Momar’s wife came over carrying a water skin and a bag containing food. The old African was weeping. No one spoke. Girland took the water skin and the bag and then catching hold of Tessa’s arm, he drew her towards the gate.
She pulled away from him, but she went with him across the hot sand to where the Deux Chevaux was waiting.
Under the shade of a tree, Momar’s sons were digging a grave. The two men didn’t look around as Tessa got into the car, Girland handed Momar who was already in the car the bag and the water skin, then he climbed in beside Tessa.
Now, after thirty minutes of driving, they came to a water hole around which were some two hundred goats and cattle.
Momar leaned forward.
“I will speak with these men,” he said.
Tessa pulled up and Girland got out to let Momar out. He stood watching the old African walk over to the three Africans tending the herd and salute them. They talked together. One elderly African kept pointing to the east. He seemed agitated.
Momar came back. There was an expression on his face that brought Girland alert.
“What is it?”
“They say they have seen three armed Arabs: strangers with rifles about two miles to the east. That is our direction.” “They are sure about the rifles?”
“They are sure.”
“We must avoid them. How do we do that?”
“To the east is the quickest way. We can go north and then make a circle to the east, but it will take time and the ground is very bad.”
“We must avoid these men,” Girland wasn’t going to risk matching his Colt automatic against three rifles.
They got back into the car.
Tessa said, “Arabs in pay of the Russians?”
“I guess so. Anyway, we mustn’t take chances. Let’s go.”
Momar showed Tessa the direction and again she sent the little car banging and bumping over the sand.
They soon found that Momar was right about the ground being bad. They hadn’t driven more than ten kilometres before the sand became so loose the rear wheels of the car began to slide and Tessa had difficulty with the steering.
“Like me to take over?” Girland asked.
“Not yet.” She wrestled with the steering wheel and suddenly the engine stalled and the car stopped. “Oh, damn!”
Girland and Momar got out. The rear wheels were hub deep in the sand. Sweating, they lifted the wheels onto more solid ground and by pushing frantically once again got the car moving, but Tessa was afraid to stop and the two men had to run after it.
A hundred metres ahead was solid ground again and Tessa was able to stop. As Girland approached the car, he heard something like an angry bee zip past his head. This was followed by a distant rifle shot. He spun around, his hand flying to his gun. A half a mile to his right was a clump of trees. He caught a glimpse of something white in the trees and saw a flash of flame as the half hidden gunman fired again. This time Girland didn’t hear the zip of the bullet. He lifted his automatic, then lowered it, the distance was too great.
He heard a scream and he spun around to see Tessa, out of the car, running towards him.
“Momar!” she screamed. “Look!”
Momar had been to Girland’s left and behind him. The old man was lying face down in the sand.
Both Girland and Tessa reached him together. Girland turned him over and then let the lifeless body drop back.
Again the rifle cracked and a spurt of sand less than a metre from Tessa showed the accuracy of the shooting.
Girland grabbed Tessa by her arm and began rushing her back to the car.
“We can’t leave him!” she protested, trying to shake Girland off. “We can’t leave him!”
He bundled her into the car, then sliding under the driving wheel, he started the engine and cautiously engaged gear. As he let in the clutch, the wheels slipped, but bit and the car began to move. Using the gas pedal as if it were made of glass, Girland gradually built up speed until once more they were jolting and bumping over the sand.
He heard the rifle crack again. He kept driving, aware that Tessa was hunched up in her seat, her hands covering her face, crying quietly.
If only this cursed bush wasn’t so flat, he thought. That sniper up in his tree can watch us for kilometres. He’ll know which way we are heading.
Girland suddenly felt a cold empty feeling of fear. Which way
were
they heading? Up to now, Momar had directed Tessa, and Girland had blindly accepted the way. Now he realised every bush, shrub and tree looked alike. There was no road. They could be driving in circles for all he knew.
“Tessa!” he said sharply. “Pull yourself together! You’ve got to help me!”
She straightened, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
“He was the nicest and kindest person I’ve ever known,” she said unsteadily. “Oh, the devils!”
