Nicholas heard movement on his flank and glanced in that direction, still keeping the shufta in his peripheral vision.
Another guerrilla stepped out of the scrub. He was all: similarly dressed, but he carried a Soviet RPD light machine gun on his hip. The barrel was sawn off short to make the weapon more handy for bush fighting, and there was a loop of ammunition belt draped around his neck. He came forward carefully, the RPD aimed point-blank at the two women. Nicholas knew that, with a touch on the trigger, he could chop them both to mincemeat.
There were other stealthy rustling sounds in the bush all around them. These two were not the only ones, Nicholas realized. This was a large war party. He might be able to get off one shot with the Rigby, but by then Royan and Tessay would be dead. And he would not be far behind them. Very slowly and deliberately he lowered the muzzle of the rifle until it was pointing at the ground. Then he laid the weapon down and raised his hands.
"Get your hands up," he told the women. "Do exactly what they tell you." The guerrilla leader acknowledged his surrender by coming to his full height and speaking rapidly to his men, still in Arabic.
"Get the rifle and his pack."
"We are British subjects," Nicholas told him loudly, and the guerrilla looked surprised by his use of Arabic. "We are simple tourists. We are not military. We are not government people."
Be quiet. Shut your face!" he ordered, as the rest of the guerrilla patrol emerged from cover. Nicholas counted five of them all told, though he knew there were probably others who had not come forward. They were very professional as they rounded up their prisoners. They never blocked each other's field of fire, nor offered an opportunity of escape. Quickly they searched them for weapons, then closed in around them and hustled them on to the path.
"Where are you taking us?"Nicholas demanded.
"No questions!" The butt of an AK-47 smashed between his shoulder blades and almost knocked him off his feet.
"Steady on, chaps," he murmured mildly in English.
"That wasn't really called for."
They were forced to keep marching through the heat of the afternoon. Nicholas kept a check on the position of the sun and the distant glimpses of the escarpment wall.
He realized that they were heading westwards, following the course of the Nile towards the Sudanese border. It was late afternoon, and Nicholas estimated that they had covered some ten miles, before they came upon a side shoot of the main valley. The slopes were heavily wooded, and the three prisoners were herded into a patch of this forest.
They were actually within the perimeter of the guerrilla camp before they were aware of its existence. Cunningly camouflaged, it consisted merely of a few crude lean, to shelters and a ring of weapons emplacements. The sentries were well placed, and all the light machine guns in the foxholes were manned.
They were led to one of the shelters in the centre of the camp, where three men were squatting around a map spread on a low camp table. These were obviously officers, and there was no mistaking which of the three was the commander. The leader of the patrol which had captured them went to this man, saluted him deferentially and then spoke to him urgently, pointing at his captives.
The guerrilla commander straightened up from the table, and came out into the sunlight. He was of medium height, but was imbued with such an air of authority that he seemed taller. His shoulders were broad and his body square and chunky, with the beginning of a dignified spread around the waist. He wore a short curly beard which contained a few strands of grey, and his features were refined and handsome. His skin tones were amber and copper. His dark eyes were intelligent, his gaze quick and restless.
"My men tell me that you speak Arabic," he said to -Nicholas.
"Better than you do, Mek Nimmur,'Nicholas told him.
"So now you are the leader of a bunch of bandits and kidnappers? I always told you that you would never get to heaven, you old reprobate." Mek Nimmur stared at him in astonishment, and then began to smile.
"Nicholas! I did not recognize you. You are older. Look at the grey on your head!'
He opened his arms wide and folded Nicholas into a bear hug.
"Nicholas! Nicholas!" He kissed him once on each cheek. Then he held him at arm's length and looked at the two women, who were standing amazed.
"He saved my life," he explained to them.
"You make me blush, Mek." Mek kissed him again' "He saved my life twice."
"Once," Nicholas contradicted him. "The second time was a mistake. I should have let them shoot you."
Mek laughed delightedly. "How long ago was it, Nicholas?"
"It doesn't bear thinking about."
"Fifteen years ago at least,'.Mek said. "Are you still in the British army?
