by Chris Ryan
‘Has he ever been here?’
Boisset shook his head.
Without the primitive air-conditioning, the heat was becoming impossible.
‘Let’s get back into the open,’ I suggested.
Boisset locked up behind us and led us back. As we passed the open sinks, I was sorely tempted to scoop up a handful of the diamond-laden gravel and stuff it into one of the pouches on my belt kit. Then I thought, set an example!, and carried on. Boisset diverted to show us the squalid little apartment in which he’d been held prisoner: two tiny, windowless rooms, with a cold tap and a hole in the floor for a bog. It seemed a miracle that he’d stayed sane.
‘What did you eat all the time?’ Phil asked.
‘Filth. Whatever they brought me. My stomach has been very bad.’
Poor old bugger, I thought. On impulse, I asked, ‘How old are you?’, and I was shocked when he answered, ‘Fifty-two.’ From his appearance I’d have given him seventy at least.
‘What about the keys?’ I asked. ‘You’d better hand them to Joss. Major Mvula, his name is. He needs to get a guard on the secure zone. There he is, coming now.
‘Joss,’ I went. ‘Meet a great survivor.’
I explained who Boisset was, and what he’d done. Now Joss seemed in a raging hurry, far less friendly than usual. He greeted the Belgian in an off-hand way and made no enquiries about how he was feeling. Instead, he said, ‘Water, man. What’s the water situation?’
‘We get it from the river,’ Boisset answered. ‘Naturally, it has to be filtered before use. The purification plant runs on electricity . . .’
Joss seemed to be only half listening. Without paying much attention to the answers, he fired off a whole lot of questions about how long it would take to get the mine up and running again. Then he ordered Boisset to draw up a list of any spare parts that would be needed. The old man listened meekly enough, then shuffled off.
‘Listen,’ I said to Joss as he moved away. ‘That guy’s had a hell of an ordeal. He needs looking after.’
Joss glared at me, and said, ‘So does the mine.’
His attitude was starting to piss me off. But also I was worried. His emotional state seemed to be veering about. I had the feeling he might do something stupid at any minute. Hadn’t we just helped him recapture the damned place? But it wasn’t the moment to start anything, so I just asked, ‘Okay. What’s the drill, then?’
‘We’ve been in touch with Mulongwe. The relief aircraft’s coming down in the morning.’
‘So when will you want to move on?’
‘Maybe tomorrow evening.’
‘That’s fine.’
I walked out into the blazing sunshine. Then, on impulse I turned back into the building and sought out Boisset again. By then he was checking the big generators, which, as we thought, had shut down from fuel starvation.
‘I’m sorry,’ I began. ‘That guy wasn’t very polite.’
The Belgian gave a shrug, which said, ‘That’s Africans.’
‘The thing is, what d’you want to do? I imagine you’re wanting out. If that’s right, I’m sure we can get you back to Mulongwe on the relief plane.’
‘Mais non!’ came the answer, with some emphasis. ‘I must stay to look after the mine. It is my child, almost.’
I was quite surprised. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘Certainly. If I can live once more in my bungalow over there.’ He pointed in the direction of the single-storey accommodation. ‘There is just one thing.’
‘Go on.’
‘Perhaps you can send a message to my nephew in Brussels. He is also Boisset, Alphonse, my brother’s son. He is in the book. Alphonse Xavier. He does not know if I am alive or dead. Please tell him I am in one piece.’
‘No problem. We’ll get our headquarters to pass it on.’
‘Merci.’
He had forgotten the telephone number, but wrote the address on a page of my notebook, and I left him pottering among his machinery. It crossed my mind that he must have some ulterior motive for wanting to stay on in such a hell-hole. Maybe, I thought, he’s been burying the odd diamond over the years, and needs time to dig them out. Whatever it was, I hadn’t got time to argue the point with him. If he wanted to stay, that was fine by me.
