The Gardener

by Tony Masero

  Caine does not hesitate. Unsnapping his mobile, he moves away from them all, outside the circle of light and into the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The sound of heavy artillery rumbles nearer.

  Staccato machinegun fire. The ground quivers underfoot. There are dark clouds rising on the horizon. Ebu the Dictator is coming.

  Omaluli hurries through the deserted corridors of his palace. Around him lie the signs of retreat. Scattered clothing. Furniture hauled out and then discarded as too awkward to carry. Emptied bags, their contents lying forgotten. Scurrying shadows.

  “Come!” he shouts at the bodyguards behind. “Hurry, we do not have much time.”

  Between them they drag the unwilling figure of Adula. Clad in simple clothes, makeup gone. Her hair a tangle about her face. There is a swelling bruise above her left eye and a trace of blood on her lips.

  Omaluli swings open the door. “Here, Adula!” He takes her arm, pulls her forward viciously. “Everything is prepared for my departure. But before we go, there is one thing we must do.” Anger seethes through him. His teeth are clenched in a snarl. Scarred cheeks stretched. “Look below.” He points at Ndomo squatting at the bottom of the pit. They have beaten him badly. He is bloody. His clothes in rags. But he raises his head.

  Adula is looking down. “No, father, no!”

  Omaluli shakes her sharply. “You, Adula. You and this fool have lost me an empire. But my arm is long, daughter. Did you really think you could escape me? You and the herd boy. I don’t understand it. Any of it. You would have had everything with the son of Ebu. Lived like a queen, with great status and power. And yet you ran. Ran with this nothing here.”

  “And you,” Omaluli looks with disgust down at Ndomo. “You beetle! What have you to say before I crush you?”

  “It was foretold, Excellency,” Ndomo manages between cracked lips. “The spirits spoke and I obeyed. That is my only crime.”

  “The spirits spoke,” snorts the warlord. “Utu threatened the same whilst he sat where you are sitting. It did nothing to save him either. Spirits. They will not hear you, only I hear you here. Bah! There is nothing so sad as a true believer.”

  The shockwave from a shell exploding nearby brings a silt of dust down from the ceiling.

  Omaluli pulls himself upright. Tugs at his military tunic. Takes the .38 from his pocket and tosses it into the pit. “Here, I give you the same opportunity as Utu. One bullet. Use it wisely.” He nods to a bodyguard.

  Adula struggles in his grasp. Turns her head as the man pulls down a lever. Omaluli snarls, pulls her closer. Dragging her to the edge of the pit. “No, daughter. You shall stay and watch how I deal with this misbegotten hyena.”

  “Please, father. No. I love this man. Do no more harm to him. I beg this of you.”

  It is too late. The lever is depressed and the hatch slides up. The beasts enter quickly. They are nervous, frightened by the sounds of war. They coil. Huddling closer to each other. Snarling in distress.

  Ndomo freezes. He stands completely still.

  The bodyguards are fussing at Omaluli’s elbow. They want to go. The sound of mortar fire is creeping closer. Omaluli knows there is not much time before his remaining troops are overrun and the palace taken. He has no illusions about what will happen to him. Anyone found in the palace confines will face a very unpleasant end.

  “Wait!” Omaluli brushes the bodyguards off. Bellows at them. His face suffused with angry blood. His pig eyes staring. “Are you chickens? You will run at the first sound of gunfire. I am Omaluli Mtubu, the Bull Elephant. I am too big in power to die.”

  Omaluli sees Ndomo raise his pistol.

  The bullet takes him on his half turned head. Creases his skull like the blow of a baton. He turns slowly. One hand raised to brush at the bullet wound on his forehead. He staggers as if dizzy. Releases Adula. His foot slides on the edge of the pit. In a slow arc, he spins into space. Falling into the pit.

  The cloud of dust he raises at impact turns the tigers in fright. Omaluli lies there. Semiconscious. Staring vaguely. A male tiger. The pack leader. Leaps forward and takes Omaluli by the shoulder. Shakes him in its jaws. The warlord watches Ndomo with pleading eyes, unable to move, his mouth works silently. The other tigers gather curiously around the half dead man.

