how far away the land party was and didn’t want to advertise his presence. Instead he returned to his original spot around the corner of the cabin and waited.
Two minutes later the man inside called out to his mate. When the dead man didn’t call back, the door opened.
“Qasim?”
He made it about three paces before seeing his buddy lying in a pool of blood. He went immediately for his rifle. Fitzgerald was already moving, slipping around the corner of the cabin, stabbing the man twice in rapid succession. First in the right side, under his armpit, hilt-deep. Then through the underside of the bearded jaw, through the roof of the mouth, into the brain. Before the body hit the deck Fitzgerald had spun to face a possible third attacker.
No one came forth.
He eased open the door with the barrel of the Kalashnikov and peeked inside. Empty. And lo and behold, there was a stockpile of food and water. The food wasn’t anything special—fruit and cassava, mostly—but Fitzgerald was ravenous, and it would make a feast. He unceremoniously dumped the two corpses into the river, then washed up and set out a large dinner on the deck table. Just as he was about to sit down to eat, he heard a splash in the water off the bow. He snatched the rifle and went to the railing.
A little ways downriver a croc was working on one of the dead men. Another croc was swimming toward the second body, silver ripples trailing from the nostrils. It reached the body, peeled its jaws wide, revealing rows of pointed fangs, then snapped down. Unable to tear meat like a lion, it shook its gnarled, saurian head, boiling up a whirlpool with its combed tail. Sinew tore loudly. Joints grinded and popped. Then the commotion died down, the black water calmed. In the aftermath both the croc and body were gone.
Fitzgerald waited where he was, hoping for an encore. He wasn’t to be disappointed. Moments later the croc broke through the surface of the water, its snout pointed skyward with a human leg poking out from between the jaws, the boot still on the foot. The croc gulped the leg down, its pale throat bulging like a pelican’s. It sank back into the inky depth once more.
“Jaysus,” he muttered. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day.”
Whistling “Finnegan’s Wake,” he went back to finish his own dinner, albeit in a much less dramatic fashion.
CHAPTER 26
It was well into the night. Through the cracks in the roof Scarlett could see a sampling of stars, impossibly distant. They distracted her from her current predicament,
made her think bigger, more philosophical thoughts than being kidnapped, made her feel as if the Congo wasn’t so enormous after all, just a forest on a tiny planet. In fact, her plight was really an incredibly insignificant matter in the big picture of things, the picture of the fifteen-billion-year-old universe.
She shifted on the cold stone floor as she tried unsuccessfully to get comfortable. She’d fallen asleep for a little, but had woken a while ago. A migraine was digging in behind her left eye. It felt like someone was scraping around in there with a spoon. Yet there wasn’t anything she could do about it. No aspirin here. No prescription meds. She’d just have to grin and bear it. It wasn’t so hard though. She had a lot more serious things on her mind—maybe-I’m-going-to-die-tomorrow kind of things that the stars could distract her from but not make her forget.
She wished she knew the time or knew when morning would come. But the jackass terrorists had confiscated the gold wristwatch of hers—something she’d bought for herself after her first attempt at a romantic comedy had flopped at the box office. She’d thought buying an expensive gift would make her feel better. She had it engraved at the Tiffany’s on Rodeo Drive, and it read: “To You, From Me.” Sal had pestered her for months about who “me” was. She never told him; it had been her little joke. Now, it seemed, the joke was on her. “To Terrorist, From Scarlett.”
Someone cried out. It sounded more like a word than a grunt, though she couldn’t be sure what word it was. She sat up, grimacing against the pain in her head. She was just able to make out the shapes of the others in the feeble light. Sal was lying on the bench. Miranda and Joanna were in a far corner, curled against each other like spoons. Thunder was up front, near the door, away from everyone else.
The person cried out again, more of a moan this time. It was coming from where Thunder was sleeping. A bad nightmare? Or was he in some sort of pain? She got up and crept across the room toward him.
“Thunder?” she said softly, touching his shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”
He came awake with a start.
“Shhh. It’s me. Scarlett. You were making noises.”
He tried to sit up but didn’t seem to have the strength. She became more worried.
“Thunder, what’s wrong?”
She felt his forehead. It was hot and drenched with sweat. God, what could he have? Dengue fever? Sleeping sickness? It couldn’t be malaria, thankfully. Malaria symptoms, she believed, took about a week to show themselves.
She remembered the welt on his arm. It was difficult to find in the dark, but she made out a hard, swollen bump just above his left wrist.
“How old are you?” he asked groggily.
The question surprised her. “Thirty,” she said, and for a moment she thought about the birthday party that never was. “Thunder, look at your arm. What happened?”
“It’s just a bite.”
“From what?”
“I’m thirty-six.”
“Thunder, you need—” She was going to say “a doctor,” but realized how ridiculous that would sound.
“I’m not married,” he said.
Scarlett brushed his hair gently back from his forehead, wondering if he was speaking through a fever. She decided the least she could do was keep him company.
“Why not?” she asked. “Why aren’t you married?”
“Was in a relationship for ten years. No rush to get serious again. Thought I had all the time in the world.” He licked his lips and swallowed. “How long have you been married?”
“Four years now.”
“He’s a lucky bloke.”
“Thank you, Thunder.”
“He’s also a complete arse.”