“They’ll do the same to us if we don’t watch out,” Girland said roughly. “Do you know where we are?”
“No, but we must keep the sun to our right. If you get lost in the bush, you must do that otherwise you go in a circle.”
Girland looked at the petrol gauge. The tank was three-quarters full. That at least was encouraging, he thought. We have water and food. We could still get out of this mess.
“Well, watch the sun,” he said. “But we are driving north and we want to go east. Shouldn’t we head east now?”
“There’s a road somewhere ahead of us … about ten kilometres. Momar was heading for that. If we can find it, it will take us to a village and we can get a guide.”
But after driving fifteen minutes or so, Girland came to the conclusion that they had somehow missed the road. He stopped the car under the shade of a tree.
“Do you think we should turn back?” he asked.
Tessa got out of the car and looked around the flat endless waste.
“We might have missed it by a kilometre or twenty kilometres. If we go back we might run into that gunman.”
Girland looked at his watch. The time was half past ten. It didn’t seem possible so much had happened in so few hours.
“Think there’s another village further ahead?”
“There are villages all over the bush. We might be lucky.”
“Okay, then we’ll go on. Let’s have a drink first.” He got out the water skin and carefully poured a little of the water into the cap of the vacuum flask. They both moistened their parched mouths. “Hell!” Girland went on, grimacing, “I would settle for that orange squash without the gin now.”
He put the water skin back in the car and got under the wheel. Tessa got in beside him, and once again they drove over the uneven ground.
A further ten minute drive brought them to a circle of Baobab trees.
“This is where they used to practice black magic,” Tessa said. “When you see these trees in a circle you know what they were used for and are still sometimes used for. The trees are hollow. When they die, witch doctors are buried inside the trees as they believe they will foul the land.”
“As long as no one buries me in one of them,” Girland said. He glanced again at the petrol gauge, then felt a cold chill run up his spine. The needle of the gauge showed they had now only a quarter of a tank of petrol left. ‘For God’s sake, look at that! We couldn’t have used all that gas!” He pulled up. “Maybe we’re losing gas.” He went around to the back of the car and inspected the petrol tank. He swore under his breath when he saw the neatly drilled hole in the lower part of the tank. The last rifle shot he had heard had been devastatingly effective.
Tessa joined him.
“We’re in trouble,” he said. “A quarter full. How far do you think that’ll take us?”
“Thirty kilometres,” Tessa said, watching Girland as he plugged the hole with a .45 bullet covered with his handkerchief.
“We might find a village by then.”
He looked sharply at her.
“You’re not frightened?”
She smiled at him.
“It’s no good being frightened, is it? We have food and water. When the gas runs out, we must get in the shade and wait for the sun to go down. We can’t walk in this heat.”
He nodded.
“Okay. Well, let’s get going.”
They climbed into the car and drove on into the burning waste land that seemed to have no ending.
Malik with a map on his knees sat beside Smernoff who was operating the walkie-talkie. Dieng was at the wheel of the Jeep with Ivan at his side. Daouda sat on the roof in the full glare of the sun, a rifle across his knees.
They had been driving some time and now the walkie-talkie crackled into life.
Smernoff listened to the excited voice that buzzed and hummed through the headphones. Whoever was calling had a lot to say and Malik kept glancing impatiently at Smernoff. Finally, the voice ceased and Smernoff said, “Alert Post Three,” and took off the headphones.
“A girl, a man and an African, driving a Deux Chevaux reported on square ten of your map.” He leaned against Malik and pointed. “That would be about forty kilometres from here. They were shot at and the African was killed. It is unlikely the girl and her companion will get far without a guide. The African came from a small settlement on square nine of your map. Carey could have been hiding there. The girl and the man are heading towards three of our best snipers. They’ve been alerted. What do we do now … follow after them?”
“Who’s the girl?” Malik asked frowning. “Would the man be Carey?”
Smernoff didn’t say anything. It was Malik’s job to make the decisions.
“We’ll go to the settlement,” Malik said. “We must be certain that Carey isn’t there still.” He leaned forward and gave Dieng a change of directions. Once again the Jeep increased speed, tearing through the bush and sending clouds of sand rising in the air in its wake.