  Ndomo sidles cautiously to the hatchway. He crawls on all fours into the opening. Crouches.

  “Adula!” he calls quietly. “Adula!”

  “Yes. I am here, Ndomo.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, the bodyguards have fled. I will open the door. Wait.”

  “Close it after me. I will go to their cage, come then and release me.”

  The hatch slides up and a half conscious Omaluli dimly sees Ndomo roll under it. A man-eater turns at the sound. Coughs a warning through blood stained lips and slopes forward to investigate. The heavy hatch slides down. Jams half way. The tiger sees Ndomo’s movements through the gap. Roars and reaches. Its claws bared. The beast paws the air before Ndomo. It struggles to push its head through the space. Twisting. Snarling. The hatch is being forced up. Ndomo struggles in the confines of the narrow passageway. He raises a leg. Kicks at the hatch. Kicks again.

  The freed hatch drops. Ndomo is safe.

  Omaluli is screaming now. Pain and terror giving him voice. The tigers snarl at each other, baring their long teeth. They snap and fight over the trembling meat. They burrow. Rending and tearing. Bone crunches. But nobody hears. There is no one left in the warlord’s palace to hear.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Interrogation Room Three. 1702 hours. They are questioning Chayne.

  Two policemen. Coolly threatening. Doing it by the book. Tape recorder on.

  It’s a joke, really. Experts have questioned him. He had the scars to prove it. These guys have been trying for days and are getting nowhere.

  “So, Mr. Chayne. Let’s try again. We’ve seen your record.” Tall fellow. Sallow complexion. Detective Inspector Reynolds, he said at the beginning. “Know that you were in the Army until recently. Supplies, was it?” Nice simple question.

  Chayne watches him silently.

  “No. Not talking. Easy enough to answer, isn’t it?”

  “Listen, sunshine,” the other one, DC Christchurch, snarls. Short man, tiny really. The heavy. Red hair and a temperament to match. “It’s in your best interests to cooperate. Like it or not, we’ll get there in the end.”

  Want to bet?

  Reynolds is back on track. “We’ll pass over the assault on the two traffic police for the moment. What we’re more interested in are these seven colored gentlemen. Efficient job, that. Not like you’d expect from an Army supply clerk. Would you like to enlighten us as to what exactly happened?”

  Chayne says nothing. He is wondering what Clem is up to. How Robert is. Whether McBraith is back.

  “The boy is fine. Doing well.” Reynolds answers his unspoken question as if he heard it. “You did a great job there. Getting him back. Masterful stuff. All we need is for you to tell us how.”

  Chayne strokes his jaw. Needs a shave. The other two pause. Is he about to speak?

  “Maybe it wasn’t you. Is that what you’re saying?” asks the redhead. “But we know it was, don’t we? Forensics has the bullets matched to your gun. Blood on the knife. Fingerprints everywhere. It all ties up, sunshine. You’re the boy.”

  Chayne studies his clasped hands before him on the metal tabletop.

  “We can do this easy or hard, up to you. We’ve got all day.”

  Moves behind him. Hand on the back of his head. Fingers clamped. Forcing him forward. Pressing his head down towards the tabletop. Nobody will hear this on the tape.

  “We’re getting nowhere with this,” Interrupts Reynolds. Jerks his head at Christchurch. Chayne is released. “Okay, Mr. Chayne. I’m formally charging you with seven counts of murder. If you can’t afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you. Anything you say, blah, blah. 1722 hours. DI
Reynolds. Interrogation over.” Snaps off the recorder. Unloads the tape.

  Reynolds is up and sweeps out of the room, but before Christchurch can close the door.

  “You’re a lucky man,” Chayne says.

  Ducks his red head back inside the room. “Oh, yeah and how’s that, sunshine?”

  “That close.” Smiles Chayne. He holds finger and thumb an inch apart.

