Darkness

by David Fletcher

  ‘Infected us? But you’ve got malaria. You can’t infect us with malaria. It’s not how it works.’

  ‘Quite right,’ smiled Dan. ‘But if you were exposed to my sweat… and to my blood on your utensils… and to my spit in your food… it would be almost impossible for all three of you not to be infected with a particularly virulent strain of Ebola…’

  That last word hung in the air. For Dan, it had an almost musical quality – and he let it infuse his whole being. For Ghassan, it was clearly not musical in any way at all. That was why he raised his gun and, with a hand that was still shaking, fired three bullets into Dan’s brain.

  Dan was dead instantaneously. Ghassan, Fadi and Shafeek, however, were not.

  thirty-eight

  Life lingered on in the abandoned lodge for days. It was, for all three of Dan’s erstwhile hosts, not a very appealing life.

  Fadi had a particularly bad time. He eventually bled from his eyes. Albeit by that stage, he knew little of what was going on – and he had been abandoned by his two colleagues. So that when he finally went it was a blessed relief. Which was quite ironic in that he had vociferously renounced his god by that stage.

  Shafeek had decided that the only way he could save himself was to leave the lodge and seek medical help. He did this while he still had just enough energy, and he took the route that Dan had used to reach the lodge just a few days earlier. It was as he was stumbling down the course of the stream towards the Lodié River that he encountered the python, the same python that Dan had himself encountered and survived.

  Shafeek, however, did not survive his encounter. And as the python squeezed the life from his body, Shafeek was just about able to appreciate that whilst his life was being brought to an end, so too was his suffering. He was therefore thankful and relieved.

  Ghassan had no such relief and certainly no cause to give thanks. His Ebola symptoms were acute and long-lasting, and so acute that after eight days he attempted to blow himself up with one of his own bombs. Unfortunately – for him – his condition was so bad by this time that his bomb-priming proficiency had all but abandoned him. Consequently, all he succeeded in doing was setting off a detonator and giving himself a large serving of third-degree burns. For the further four days he survived he was therefore in intolerable pain, and so confused that he couldn’t even find that gun to bring his awful misery to an end.

  Dan would have been very pleased. And even Kim might have conceded that he probably got no more than he deserved…

  thirty-nine

  Peter had made it to his own office unambushed. He hadn’t arrived especially early, but he had clearly encountered a welcome dose of serendipity this morning. The timing of his entrance to his workplace had allowed him not only to get into his office unassailed, but even to take off his jacket, fire up his computer and deal with four marginally urgent emails. It was only then that his undisturbed state was disturbed – and almost inevitably, the disturber was Toby. He now stood before Peter’s desk with a rather hangdog expression on his face and the general appearance of something that needed some serious renovation work. He looked an even bigger mess than he normally did.

  Peter acknowledged his presence with a greeting and then a question.

  ‘Hi, Toby. And what’s with you? Done something wrong?’

  Toby didn’t answer directly but instead he held out an A4 sheet of paper. Then he thrust it towards Peter.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll want to see this.’

  Peter took it and glanced at its typed heading. It said “Ghassan Aoun”.

  He didn’t proceed to read it, but instead posed a one-word question to Toby.

  ‘And?’

  Toby’s expression changed to one of resignation and then he proceeded to answer Peter’s enquiry.

  ‘Well, they’ve had a drone over the place. No sign of life. None whatsoever. It’s a certain kill. All three of them. And…’

  ‘…and Dan Worthington?’ Peter finished. ‘Dan’s gone as well?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Toby. ‘He’s definitely dead.’

  Toby was looking a little more composed now, but Peter knew how he was feeling. It was just the way he was feeling: rather more desolate than delighted. Both of them had been instrumental in bringing to an end the life of three monsters, but with the demise of these three monsters there had also been the loss of a “good man”, and right now that loss seemed to weigh an awful lot more than their success. It wasn’t the first time that either of them had experienced this sense of desolation after a successful “hit”, and it wouldn’t be the last. However, that was little consolation – particularly for the shambolic but sensitive Toby – and Peter knew he needed to apply some soft soothing balm.

