I kept thinking, Muende must have been desperate, to come out here with a lone woman, one jeep and no back-up, and then to shoot his only able-bodied accomplice. Once again I saw what damage colossal wealth, or even the promise of it, does to you. It stops you trusting anybody else, so that you immediately become isolated and get forced into crazy actions.
By 1100 the heat was ferocious. The sun was beating straight down on us, and tsetse flies were bombing out of every bush we passed. Lines of sweat were running down Jason’s scrawny neck from behind his ears, and he was stinking like cat’s piss. High above us enormous birds had begun to ride the thermals, swinging in wide, wide circles. When I pointed up at them and suggested, ‘Eagles?’, Jason said, ‘Vultures. White-headed vultures.’ Any minute now, I thought, they’ll be plummeting on to the fresh corpse behind us.
I happened to have looked at Andy’s watch a moment earlier, so I know it was 1124 when, in the middle of quite a fast advance, my tracker stopped short and raised his right hand with index finger extended to our right front.
‘Go-away bird,’ he said, softly.
I had to listen for several seconds before I heard it. Then I picked up the raucous go-wee, go-wee of a grey lourie scolding some interloper who had trespassed into its territory.
‘Has it seen us?’ I whispered.
Jason shook his head. ‘Too far. Other persons.’
That bird was a star. For the next half hour, as we worked our way steadily forward, it kept calling. Every now and then it moved to a different tree, but it hung around the same area, persistently giving out its mocking cry. We saw it once — a flash of pale grey, with a spiky tuft on the back of its head, as it looped from one perch to another — and at the end we knew there was a chance it had started to mob us as well. But by then it had done a brilliant job, leading us to a particular spot and putting us on maximum alert.
It was Jason who saw the pair first. They were sitting on the ground in an ebony grove, their backs against a big tree, looking utterly knackered. Inge had her head thrown back, resting against the trunk; Muende’s was hanging down, chin on chest, as if he were asleep. His peculiar, yellowish hair was unmistakable. Beside each of them was an open haversack.
The sight sent a huge surge of adrenalin round my system, part excitement, part hatred of the pair who had murdered Whinger. We could easily have dropped both of them from where we stood, behind some bushes sixty metres off. They had no clue that anyone was near them, and there was no way we could have missed. A couple of bursts from the 203s, and that would have been that. But it would also have been too easy. Before I killed them, I wanted to look in their faces and let them see me. I wanted to tell them what I thought of them. I wanted them to know that retribution had caught up with them and run them down. So I breathed ‘This way’ to Jason, and we moved silently round to our left until we were behind them, hidden by the trunk of their own tree. Then we walked straight in. Whatever else happened, I was going to make them shit themselves with fright.
Twenty metres short of the tree, I motioned Jason to stay put and cover me. I eased myself out of the straps of my Bergen and lowered it gently to the ground. Then I crept forward alone with my 203 at the ready. The lourie was still calling away to our right front. Apart from that there was no sound.
I came to within four metres of the tree. Three. It may have been a slight scuffle that my boot made on a dry leaf. It may have been a sixth sense of danger. Whatever triggered her reflex, Inge suddenly leapt into view, going to my left with amazing agility. Already she was facing my way, and there was a pistol in her right hand.
Before she could bring it to bear, before I could raise my own rifle, a three-round burst hammered out behind me. The rounds cracked like thunderbolts as they passed my ear and put the woman flat on her back. For a moment she writhed about, struggling to get up, but the pistol had fallen from her hand and I could see she was dying.
I stood braced, with the rifle in my hands, finger on the trigger, ready for Muende to appear. When he didn’t, I yelled, ‘Come out!’
The trunk of the ebony was nearly a metre thick, and although I knew he was there, about ten feet from me, I couldn’t see any part of him. Glancing at Inge, I saw she’d stopped moving.
I took a step to my right, then another. After the second, I could see boots — black, army-type boots with the heels together, toes pointing downwards. The guy was stretched out on his front, grovelling into the earth. Two more steps, and his whole body was in view. He was wearing pale-coloured, lightweight DPMs, and had his face pressed into a groove between two large roots, as though he was trying to shut out the danger. His forehead was against the base of the trunk, hands clasped on top of his head. There was a sub-machine gun lying on the ground beside him, but it was out of his reach.
I went forward and kicked him in the ribs. ‘On your feet, cunt!’ I shouted.
His eyes were rolling as he looked up at me. For a few seconds he seemed paralysed by fear. Then, slowly, he hauled himself up and stood shaking with his back against the tree.
‘All right, Muende,’ I went. ‘You know who I am.’
He ran his tongue round his lips as he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen you in my life.’
‘You fucking have. It was me you had beaten up the other night. The night you tortured my mate and ate his liver. You may have been pissed, but you can’t have forgotten.’
As comprehension dawned, the guy’s terror increased. He began to shake so violently that drops of sweat went flying in all directions off his forehead.
‘What do you want?’
‘The diamond. That’s all.’
‘What diamond?’
‘The one you’ve just recovered from the plane.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘take it easy. There’s some mistake here.’
He sounded pure American, and for a few moments his easy natural authority started to assert itself. But I wasn’t in a mood to argue.
I drove the muzzle of the 203 hard into the top of his bulging stomach, stepped back, and said, ‘You’ve got thirty seconds to produce it.’
He doubled forward with a gasp. As he straightened up again, his bloodshot eyes went fromthe barrel of the rifle to my face and back. Then, he said, ‘You win.’
‘Where is it?’
‘On my belt.’
I looked at his midriff and saw a pouch of thick black canvas. It was too small to contain a pistol, the wrong shape for a knife.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Take the belt off and throw it to me. Then get your hands above your head.’
He did as ordered. The belt landed at my feet. I picked it up and withdrew another pace. The pouch was modern, with a Velcro fastener on the flap. With one hand I ripped it open. Inside was a suede leather bag with something hard inside.
It needed teeth as well as fingers to pull out the string round the neck of the bag, but at last I got it open and looked down. There, in the nest of blue suede, sat a lump of what looked like brilliantly flashing glass. Forget pigeon’s eggs, this thing was the size of a chicken’s egg, for God’s sake. The sight of it made my breath catch. I closed the bag by folding the long neck over and rolling it round, then stowed it in my right-hand belt pouch.
Muende’s eyes had followed every movement of the stone, as if it were magnetic. Then, suddenly, he came away from the tree a couple of paces.
‘Stop!’ I yelled.