by Sewell, Ron
“With what remains of Gaddafi’s loyal troops on the run, they’ll blame them. This village was a rogue militia stronghold.” Tarek turned his head. “Ali, you’re with me and keep your pistol out of sight. These men are not amateurs.”
Ali shrugged.” You talk to me as if I’ve just crawled out from under a rock. You may have been the officer during the revolution but now we’re the same.”
Tarek’s lips twitched as he withdrew a Beretta M9 pistol from his belt and jammed it on Ali’s forehead. “I hired you and if you don’t want to be paid. Fuck off or I’ll blow your brains out.” He jumped out of the car and waited. “Right, let’s go find and kill them. We’ll disable their car first.”
Ali muttered as he traipsed behind Tarek with a bewildered look on his face. “You bastard, I’ll kill you when I’ve been paid.”
A short distance from the team’s tented encampment, Tarek, his shirt soaked by sweat, signalled to stop. His eyes scanned the locale. “Can you see the car?”
“Maybe it’s behind the tent.”
“Go and find out.”
Ali crawled on his stomach to one side of the tent, paused, and listened, hoping to catch the slightest sound. On hands and knees, he shuffled to where the Toyota should have been. Baffled by its absence, he moved towards the entrance. The midday sun scorched his back. “It’s quiet, perhaps they’ve gone.”
“Tell the world,” said Tarek.
From his prone position, Ali, in stages, pulled back the tent flap, peered in, stood and shouted,” They’ve gone.”
Tarek charged into the tent, his eyes confirming Ali’s remark. “So where’s Eric?”
Ali gave a cursory glance around the tent and shrugged.
Tarek kept his voice low. “Eric’s gone which means more money for us. Let’s get back.”
John Soames glanced at his watch as Tarek opened the passenger door and clambered into the air-conditioned vehicle.
“They’ve gone, car, kit, diamonds, everything.”
“Where’s Eric?”
“He’s fucked off. What’s next?”
“Go, find our pilot. Two roads leave this shit hole.”
In less than fifteen minutes, Soames and his companions, along with their equipment and bags, sat in the twin-engine Cessna as the pilot completed his final checks.
The pilot clambered into his seat. “Benghazi and a comfortable bed here we come.”
“Change of plan,” said John Soames. “I want you to fly along this road.” He pointed to the B3 on his map.
The pilot shrugged. “You’re paying but no refuelling points exist in that direction until Sabha. At some stage I’ll have to divert.”
“Glad you remember I’m paying.”
The Cessna followed the road at a height of 300 metres. Its passengers bored at seeing nothing.
“They must have driven in this direction,” said John Soames. “The other way is into the wilderness.”
“There,” pointed Ali.
“Fly lower,” said Soames. “I need to check that vehicle.”
“How low?”
“Low enough for me to be able to identify the passengers.”
“That’ll cost you extra.”
“Give me the bill when we land to refuel.”
The pilot dropped altitude in stages until he reached a height of one hundred metres. “Is that low enough for you?”
“Closer,” said John Soames.
“I can bounce on his roof if you want.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Ali, his eyes bulging and face pale.
Tarek began to laugh. “You look like death.”
“I hate flying.”
***
The heat from the sun baked the exterior of the Toyota and despite the air-conditioning the temperature inside rose. Akeem drove at high speed while the others sat and stared at the endless sand. No one spoke. A tense atmosphere developed.
“We’ve got company,” said Bear. “A light plane, it’s a Cessna, losing height and following.”
Petros opened the sunroof, stood and watched. “The pilot’s creating a dust cloud in his slip stream.”
With a roar, the plane swooped and headed away. With the grace of a bird, it soared, turned and traced the road back.
Petros stared at the cockpit but the sun’s reflection prevented him from recognising any of the occupants. He dropped onto his seat and closed the sunroof. “My gut instinct tells me we’re in trouble. ZZ, is there anywhere we can hide on this road?”
