by Tony Masero
“Probes,” hisses Omaluli quietly. Dangerously. “Preparatory probes. The hyenas are gathering they weaken the Bull Elephant with these attacks. When he is down they will strike and devour him.” He broadens his gaze, enveloping them all. “When it is known I am weak, they will come in force. I ask again, where are my guns?”
Utu rises. “The McBraith child, Excellency. We hold him in ransom.”
“The child, the child,” Omaluli mimics like an old woman. “Send the father his head. Let him know the power of Omaluli Mtubu.”
“Perhaps,” Utu offers cautiously, “a smaller gesture to begin with.”
“Very well.” Omaluli snorts offhandedly. “A finger then. A finger each day until I have my guns. Then his toes. Should I wait until the child is divided piece by piece, Chancellor Utu? We do not have that luxury. Get me my weapons.”
Omaluli glowers at them with red-rimmed eyes. His fingers clasp and unclasp on his pistol grips as his head sways slowly side to side. “I have raised you up. All of you. I have carried you on my back. Given you plenty.” His voice rises. “Is this how you repay me? With betrayal? Do you not drive fine cars? Do not your wives wear the richest clothes? Have you not palaces and farms aplenty?”
He sinks into his throne, staring at them from beneath lowered brows. There is a silent excitement in the air now. A fervor fired by Omaluli’s anger. It is barely possible to hear the sharp intakes of breath. It follows a collective beat, a rhythm. Like the sound of a drum. Steadily the pulse rises. Intangible, except in the blood of the participants.
“Cowards! I have no brave warriors here. Just wagging tongues. Where are the heroes whose stories are sung in the villages of my people?” Omaluli grumbles, his fingers twitching at the handles of his pistols.
Utu raises his arms. He too is caught up in the hypnotic urge. He begins to chant. “You are our lord, Omaluli Mtubu. You are our lifeblood. Without you, we are nothing. The sun rises with the Bull Elephant; it does not set without his word. Mtubu the wise. Mtubu the great.”
At his lead others take up the chant. It bursts from breasts unbidden and rises in a feverish wave. Many are standing now, pledging their allegiance with sharp cries.
Omaluli rises slowly to his feet. “Who amongst you is ready to die? Where are the brave ones?”
“We are ready! We are ready!” come the answering cry.
“Stand forward who would serve me. Kneel at my feet if you have courage.”
Men surge forward. Crying out Omaluli’s name. Swearing they are ready to give their lives for him. The bodyguards move restlessly. They circle Omaluli’s throne defensively.
“Stand back,” he calls to them. “Let my brave brothers approach. Let them touch the hand of the Bull Elephant. Feel his power. Know they can live forever.”
It is hysteria now. The crowd stumbles, pushing against each other. Tumbling in an urgent rush to kneel at the feet of their leader. Only a few hang back, Utu amongst them. He knows what is coming.
“Are you are ready to die for me, my children?” roars Omaluli, pistols drawn, silver flashing in the light.
“We are ready! We are ready!” the crowd answers.
He fires into them. Crimson bursts splash across the gloss of marble. Panic ensues as bodies tumble. A squealing crowd falls back from the two bodies that lay twitching on the floor. The council members scrabble over each other in desperate attempts to get away. Omaluli fires again. This time into the ceiling. His bodyguards answer, wildly loosing streams of bullets skyward. Fragments of plaster flake down onto the spreading pools on the floor.
There is a sense of release in the room as silence falls. An awesome quiet. The sacrifice has been made. Their god is appeased.
Omaluli holsters his pistols. Tugs down the front of his tunic. Eases his shirt collar with a finger. Turns to his bodyguards. “I have need of sex now. Take me to my wives.” Before he leaves, he turns to Utu. “Chancellor. Get me my weapons or you too will fall foul of me like these here, you understand?”
Utu lowers his head in acquiescence.
The echo of shots runs hollowly through the corridors of the vast palace. By the time it reaches Adula’s quarters it has diminished to a distant rattle.
“What is that?” asks Ndomo fearfully.
