Wings of the Morning (40 page)

Conrad was impressed. In his terse summary, Josh had put his finger on the very point. He decided to take a chance.

‘Alright, Josh, you’ve persuaded me. Tell Rory I’ve reconsidered and he can have an immediate start with Bastion. At 1000 hours tomorrow, reporting to me here. I want him up in
Zambia. Tell him also that he has the job against my own first judgement and only because of what his father had to say to me. And thank you.’

The episode was in his mind as Rory pulled up in a dust cloud, springing out with a welcome and apologies. They drove off towards town, Conrad sitting quietly as he listened to Rory’s
account of the state of play for the small Bastion team operating here. He seemed on edge and was looking tired. Presently, Rory turned off the road into the shade of a large baobab tree. He
switched off and turned in his seat.

‘Boss,’ he said, ‘I need to tell you some history.’ Conrad kept silent as he listened.

Rory’s undoing had been his eye for the girls. If it hadn’t been for Dolly, he would never have been there that evening, as theatre had no appeal for him and certainly not a
production of the Mikado by the Ndola Amateur Dramatic Society. But Dolly Arkwright was another matter and she was a stalwart of the Society as a committed member of the costume and props team.
She’d flashed her eyes at him when saying that he must be there for the rehearsal evening. Dolly had put a wealth of meaning into this invitation, leaving Rory in no doubt as to what further
was on her agenda.

He wouldn’t be the first. Dolly had put herself around the expat community during the two years that she’d been living there, but she was reasonably discreet, extremely pretty in a
vapid style and she had the burden of being married to the enormously worthy but equally dull Desmond Arkwright, who was a diligent accountant on his second contract with ZCCM.

The Drama Group couldn’t manage a venue of its own in Ndola, but borrowed the local rugby club which had a fine ground and club house on the outskirts of town. Dramatic productions took
place every six months, and a prefabricated stage was hauled out and erected with sweating volunteer labour. Rehearsal meant a busy time for Dolly, seeing that curtains were hanging straight and
costumes were in the right place. She was in high spirits, and to add to them was the prospect of a little mischief with that Rory Trollope who had caught her wandering eye.

She was pleased to see him turn up in good time and he busied himself in humping scenery around while the normal mayhem of activity chattered through the Club House. Soon after 10 pm, the
Director reckoned they’d done enough so the cast and crew started to collect themselves and move out to their cars. Dolly made sure she had some final jobs to finish and at this point, the
saintly Desmond made things easy for her by saying that the box office was ready but he had some ZCCM work to finish off before bed, so perhaps she could get a lift back with one of the others. She
could hardly believe it: he went so far as to suggest that Rory, who lived not far from their house, might oblige?

By 10.30 pm, the Club House was deserted, dimly lit by a couple of generator powered security lights outside and with Rory’s Land Rover the only vehicle remaining in the car park. Standing
watch over it was the ‘nightwatch’, an agency guard recruited for the Mikado season and he would remain there only until this final owner had left, after which he would seek a
comfortable spot under the surrounding trees to snooze away the dark hours.

Meanwhile, towards the back of the stage in a pile of loose props and costume material, Rory and Dolly were wasting no time. Dolly was fond of her dull Desmond but he was a bit unfulfilling in
the bed department. As she conveniently judged matters, a bit on the side was of help to them both. She took seconds to let down her long blonde hair, slip out of her jeans and release the splendid
breasts in which she took such pride. Rory was hardly slower, but still pulling off his shirt as she dived both hands down his shorts and shivered in anticipation as she felt him coming up like a
lift. He delighted her as he took control. He didn’t trouble to remove his desert boots, simply pushed her roughly onto their make shift bed and used her hair to pull back her head as he
fixed his eyes on hers and pounded into her. Dolly responded by raking his back and buttocks, urging him to greater and rougher efforts. It didn’t take either of them long, but that was just
the first round, and afterwards they lay with straying hands probing and fondling in preparation for more.

