detachment whatever its cause. There was nothing he could do, not thrust face down, underfoot and boxed within a car. It was a logical, calculating thought, not one of despair. He had one small advantage: they didn’t know he was conscious, listening to everything.
The shouting frenzy above subsided into a repetitive exchange of words. There was only a solitary voice saying bwana mkubwa now: met by a chorus of mtu mkorofi. And a new expression, one he missed at first and belatedly snatched for, recognizing the phonetic similarity and then fitting it into the context of what they were saying. The mtu mkorofi, which was him, was guilty of kupunja. Which meant to cheat. He had cheated the big man, the bwana mkubwa. And no one should be allowed to do that. What in the name of God or Hell or whatever Holy did it mean?
The fury all round him was subsiding now, the lone protesting voice overwhelmed by the weight of the others. Surprisingly, he felt no fear.
There was a sudden silence in the car, each waiting for the other to move. It was very hot in the enclosed space, thick with body smell. Abruptly, decisively, the rear door near which his head was wedged thrust open. A foot scraped against his cheek as the man got out. They were getting ready to kill him. Still no fear. Instead he began to become aware of minuscule inconsequential things. Fresher air; cicadas chattering from the underbush; absolute darkness.
The movement of one man released the others. He heard the front door open and then there was a shudder as it slammed shut. Suddenly he felt his feet and ankles seized as they began hauling him from the vehicle, turning him over for better access to his clothes. Before any attack they were going to go through his pockets. His shoulders and then his head bumped off the transmission arch, jarring fresh pain through him as they hauled him out. He kept his eyes closed, head turned against the seats to cover any expression he couldn’t control; the interior light didn’t seem to extend to the rear. Fetid food-fouled breath sprayed over him. Deaken let his body flop, without resistance.
One chance, thought Deaken, that’s all he’d have. Two men pulled him by his legs from the car and, when he was almost clear, the third grabbed his arms. The eager ones-those who want to kill him. With the reluctant one a spectator. And if he were reluctant it was unlikely he would have any weapon in his hands. A guess, Deaken knew, but a reasonable guess. Everything was going to be a guess. One chance, he thought again.
The scream, as he moved, was involuntary, a mixture of tension and instinct, but it startled them. At the same time Deaken made a coordinated, body-arching eruption, lashing out against them with his hands and feet, twisting from them as he did so. They dropped him awkwardly, one leg, then the other. Deaken had yanked at the man holding his arms, and felt him begin to topple. As Deaken struggled to keep his balance, he was suddenly conscious of the ground dipping beneath his left foot. He guessed they were by a storm ditch. With desperate ferocity, he lashed out again. One of the men toppled with a groan into the darkness. Deaken was free. And his one thought was to run.
The pitch-black night helped him; the driver had only left the sidelights on, which did little more than mark out the shape of the car. An advantage. Like his breaking the pattern, confusing them. And he was better oriented, knowing the way the car was pointing, and from it the line of the road. Which gave him the positioning of the storm ditch, parallel to it.
The pain surged back immediately he tried to run. He concentrated against it, trying to force it aside just as a swimmer on a freezing day tries to ignore the icy coldness of the water. The darkness, his help a moment before, became an immediate liability. There was no marker to guide him. A soft crack broke the still night. Deaken realized that somebody had fired a gun: he had no impression of a bullet passing anywhere near him. He felt out delicately with his foot, waiting for the dip of the ditch. As he found it he was aware of groping, scuffling sounds as they came for him. Deaken stepped back, counting, trying to measure his run-up; never more than one opportunity, he thought. If he missed, they would get him. The beating had slowed him so that it was more of a stagger than a run. He had miscounted the backward steps, so the ground was already falling beneath his feet, making his jump across the ditch a clumsy, awkward plunge.
He didn’t clear the ditch. Instead he crashed into the opposite bank, gushing the breath from his body. He clung there as if he were impaled, chest and arms over the rim, the lower part of his body dangling into the emptiness below. From above and behind there was a shout as they realized what he had done. He heard the sound of collapsing earth and stones as one of them scurried after him into the ditch. He strained to get some air into his lungs.