What is your rank? You must be a general by now!'
"Reserves only," Nicholas shook his head. "I have been back in civvy street a long time now."
Still hugging Nicholas, Mek Nimmur looked at the women with interest.
"Nicholas taught me most of what I know about soldiering," he told them. His eyes flicked from Royan to Tessay, and then stayed on the Ethiopian girl's dark and lovely face.
"I know you," he said. "I saw you in Addis, years ago. You were a young girl then. Your father was Alto Zemen, a great and good man. He was murdered by the tyrant Mengistu."
"I know you also, Alto Mek. My father held you in high esteem. There are many of us who believe that you should be the president of this Ethiopia of ours, in place of that other one." She dropped him a graceful little curtsey, hanging her head in a shy but appealing gesture of respect.
"I am flattered by your opinion of me." He took her hand and lifted her to her full height. Then he turned back to Nicholas, "I am sorry for the rough welcome, Some of my men are over-enthusiastic. I knew that there were ferengi asking questions at the monastery. But enough, you are with friends here. I bid you welcome."
Mek Nimmur led them to his shelter, where one of his men brought a sootblackened kettle from the fire and poured viscous black coffee into mugs for them.
He and Nicholas plunged into reminiscences of the days prior to the Falklands war when they had fought side by side, Nicholas as a covert military adviser, and Mek as a young freedom fighter opposing the tyranny of Mengistu.
"But the war is over now, Mek, Nicholas remonstrated at last. "The battle is won. Why are you still out in the bush with your men? Why aren't you getting rich and fat in Addis, like all the others?"
"In the interim government in Addis there are enemies Of mine, men like Mengistu. When we have got rid of them, then I will come out of the bush." He and Nicholas embarked into a spirited discussion of African politics, so deep and complicated that Royan knew very few of the personalities whom they were discussing. Nor could she follow the nuances and the subtlety of religious and tribal prejudices and intolerance that had persisted for a thousand years. She was, however, impressed by Nicholas's knowledge and understanding of the situation, and the way in which a man like Mek Nimmur asked his opinion and listened to his advice. In the end Nicholas asked him, "So now you have carried the war beyond the borders of Ethiopia itself? You are operating in Sudan, as well?"
"The war in the Sudan has been raging for twenty years," Mek confirmed.
"The Christians in the south fighting against the persecution of the Moslem nor the-"
"I am well aware of that, Mek. But that is not Ethiopia. It's not your war."
"They are Christians, and they suffer injustice. I am a soldier and a Christian. Of course it is my war." Tessay had ty to every word that Mek spoke, and been listening avid now she nodded her head in agreement, her eyes dark and solemn with hero worship.
"Alto Mek is a crusader for Christ and the rights of the common man,'Tessa told Nicholas in awed tones.
"And he dearly loves a good fight," Nicholas laughed, punching his shoulder affectionately. It was a familiar gesture which could easily have given offence, but Mek accepted it readily and laughed back at him.
"What are you doing here yourself, Nicholas, if you are no longer a soldier?
There was a time when you also loved a good fight."
"I am completely reformed. No more fighting. I have come to the Abbay gorge to hunt dik-dik."
"Dik-dik?l Mek Nimmur stared at him with disbelief, and then he roared with laughter. "I don't believe it. Not you. Not dik-dik. You are up to something."
"It is the truth."
"You are lying, Nicholas. You never could lie to me. I know you too well. You are up to something. You will tell me about it when you need my help."
"And you will still give me your help?"
"Of course. You saved my life twice."
"Once,'said Nicholas.
"Even once is enough," said Mek Nimmur.
while they talked, the sun slanted down the sky.
"You are my guests for tonight," Mek Nimmur told them formally. "In the morning I will escort you back to your camp at the monastery of St.. Frumentius.
That is also my destination. My men and I are going to the monastery to celebrate the festival of Timkat-The abbot, Jali Hora, is a friend and an ally."
"And the monastery is probably your deep cover base.
You use it and the monks for resupply and intelligence.
Am I right?"
