8
Christopher Jomo’s body hurt all over. There didn’t seem to be a part of him that didn’t ache. The bullet wound in his side had already weakened him considerably. When his senses recovered sufficiently for him to assess his position he realized it wasn’t good. He was in the hands of a rebel murder squad. That in itself told him his life expectancy had been drastically reduced. These people would have little sympathy for Jomo, particularly because he came from a different tribe than theirs, and in Tempala that was enough to guarantee a hard time at their hands.
With that in mind, the policeman decided to escape at the first opportunity. Any escape attempt would be met with fierce resistance, which he expected, and could easily result in his death. The latter would probably be welcome if he spent much time in the company of these men. Jomo didn’t relish the prospect of death, but when he weighed it against the horrors these men could inflict on him, it appeared the lesser of two evils.
Jomo heard someone approaching. He remained where he was, huddled against the side of the building where he had been thrown after refusing to acknowledge their authority. Hands caught hold of his clothing and he was dragged outside and thrown on the dusty ground. The side of his face struck the ground hard, sending stabs of pain through his head.
“Hey, be careful. This one is a policeman. He’ll arrest us.”
A general round of laughter followed the words. A hard boot slammed into Jomo’s side, over his ribs. He winced against more pain.
“One of Karima’s pet officers,” someone else said.
A harsher voice yelled at the men to stop wasting time. They hauled Jomo to his feet and manhandled him to an old truck parked in the compound of the base. Rope was used to secure him to the side of the truck, pinning him there helpless.
Jomo faced his captors. There were five of them clustered around him. The one who shouted the orders came and stood in front of Jomo.
“You have killed some of my people,” he stated.
“Not enough,” Jomo replied, regretting his words the instant he had spoken. “I would have killed more but they ran away.”
The rebel even smiled before he struck the sergeant full in the face with the short wooden club he had been holding out of sight. The force of the blow shattered Jomo’s left cheek bone, tearing the flesh. Blood began to course down the side of his face, soaking his already dirty shirt. The blow snapped Jomo’s head to one side. He let it hang, biting back the moan of pain that he wanted to express. But he refused to make a sound in front of these people.
Slowly raising his head he looked his captor in the eye. “Even now you can only hit me because my hands are tied,” Jomo said.
The rebel looked round at his companions. “This one believes he is tough.”
The club struck again. Over and over.
Jomo’s head and shoulders took the brunt of the attack, and by the time the man had finished, Jomo’s head was dripping blood. His face was a glistening bloody mask. His lips were torn and raw, gums and teeth badly damaged.
The rebel looked down at the club in his hand. Blood stained its short length. His hand was bloody, too, and more had spattered the front of his shirt. He was breathing hard, face shiny with sweat.
“Did you think you could stop us? You and your American friend? Just the two of you?”
“And did you and your rebel dogs believe a bomb in the city would frighten the people into submission? You really are as stupid as that. Cowards running around slaughtering because you have no other way to go,” Jomo said defiantly.
Jomo’s tormentor considered this. He stepped back from Jomo, letting his captive see the bloody club he still carried.
“We asked the people to give us the power to rule the country, but they were so blinded by the things Karima promised that they failed us.”
“No. They were not fooled by the way you wanted to control them. They voted against you. They told you no, but you were not men enough to accept that. So you started to kill and intimidate the very people you said you wanted to represent.”
“The ones who rule are Karima’s kind. The Tempai. They wanted to stay in power so they used their influence to make the election go their way.”
“Always the old arguments. The Tempai and the Kirandi. Tribal foolishness that has no part in this day. You stir up tribal feuds and ancient customs to use them to alarm the people.”
Jomo’s outburst exhausted him and he let his head fall forward onto his chest. He was in extreme pain. His face and head burned from the extent of his injuries, and he was finding it hard to concentrate. His vision was blurring, not helped by the blood that kept running into his eyes.
His captor jammed the tip of the club under Jomo’s chin and forced his head up, staring deep into his eyes. “We will win. The Kirandi have always been stronger.”
“Only through fear and violence. You have been asked to join with Karima many times, and every time that offer has been thrown back in his face.”
“Why should we take what he offers when we can have it all?”
“And end up with a nation in ruin? With nothing to look forward to but more bloodshed and misery? Why deny the people a chance to live a better life?”
“By making bargains with the fucking Americans? By selling the rights to our natural resources?”
“What would you do with the copper? Leave it in the ground where it does no one any good? If we negotiate with the Americans and allow them to use the deep-water harbor at Rugendi, look at all the work that will bring, a facility for the copper to be loaded on ships. More work. More money for Tempala.”
“We don’t need outsiders coming here.”
“The old chiefs don’t want it. They want Tempala to stay in the past. To cling to old ways that have brought us nothing but poverty and kept this country in the shadows.”
“It has kept us strong.”
Jomo shook his head. “Heads so deeply stuck in the sand you are unable to see what the future offers. If this is the way you fools want to go then we are all finished.”
“At least we will be alive.”