“It is nothing.” She is well used to the sound of cries and muffled gunfire in this place. She stands imperiously looking down at the tribesman from the split-level steps of her open plan living room. Utu has done his job well. Ndomo is now washed, manicured and dressed in an expensively cut suit from a French stylist of name. He is in a numbed state, though. All that has happened is as if a continuing part of his dream. Only one thing remains clear to him. The certainty of what he must do.
He looks around with glazed eyes, barely taking in what is about him. It is all so far removed from his experience. Adula’s apartments are furnished in a modern western style. Minimalist. Bare white walls and large windows. Artistic furniture stands strategically placed. More for looking at than sitting in. Singular bleak abstracts in cool colors hang in plain frames. It is cool in here. Air-conditioning hums discretely and a Chad Mami track plays softly on the hi-fi.
Adula herself is pleasantly surprised.
At first, her response to her father’s command had been met with instant refusal. Who was she to be approached by a cattle boy on the back of some fanciful dream he has had? Her privileged life had been built around the rise of her father’s power. As a child, every whim had been met. Clothes, servants, cars, property. All of them, gifts rained down on her by indulgent parents. Her schooling had been of the best, in finishing schools set aside for the wealthiest in Europe. She had wanted for nothing.
As a first-born, she recognized her status was high. But not as a high as if she had been a male child. It was a source of irritation to her. The prospect of never inheriting her father’s mantle and power. It had resulted in a willfulness that had finally distressed her parents and created a barrier between them. Her mother had fallen into disfavor from amongst the wives as a result. Omaluli himself had also distanced himself from her. She felt cut off. At a loss as to how to reinforce her position in the household.
Then they bring her this peasant. It was only in an attempt to ingratiate herself again with her father that she had finally agreed to see him. But he pleased her eye. Until now all she had known were lovers of high ranking families. Chieftains. Or the sons of chieftains. Officers. Diplomats. Now here was this simple and, she could not deny it, attractive young man. Full of fervor and adulation. It was refreshing. Unique.
“Come,” she said, her voice softening, the regal edge dissipating. “Let us talk.”
He follows her dutifully outside into a secluded walled garden. They sit beneath giant palm leaves amidst exotic flowers whose perfume scents the air. A hidden pump maintains the steady flow of water over a waterfall into a lily-laden pool. Brightly colored parakeets bicker amongst the leaves above. Ndomo thinks he has entered Paradise.
“So,” she begins. “You have had a dream.”
“Yes, Princess,” he answers shyly, eyes downcast.
“Look at me, Ndomo Boma.” He raises his eyes and she sees a fierceness there. Surprising. There is some character in the boy after all. “Tell me of yourself.”
“Yes, Highness. We are poor people in our village. But we are happy people. Many were lost in the civil wars, but now, thanks to the peace of His Excellency, Omaluli Mtubu, we prosper again. The cattle grow fat. The land produces.”
“You are content there?”
“I am, Princess.”
“Why leave then?”
“I did not wish to, Princess. But the dream commanded it so.”
“It must have been a powerful dream.”
“Oh, yes. It was strange. I have never known such a thing. It filled me with many thoughts.”
“What thoughts?”
Ndomo hesitates. “Some things I have not told lord Utu. In the dreams, all happens as I have said, but sometimes t
he dreams are infused with a glow of red, like in a setting sun. In others, we two descend together into a pit of darkness; so dark I cannot see you any longer. And once, I heard screaming. I awoke to find it was myself who was screaming. What do you think these things mean, Princess?”
She is smiling to herself at the superstitious nonsense, but she likes his gentleness, the timbre of his voice. Naïve, but fetching. “I don’t know what it means. But tell me of our relationship in these dreams.”
“Oh, Highness, they are most passionate couplings. I fear to offend by repeating them.”
This she likes the sound of. “You must tell me everything, Ndomo. There must be no secrets between us.”
“The white bird brings us together in the mists of the Otherworld. You will stand before me as if bathing in a stream. I have caught you unawares. You are surprised, but there is an understanding between us. It is a language spoken only with the eyes.” Inadvertently, he acts out the play. His fingers drawing his eyes open. They are dark with excitement, she notices. Mellow. A woman could be lost in them. “Our lovemaking is an act of great fury. Like two leopards we meet and flow over and around each other. The touching and feeling is exquisite as our bodies slide. Our skin is sensitive and vibrates like a musical instrument at each touch. And you are making sounds, Highness, such sounds...”