Outside again, I suddenly felt weak with hunger. I was astonished when I looked at my watch and found it was only 0730. The fire in the gatehouse had gone out, but the fuel depot was still burning well. Across in the bungalow some sort of party seemed to be in progress. There was a lot of wild shouting, laughter and singing. I thought of going across to check it out, but then I saw Banda, one of the black sergeants, heading out of the bungalow towards us.
Something bad seemed to have happened to him. He was moving unsteadily. I thought he’d been shot or had got into a fight, because there was fresh blood all over his face and down his shirt.
‘Hey, Banda!’ I went. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Join the party!’ he shouted, giving a quarter-melon grin as he parroted Joss’s war-cry. ‘Big celebration! South African whisky very good!’
‘What’s all that blood? You been hit, or something?’
‘White man’s liver!’ he cried. ‘White man’s liver very good!’
With that, he staggered past us and carried on.
‘Jesus!’ went Phil. ‘He’s pissed as arseholes. They must have found some hooch where the mercenaries were quartered.’
‘Is that right about the liver?’
‘You bet. That’s what these guys do. Cut out their enemy’s liver and eat it raw.’
‘Fucking savages! D’you reckon they’ve topped the guy we brought in?’
‘More than likely.’
‘Let’s leave them to it.’
Beside the wrecked gate a party of soldiers was filling sandbags and rebuilding the defences of the guard-post. At least some effort was being made. As we walked past, I called up Pavarotti.
‘Pav,’ I went. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘Fine, thanks. All quiet up here.’
‘Down here there’s a fucking shambles. But it’s Joss’s show, so we’re leaving him to it and coming back up.’
‘Roger. There’s one thing I’d better warn you about.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘I just heard from Mart. The Kraut’s come round. She’s making perfect sense.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Never. And you know what cured her? Mabonzo’s medicine.’
NINE
We found Whinger stripped to his shreddies and bandages, stretched out on his American cot. Even from a distance I could see him shuddering with fever.
‘How goes it?’ I said.
‘Average to fucking awful. Let’s hear about the battle, though. Take my mind off this pain.’
‘Basically it was all right,’ I began.
‘It sounded like Guy Fawkes night,’ he croaked. ‘Bloody brilliant!’
‘Yeah. The silveries could have done worse.’
I filled him in on the various phases of the attack, then said, ‘It’s what happened afterwards that I don’t like. The whole lot went bananas. Like after the stampede, only worse. They carved up one of the white mercenaries and ate him. Parts of him, anyway.’
‘Who’d have thought it?’ said Whinger, slowly. ‘Mercenaries fighting for a shower like these rebels. Hardly worth their while.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘There’s something bigger than we know going on here. Otherwise these guys wouldn’t be involved.’
‘They’re after diamonds,’ said Whinger. ‘They’re probably desperate for money. That’s where you and me’ll be in a couple of years’ time – out on the wing for some fifth-rate black army.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ I told him. ‘These bastards are that treacherous, once we get out of here, I’m keeping clear of Africa for a bit.’
‘Me too,’ went Phil.
‘Another thing I can’t understand is Joss,’
I went on. ‘He suddenly flipped. What bugged the bastard? Something happened to tip him over. Until then he’d been high as a fucking kite with excitement.’
Whinger gave a groan and a string of muttered imprecations as he shifted his position. Then he said, ‘There’s something strange about this woman as well.’
‘Oh? What happened?’
‘It was when the firing died down. I’d been trying to follow things from the noise. Then I must have dozed off, because when I woke up there she was, standing right beside me.’
‘I hope you slid your good hand up her shorts.’
‘Did I hell! I had the impression she’d been rummaging in my kit.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I asked what she thought she was doing. She said she was looking for something to drink. I told her to fuck off.’
‘All good for international relations,’ I told him. ‘That’s blown any chance of you getting your leg over. Not to worry. I’m off to sort her now.’