Jomo stared at him. “You call this living? The whole bunch of you are as dead as the beliefs you follow. All of you wear the army uniform and call yourselves true Tempalans. Deserters is a better word. You are supposed to protect the people, not betray them.”
The group leader spun around on his men, giving orders. The waiting rebels moved forward, past the man with the club, and began to beat Jomo with whatever they had on hand. The savage attack went on for long minutes. Jomo had lapsed into unconsciousness long before it was over.
When it stopped, the lead rebel called off his men. They walked away, leaving only Jomo and the leader. The ground around Jomo was spattered with blood. His clothing was sodden, torn, and the exposed flesh beneath was bruised and cut. The policeman sagged against the ropes binding him, the coils digging into his arms and body. Loose flaps of bloody flesh hung from his battered face. Sometime during the beating the butt of a rifle had been used to crush his fingers against the side of the truck. They hung, bone exposed, at crooked angles.
It was some time before Jomo roused enough to be aware of where he was.
The rebel stepped in close so Jomo would be able to hear what he said. “I want that bastard American who was with you. Where is he?”
Jomo absorbed the question with difficulty. His pain was verging on unacceptable. He knew that his ribs were broken and somewhere in his chest there was a stabbing pain each time he took a breath. This was the worst injury he had ever suffered and Jomo knew he would be lucky to survive.
The rebel repeated his question, this time taking a grip of Jomo’s hair and dragging his head up so he could look into his face. Jomo’s swollen features had turned his face into a bloated mask.
“You hear me?”
Jomo murmured something between his crushed, bloody lips.
“What?”
Jomo took his time to repeat his words. “He’ll come and get you
, Kirandi. I’m looking at a dead man. But don’t expect me to tell you where he is. I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise when he shows up.”
Then he summoned all his strength and spit bloody spittle directly into his tormentor’s face.
The rebel stepped back, pawing at the blood on his face. He turned on his heel and strode up to one of his men, snatching the panga sheathed at the man’s belt. He returned to where Jomo hung from his ropes, defiant.
“No Tempai does that to me,” he screamed. “I was going to kill you quickly but I have changed my mind.”
The blade of the panga rose and fell. Soon blood streaked the blade, droplets flying from the tip as the rebel raised it above his head, time after time after time…
9
“One man.”
The words hung in the stifling air with a tangible presence. The man who had delivered the short comment remained standing, leaning his hands flat against the top of his desk. He was large and broad, with a powerful build that made him, in his uniform, impressive. Colonel Simon Chakra, military commander of Tempala’s armed forces. The recipients facing him, from his unit, stood at attention. Their discomfort might have pleased Chakra. If so he didn’t let it show. He waited long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable before he spoke again. When he did his tone was soft, a shade off being gentle, but that very restraint threw a chill into the heart of every man standing before him.
“It may have slipped your attention, gentlemen, that we are engaging in a struggle for this country. If we succeed we retain Tempala as it is, and we will then be able to negotiate on our terms. I want Karima out of office. I want his popularity with the people diminished. Right now he is in an extremely strong position. An outright attempt to remove him would not be in our best interests. Which is why kidnapping his children was to be used as a bargaining ploy. I still believe that using Karima’s children will achieve what we want. However, that goal has been hampered by the loss of the brats to those damned slave traders. More serious is the involvement of this American, brought in by Ambassador Cartwright. Another example of American interference in our internal business. That said, my chief concern is the plain fact that this American, whoever he is, has managed to run rings around us. The covert squad sent to deal with him has been decimated almost to extinction. And the man is still free.”
Chakra paused for effect.
“Am I the only one who views this as something of an embarrassment? One man, on his own, is stopping not only the rebels, but also the Tempalan military. Gentlemen, are you professionals or local militia who run around waving guns and pretending to be real men? I suggest you take time, but not too long, to assess this situation and put it right. Just remember that our role in this has to remain in the background for the time being. Try not to send in a full battalion to capture this man. Use discretion. That will be all, gentlemen. Wait for my orders. Now please get out of my sight.”
As the men filed out Chakra sat down, leaning back in the chair to stare up at the ceiling. As the door closed behind the last officer, Chakra turned his head to study the man who had remained silent, standing in a corner of the office, listening to everything Chakra had said.
“I still find it hard to believe,” Chakra said. “One man. Right now he’s out there looking for Karima’s kids and the way he performs he’ll most likely snatch them back under the noses of those damn fools I just spoke to.”
“Possibly it would be the best thing to happen,” Hector Campos said. “Let this American do all the running and if he succeeds, step in and take the children back.”
“Hector, you realize he’s working directly for Karima. Probably has a direct line to that bloody misfit.”
“Not a nice way to talk about your president.”
“The man is a Tempai. That damned tribe has never been anything but a problem. The sooner they are pushed back into the bush, the better. We should be running the country. The Kirandi have always been intellectually superior. It’s time we assumed control.”