Scarlett was so surprised by the comment she laughed out loud. She quickly caught herself and glanced in Sal’s direction. Was he sleeping? Or awake, listening to them?
“Any ankle biters?” Thunder said.
“Huh?”
“Kids?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been to Oz?”
“Sydney a couple times, to promote my films. Some strange animals you got there. Why do they all hop?”
“It’s a big land. Hopping’s faster than walking, I reckon.”
“Have you always lived in Brisbane?”
“Grew up in Canberra, the capital. It’s where my parents met. Mum’s tops. You’d get along with her. She teaches kindy—kindergarten.”
“What about your father? Is he a teacher as well?”
“Foreign diplomat. He was invited to the school where Mum taught, to get the kids stoked about politics or something like that. She was his chaperone. They got married a few months later. His post in Canberra was only for three years. When the State Department called him back, we were both supposed to go. But then Mum’s sister got sick, so we stayed behind.”
He squeezed his eyes, as if he was in pain.
“You need to rest,” she told him.
“No, this is good. Talking.” He opened his eyes again. Even in the darkness they seemed to sparkle blue. “The next year my dad was elected to the House of Reps. He was busy a lot. LA to Canberra was a long flight with a big time difference. Bottom line, it didn’t work.”
“They divorced?”
“That’s life sometimes. Anyway, Mum’s all apples. She remarried. She’s happy.”
“What about your father? Did he remarry?”
“Twice. He was engaged to his third wife when he was murdered.”
“Murdered? God, why?”
“I don’t know. No reason, pointless.” He shivered. “I’m cold.”
“I don’t have anything to give you.” She made a spontaneous decision. “Roll onto your side.”
Thunder did as she’d instructed, grunting with the effort. She stretched out beside him, pressing herself against his back, how Joanna and Miranda were sleeping to keep warm. It felt as though she were doing something wrong, but it felt right too. Thunder didn’t say anything.
“Do you think about your father much?” she said quietly. Her mouth was right next to his ear now. She could feel his body heat. It was coming off him in waves.
“Every now and then. I didn’t really see him much after the divorce. How about you? Your folks must be mad with worry.”
“My dad was a police officer. He was killed trying to prevent a convenient store robbery when I was six. He died over fifty bucks and a couple bottles of booze. My mother became clinically depressed and hanged herself the following year.”
“I’m sorry, Lettie.”
“I lived with my uncle and aunt for about two years before they handed me over to child welfare. Then I shuffled between three different foster families. They were all doing it for the money, I think. The upside? I don’t think I ever would have gotten into acting if I’d had a normal childhood. Being an orphan gives you a good imagination. I had a make-believe family in my head until I was sixteen or seventeen. If that’s not method acting, I don’t know what is.”
“Every cloud has a silver lining, hey?”
“Even this safari,” she said softly. “You know that? I’m glad I met you, Thunder.”
He was silent for a long moment. “It’s been nice meeting you too, Lettie.”
They were quiet after that. Eventually Thunder’s breathing became deep and regular. Scarlett didn’t want to move. She felt safe and content right where she was. Not so alone. Not so scared. The migraine had even softened a little.
She fell asleep next to Thunder.
CHAPTER 27
Fitzgerald rose to the murky half colors of predawn light. He scavenged an empty rucksack—his was still in the skiff, having not gone overboard in the hippo attack—and filled it with food and two large plastic bottles of water. He didn’t need anything more, given he hoped to be back out of the jungle by nightfall.
He surveyed the riverbank, noting in particular a gnarled mangrove bent over the water, which he filed away in case the riverboat was gone for whatever reason when he returned. He disembark
ed and climbed the muddy bank. At the top he blotted his nose, forehead, and cheekbones with dark mud, using lighter dirt for the recesses under his eyes and along his throat. The camouflage not only masked his white pigmentation but also prevented the oil in his skin from forming a sheen, which would stand out in the dark jungle the same way a fish’s scales would glint under sunny water. Next he decorated himself with leafy vegetation to break up his outline while providing him with a layer of earthy colors and textures.
Suitably prepared, he studied the ground and immediately spotted the trail Brazza & Co. had taken. It was well-beaten and easy enough to follow. He counted nine sets of footprints. Based on size and depression, he guessed three were female. Of the remaining six, one set obviously belonged to Brazza, leaving five potential bad guys.
Not ideal odds, five against one, he thought, but manageable.
He started along the trail, noting a number of animal tracks as well. A forest elephant, a gorilla moving with a knuckle-walking gait, a large leopard, and what he guessed was a red river hog and her piglets. He even came across the papery skin of a python. This one was only a baby, but he knew African rock pythons could grow to be eighteen feet long, large enough to swallow just about anything—including unsuspecting humans.
Once upon a time, years and years ago during the jungle warfare part of his SAS training in the jungles of Belize, Fitzgerald had been on patrol and came across a group of Mayan Indians searching for a little girl who’d been missing from the village for two days. He lent a hand with the search and shortly thereafter they discovered a large boa with an ominous bulge extending its middle section. They cut the snake open and found the missing girl inside, curled into a fetal position, partly digested.
Not exactly a nice way to go.
As the morning progressed, the rising sun burned away the damp mist, and Fitzgerald began sweating profusely. He drank a full liter of water, then refilled the bottle from a quick-moving river. Soon he entered old-growth rainforest. The trail he’d been following disappeared.