Cats
Richard strode across the makeshift landing field towards the nearest Aerospacial Super Puma helicopter, thoughtlessly swatting a mosquito that had settled on his forearm. Somewhere in the back of his mind he admitted that maybe Robin’s anti-insect campaign might not be such a waste of time after all. And he wondered vaguely what other jungle scourges might be returning to the river and its margins if the mosquitoes were making a comeback. But the thoughts were subsumed beneath an overwhelming tide of breathtakingly vivid sensation. He was chewing on the last of a breakfast sandwich prepared with flatbread and highly spiced bush bacon — made, he was relieved to hear, from dried beef — washed down with strong black coffee. The flavours on his tongue were suddenly drowned by the stench of exhaust from the choppers idling on the flat grass field; the rumble of their motors and the thrumming of their rotors drowning out the morning bustle of the camp he was just leaving behind him. Workaday bustle augmented by the arming of the squads of locals destined to board the choppers and the detailing of those Russians getting ready to board the Zubrs. Ahead of him, the square bulk of the nearest sand and sage-coloured Super Puma’s fuselage was dwarfed by the simple enormity of the morning.
The sun was rising over Karisoke into a huge blue sky, cloudless except for the traces of pink and grey smoke that marked the mouth of the volcano, whose jungle-clad peak was still so distant that it lay below the farthest turquoise horizon where blue sky and green canopy seemed to bleed into each other like colours running on a wet watercolour. On his right, the forest massed along the river’s edge in ranks of vegetation tall enough to disguise the fact that Stalingrad and Volgograd were already out on the water beyond the mangroves, preparing to depart, their course set for the invisible volcano and the black lake halfway up its side, while Kebila and his men stayed in the camp, preparing to go after Odem on foot. On his left, the fields of the farming cooperatives were already full of figures assessing the damage done by Odem’s technicals last night in the first light of day. The whole place — the whole country, indeed — seemed to be bustling with vigour and excitement. And no one more so than Richard and the tall, slim, vibrant woman at his side. Though, to be fair, Richard allowed, much of the energy that seemed to be sparking out of Anastasia Asov might well be latent rage as much as latent electricity.
Anastasia was pouring all of her considerable force — wrath, outrage, frustration — into the strength with which she was checking her assault rifle. She had stripped and reassembled it on the breakfast table as she had talked over her immediate plans with Richard. Or talked them to Richard — who had hardly got a word in. The Russians around them were at first amused but eventually impressed by the dexterity with which her fingers worked on the weapon while her eyes were on her companion, her lips busy and her mind so clearly elsewhere.
The only interruption to her impassioned speech had come when Sergeant Zubarov appeared. He was looking for a couple of men who hadn’t reported for breakfast duty: Brodski and Livitov. Not part of the Beslan veteran brigade from last night, apparently, but a couple of Ivan’s patrol. And there was some debate whether, after the confusion of the attacks and Ngoboi’s almost supernatural infiltration, they had even been seen in their bunks. But, what with the move from one Zubr to another and the reassignment of quarters, not to mention the midnight adventures, hardly anyone had slept in their assigned quarters last night. After a while he went off to report to Ivan with a shrug, assured that they’d turn up soon — as soon as they smelt the bacon, in all likelihood. Richard caught a look on Anastasia’s face at the mention of her old friend, which made him glad that Ivan hadn’t come looking for the men himself.
Now she opened and closed the breech, ensuring it was empty, before flicking on the safety, all with almost brutal strength. ‘He won’t be out there,’ she said to Richard, raising her voice to a snarl as they neared the Puma. ‘Kebila can follow the tracks as long as he likes but they won’t lead him to Odem. He’s too canny for that.’
‘Then why are you coming?’ Richard shouted, stooping under the rotors.
‘To see for myself. To make absolutely double sure. In case there’s a double bluff. In case I’m wrong.’
‘Wrong?’ he bellowed as they neared the slide-door. ‘You? Wrong?’
‘I’ve spent most of the last ten years being wrong,’ she spat. ‘Wrong about almost everything I believed in. Everyone I thought I was sure of …’
That shut him up. They climbed into the chopper silently, side by side.
Kebila was waiting for them, and had reserved the two seats closest to his own. Richard was unsure whether this was as a courtesy or so that he could keep a close eye on them. The latter seemed most likely, he thought as he saw Sergeant Tchaba occupying the next available place to his own. He glanced up the cabin as he prepared to fold himself into his seat. There were fifteen of Kebila’s finest, all armed to the teeth, their faces set in ebony masks, many of them bearing the scars of Poro initiation. He had to wonder, as he sat and tightened his seat belt, how many of them would be willing to follow their orders to shoot on sight if the target was Ngoboi.
Well, if Anastasia was right, they wouldn’t find out on this trip, he decided. But, on the other hand, if for once in her life she was wrong … He stopped the thought there, as the helicopter seemed to leap into the air, sidetracked into assessing her new-found lack of confidence in herself. He had talked it over with Robin last night in the sleepy haze after their lovemaking — the effect that all of the revelations would be likely to have on Anastasia.
Richard’s thoughts were simply stopped at this point by the view out of the window beyond Sergeant Tchaba at his shoulder. The fields, full of tiny figures and toy trucks, gave on to the thickening wall of forest and secondary jungle which in turn reached out in mangroves along the edge of the great river. And the great River Gir spread wide, a huge, steady red-brown flow. And there, like water beetles creeping up it were Stalingrad and Volgograd, heading for the land of the big trees, where they would be dwarfed to near insignificance — let alone the arrogant overreaching specks of men inside them. He shivered.
And as he did so, the helicopter angled its square body to the left and swooped away from the river, heading inland and downwards until the tracks of Odem’s technicals were plainly visible either as sets of parallel scars across green pastures or white-flattened roadways through ruined crops.
‘They’re turning in towards the river and the jungle,’ observed Anastasia. The cabin had canted slightly over to the right and if there had been a magnetic compass handy it would have been reading south-east as the tracks and the wide riverine jungle inevitably closed with each other. But then, striking north/south, shockingly rule straight amid all the natural curves of the land so far, there was an ancient concrete-sided irrigation ditch. The tracks converged on a fissure in the side which looked to be of recent origin, pulling the red mud down on to the flat, dry concrete bed of the thing, weaving past and over each other into a red mud braid, and then they faded into invisibility as the man-made channel disappeared into the jungle overgrowth.
Kebila’s chopper settled beside the others and the colonel led his men on to the ground with Richard and Anastasia at his side. There were three choppers in all and, after a brief meeting, Kebila decided to split his forces. The other two took off again. One to follow the drainage ditch inland to the north in case Odem’s men had laid a false trail and then doubled back. The other questing straight ahead in case this was all an elaborate trick and Odem was lurking upriver, waiting to catch them unawares. Then Kebila himself led his command on foot patrol into the concrete ditch.