“But as always the problem is the Tempai,” Chakra’s visitor said. “There are more of them. They have the wealth and the political power. And they have the support of the people. A difficult combination to subjugate.”
“If Karima steps down the resistance will weaken. I can promise you that.”
Campos stepped up to Chakra’s desk. He was lean and dark, with black hair brushed away from his high forehead. He wore a soft white suit and carried a wide-brimmed straw hat in his slender, long-fingered hands.
“I understand your need for caution, Simon. But in the end there has to be a degree of determination that overrides all other considerations.” The Cuban advisor smiled. “In simple terms I am telling you that whatever needs to be done, must be done.”
“I understood you the first time,” Chakra said. “And I will do what is necessary.”
Campos reached inside his jacket and drew out a couple of long, thick cigars. He held one out to Chakra. The African took it and bit off the end, watching with amusement as the Cuban carefully trimmed the end of his cigar with a small, sharp knife. After they had lit the cigars Campos sat down.
“This American,” Campos said. “He may be known to my people back in Cuba. I will check with my contacts and see if I can find anything.”
“So, who do you think he is? Some Yankee mercenary who does work for the American government?”
Campos shook his head. “No. This man seems very different, and not one to dismiss lightly. He is a specialist in his chosen profession. More than a specialist even. More like a man with a mission. Simon, believe me. This is a man to be watched.”
“I prefer to look at him as a man who needs eliminating,” Chakra said.
“I agree. Consider my earlier suggestion, Simon. Why not let him run. Allow him to track down these slavers and deal with them. Believe me, if this man is a specialist, those slavers are in for a nasty shock. Our mystery American has a perceived sense of moral justice. The taking of children especially will drive him to succeed. Take my word for it.”
“If he’s that good perhaps I should find him and negotiate a contract. If I have him on my side we’ll win easily.”
Campos smiled. “No offense, Simon, but you are on the wrong side of the fence as far as this man is concerned.”
“Hector, we need to discuss the bomb incident,” Chakra said. “If I had Zimbala and Harruri here right now I would execute them on the spot.”
Campos raised his hands in frustration. “What can I say? It was a stupid move carried out in panic. When they heard about the children being taken by the slavers they saw the whole scheme falling apart. They acted without due consideration of the consequences.”
“Damn right they didn’t think about the consequences. An act like that is only going make us look like savages, and Karima takes a step closer to sainthood. Did you see the video footage of him walking among the debris, talking to the wounded? He did everything except fall on his knees and weep.”
“Simon, you are a dyed-in-the-wool cynic.”
“My God, we couldn’t have given him better publicity if we had actually staged the whole thing. Something like that is beyond price.”
Chakra slammed a huge fist down on his desk. “If you see those bloody rebels make sure they stay out of my sight. With dung beetles like that on my side I don’t need enemies, Hector.”
“I agree they need talking to,” Campos said. “We still need their support, Simon. Don’t forget you don’t have the whole military on your side. If this became a shooting war between your men and Karima’s faithful soldiers…”
“I know. On top of everything else, Hector, the last thing I need to be reminded of is that.”
“We will talk later. I’m sure you have things to consider on your own.” Campos stood and walked to the door. He paused. “Simon, we will achieve what we set out to do. But we must be patient.”
Chakra nodded, already deep in thought. He barely heard the door close behind Campos.
He sat for a while, toying with the cigar. On impulse he crushed it out in the glass ashtray, then pushed his chair back from the desk. Chakra went and stood at the window, staring out across the flat, dusty parade ground of the isolated training base he was using for his covert operations. He watched a small squad of soldiers being drilled by a ramrod-stiff sergeant-major. The man’s hard commands drifted across the parade ground. It was a sound Chakra loved to hear. He had been brought up within earshot of those sounds all his adult life. They were lifeblood to him. The military ethos was as much a part of him as his skin and hair. Simon Chakra was a soldier to the tips of his highly polished combat boots. He watched the drill for a while, losing himself in memories of his own early days in the army. Training under the hot African sun with other eager men who wanted to serve their country. The long days and nights out in the bush, learning their craft, sometimes wondering if they would ever survive. Some of his comrades had not. There had been deaths during those hard months, but with each loss the survivors became more determined to stay the course. Later, after rising through the ranks, Chakra’s natural leadership qualities shone brighter than any of his comrades in arms. He was chosen to became an officer. Then the trip to England. Officer training at Sandhurst, where he was tutored in the requirements of the officer class in quiet, oak-paneled rooms and then spent long hours being barked at by ruddy-faced drill sergeants on the parade grounds. The fact he was an officer meant little to the howling monsters who chased Chakra and his friends around the drill grounds. They were treated with contempt, belittled and worked until they were ready to drop. They were denied the satisfaction of responding to the vocal taunts. They took what was thrown at them, staying aloof and letting the abuse wash over them. But at the end of the course each and every man walked out of Sandhurst as an officer, wearing his insignia with pride and knowing he had been schooled by the best. If a soldier could survive Sandhurst, he could survive anything.
Shadow Search Page 8