“Not on this road, Mr Petros, but in the desert forgotten places continue to exist. I can show you.”
“Away you go, ZZ.”
“It is the ancient camel tracks merchants used before roads.”
“How did you discover this track?” asked Bear.
ZZ puffed out his chest. “Am I not a man of the desert? My ancestors survived in this land before the world knew we existed.”
“Okay, show us.”
“Has the aircraft gone?” said ZZ.
“They’ll land at Sabha, refuel the plane and if it were me, I’d hire a car and end this farce with no witnesses,” said Amadou.
ZZ opened the sunroof. “Drive slow, Mr Akeem, I need to find the mark.”
Akeem reduced their speed to fifty kilometres an hour. “Is that slow enough?”
“Slower,” said ZZ.
Twenty minutes elapsed before ZZ spoke. “Turn right at the rock of lava poking from the sand.”
“I can’t see the track,” said Akeem.
“The desert storms have eroded the road of the camel,” said ZZ, “but if you follow the signs it is easy.”
Akeem stopped the Toyota. “ZZ, I need you up front. Change places with Amadou.”
“Mr Akeem, I must stay here as if riding a camel.”
Akeem smiled.” This is an expensive camel, but okay it’s going to get hot, open the windows. I’ll kill the air-con. It’ll give us more power and ZZ, you’re the boss, just tell me where to drive.”
“Use the compass and head north. This is very old trail to Surt.”
“I believe you but we have three quarters of a tank of fuel and then we’re buggered.”
“In a few hours we stop and rest for the night. We fill tank at pump house.”
They drove on in the intense heat. ZZ gave simple directions to Akeem. Three hours later he pointed as the decaying walls of a village came into view.
“Where are we?” asked Akeem.
“It’s an ancient Berber village. No one has lived here for a long time,” said ZZ. “Water from the one well dried up and the villagers left.”
“Lots of palms,” said Petros.
“Yes,” said ZZ, “but to survive in the desert man must have water. See as we draw near, not one wall remains intact. Many of the houses have collapsed in on themselves. For us it is the perfect hiding place.”
Akeem drove the Toyota under the curved roof of an aged structure and stopped. “Fuel, ZZ?”
ZZ jumped out, rested against the driver’s door and pointed. “Square building with tin roof. Oil pump room. Engine kaput but plenty diesel in tank.”
Petros and Bear using the available cover scouted the village. Forty minutes elapsed before they returned.
“Looks deserted. Grab those cans,” said Petros. “The sooner we’re on our way the better.”
“PK, can you hear a plane?” said Bear.
“It’s in the distance. If it’s them, they’ll waste fuel and time going round in circles.”
In good spirits, the four men followed in a line behind ZZ carrying two cans apiece. Constructed with once white-painted sheets of metal, the pump room devoid of windows contained little except a large tank bolted to the rafters and a pump with no drive motor.
“Fuel in tank,” said ZZ.
Petros pulled a sock from his pocket. “We drain the fuel through one of my socks. Any crap will stop there. Better than the Toyota stalling in the middle of nowhere.”
“Brain of Britain,”
said Bear. “Thinks of everything.”
“But he’s right,” said Akeem.
“That’s the trouble.” said Bear.
“The tank has more or less a third remaining,” said Amadou. “By the time we’ve filled our jerry cans, it’ll be empty.”
“Not our problem,” said Petros. “Shush.” He placed two fingers to his lips.
Bear nodded and sidled out of the doorway merely to return with his arms raised. An unshaven man in the ragged uniform of Gaddafi’s army prodded his back with an AK 47.
Amadou shouted at the man in Arabic, who automatically lowered his rifle and stood to attention.
“What the fuck?” said Akeem.
Amadou shouted again at the man. “You are a disgrace to the uniform you wear.”
“Who is he?” said Petros.
“One of many Gaddafi’s loyalists. He believes I am an officer."
“Why would he think that?” said Bear.