  Chapter Thirty

  Two nuclear reactors boil up enough power to maintain a top speed of thirty knots. Not enough to bring the USS Inuit (CVN-84) onto its attack station on schedule. But then, she has come a long way. Latest in the line of American aircraft carriers. The Inuit has cost three point five billion dollars of taxpayer’s money and has yet to be tested in combat. Ninety-seven thousand tons of firepower. Home to a crew of five thousand. A flight deck over a thousand feet long and eighty tactical aircraft ready to go.

  When the signal arrives on the bridge, Captain Deakon “Quirk” Thayland orders an immediate briefing. He wants his Hornets in the air as soon as possible. His orders are clear and he is not about to fail on his first mission. Calm on the outside, inside, he fumes at their late arrival.

  He lets his Executive Officer, Jesse Langley, take the briefing, choosing to stand only as a brooding presence in the background.

  “You have your assignments. Our asset on the ground informs us that all targets will be plainly marked. Satellite intel confirms this. Targets are lit up like Christmas.” Langley pauses for effect. “This needs to be incisive, gentlemen. On the button. We expect to have some collateral damage considering the payload of these weapons dumps, but as you will appreciate, Washington obviously wants to keep it at a minimum. There’s been a lot of political maneuvering going on and we now have a go clearance to enter their airspace from both Moroccan and Algerian authorities.”

  The Hornet pilots maintain silent attention. Rock steady. Grim faced. They are to be the christening raid of the Inuit and nobody wants to foul up. Quirk Thayland likes what he sees.

  “No response is expected, but you never can tell. So stay sharp, gentlemen. Especially those of you whose targets are in the highlands and amongst the mountain country. We know anti-aircraft surface-to-air missiles exist among the cargo. Whether these guys know how to use them or not, we don’t know. Unlikely, but possible. Because, hey,” he tries to lighten the proceedings, “all you have to do is point and pull, no?”

  There is a dutiful rumble of amusement in response. Muted, because these men will be on the receiving end and not hunkered down in the dark safety of the carrier’s CIC.

  “Short range support from the Tomcats and Seahawks will be on call if needed. So remember, guys, you’re not alone. We’ll be with you out there.” Langley turns to Thayland. “Captain?”

  Quirk Thayland steps forward, attempting to strike an imposing figure. He is a short and chunky man. Small for a commander. Only too conscious of his stature, Langley knows. It has been this perceived deficiency that has given Thayland the drive to achieve his high posting.

  Arms folded across his broad chest, he frowns at the room. “Make this one count, men. Let’s show them the Inuit can cut it. Come back safe, and God go with you all.”

  Langley turns back to face them again. “Okay, that’s all. Get to it.”

  Opalescent, dawn light halos a clear sky. The prospect of another day of heat promised by the azure haze misting the horizon over the dark Atlantic.

  A rush of noise. Strike fighters are jettisoned from the four catapults of the Inuit with smooth regularity. Each beast, with fifty-seven million dollars’ worth of combat potential, carries only one truly priceless cargo. Its pilot. The F/A-18 Super Hornets are loaded for bear. Sidewinders and Maverick missiles bristle under their smooth wings. They gleam in the coming sunlight as they rise. Circling, they make their rendezvous. Then, turning as one, the sleek birds head into the glare.

  Quirk Thayland watches them go. “Beautiful. Smooth as silk,” he mutters, more to himself than those around him.

  The dark bulk of the container ship Mungo Star lies sleepy on the dawn tide. All of Habib’s team awaits his return. It has been a long night. The train of unloading has continued into the early hours. There are still many containers to disembark and the beach, cleared now, is marked with the scars of the fleet of trucks that moved unceasingly throughout the night. Before his return, though, their leader has a mission. He must place the bullion into the hands of the Polisario. Only Hikmat is awake, Captain of all he surveys. Alone on the bridge, he paces up and down. Chain-smoking incessantly. Nervously filling the place with fumes.

  Traveling at over a thousand miles an hour the Hornets are invisible until they are upon him. Hikmat ducks instinctively at the roar of the passing jets. They are diving. A low level attack. He gapes at the passing flash of shadow. Leaps for the intercom. Already, he is too late.