Adula shifts uncomfortably on her chair. Unwillingly, his story is arousing her. She finds her breath is quickening.
“Should I go on, Princess?” he asks, noticing her restlessness.
Adula collects herself. “Yes. Yes, of course. Continue. I must hear it all.”
“My hands are molding your body as a potter molds the clay.” He follows the motion in the air. Cupping and delving gently as if he were indeed coursing her flesh. “It is as if I open a flower. The petals are light to my touch. They are moist with dew. In entering I am alight as if a fire engulfs me. It is deep. So deep that I go.”
Adula swallows. Her heart is pounding. “Enough, Ndomo. I think I have heard enough.” She is breathless. “Come with me now. I think it is time that we tested your claims to the full.”
He is smiling. A wide ingenuous, charming smile. “Of course, Princess. As you wish.”
Chapter Nineteen
McBraith is somewhere over Spain when the satellite phone beckons.
He ignores it. Head back on the seat rest. Anne is massaging away the tension that locks his shoulders. Only she is working somewhat lower down on his anatomy. He is wondering why he is so won over by this woman. What has happened? Clem fades in and out of his awareness now. She is there at home when he returns, there when he leaves. They enjoy a friendly if passive existence when they visit Scotland as a family. It is almost as if she is now an intangible part of his background. Of him, and yet not. He cannot imagine life without her and yet he knows deep down that he has already lost her.
Anne excites him. She brings with her not only the fascination of her superb body, but also an awareness of his day-to-day life at the office. She asks for little and supplies everything he needs. It seems perfect. But yet it is not. Dissatisfaction riddles him.
“We’d better get that,” he says apologetically.
She looks at him. There is that a gleam of annoyance in her eye. She gets up from her knees. Lifts the handset and talks.
“It’s Tom for you.” She passes him the handset.
“Yes, Tom. What news?”
Tom Carlisle is exhausted. McBraith can hear the edge in his voice. “This is bad, Mr. McBraith. You’d better prepare yourself. We’ve received a package. Private messenger service. It’s pretty ghastly. It’s a finger. A child’s little finger.”
McBraith’s heart plummets into a dark hole. “God! No. Oh, no.” His voice is hollow. Rasping.
“Mrs. McBraith has been on the phone from Scotland. Robert was abducted earlier today. Apparently there was quite a struggle. Your caretaker up there, Mr. Chayne, was hurt in the attack and Mrs. McBraith beaten up. The police are making full inquiries as we speak.”
“You think it’s Robert’s finger? Oh, those bastards. They’ve hurt my boy.” He is sobbing now. The tears coursing down his face. Banging his fist fruitlessly on the armrest. He chokes back another cry. “Is it Omaluli? That black crook, I’ll see him dead. I’ll have his head...” McBraith steadies himself. Grasps the edge of the chair in a claw of fingers. Tries to steady his breathing. “God! Tell me it isn’t Robert. Please, Tom. Tell me.”
“There was a note in the package.”
“What? What did it say?”
“It’s printed text. It reads, 'My Delivery or a Finger Every Day'. There’s no signature.”
McBraith gags. Bile rises in his throat. Grips his forehead in his hand. Think. Think. He swallows hard. Get a hold on yourself.
“I want every possible priority given to this, Tom. Use all the contacts we have. Rout out every connection. Political. Police. Customs. Home and abroad. Pressurize, cajole, blackmail, and buy the buggers if you have to. Just find my boy.”
“There is one other thing. Mrs. McBraith says that the caretaker has taken off after the kidnappers. She seems to have full confidence in him. However, the police are suspicious of his disappearance; they think there’s a possibility that he might have had something to do with it. They’re asking for his details. Is it okay to make his employment file available?”
“Yes, yes. Whatever they want.” Could it be? Chayne involved? Bought and sold to serve the warlord. He certainly had no inkling of that. But then, these mercenary types, who knows?