I found her sitting on an upturned wooden crate under a sausage tree; the cylindrical fruits were hanging down from the branches like vast green salamis. We knew from some we’d picked up that they weighed fifteen or twenty pounds, and it crossed my mind that if one dropped straight on to her head, it might solve a few problems.
We’d told her to stay on board the mother wagon, in case the rebels put in a counter-attack and we had to make a sudden move. But here she was, out in the open. Worse, there was no sign of the Kamangan who was supposed to be keeping an eye on her. She had her injured leg stuck out in front of her and her ankle resting on a rolled-up blanket. She was wearing an olive-green T-shirt and a pair of shreddies that one of the lads had given her. Little did she realise that she was dressed in a dead man’s kit – the stuff was Andy’s. If Whinger had put a hand up her shorts, it wouldn’t have had far to go: the shreddies just about covered the ledge of her arse, and no more. Her face was pale under its tan. A rough crutch that someone had cut for her from the fork of a young tree was lying on the ground beside her.
‘Look,’ I began. ‘You’re not supposed to be away from the wagon. Didn’t I tell you? We may have to get out quick. What happened to the guy we put here to mind you?’
‘Oh,’ she waved vaguely. ‘He’s over there, somewhere.’
I forced myself to chill out, and asked, ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I still have pain in the head. Quite bad.’ She spoke with a strong German accent, and her voice had a harsh edge that grated on the ear.
‘Did Mart give you aspirin or something?’
‘I take the tablets, yes.’
‘Good.’ I couldn’t help thinking of the ground-up dog-shit. ‘Now, tell me about yourself.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘How about a name, for a start.’
‘Braun, Ingeborg.’
‘And what do you do for a living?’
‘Already I have this conversation, with your friend.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘Wildlife,’ she said wearily, shifting her bad ankle. ‘Animals are my business.’
‘Safaris?’
‘Not exactly. We give advice to game-parks, yes?’
‘On what?’
‘Numbers, culling. Naturschütz – conservation.’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘My company is SWAG.’ She pronounced the letters ess, vay, ah, gay. ‘That means South West Africa Game.’
‘And where’s it based?’
‘Windhoek.’
Again, a very Germanic pronunciation: Wint-herk.
‘We are affiliated with Conscor,’ she added, as if that would make everything clear.
‘Conscor?’
‘The Conservation Corporation. They run the best game lodges: Makalali, Phindi, Londolozi.’
‘So where were you going when the plane crashed?’
‘Ach!’ She drew the back of one hand across her forehead. ‘So many questions!’
I waited, not wanting to give any leads.
Then she said, ‘It is difficult to remember. When did we fall under?’
‘Three days ago now.’ I added a day deliberately.
‘I am unconscious so long?’
I nodded.
‘And my companions?’
‘Killed in the crash, I’m afraid.’
‘So. Their bodies?’
‘We had to leave them. The area was very remote.’
Her pale blue eyes stared at me. I thought, she’s trying to remember. Or maybe she’s calculating, working things out. There was something about her that made the second alternative seem more likely.
‘You have reported the accident?’
‘Of course. We told Kamangan army headquarters in Mulongwe, and also our own people in the UK.’
‘Kamanga!’ Her whole body gave a twitch, as though she’d had an electric shock. ‘I am in Kamanga?’
When I nodded, there was something peculiar about her reaction. For a second she looked almost elated, but then her face clouded. Later, I kept thinking back on that moment, and what it meant. But it was gone in an instant, and she exclaimed, ‘Scheisse! What happened to the plane? Normally it is reliable.’
‘The trouble sounded like dirt in the fuel. The engines were misfiring.’
‘And where did it happen?’
I shrugged. ‘Hard to know. Our maps are so bad, they don’t bear any relation to what’s on the ground. All I can tell you is that the site is a day’s driving north of here.’
‘You cannot find it again?’
‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘Besides, there wouldn’t be any point. The aircraft was a write-off. It caught fire when it went in.’
‘My companions were burned?’
‘No, they were thrown clear. They were killed by the impact.’
She stared at me, absorbing the information, then asked, ‘You found their papers, their wallets?’
‘Only one. A man called Pretorius.’
‘So. And I?’
‘You were caught in the straps, in the back seats. You owe your life to the fact the fire didn’t start immediately. Fuel was leaking from the wing-tanks, but we just had time to get you out.’
‘We?’
‘Myself and Whinger. He was the one who found you. He got quite badly burnt by the fireball.’
‘This man is who?’
‘Whinger Watson.’
‘Vincha? Is that an English name?’
‘It’s his nickname. His real name’s Fred, but he’s been Whinger ever since anyone can remember.’
‘So.’ Again she stared at me, and I thought, you devious bitch. Don’t bother to tell me you had a conversation with him earlier today, will you? Don’t own up to the fact that you were trying to search his kit.
‘Our luggage?’
‘Also burnt.’
‘All? No bags thrown out?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ As an afterthought, I asked, ‘Where were the cases?’
‘Some inside, some in the nose compartment. The aircraft went arse over tit. The nose was crumpled first, then the whole thing burned.’ I was thinking, I don’t suppose she’s going to thank us – and sure enough, she didn’t.
‘So where am I now?’
‘Like I said, about a day’s driving south, out in the bush. We brought you with us. It was the only thing to do.’
‘And you are here, why?’
‘We’re training a unit of the Kamangan government forces.’
‘These blex!’ She spat the word out with a mixture of arrogance and scorn that was all too familiar: I’d heard any number of Southern African whites talk about natives with that tone.
‘Some of them are all right,’ I said defensively.
‘Training for what? For the war, I suppose. My God, I would rather train dogs. At least they do not eat each other.’
‘Well, it’s our job.’
‘All these shootings this morning, these explosions.’
&n
bsp; ‘That was an exercise, a practice battle.’
‘It is finished?’
‘For the time being, yes.’
‘Then you can take me back, perhaps.’
‘Back? Where to?’
‘To Gorongosa.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘The Gorongosa national park. Where we came from. It is in Mozambique.’
‘Mozambique! Jesus! You flew from there?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘But it’s bloody miles away. The border’s far enough. How far’s Gorongosa inside Mozambique?’
‘The park headquarters? Perhaps two hundred, three hundred kilometres.’
‘How long did it take?’
She waved both hands in a gesture that said, ‘How do I know?’ Then, ‘Maybe two hours, three hours.’
‘What time did you take off?’
‘In the morning . . . what time was the accident?’
‘Lunchtime.’
‘So, we take off at nine, nine-thirty, maybe. Not sure.’
‘Heading for where?’
‘Yes,’ she said, as if still calculating. ‘Now I remember. It was after breakfast. Nine exactly.’
‘And where were you going?’
‘Endlich, to Windhoek, but first to Gaborone, in Botswana. You have a map? I show you.’
‘Okay. Just a minute.’
I walked back through the grove of trees and found Whinger in precisely the same position, still shaking.
‘Had her yet?’ he asked casually.
‘Twice,’ I told him. ‘Listen. She doesn’t realise I talked to you before I saw her. She never mentioned coming over here. She’s lying all the time. Where’s our map of the area, the one without Gutu marked on it?’
‘On the pinkie.’ He pointed at a millboard slung round the windscreen pillar. ‘Why?’
‘I need to check her story. There’s something about her that doesn’t hang together. She says the plane came from Mozambique, and I don’t reckon it can have. She’s fucking curious about where we are, and I don’t want her to know. I want her kept well in the dark about what we’re doing.’
‘What did she think all those bangs were, then?’
‘I told her it was an exercise. Pass the word to anyone you see.’
‘Roger.’
Back under the sausage tree, I asked, ‘How long have you lived in Africa?’