52
Uko entered Clement’s room, hastily buttoning up his combat jacket. He spoke quickly, “I have ordered the soldiers to prepare themselves. What is the urgency, what is going on?” He squinted through the cast iron sheet of his hangover.
“Somebody is coming. Took out four of my boys on the way. No reason. Americans or British,” Clement replied. He looked at the briefcase in the corner of the room, his mind on the devices it contained.
“I have a feeling Monsieur Blanc has brought this on us.” He shook his head, “where is he? I want him brought to me.”
“Yes sir.” Uko saluted the General and ran down the corridor to Monsieur Blanc’s room. He opened the door without knocking. “The general wants you, get up, quickly.” No response from the sleeping form in the bed. He walked towards it, put his hand out to shake the body.
“Up, get up now,” the body fell forwards, two cushions plumped up under the sheets. Uko turned and ran.
“General, he is not here. The man has gone.” Clement banged his fist into the wall. He was used to be being the attacker, leading the offensive, now he had the distinct impression a game was afoot and no one had explained the rules.
“That white boy. The one they took the last device from. Tell me he is still sleeping in his room.” Uko ran down the corridor again, calling out. The boy who had been guarding wandered into his path.
“Where is he, where has he gone?” Uko shouted. The boy shrugged, fear in his eyes. He shook him violently by the shoulders and slammed him into the wall.
“Where has he gone?” He shouted.
“I don’t know. He left with the other man, the tall one who smelt of whiskey.” The boy’s eyes were confused, hurt. Clement had told him to ensure he treated Monsieur Blanc and his associate with respect.
“When did they go?” He asked, his thumbs digging sharply into the boy’s shoulders, making him wince.
“Just now sah, a few minutes ago.” Uko rushed down the stairs and out the front of the house. The soldiers at the gates had already closed them. The jeep had disappeared along the track. The heavy feet of the General thundered down the stairs behind him, the whole house shaking under his weight.
Clement breathed deeply, placed a heavy hand on Uko’s shoulder.
“Gone?” He asked. Uko nodded, his bald head gleaming with a fresh layer of sweat.
“Yes sir. Just now. Shall we send someone after them?” Clement clenched his fist into a ball and slapped it into his palm, pacing up and down the veranda. The old wooden floorboards creaked under his weight, furniture and windows rattling with each of his heavy steps.
“No. Waste of time. We have to prepare ourselves here. This is what we must do,” his mind sifting through the problem, five well-trained soldiers heading in their direction, possibly others, prepared to use lethal force. “For now we must carry on as normal. If these men are watching us I do not want them to think we are suspicious. There are only a few of them, their only advantage is surprise. Now we have taken that from them. Surprise will be on our side. Gather the captains together. We will hold a counsel of war.”
53
“Charges set. On our way Ed, over.” Gavin McCallister spoke into his radio. The explosives were hidden along one side of the runway, smoke bombs and phosphorous, enough fireworks to make it look like World War III had begun in the eastern Congo. “Good work. We’re in the treetops. Lot of movement at the camp. Early risers. Unusual for this type of army,” Ed replied. He was watching the camp through night vision binoculars, surprised that the soldiers were up and about already, cleaning and preparing their weapons, checking their equipment.
“How long till you…” he stopped talking, his attention distracted by the two men who had appeared on the veranda. Impossible to see from this distance but he was certain one of them was Nbotou.
He signalled to the rest of his team, “who’s that, on the steps in front of the house?” He hissed. “Anyone have a positive ID?” They’d been shown pictures of the militia leader before they set off, but in the greenish glow of the night vision it was hard to be certain.
“Got to be the General,” Ian Cleaver replied. “I’d stake my rifle on it.” He was the best marksman on the team, his weapon already sighted on the imposing figure of Nbotou as he marched up and down the veranda. A clear night, no wind. Not more than 500 metres to the target.
“He’s in my sights Ed. Say the word and he’s a dead man.” Ed bit his lip, he would dearly love to give the order, drop the evil bastard right there on his own front porch. But he couldn’t, they’d need the back-up of Gavin’s team for the follow through. And Clement’s second-in-command might be an effective leader, might prevent them from taking control of the camp.
“Hold off Ian. We need to wait for Gavin’s team. Let’s watch a while, sight the mic and the thermal imaging cameras on them, see what they’re up to.” The General disappeared inside the house.
Gustav pulled over, stopping at the side of the track. They hadn’t been driving long, not more than twenty minutes. Ahead of them a torchlight flashed on and off. A thin pencil beam of light.
“That him?” Jack asked. Gustav nodded but didn’t reply. Went through his little routine with his pistol instead, turning off the safety, setting it on his lap. He let the jeep crawl slowly forwards.
“You know, it might be easier if you gave the gun to me. Let you focus on the driving.” Jack suggested. Gustav shook his head, “don’t worry, I can drive and shoot.” The dull beam from the headlights pulled Monsieur Blanc into their yellow pool. He was sweating, breathing heavily. His linen suit was soaked through and clinging to his skin. On his back was a large rucksack, and he had a gun slung over each shoulder. Jack was impressed he’d made it this far, didn’t realise the man was capable of walking without the support of a desert trolley.
“Gustav, mon dieu, thank God you are here. I was worried you might not get away.” The girl from the camp was beside him, ammunition draped over her shoulders. She appeared calm and composed, not a bead of sweat on her. The walk had evidently been less of an effort for her.
“Come along Florence. We’ll travel by car as far as we can. Till the road gets too rough.” He held out his hand to help the girl but she jumped past him, clambered in without taking it, then turned and offered him her hand with a shy smile. Monsieur Blanc wasn’t too proud to take it.
“Incredible. She can walk half the night, pull someone twice her size into the car and still she doesn’t break into a sweat,” he said, moping his brow with an already wet handkerchief and squeezing his bulk into the seat beside her.
“Get going Gustav, this area is not safe.” He hefted his rucksack off his back. “Once we leave Nbotou’s territory we’re in the north Kivu district. The militia there is every bit as cruel and ruthless,” he paused for a moment, looking for something in his pack, “but fortunately for us not quite as well organised.”
He handed Jack a gun. “I trust you know how to use it? If not just point and shoot but for goodness sake don’t hit any of us.” Jack turned the Beretta over in his hand. A long time since he’d held one, a sudden memory of a trip to the firing range with his father. Shortly after his mother left. Both of them unable to articulate their feelings, shooting the hearts out of paper targets at a distance of 50m.
“I know how to use it Monsieur Blanc, but why the change of plan? I thought a helicopter was picking you up from the runway this evening,” Jack said, leaning over his shoulder. The car caught a heavy bump in the road, he worried for a moment the axle had cracked, but somehow it kept going.