“Get Post Three,” Malik said suddenly. “Tell them the man isn’t to be killed. If it’s Carey I want to talk to him.”
Smernoff raised Post Three on the walkie-talkie and gave the operator Malik’s instructions.
“Cripple the car and take them alive,” he concluded. “I don’t care how you do it … do it!”
A ten minute drive brought them in sight of the three huts with their surrounding straw and bamboo wall. The Jeep pulled up at the gate. Gun in hand, followed by Ivan, Malik walked into the small compound.
Three Africans faced him uneasily. They made a protective circle before one of the huts where their wives and children tried to hide themselves in the semi-darkness.
“We are looking for a white man,” Malik said to Momar’s eldest son, Cheickh. “Where is he?”
The green evil eyes frightened Cheickh. Monsieur Carey was beyond the reach of these men now. He saw no reason to antagonise them.
“He is dead, monsieur. We have just buried him.”
Malik’s mouth tightened. “Where?”
Cheickh moved forward and pointed through the gate.
“Under the tree.”
Malik snapped an order to Dieng who walked over to the tree and picking up a shovel that leaned against the tree, he reluctantly began to dig.
Ivan had gone into the big hut. After some minutes, he came out and joined Malik.
“That’s where he’s been hiding. There’s a small hole in the ground as if something had been buried there. It’s not there now.”
Malik turned away and walked over to where Dieng, now helped by Daouda, had opened the grave. He stood looking down at Carey’s dead face. Ivan came over.
“Shot himself,” Malik said. “Damn him! He was always one move ahead.” He leaned forward and spat in the dead man’s face.
Ivan said, “These other two must have the films.”
“Tell Smernoff to raise Post Three again. They are to stop them at all costs,” Malik said. “If they can’t stop the car, they are to shoot them. Hurry!”
As Ivan ran over to the Jeep, Malik returned to the compound.
“Who is the white woman who was here?” he demanded, walking up to Cheickj.
The African shuffled his feet.
“I don’t know, monsieur.”
Malik hit him across his face with the barrel of his gun.
Cheickh staggered and recovered his balance.
“Who is she?” Malik repeated viciously.
“I don’t know, monsieur.”
Malik turned to Dieng.
“Go in there and get one of the children. If this man doesn’t talk, cut the child’s throat.”
The women in the hut began screaming. Dieng had to fight his way through them to grab one of the crying children. Momar’s youngest son whose child it was, rushed forward, swinging his fists. Malik shot him through the head.
There was a long pause and silence, then the women and children began wailing. One of the women threw herself on the fallen African, pulling at his clothes in a frenzy of grief.
Malik paid no attention: his eyes were fixed on Cheickh.
“Who was the woman?”
Dieng was holding the struggling child, a short bladed knife in his hand.
Cheickh hesitated, then said, “The daughter of Monsieur Carey.”
“And the man?”
“They called him Girland.”
Malik signed to Dieng to release the child, then he walked out of the compound and breaking into a run, reached the Jeep.
“It’s Girland and Carey’s daughter,” he said to Smernoff. “Anything from Post Three yet?”
Smernoff was twiddling one of the dials. He raised his hand for silence as he listened to the crackle coming through the headphones. Then an excited voice began speaking.
He listened and then said, “Shoot them. They must be stopped.”
Taking off the headphones, he said to Malik, “They’ve been seen. They are about two kilometres from Post Three and driving straight towards it.”
Malik snatched up his map.
“Where are they?”
“Square eleven. About thirty kilometres from here.”
Malik looked at the gate leading into the compound.
“We don’t want trouble with the police,” he said and walked back to where Ivan was standing. “Get rid of this lot. They could make trouble. Hurry!”
Ivan grinned. This was an order he liked and could execute efficiently. He drew his gun and moved into the compound.
Malik returned to the Jeep. Dieng was already sitting behind the wheel. Daouda was perched on the roof.
The two Africans flinched when the shooting began. One skinny child, his black eyes rolling in terror, darted out into the hot sunshine and began running frantically away from the Jeep.