Rory wasn’t sure whether it had been the noise or the movement which disturbed his concentration from Dolly’s absorbing body. There was the sound of a soft thump and the sensation of
a mild puff of breeze blowing briefly over their almost naked bodies. Instinctively, he moved his left hand from her breast to her mouth whilst simultaneously putting his right index finger to his
own lips. Then he twisted his head, but didn’t raise it as he gave himself the best of a poor view back down the auditorium of chairs, part arranged in stacks and clusters, towards the main
entrance to the hallway and the dim light outside it. Rory was in no doubt that somebody other than the guard had entered the building, and he was expecting to see a member of the Company returned
to collect something forgotten. The reality was worse.

Two columns of men, all Africans, had entered the Club House and were now advancing silently towards the stage, walking in two single files. As they reached an area in the middle of the room
which was unencumbered by chairs, they turned inward to face each other. There were twelve in all. They slipped gracefully to the floor to sit cross legged, shifting slightly to form two half moons
of six men each. Rory was not too familiar with Zambia but he did know his Africa. He recognised the traditional format for a business meeting, the gathering for a discussion between tribes. He
also understood that thump: a pound to a penny it had been the body of their guard, the nightwatch being taken out. Rory pressed his mouth to Dolly’s ear and whispered slowly into it.

‘You must keep completely still. Don’t move a muscle. We have some Afs in here. They don’t know we’re here and they don’t want us. But they mustn’t find us.
Nod if you understand.’

A look of stark terror came into Dolly’s eyes, but she nodded and squeezed his hand.

‘Good girl,’ he breathed as he squeezed back and laid his head beside her, straining to gain more information. But this was not easy. He and Dolly were covered by folds of costume
material but Rory knew he mustn’t raise his head. Movement attracts peripheral vision and these people would be alert. They had truly caught him with his trousers round his ankles. Left to
himself, Rory would be a difficult target to identify, much less to attack. He was practised at blending into the background and could keep silent and unmoving for hours at a stretch. But he
wasn’t alone, and he knew that he couldn’t expect the same of Dolly. If she revealed herself, she would reveal him into the bargain.

It was obvious to Rory that this was some sort of war party, a meeting to agree their next move in an uneasy alliance. He guessed that one group was local, while the other had slipped across the
border from Zaire during the early part of the evening. The crossing was hardly more than five miles distant: they would be over and back again during the hours of darkness and it was common
knowledge that the provincial capital of Lubumbashi, so close to the Zambian Copper Belt, provided any number of brigand bands who were adept at making swift, pillaging expeditions over the border.
It made sense that some would have links with villains in Zambia, people with local knowledge and English rather than French as a second language. Rory had picked up from some bar chat that there
had been recent problems with joint nationality gangs operating around Kitwe, second city in the Copper Belt.

He had to keep Dolly quiet until the guys had finished their pow wow and moved on out. Their conversation droned on. He guessed their common tongue was an African dialect which he couldn’t
understand, but all he could hear was a background lilt of just two voices. This would make sense, with the two leaders in debate. The other five on each team would be the muscle in support.

Rory was a good judge of time and reckoned they had been lying there for a full hour. Allowing for the quick bonk, it would now be approaching midnight and fresh worry which had been brewing in
his mind blossomed further. Three minutes later, the sounds of an engine and then wheels on dirt road as a car turned off the tarmac and ran through the dust of the approach road to the Club House.
Its door slammed shut and a voice called out for the guard. Rory recognised that it was Desmond, returned to look for his wife. He heard the door of the Club House creak slightly as it swung it
open. He guessed the war parties would remain seated like statues in their semi circles, confident that the intruder wouldn’t notice them until he had acquired some night vision. They
probably hoped he would decide he was alone and depart. They would be entirely certain that they could deal with him if he did otherwise. They wouldn’t bother themselves unnecessarily with
one white man of slender build, blathering to keep his spirits up in this suddenly sepulchral hall.

Desmond surprised them all.

‘Dolly, are you here somewhere? Dolly!’ Simultaneously, he stretched out a hand and flicked on the main lights in the Club House. The generator was already running, therefore the
illumination was immediate. All the occupants of the large hall were temporarily blinded by the light except for Rory, whose innate instinct made him thrust his head into the neighbouring fold of
material which gave him a filter.