  ‘Toby,’ he started, ‘Dan wanted to do this – as you and I have known from the start. And he will have died… very well.’

  ‘I know,’ whispered Toby. ‘It’s just…’

  ‘…part of our job. It’s just part of what we do. We send… well-intentioned men to die with bad men. And when they die well, we should not brood and we should not lose heart. And we should certainly not lose sight of the fact that our work carries on. And forgive me for asking, but where are we with our man for Namibia? Will Fido be meeting him tomorrow morning?’

  That did it. It was a little abrupt but Toby was immediately extricated from his despair – or at least distracted from it – and he was soon providing the information that Peter had requested. It was to the effect that Fido would indeed be meeting their man tomorrow morning. Oh, and he had really good vibes about this one as well. He knew, he told Peter, that they had chosen the right guy the minute he had first set eyes on him…

  forty

  Hosea Kutako International Airport was one of Mike’s favourite airports. This rather modest installation, situated 45 kilometres from Windhoek, wasn’t in any way sophisticated and certain aspects of its interior were distinctly second-rate. But as an entity, as something observed as a whole, it was a fascinating and quite often stunning place, especially in the early morning.

  Mike had landed here as daylight was breaking on a number of occasions, and he had never failed to be impressed by what was revealed as he disembarked his plane. This was always down a flight of steps from the aircraft – as Hosea Kutako Airport has far too few traffic movements to justify any sort of umbilicals – and it always revealed the same breath-taking sight. This was of its one long runway, disappearing into the distance, and framed by the parched hills of this upland stretch of Namibia all around and by a cloudless and impossibly blue sky above. And to emphasise its somewhat alien presence in this empty environment, the only obvious signs of life were the many palm swifts which conducted their early-morning flying over and around the airport’s modest terminal. There was no other airport he could think of that so easily impressed and so effortlessly stimulated the senses. It was always a thrill to land here.

  It wasn’t quite such a thrill to drive here – in the early morning to meet an arriving passenger. But at least one could pass some time by sitting on a wall between the car park and the front of the terminal building and admire the airport’s collection of cacti, or one could even catch up on some neglected reading. This is what Mike was doing, and the reading that occupied his time was a final addendum to his briefing on his forthcoming task. It added little to what he already knew was his role, but it did clarify a few detailed points on the chosen “means of delivery” in this case, and how he could abort the whole exercise if required.

  He doubted he would need to abort – at least for any operational reasons. He had visited the area where the delivery would be made and it was ideal for their purpose. It was in the far northeast of Namibia, north of a tiny place called Nhoma close to the Botswana border, and it was truly remote. It wasn’t tropical forest up there, but Nhoma was three hundred kilometres from a metalled road and its only inhabitants we
re a few bushmen. Beyond Nhoma there was just endless empty scrub. Their mission would not be disturbed.

  However, the mission would not commence in the first place if he didn’t now get himself into the arrivals hall. The Frankfurt flight was due in within minutes, and he had a few chores to take care of, including the construction of a “greeting card”, something he could hold up to identify himself to the guy he was meeting. And as, for today and the next few days, he would be posing as a safari guide from “Hyrax Safaris” (the name of which had been stencilled onto his borrowed Land Cruiser), he thought “Hyrax” in large letters would be just the job. It would be exactly what his “client” would be expecting.

  Thirty minutes later, with his chores concluded and with his “HYRAX” identification now prepared, he stationed himself where he would see – and would be seen by – arriving passengers. When they had cleared immigration and customs they would emerge through a set of double doors. Here he waited, and as each new arriving (male) passenger came into view he studied his face. In this way he was able to identify his arriving passenger before his “HYRAX” card had attracted his attention. It was a middle-aged white man with a receding hairline and the unmistakable imprint of dejection on his face…