"You know me too well, Nicholas."Mek Nimmur shook his head ruefully.
"You taught me much of what I know, so why should you not be able to guess my strategy? The monastery makes a perfect base of operations. It's close enough to the border-' he broke off, smiling. "But there is no need to explain it to you, of all people."
Mek had his men build a night shelter for Nicholas and Royan, and cut a mattress of grass to cushion their sleep. They lay close together under the flimsy roof. The night was sultry, and they did not miss their blankets. Nicholas had a tube of insect repellent in his pack to keep the mosquitoes at bay After they had settled down on the grass mattress, their heads were close enough together to allow them to converse in quiet tones. When he turned his head Nicholas could see the dark silhouettes of Mek Nimmur and Tessay still sitting close together by the fire.
"Ethiopian girls are different from the Arabs, and from most other African women." Royan too was watching the other couple. "No Arab girl would dare be alone with a man like that. Especially if she were a married woman."
"Any way you cut it, they make a damned fine pair," he gave his opinion.
"Good luck to them. Tessay hasn't had much of that lately - she is overdue."
He turned his head and looked into her face, "What about you, Royan, what are you? Are you a decorous, submissive Arab, or an independent, assertive Western girl?"
"It's both a little early and much too late for intimate questions of that nature," she told him, and turned over, presenting him with her back.
"Ah, we are standing on ceremony this evening!
Goodnight, Woizero Royan."
"Goodnight, Alto Nicholas," she replied, keeping her face turned away from him so that he could not see her smile.
The gorilla column moved out before dawn the next morning. They marched in full battle order, with scouts moving ahead and flankers covering each side of the path.
"The army come down here into the gorge very seldom, but we are always ready for them when they do come," Mek Nimmur explained. "We try to give them a hearty welcome."
Tessay was watching Mek Nimmur as he spoke; indeed, she had seldom taken her eyes off him that morning. Now she murmured to Royan, "He is a truly great man, a man who could unite our land, perhaps for the first time in a thousand years. I feel humble in his presence, and yet I also feel like a young girl again, filled with joy and hope."
The march back to the monastery took the entire morning. When they came in sight of the Dandera. river, Mek Nimmur drew his men back off the path into thick bush, while sending only one scout forward. After an hour's wait, a party of acolytes came up from the monastery, each carrying a large bundle balanced upon his head.
They greeted Mek with deep reverence, and handed over their bundles to his men before returning down the pathway into the gorge of the Abbay. The bundles contained priestly shammas, headcloths and sandals. Mek's men changed out of their camouflage fatigues into these garments, all of which were well worn and unwashed for the sake of authenticity. They wore only their sidearms under the robes. All their other weapons and equipment they cached in one of the caves in the limestone Cliffs, and left a detachment to guard them.
Now as a party of monks they covered the last few miles to the monastery, to be welcomed joyously by the community there. Here Nicholas and the women left Mek, and climbed the steep path up into the grove of wild fig trees. Boris was waiting for them, pacing about the camp, angry and frustrated.
"Where the hell have you been, woman?" he snarled at Tessay. "Been whoring around all night, have you?"
"We lost our way yesterday evening." Nicholas fed him the cover story that they had agreed with Mek Nimmur, to maintain his security. Boris was hardly the man to trust.
"And we were picked up by a party of monks from the monastery this morning. They brought us back."
"You are the big hunter and tracker, are you?" Boris sneered at him. "You didn't need me to guide you, hey? You got yourself lost, did you, English?
I see now why you want only to shoot dik-dik." He guffawed without humour, and looked at Tessay with those pale dead eyes. "I will talk to you later, woman. Go and see to the food."
Despite the heat, both Nicholas and Royan were hungry. In short order, Tessay was able to serve a tasty cold lunch under the shady branches of the fig trees. Nicholas refused the wine that Boris offered him. want to go out hunting again this afternoon. I have lost almost a whole day."
"You want me to hold your hand this time, English?
Make sure you don't lose yourself again?"
"Thanks, old chap, but I think I can manage without you." While they ate Nicholas nudged Royan and told her, "Your admirer has arrived."