The twelve men on the floor sprang to their feet, each taking up the weapon which he had laid before him as he sat, a mark of good faith whilst he was in counsel. In an instant, therefore, two
who had been speaking plus ten in silent support became twelve armed, threatened and dangerous. Desmond was understandably aghast at this apparition, but terror turned to desperate relief as he
recognised one of them.

‘Alfred,’ he cried to the black man whom he knew only as his own house steward, ‘Alfred. It is you, isn’t it? What’s going on? Where’s Mrs
Arkwright?’

The man called Alfred stepped forward. He was one of the support members from the home team. At Desmond’s standard but comfortable house, he was accommodating, almost insignificant as he
padded around the dwelling performing his duties of washing, cleaning, some doubtful cooking, appearing when bidden from his basic quarters at the bottom of their garden. He seemed very different
here in these unfamiliar surroundings and shadowy light. He was stripped to the waist, still the familiar short figure but with his barrel chest now oiled to show off the rippling muscles. A panga
knife dangling from his right hand and the overhead light gleaming off his wide, bald head.

There was a furtive smile on his broad face as he walked up to his boss.

‘Good evenin’ Sah’, said Alfred as he swept Desmond’s legs from under him. A single stroke of the panga, sharp, heavy and wielded with all the force available from
Alfred’s powerful body, was enough to nearly sever both limbs between thigh and knee. The blood loss was a torrent, and the shock catastrophic. Desmond sprawled on the floor, screaming out
the last of his life. Poor Dolly was quick to join him. She moved like lightening, wrenching herself from Rory’s hand and springing up to run from the cover of the stage into the lighted
arena of carnage, gasping out her anguish and unconscious of her state. If the twelve Africans were startled to see the appearance of a naked white woman, they were equally quick and deadly in
their reaction.

Before she could reach her husband in the pool of his blood, Alfred grabbed her. He dropped onto one ham knee, forced her backwards over it and sank his teeth into one lily white breast as he
reversed his panga and swept it up between her legs to rape her with its broad handle. He held her easily whilst she added to the screams before one of the Zaire gang stepped forward and used his
knife to slit her throat from ear to ear.

Rory was accustomed to the bestiality of his native continent, but he had never witnessed the like of this. He was in profound shock. He took a millisecond to curse himself for failing to
anticipate before his training kicked in and he became a fighting machine. Assessment: heavily outnumbered and zero help or weapon to hand. Only action possible: go to ground and wait for revenge.
These people are cruel and deadly. There is no evidence that they are stupid. They know there is only one car outside, only one guard already despatched. For certain sure there’s a man here
with this naked blonde carcass which was recently a woman.

Rory gave himself some cautious visibility. The group of men was filtering apart and padding noiselessly towards the stage, in skirmishing order, intent to find and destroy. Rory was hopelessly
outnumbered. He managed to squirm his shorts back up over his hips, attaching a button without attempting the belt. He lay quietly on his back, loosely covered by the curtain material and waiting
for the signal which he knew would come. Smell.

Black men and white smell differently, especially in times of fight or flight. Rory couldn’t see the enemy, nor hear it. But he could smell it, and that gave him all the advantage he
needed. Given the choice, he would have liked Alfred to pass by, but it was another, much taller and lighter man who placed a naked foot by his head and paused. Rory knew what he was doing, peering
into the increasing gloom towards the back of the stage, just the spot into which a single adversary would have retreated. Wrong.

The man advanced his other leg over Rory’s recumbent body. He smelt the rancid odour of the man’s crutch and caught a subdued glint from the panga which hung from one wrist. Rory
struck with expertise in his hands and vengeance in his heart. His left hand shot up through the open loin cloth and grabbed the testicles whilst his right took the wrist which held the weapon and
shook it violently. The man collapsed with a shrill yowl on top of where Rory’s head had been lying, but that had moved in the same split instant, twisting smoothly with his body as he caught
up the panga, slashing it into the body as he slammed the head into the stage with crushing force. One down, whether dead or incapacitated made no difference. The nearest two companions were a bare
metre away on either side of him and turning like quicksilver. They had only now to destroy the enemy. But that was not to be so easy.