  Missiles stream down on a thread of white smoke and accurately strike the Mungo Star amidships. Exploding amongst the containers. Setting off a chain reaction amongst the stored ammunition and explosives. Stepped explosions. White phosphorescent clouds. Along the length of the long ship a bloom of orange fire reaches upward into the sky. Hikmat watches it all in dismay before the bridge windows are shattered by the blast and he is slammed back against the decking. Seconds later the entire ship disappears in an oily pillar of fire and black smoke.

  As the jets scream overhead, Habib pulls the Jeep to a halt. His head out of the driving window. Watching.

  “Look, Habib.” Isam points at the dark cloud staining the sky before them. “The boat.”

  Habib nods. “Yes, it is gone. Those in the West have chosen their path. So be it.”

  Habib hardens his features and turns the Jeep. Heading back into the desert.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Clem stands disconsolate in the middle of the room. Silent. Empty. She switches on lights.

  Somebody has boarded up the broken windows and smashed door. The shredded sofa still sits in a drift of stuffing and dark lines of bullet holes mark the walls. It is not like a home anymore, more like a war zone.

  She is drained. Exhausted and pale. It has been a long haul. Sitting at Robert’s bedside. Trying to sleep beside him overnight at the hospital. Her heart is wrenched by his awful wound and the obvious effects of trauma that the kidnapping has left. Clem knows she has not been functioning too well in the midst of all the stress. Her mind has drifted to thoughts of Chayne occasionally. Wondering where he is and what he is doing. No word has reached her. After the intense questioning in the early days, the police have left her alone now.

  She supposes Chayne has gone to ground. Hiding out somewhere to avoid problems. Her mind has been unable to cope with much other than Robert, and she has avoided newspapers and TV reports and seen nothing of his arrest and subsequent murder charge.

  It is cold in the room. Snow blows in the open front door. She doesn’t care. It all adds to her sense of bleakness.

  She takes one last look around. At the broken photo frame lying in the empty fireplace. A family picture under fractured glass. Laughing. Charles tickling Robert. Broad smiles. Happier days. And the tangled rug where she and Chayne lay. That is the one thought that warms the room for her.

  Clem picks up Robert’s laptop. The reason she came. He is recovering. Recovering enough to ask for the computer. It is a good sign.

  The phone rings.

  Clem jumps at the unexpected warble. Finds the phone on a side table. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. McBraith. It’s Anne Longridge here. Charles’s secretary. Well, actually ex-secretary.”

  “Anne, yes,” answers Clem vaguely. “Is Charles all right?”

  “Partly why I’m calling. We’re back in the UK and he’s been trying to reach you. He is on his way up to Scotland now. I was sorry to hear about Robert, by the way. Hope he improves soon.”

  “Mm, thank you. You said ex-secretary. Are you leaving the company?”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Mc
Braith. But before I go, I thought that there was something you should know.”

  And what could you possibly tell me that I haven’t guessed? “What’s that, Anne?”

  “You should know two things, Mrs. McBraith. Unpleasant, I’m afraid, but there it is. Firstly, Charles and I have been having an affair for over a year. It’s over now for good, you can trust me on that. And secondly, Charles’s involvement in this arms deal has been very suspect. I’m not sure of all the details, but it appears he managed some kind of arrangement with the terrorists to steal the weapons intended for Africa. Apparently, he allowed some Arab access to the offices so that they might have inside information on the delivery structure. It amounted to nothing anyway. The American Navy has destroyed everything in aerial raids and Charles barely escaped with his life.”

  Clem takes it all in. None of it surprises her. But pieces begin to slot together.

  “Why are you telling me all this, Anne?”

  Silence. A moment’s pause. “I guess we’ve both been treated with total disregard, Mrs. McBraith. I just thought you should know, that’s all.”

  Clem feels a moment of bitterness. “You mean you’ve served your purpose and now you’re out of his bed and out of a job. Couldn’t just be a case of sour grapes, could it?”

  An invisible shrug inherent in the answer. “If you like. Look, it really doesn’t matter to me what you think of me, one way or the other. I’ll be just fine. If I don’t have a new position within a month, I’ll be very surprised, and as for bed, well, that’s never been a problem.”