“What are your plans now, Mr. McBraith?”
McBraith was at a loss. Should he go back? Turn the plane around. How was Robert’s kidnapping best served? His thoughts, like the company jet he sat in, hovered over Spain in empty air. He was half way there, though. Halfway. He can taste it. He knows he can pull it off. But Robert, what’s it all worth without Robert?
“I’d better continue, Tom. It’s a bastard decision, but if I can turn this thing around and get back the shipment, maybe we can save Robert that way. Give the swine what he wants. How is Clem holding up?”
“Not too well, sir.”
“Explain to her, will you? Tell her we’re doing everything we can. I’m sorry I’m not there with her, but maybe I can do more in Morocco. At least I’ll give it a damned good try. Find him for me, Tom. Find him.”
“You know we’ll do our best. By the way, your contact in Morocco.”
“Yes?”
“He’s a Tangerino. That’s a European resident of Tangiers. Name of Daniel Caine. Been there since the eighties. Knows the country well. Quite a character. Smuggling and so on. He should be able to handle himself.”
“Got it. Keep in touch.”
Chapter Twenty
“I’m off the case, Chayne,” Peak says.
They are sitting in the Cherokee in the middle of an open plain of snow. Wind is lifting the soft surface into scurrying clouds. It looks like more is on the way. Chayne switches up the heating a notch.
“That the word from above?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Pretty good hide you’ve got out there.” Chayne points to where Peak’s tracks lead. They vanish beneath a deceptively plain patch of scrub brush. There is no other sign of a communications center.
“It’s cozy enough. Listen, Chayne. I laid in a request for a satellite tracking check for their last overpass. We’re lucky; they picked up the two vehicles. Couple of white vans. Look like Ford Transits. The guys have reviewed the tape and our boys headed back down towards the freeway. With any luck the techs can zero in on where they hole up. You still got that cell phone McBraith gave you?”
Chayne nods. Silently watching the horizon vanishing in a white haze. His eyes reflect the blankness. He has entered a different mode. As coldly as the horizon before him, it is killing that has crossed his mind.
“It’s okay, I’ve already got the number.” Peak gives a conspiratorial smile. Shucks out a Marlborough. “I gave
them that as a contact. Call sign is Eagle. Yours is Tartan. They’ll give you the location a.s.a.p.” He lights up.
“What about you?”
“I’m to clean up here as if I’ve never been. Transport is on its way. But that’s it, buddy. All I can do for you right now.”
“You’ve done more than enough already.”
“Sorry it’s no more.”
They both watch the drifting snow in silence for a moment. Chayne shrugs. “I’d better move.”
Peak rubs the top of his bald head. Cracks the door. Flicks out the cigarette. “You go easy, bro.”
They shake hands. “Thanks again, Peak. I owe you one.”
Chayne turns the Cherokee. Heads south, back over open country towards the road. Behind him the lonely figure of Peak, hand raised in farewell, is soon lost in the encroaching snowfall.
He is burning. He does not like to lose. Shit happens. He knows that, but this one matters. Clem and the kid. It burns a hole in his heart.
Hits the road. Level surface. Depresses the accelerator. The vehicle lurches forward in a burst of speed. Time to make up for lost time. Grim faced, he reviews his stock. He has the Walther and his knife with him. Is it enough? Depends where these boys stop. Wherever it is, it will be enough. Just him and them. They won’t know what hit them.
He is driving fast southbound on the M90 city approach road when the call comes in. The snow has given up, but there is a leaden sky. Overcast and heavy. Like the belly of a whale.
“This is Eagle.” The voice is hollow. Echoing. Relayed across outer space down a tunnel of distance.
“Tartan receiving.” He hooks the small mobile under his ear with one hand, steering with the other.
“Target has gone to ground just outside the city of Edinburgh. We’ve tagged the vehicles to a coastal area near a marina or harbor. Name of Granton. Appears to be a construction site. Visuals indicate an old gas storage facility that’s being redeveloped. Look for the tanks, the two Transit vans are parked together in that locality.”