They were close enough now for him to feel the vibration of their running feet through the earth against which he was pressed. There were more shots, two this time, perhaps three, fired in close succession. Deaken’s right foot found purchase and he pushed upwards, hauling his body over the edge. A rock was dislodged under his weight. It clattered invisibly into the ditch, and there were more shouts. He could hear the panting of the man in the storm ditch. Deaken dragged himself out of the gully seconds before the man reached him. Deaken held his breath, straining not to give away his position. He felt the man plunge beneath, close enough for him to have reached down and touched him. Deaken was shuddering with the physical effort. Puffs of dust rose directly beneath his nose and mouth which were jammed against the earth. The footsteps had gone past, away from him. He ached to stay where he was, to rest, but knew he couldn’t afford the luxury.
Deaken tensed, concentrating his strength, then, using the ditch as another marker, he scurried away at right angles to it, bent low, stumbling and tripping over the dragging undergrowth, hands stretched out in front to protect himself if he fell. There were fresh yells from behind, seeming far away now. He heard another shot, so faint it might not have been a shot at all but the cracking of a stick underfoot.
Where the hell were the trees? He had been sure they were close. Instead he found himself on one of those vast African plains, low, stunted scrub with the occasional isolated bush sticking up like some sort of lookout. Don’t let it be endless; please God don’t let it be endless, he thought. He was staggering, his sense of direction gone, snatched and grabbed at by the twigs and grasses and undergrowth.
Snakes, Deaken thought, in sudden horror. There were bound to be snakes. Mambas certainly. Puff adders too. He stopped, hearing himself whimper. He thought puff adders were slow-moving, more likely to strike than to get out of his way, but he couldn’t be sure. He started off again, no longer a headlong plunge, instead scuffing slowly forward, feeling his way with his feet, hands stretched out like a blind man in unfamiliar surroundings. They were still shouting, but he had lost them.
There was a scurrying movement to his right and he jerked to a stop. Not a snake, he decided. Too much noise. Maybe a bird, startled out of his path.
There was no warning of the treeline. One moment Deaken was walking through scrub, the next a branch whipped across his face, slapping him backwards. He felt a fleeting sense of relief that he had found somewhere to hide. But snakes could also be in trees. Were they black or green mambas? Green, he remembered. Able to strike from overhanging branches. That’s why unladen African women often balanced a rock or brick on their heads as they walked, to provide an alternative target. Involuntarily, Deaken ducked. He couldn’t hear them shouting anymore. Just night sounds, screeches and cries, occasionally a nervejumping crash of pursued and pursuer through the bush. Sweat began to dry on him and he shivered, wondering why it seemed colder here than it had in the city. Deaken tried to crouch against the bole of a thick tree. As the panic began to subside, the pain returned, isolated at first and then taking hold of him in a solid, dull ache. His head was throbbing. Gently he began to explore with his fingers, trying to detect any cuts. He couldn’t.
At first he didn’t recognize the grinding cough of the engine but then he realized with a surge of hope that they had started the car. He heard it pull away. He had beaten them, not bravely or cleverly, but beaten them nevertheless.
And now he was stranded, in the middle of nowhere, and couldn’t consider leaving until the morning because he didn’t have any idea of the direction of the highway he had to find if he was to get back to Dakar. And by daylight he would only have seven hours to do that if he were to catch the Bellicose and ensure that it altered course.
“Christ,” Deaken moaned to himself.
Say as little as possible, remembered Carre. That was Makimber’s repeated instruction, through the long night of rehearsals for this encounter with the Bellicose’s captain. Say as little as possible, always take the lead from Erlander. If he got it right, there would be another $5000 in American currency.
“I was told to expect someone aboard,” said Erlander.
“The man came to my office yesterday. Told me about it,” said Carre unhelpfully. Through the porthole of the captain’s cabin he could see the bowser lines being manoeuvred to connect to the freighter’s fuel tanks. Because