“Because many years ago I was. I commanded these weak-willed and easily-controlled men.” He spoke again in Arabic. “Are there any more of our troops hiding here?”
The man, his voice quivering, still at attention, answered.
“Petros, there’s five of them. They have a little water but ran out of food a week ago. I will order him to get the others.” The roar from a low flying plane stopped the conversation.
Close to the wall, Petros peeked out of the window. “I recognise the registration number and it’s circling. Is there anywhere for it to land, ZZ?”
ZZ shrugged.
“Amadou, get this man to take us to the others. They have what we haven’t, weapons.”
“We have food,” said Amadou. He grabbed the man’s shirt and forced him against the wall shouting as he grabbed the AK. “You lead.”
“Time to go,” said Petros.
In a line with Gaddafi’s man leading, they walked with purpose through the village and across open ground. In a side passage, a derelict car, it’s bonnet open, blocked their path.
“What a place to park,” said Bear. “You can never find a traffic warden when you want one.”
“Stranded, with no transport is a slow death sentence,” said Petros.
The soldier stopped, turned and lifted half a dozen dead palm fronds to reveal a hatch. A makeshift ladder gave access.
“Underground makes sense, cooler in the heat of the day,” said Bear.
“I hate to say this,” said Amadou. “Do you understand what this is?”
Bear chuckled. “Those sleeping in the alcoves won’t disturb us, they’re brown bread, dead. Great hiding place, a burial chamber.”
Petros looked at Bear. “This could be a trap.”
Amadou grabbed the soldier. “You first. Any problems and a dirty great rock will cave your head in.”
The soldier stared at him, fear filled his eyes as he descended the ladder.
Amadou waited until the man’s head disappeared before he jumped, his knees bent ready to hit the ground.
The soldier stood unmoving as Amadou pointed the AK at his chest. “Clear.”
The others followed Amadou and entered a central chamber where a single oil lamp gave sparse light. Four men sat on the bare earth, their backs against the wall. With eyes downcast, their whole beings crushed from events they could not control or understand. One attempted to rise. Gaddafi’s man said something and hands drifted away from their weapons.
“Bear, get your arse in gear and check if we have visitors. Amadou, weapons and ammo, what do we have?”
“An AK might be useful,” said Bear.
Amadou sauntered towards the nearest man, picked the AK from the earth and checked the magazine. “Half full. It’ll have to do.”
Bear grabbed it and without a word made his exit.
“Weapons,” said Petros.
Amadou collected one other AK and a pistol. “Ammunition?” he shouted.
Gaddafi’s man answered.
“This is it,” said Amadou.
“Great, five men half dead who couldn’t give a shit and weapons with almost no ammo,” said Petros.
“ZZ, grab the pistol and stay with me,” said Akeem.
Petros retrieved the remaining AK and removed the magazine. “Seven rounds. What about Gaddafi’s man?”
Amadou repeated the procedure. “Three.”
“Not much but better than fuck-all. We wait for Bear.”
***
Bear climbed the remains of a square stone tower. This gave him a full three-sixty-degree observation post. The empty desert stretched in every direction, its surface rough with rocks and boulders of differing sizes. What a place to live, he thought. He focused his attention on the roads leading to the village. Twenty minutes elapsed before his expression turned serious. In the distance the sun reflected off something where nothing had been before.
He squatted and scrutinised the spot some distance away until it glinted again. “Fucking cowboys are wearing reflective sunglasses and walking together.” Relaxed and with his head low, he descended and returned to the tomb.
“They’re coming. Three posers wearing sunglasses.”
“How long before we worry?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes at most. I might add we might find better defensive positions outside the village.”
“I agree,” said Petros. “Akeem, shift the car to a safe distance. Without that we’ll either be stranded or dead.”
“They’ll hear the engine,” said Akeem.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Petros. “In the open we have a chance. Amadou, tell these men we will cover up the entrance and come back later.”
“”We’re wasting time,” said Bear.
