Margaret peered over the shimmering surface of the water at the bobbing barrels and noticed that each one did have a different symbol emblazoned on it – a monkey on this one, a parrot on that, a broken tree on the next one.
‘Yeah, what are those for?’
‘Each one is an emblem of a certain tribe. The tribe sees that barrel as it floats past them on the river and takes it. In exchange for the produce we give them, they transport the empty barrels to our business associate near the Ugandan border, and then, when we need to, he sends barrels to our suppliers, and they refill them and repeat the airdrop, thus completing the circuit. It is a rather efficient process, is it not?’
Margaret nodded, staring at the barrels as they bobbed lazily in the water. In her mind though, gears and cogs started to whir at an accelerated pace, and she felt her pulse and her breath beginning to quicken as the possibilities of what these empty barrels could mean for her started to cascade with dizzying speed through her head.
‘How long,’ she asked, trying to keep her tone as cool and seemingly indifferent as she could, ‘does it take for these barrels to reach their destinations downriver?’
‘Well, the closest village is two days away downriver, and it is a leisurely two days because there are no waterfalls or rapids before that first village. After that though, the barrels speed up, as they tumble over a few sets of waterfalls and surge through a series of rapids. They reach the next few villages within hours of one another.’
‘And uh, what is the first village they get to? The one before the rapids.’
Jesus H. Christ Margaret! You’re making it too blatant! He’s going to read your mind again! Keep it subtle, keep it subtle for God’s sake! Do not let him know what you’re thinking about these barrels! You’ll be signing your own death warrant!
If the General had any inkling about the thoughts running like frenzied, caffeine-fed rodents through the maze of Margaret’s mind, he did not show it.
‘The first village the barrels reach is called Bafa. It is a tiny settlement, with only a few dozen people – pygmies, in fact, who have lived in this area for thousands of years. Perhaps you may be interested in visiting it sometime; they live a very traditional lifestyle, unencumbered by the burdens of industrial modernity, and the remoteness of their location has ensured minimal contact with outsiders. There is though, I believe, a team of Canadian anthropologists currently studying them. We’re actually going to be filling the barrels tomorrow and sending them all off around midnight tomorrow evening. We do not have any means of communicating directly with the people we send the barrels downriver to – to do so would be to compromise the secrecy of our location – but they know on which day of the month to expect the barrels to float by, so we have to stick to a very regular schedule. That barrel, with the monkey on it, that’s the one we’re sending to Bafa. And see, here comes a barge filled with some of our jungle produce!’
The General pointed at a paddle-powered barge coming up the river, with four teenagers pumping on bicycle pedals against the current. He began speaking about the varieties of vegetables and fruits that were piled high on the back section of the barge, but his words did not register in Margaret’s mind; all she could think about was what he had just said.
Bafa village … Canadian anthropologists … I know them! I know that team of anthropologists! They were at the hotel in Kinshasa when I first landed in this godforsaken country! God, we had drinks together that first night, and they talked about going to study those exact pygmies in Bafa! What the hell were their names … Simon, yes! Simon and, and, Marty. Right! Oh Jesus, oh sweet Jesus, this is it Margaret! This is your chance to escape! This is your chance! You have to do this, somehow. There will not be another chance. You have to do this!
PART THIRTEEN
43
WILLIAM
24th October 2020. Dângrêk Mountains, Cambodia
A wisp of semi-translucent smoke snaked from the hot muzzle of the pistol in a languid curl, its fading twist caught in a ray of sunlight that had broken through the shadow-thick mesh of the jungle canopy above.
William clapped a congratulatory hand on Chloe’s back, but his stony face was as bereft of joy as hers.
‘Excellent shooting, lass. Your aim’s bang on at twenty yards,’ was all he said.
Chloe stared for a while at the paper target. She had emptied the entire pistol in only a few seconds, and every round had been either a head shot or a chest shot. Grim-faced, she popped out the empty clip and with the slick fluidity of a seasoned professional she slapped a fresh one into the firearm.
‘William, Chloe, coffee’s almost ready!’ Zakaria shouted from a position further down the hill.
‘I’ll finish up here, then I’ll head back,’ Chloe muttered, her eyes never leaving the target.
‘As you wish, love,’ William said, before turning and heading off down the narrow trail, leaving Chloe alone among the dense-packed trees and steaming vegetation.
She calmly raised the pistol, her every movement smooth and controlled, and took aim. A flicker of suddenly rapacious emotion twisted in her core like a starved parasite, abruptly awakened from a coma and ravenous for food. The loss of Paola had hit her hard, harder than anything else that had happened since that fateful day when William had fought Aboubakar on the rooftop across from Paola’s apartment. The entire sequence of events that had followed that battle had felt
