Archer knew what was coming, and was trying to hold his breath; Jones seeing his chest expand hit him in the solar plexus. Archer let out a wheeze as the unexpected jab expelled all his air. Smith replaced the towel and began to pour water over it from the bucket. The towel was quickly overloaded, water going into Archer’s nose, he tried to keep his mouth closed but his body instinctively gasped for air, his mouth opened and filled with water. Smith emptied the bucket, and was refilling it with a hose. Archer gasped attempting to regain breath before the next onslaught.
Smith continued this and even with the return of Mr Jones, who repeated his questions, Smith was relentless. The torture did not abate for over two hours, Smith had done this before, and left just enough time between soakings so his victim did not drown or pass out. Archer of course was trained to resist interrogation, even something like this; he remained silent on the contents of Khan’s message.
Jones decided to leave, instructed Smith to leave him to dry off in the hot midday sun. Before he left Smith kicked him in the crotch and then left, wiped his hands with a towel and discarded it by the door. The guard with the MP3 player left the room, laughing at Archer’s predicament.
Archer was bleeding, breathless and alone, his mind wandering. He turned his head slowly attempting to see the damage to his body, the sensation increasing his nausea. He could not see all the injuries his body, too restrained to flex much, he could feel some, but the overwhelming pain from his frame was not specific to any area. He noticed a spike on the floor, some kind of tool sticking out from under the tractor tire. His attempts to reach it failed, he decided a different approach.
The guards were watching TV, Jones had told them to ensure that their guest was left alone, without water for the afternoon; the African heat might change his mind. Smith and Jones retired to an air-conditioned trailer parked some distance from the main building, unaware of Archer’s actions.
With all his strength Archer bounced the tractor tyre, the increasing momentum causing it to wobble and buck, like a wild steel and rubber animal. Then without warning he achieved his goal and the tyre came down on the spike, he had actually hit it three times, before the smell of escaping foul air reached him. He stopped his gyrations and let the tyre rapidly deflate.
Within seconds his bounds had loosened and he was free. He moved deftly to his kit, still unattended on the ground, a rapid assessment, weapons but no communications. He had to get out of here and let Uncotto know of Enzi’s actions. He peered through the gap in the wooden wall, squinted as the midday glare hit his unaccustomed eyes. Across from the barn was a garrison hut, some guards visible through the window, one was patrolling outside the MP3 player still attached to his ears, he was nodding to the rhythm.
He went to the other side of the barn and about quarter mile away he could see a cliff edge and the ocean. That was his escape.
Archer was about to leave when a guard came in, his rifle slung, casual and unaware. He looked over at the tractor tire, realised their captive was not attached to it and quickly brought his gun to bear.
Too slow.
Before he could find his target, a weighted knife was embedded in his larynx, any scream trapped by the blade.
Archer moved him away from the door, kicking sand over any blood running onto the ground. The guard was not quite dead, just staring at Archer in disbelief at his predicament. Archer calmly removed the knife, and positioned the guard on a chair, his back to the door. He would appear asleep to any casual observer.
He checked no one was following the intruder. Reassured there was not, he bound his wounds with a ripped t-shirt, ensuring he did not leave a blood trail for his captors.
Carefully pushing out old wooden boards, he proceeded out of the rear of the building. He moved leaving the barn to his back, obscuring his movement towards the cliff. He kept low, handgun drawn, stepping sideways to ensure he could cover his back. Within a few minutes he was at the edge.
The cliff was not as severe as expected, more of a rough rocky slope. Intermittent patches of sand where the cliff had succumb to erosion. White rock carved by the wind, like fossilised branches of an extinct tree. A cluster of fishing boats at the base, just clear of the pounding surf, some modern plastic moulded others traditional wooden, larger better cargo space, iceboxes in the centre.
On the right was a circular red hut, a makeshift door at the back, he approached it, seeing no one else in the vicinity, a young boy came out of the hut, saw him, and darted back inside. Archer moved rapidly, pulling open the door and levelling his gun at any occupants, but the greeting he received was unexpected.
‘Do you have the time? I lost my watch in the surf, need to catch the tide.’
An old man was hidden in the cool shadows of the hut, his face lined, creased with years of experience, sea salt and sun. He was calm, sitting holding a gnarled wooden stick between his hands, his cotton trousers neat and a t-shirt with Homer Simpson eating a donut.
‘It’s just after 16:00. Where am I?’
‘Well young man, firstly you have nothing to fear here, if you were an occupant of the farm nearby. I suggest you lower your weapon and we move into my boat.’
Archer did not trust that easily, ‘and why would I want to do that?’
‘Because your captors know this area better than you, and I can tell you this is the first place they come, they always do.’
‘Where’s your boat, is it fast?’
‘Hardly, it’s diesel, and is older than my grandson here, but it will get us out into deeper water.’
‘How can I trust you?’
The old man lifted his t-shirt, scar tissue from old deep cuts lined his ribs, and when he turned lash marks on his back.
‘I have been in the farm, that barn of death, I did not leave as soon as you, and this is my price.’
Reassured that this man would not turn him in, Archer lowered his weapon, the old man gestured to his grandson, who began to make preparations for sea.
‘So my friend, you have upset Chui Enzi?’
‘You could say that; let’s just say he disagrees with my work ethic.’
The old man smiled, ‘I am sure he disagrees with all work ethics but his own. Water?’
Archer happily drank the bottle offered, taking a sip, but then with a nod from the old fisherman he finished it.
‘I can get you to a cargo ship out in the bay, there are relief ships on their way to Dar Es Saleem about 500 miles south in Tanzania.’
‘How can you do this, or know this?’
‘Oh I work for Mr Jones, he has a side-line in piracy, I tell him where the good cargo ships are, and he takes his own relief supplies.’
‘Don’t you feel guilty for that?’
‘Well it keeps me alive having a purpose, and I only tell him about the ones that are heavily armed, he does not bother to check if I am incorrect.’
‘Nice, so what will this trip cost me?’
‘Well that is a quandary isn’t it? What value a young American life?’
‘You would be surprised, less than you expect, depending who you ask.’
‘You are asking me, and I need a watch, lost mine this morning, yours looks sturdy.’
Archer did like his MWC diver’s watch; however he could get another, ‘Deal. Here, try it on.’
The old man placed it on his bony wrist, almost half the size of Archers, adjusting the strap with dexterity.
‘Very nice, comfy, thank you. Let us see if my grandson is ready to leave.’
Archer and the old man left the grandson had begun to move the fishing boat across the twenty feet of sand to the breakers. The beach had a steep drop off, after thirty feet of rough waves, the sea calmed down. The grandson was attempting to cut through a knot on the securing rope, but his knife was rusty and blunt, Archer walked over, the teenager still wary, his wiry frame tensing up. Archer drew his k-bar and passed it to the tanned youth; with an encouraging look from his grandfather he accepted it.