“I got the memo,” King shot back.
Bill glowered for a moment longer before returning his gaze to the busy hostel. A stairway led from the centre of the floor, curling up to a balcony where more tables were arrayed around chunky computers and a scattering of beanbags. A door at the back of the ground floor led to a self-catering kitchen where the clatter of pots and pans echoed. Straight ahead there stood a wooden bar with a window behind it leading into a professional kitchen and King realised that was where the smell of cooking was coming from, Argentine waiters delivering sizzling plates to tired looking hikers back from a day on the mountain.
Bill ignored all else and stepped up to the window of the main reception where a young woman greeted him with a wide smile.
“Hola,” she said pleasantly.
“I’d like to speak to Mister Adjo, please,” Bill requested curtly, assuming the Argentinean woman spoke English.
“Can I help?” she asked, proving that she did indeed speak English.
“Not unless you are called Mister Adjo.”
Her smile still in place, the receptionist’s eyes nevertheless lost some of their warmth. “I’ll see if Mister Adjo is available,” she said, picking up an old fashioned telephone and speaking in quick Spanish into it. After several seconds she hung up and looked back at Bill. “Go to the top of the stairs then through the door directly in front of you. Mister Adjo will meet you there.”
The three of them followed the receptionist’s instructions, winding their way through the crowds of backpackers. The overland trucks could carry twenty or so people each on an organised trip around South America but the hostel was heaving with many more independent travellers.
At the top of the stairs they stepped across the balcony and through a doorway. A corridor in front of them led to the hostel’s many rooms but another door, marked with ‘No Entry. Staff only’ opened to their left and a man stepped through.
“You Mister Adjo?” Bill asked.
Dressed in a pair of black cargo trousers and a red fleece jumper, the forty three year old had pale olive skin, unlike the tepid white of most Argentines, and his dark eyes and narrow face smacked of Arabian descent, however distant.
“That’s right,” he man nodded. “How can I—”
He didn’t have time to finish the question as Bill suddenly slammed the muzzle of his pistol to Adjo’s temple and pushed the stunned man back through the door he had just exited before anyone else saw. King was ‘urged’ in behind him.
“What is the meaning of this? Who are you people?” Adjo demanded.
“Shut up, or I’ll shut you up,” Bill snarled.
“I demand—”
With a fierce jab, Bill slammed the butt of his gun against the side of Adjo’s face, almost knocking him over but he caught him and dragged him roughly up the set of stairs just inside the doorway, thrusting him out into an open plan living space at the top. An eruption of screams came from above and King rushed forward to see a woman, presumably Adjo’s wife, and two girls, no older than ten, scramble in horror away from the gunman.
“Oh my god,” King gasped, realising that he was responsible for leading the gunman to their home.
“Shut them up or I shoot them both!” Bill barked at the frantic woman. Adjo tried to scramble forward but Bill held tight. “Shut the little fuckers up now or—”
Adjo’s wife quickly collected the girls together, clamping a hand over their mouths to silence then, talking soothingly despite the sheer terror on her face.
“That’s better,” Bill sighed, then he tossed something to King who automatically caught it. It was a roll of duct tape. “Tie them up.” King didn’t move and so Bill levelled his gun towards the head of one of the girls. “Do it.”
King didn’t need to be told twice. He hurried towards Adjo’s wife and daughters. “And don’t try to be a hero, Ben.”
King felt sick as he tied the innocent woman and children’s hands and feet together and then, on Bill’s command, taped their mouths shut also. The words ‘I’m sorry’ escaped his lips but were met only by an angry glare from Adjo’s wife.
“Good,” Bill said, pushing Adjo away from him. Tears streaked his face and his terrified, helpless expression shot to King’s heart. If anything happened to this family, he was to blame.
“You have in your possession a map,” Bill said, his voice casual, relaxed. “A treasure map,” he added. “All I need is for you to give it to me, let my… expert, here,” he nodded in King’s direction, “verify it, then we’ll be on our way, with our sincere apologies for having disturbed you.”
“A map?” Adjo choked, his voice raw. King could see the man’s entire body trembling but it was not fear for himself, but for his family. “I don’t know anything about a map—”
Before he’d even finished his sentence there was a muted pop from the muzzle of Bill’s silencer, followed by an agonised squeal from Adjo’s wife as the bullet tore through her upper thigh. She writhed in agony, falling onto one side of the couch and knocking one of the girl’s to the floor.
“You bastard, I’ll kill you!” Adjo leapt forward, ignoring the guard’s pistol which was levelled at his head. Bill’s pistol, planting itself firmly against the girl who remained sitting, froze him mid-step, however. As always, Bill moved coolly and casually, as though the whole affair was part of daily normality for him.
“That was a warning shot, Mister Adjo,” he explained. “Now that you understand how serious I am, I’m sure that when I repeat my request, your answer will be much more satisfactory.”
King saw the look of rage on Adjo’s face morph into desperation. He sobbed, wanting to pull himself forward to protect his family despite Bill’s guard’s gun. “Please,” he blubbered, breaking down. “Don’t hurt them. Please. Don’t hurt my family.”
“I won’t hurt anyone, Mister Adjo, as long as you—”
“I don’t have a map. I’ve never seen any treasure map—”
Bill shrugged. Pulled the trigger—
“Wait!” King’s voice exploded out with more authority than expected, halting Bill’s trigger finger. The girl squirmed away from him.
“Something to add, Ben?”
King took a moment to collect himself, fighting back an explosion of painful memories from that afternoon in Lagos.
He didn’t doubt that Bill would have pulled the trigger and so had shouted out on reflex to stop him, but without something to show for his outburst the girl’s life would be only seconds longer. Her life, the lives of Adjo’s entire family was in his hands.
“He doesn’t know where it is,” he argued meekly.
“I’m simply jogging his memory.”
“Look at him,” King demanded, pointing a finger at the man crumpled to his knees. Tears streamed down his face, mucus drooled from his nose, his breath came out in ragged breaths and his body visibly trembled. “Look at him,” he said again. “That’s not a man who is lying to you for the sake of a map. That’s a man who would do anything, anything, to protect his family.”
Bill regarded the man and King noted that there was no distain in his expression, no pity or contempt. It was as though Bill was a blank slate, totally devoid of all feeling. He had a mission, a purpose, and it didn’t matter who lived or died so long as he saw it through to its fruition.
“What are you saying, Ben?” he asked. “That you’ve brought us to the wrong goddamned place? That you’ve led us on some wild goose chase to the cesspit of the earth? Because if that’s the case then it’s someone else who will be suffering the punishment.” He went to tap his radio earpiece.
Sid.
“No,” King cut him off. “The map’s here. But we’re talking about nearly three hundred years of history, Abubakar’s descendants moving around all over Patagonia.”