Akeem with ZZ raced away, while the others followed Bear.
Once out of the village the three men stopped.
“Over there, a low wall,” said Bear, “and clear ground in front with no easy way to flank.”
“I’ll go with that,” said Amadou.
“Who am I to argue?” said Petros. “Where’s Akeem with the car?”
“I heard it start,” said Bear. “Don’t worry, he can take care of himself.”
They reached the crumbling stone-wall and stepped over.
“Pick your positions,” said Bear. “I’m going further back onto that rise. Gives a better view.”
“This will do me,” said Amadou. “A few more rocks in front and it’ll be as good as home.”
Petros pointed. “I’ll be fifty metres away. Don’t forget to check your weapons.”
Shots from an automatic rattled the air.
“What the fuck,” said Petros as he dived for cover. He peered over the wall as the Toyota, its engine racing, wheels spinning, surged across the open ground. The driver crashed through the damaged stone wall. The vehicle disappeared in a cloud of dust behind rocks and a few palms.
Chapter Eighteen
Akeem crawled into a roofless, mud-brick dwelling, withdrew his knife, pistol, and placed them on the ground. With both hands he lifted the dry earth and covered his head and clothes. There was no point being conspicuous. The wind wafted through the palm fronds slapping them together. Protected, he peered through a hole in the wall towards where the others waited. His mind summed up the situation. Whoever they were, expected two men. These bastards wanted the diamonds and he hadn’t been paid.
A rock striking another forced him to retreat further into the corner. Shadow concealed a heap of rags as Akeem listened. He found it difficult to determine how many. A few minutes elapsed before he indentified the three individual men.
***
“Tarek, you go left. Ali, go right. Make sure you have full mags and a spare available. I want these men dead and buried before nightfall,” ordered John Soames.
“And where will you be?” said Tarek.
He pointed. “That damaged square tower. I’ll be up there covering you. If either of those morons so much as raises a finger, I’ll shoot it off. Now get in position.”
Tarek a
nd Ali wandered along the back streets using the ruined homes as cover.
John Soames tied a white handkerchief to his AK and held it high in the air and strolled as if out for a walk in the park. With his thick, black bushy eyebrows, this balding, middle-aged man stood in plain view. The dipping sun made it impossible for him to focus his eyes. He smiled and deep creases formed around his eyes. “I know you’re out there, gentlemen, because that’s where I’d be. The open ground makes it difficult for my men to find you but find you they will. They want to kill you but I’m more tolerant. We are playing the same game and you are an itch I need to scratch. Throw the diamonds to where I can see them and drive away.”
“I could kill you with one shot,” shouted Amadou. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Stupid bastard,” muttered Bear. “Now he knows where you are.”
A sharp pain raced around Bear’s head. He attempted to speak as his vision blurred. In a moment the desert vanished. He regained consciousness, his back against a boulder. “What the fuck?” With hands shaking, he picked up the AK, leaned against a smooth boulder, found his water bottle and drank.
“If you were going to kill me, I’d already be dead,” said John Soames. “I’m giving you the chance to walk out of here alive.”
“I can live the good life with my share,” said Amadou.
“After my men have killed you, I will return to my office and on my desk will be a letter in a plain envelope confirming my redundancy. Thirty years of my life for what? They are mine and I intend to have them. If you want to kill me, do it now as I turn my back and walk away.”
Amadou murmured. “You’ll never open that letter.” He aimed and fired.
Dust spurted a few metres from John Soames. He shook his head and laughed.
Amadou thumped the ground with his fist. “Trust me to get an AK with rubbish sights.”
***
Akeem thought for a moment and decided the man they called Ali was the easiest choice.
He stood and noted the footprints in the sand and travelled to the right, changing his position as the palm fronds rattled together. Every now and then, he checked Ali’s path.
A smile formed on his lips as he removed his knife. He tracked his prey for a further fifteen minutes before locating Ali’s position. He dropped to the ground behind two palms.