women. Nicholas knew that, with a touch on the trigger, he could chop
them both to mincemeat.
There were other stealthy rustling sounds in the bush all around them.
These two were not the only ones, Nicholas realized. This was a large
war party. He might be able to get off one shot with the Rigby, but by
then Royan and Tessay would be dead. And he would not be far behind
them.
Very slowly and deliberately he lowered the muzzle of the rifle until it
was pointing at the ground. Then he laid the weapon down and raised his
hands.
"Get your hands up," he told the women. "Do exactly what they tell you."
The guerrilla leader acknowledged his surrender by coming to his full
height and speaking rapidly to his men, still in Arabic.
"Get the rifle and his pack."
"We are British subjects," Nicholas told him loudly, and the guerrilla
looked surprised by his use of Arabic. "We are simple tourists. We are
not military. We are not government people."
Be quiet. Shut your face!" he ordered, as the rest of the guerrilla
patrol emerged from cover. Nicholas counted five of them all told,
though he knew there were probably others who had not come forward. They
were very professional as they rounded up their prisoners. They never
blocked each other's field of fire, nor offered an opportunity of
escape. Quickly they searched them for weapons, then closed in around
them and hustled them on to the path.
"Where are you taking us?"Nicholas demanded.
"No questions!" The butt of an AK-47 smashed between his shoulder blades
and almost knocked him off his feet.
"Steady on, chaps," he murmured mildly in English.
"That wasn't really called for."
They were forced to keep marching through the heat of the afternoon.
Nicholas kept a check on the position of the sun and the distant
glimpses of the escarpment wall.
He realized that they were heading westwards, following the course of
the Nile towards the Sudanese border. It was late afternoon, and
Nicholas estimated that they had covered some ten miles, before they
came upon a side shoot of the main valley. The slopes were heavily
wooded, and the three prisoners were herded into a patch of this forest.
They were actually within the perimeter of the guerrilla camp before
they were aware of its existence. Cunningly camouflaged, it consisted
merely of a few crude lean, to shelters and a ring of weapons
emplacements. The sentries were well placed, and all the light machine
guns in the foxholes were manned.
They were led to one of the shelters in the centre of the camp, where
three men were squatting around a map spread on a low camp table. These
were obviously officers, and there was no mistaking which of the three
was the commander. The leader of the patrol which had captured them went
to this man, saluted him deferentially and then spoke to him urgently,
pointing at his captives.
The guerrilla commander straightened up from the table, and came out
into the sunlight. He was of medium height, but was imbued with such an
air of authority that he seemed taller. His shoulders were broad and his
body square and chunky, with the beginning of a dignified spread around
the waist. He wore a short curly beard which contained a few strands of
grey, and his features were refined and handsome. His skin tones were
amber and copper. His dark eyes were intelligent, his gaze quick and
restless.
"My men tell me that you speak Arabic," he said to -Nicholas.
"Better than you do, Mek Nimmur,'Nicholas told him.
"So now you are the leader of a bunch of bandits and kidnappers? I
always told you that you would never get to heaven, you old reprobate."
Mek Nimmur stared at him in astonishment, and then began to smile.
"Nicholas! I did not recognize you. You are older. Look at the grey on
your head!'
He opened his arms wide and folded Nicholas into a bear hug.
"Nicholas! Nicholas!" He kissed him once on each cheek. Then he held him
at arm's length and looked at the two women, who were standing amazed.
"He saved my life," he explained to them.
"You make me blush, Mek." Mek kissed him again' "He saved my life
twice."
"Once," Nicholas contradicted him. "The second time was a mistake. I
should have let them shoot you."
Mek laughed delightedly. "How long ago was it, Nicholas?"
"It doesn't bear thinking about."
"Fifteen years ago at least,'.Mek said. "Are you still in the British
army? What is your rank? You must be a general by now!'
"Reserves only," Nicholas shook his head. "I have been back in civvy
street a long time now."
Still hugging Nicholas, Mek Nimmur looked at the women with interest.
"Nicholas taught me most of what I know about soldiering," he told them.
His eyes flicked from Royan to Tessay, and then stayed on the Ethiopian
girl's dark and lovely face.
"I know you," he said. "I saw you in Addis, years ago.
You were a young girl then. Your father was Alto Zemen, a great and good
man. He was murdered by the tyrant Mengistu."
"I know you also, Alto Mek. My father held you in high esteem. There are
many of us who believe that you should be the president of this Ethiopia
of ours, in place of that other one." She dropped him a graceful little
curtsey, hanging her head in a shy but appealing gesture of respect.
"I am flattered by your opinion of me." He took her hand and lifted her
to her full height. Then he turned back to Nicholas, "I am sorry for the
rough welcome, Some of my men are over-enthusiastic. I knew that there
were ferengi asking questions at the monastery. But enough, you are with
friends here. I bid you welcome."
Mek Nimmur led them to his shelter, where one of his men brought a
soot-blackened kettle from the fire and poured viscous black coffee into
mugs for them.
He and Nicholas plunged into reminiscences of the days prior to the
Falklands war when they had fought side by side, Nicholas as a covert
military adviser, and Mek as a young freedom fighter opposing the
tyranny of Mengistu.
"But the war is over now, Mek, Nicholas remonstrated at last. "The
battle is won. Why are you still out in the bush with your men? Why
aren't you getting rich and fat in Addis, like all the others?"
"In the interim government in Addis there are enemies Of mine, men like
Mengistu. When we have got rid of them, then I will come out of the
bush."
He and Nicholas embarked into a spirited discussion of African politics,
so deep and complicated that Royan knew very few of the personalities
whom they were discussing. Nor could she follow the nuances and the
subtlety of religious and tribal prejudices and intolerance that had
persisted for a thousand years. She was, however, impressed by
Nicholas's knowledge and understanding of the situation, and the way in
which a man like Mek Nimmur asked his opinion and listened to his
advice.
In the end Nicholas asked him, "So now you have carried the war beyond
the borders of Ethiopia itself? You are operating in Sudan, as well?"
"The war in the Sudan has been raging for twenty years," Mek confirmed.
"The Christians in the south fighting against the persecution of the