Chip indicated that Stafford should withdraw so he wriggled backwards and then turned, still lying flat. Then he looked back to see Chip running towards him at a crouch. Chip waved his arm wildly as he passed and then flung himself headlong into a thick patch of long grass and vanished from sight. Stafford got the message and picked himself up and ran for the nearest tree.
Just as he got there he heard voices. The tree trunk was not as thick as his body and he set himself edge on to it, moving slowly around so as to keep it between him and the approaching men. They came closer and he could distinguish a baritone and a lighter voice; and could even catch words but did not understand the language. As they went by he risked a glance. Hendrix was hobbling by the river bank, walking painfully because of his bare feet. He was clad only in his underpants and behind him came two Tanzanians, one of them prodding him in the back with a rifle. They disappeared from view.
Chip's head came out of the grass. He waved his arm in a wide circle and then ran to the river bank and began to follow. Stafford turned to find Nair and saw him emerge from hiding. He waved him to follow Chip and then took off, making a wide circle. Chip was still at the point, Stafford was now flanker and Nair was rearguard. Stafford stayed about fifty or sixty yards from the river and kept parallel with it, occasionally going in as closely as he dared to keep track of Hendrix and his captors.
Once he got close enough to hear Hendrix wail, 'Where are you taking me? What have I done?' There was a thump and a muffled grunt and a short silence before he said desolately, 'Christ! Oh, my Christ!' Stafford guessed he had been hit in the kidneys by a rifle butt but did not risk going close enough to see.
They went on this manner for quite a distance, perhaps half a mile, and then Stafford lost them. He backtracked a hundred yards and found that they had stopped. Hendrix was standing quite close to the edge of the river facing the Tanzanians, one quite young, the other an older man. The young one had Hendrix at rifle point keeping him covered; the other had his rifle slung and was smoking. He took the cigarette stub from his mouth, examined it critically, then casually dropped it and put his foot on it before he unslung his rifle. He lifted it to his shoulder and aimed at Hendrix, his finger on the trigger.
Hastily Stafford brought up his own rifle but it was then that Chip cut loose with the Uzi. The burst of fire caught the man in the back and he was flung forward. The young Tanzanian whirled around and Stafford shot him in the head. He grew a third eye in the middle of his forehead and staggered back and fell into the river with a splash. After that sudden outburst of noise there was a silence broken only by insect noises and the whimpering of Hendrix who was on his knees staring unbelievingly at the sprawling body before him.
Chip came into sight, gun first and cautiously, and then Nair. Stafford went to join them. He said, 'The bastard was going to shoot Hendrix,' and heard the incredulity in his own voice. He snapped his fingers. 'Just like that.'
Chip stirred the body with his foot, then bent down to check the pulse at the side of the neck. He straightened up. 'They've gone crazy,' he said blankly. 'They've never tried anything like this before.' He turned to Nair. 'Get back there – about a hundred yards – and keep watch.'
Stafford went over to Hendrix. Tears streaked his face and he was making gagging noises at the back of his throat. Stafford tried to help him to his feet but he went limp and lay down in a foetal position. 'For God's sake, man,' said Stafford. 'Get up. Do you want to be killed?
'He's been nearly frightened to death,' said Chip.
'He'll be the death of us if he doesn't move,' Stafford said grimly. 'They'll have heard those shots.'
'They were expecting to hear shots,' said Chip. 'Let's hope they can't tell the difference between an Uzi and a Kalashnikov. But they're pretty far away.' He bent down and began going through the pockets of the dead man.
Stafford walked to the river bank which here was about six feet high. The river moved sluggishly and the body of the man he had shot had not drifted far. He was the first man Stafford had ever killed as far as he knew and he felt a little sick. His soldiering had been mostly in peacetime and even in those faraway days in Korea it was surprising how rarely you saw the enemy you were shooting at. And later they did not go too much for bodies in Military Intelligence.
Chip said, 'No identification; just this.' He held up a wad of currency. 'Kenya twenty-shilling notes.' He put them into his pocket. 'Help me get his clothes off.'
'Why strip him?'
Chip nodded towards Hendrix. 'He's not going to move far or fast without clothes and boots. And we don't have much time; not more than a few minutes. These men will be expected back and when they don't show someone will come looking.'
While Stafford was unlacing the Tanzanian's boots Chip stripped him of his bloody and bullet-ripped jacket and, together, they took off his trousers. Undressing a dead man is peculiarly difficult. He does not co-operate. Then they rolled the body to the edge of the bank and dropped it over the side. It fell with a splash into the muddy water. The other body had gone.
'No one will find them now,' said Chip. 'This looks like a likely pool for crocodiles. The crocs will take them and wedge them under water until they ripen enough to eat.' It was a gruesome thought.
They dressed Hendrix and he did not co-operate, either. He was almost in a state of catatonia. Stafford noted that Hendrix had no scar on either shoulder, a scar which ought to have been there. He said nothing, and looked up when Chip said, 'One of your problems is solved; you've separated Hendrix from Gunnarsson. How long do you want to keep it that way?'
That hadn't occurred to Stafford. He said, 'We'll discuss it later. Let's get the hell out of here.'
They hoisted Hendrix to his feet and Stafford slapped his face hard twice with an open palm. Hendrix shook his head and put up his hand to rub his cheek. 'What did you do that for?' he asked, but the imbecilic vacuous look in his eyes was fading.
'To pound some sense into you,' Stafford said. 'If you don't want to die you've got to move.'
A slow comprehension came to him. 'Christ, yes!' he said.
Chip was brushing the ground with a leafy branch, scattering dust over the few bloodstains and eliminating all signs of their presence. He walked over to where he had fired the submachine-gun and picked up all the cartridge cases he could find, then he tossed them and the two Kalashnikovs into the river. 'Let's get Nair,' he said, so Stafford picked up his rifle and they went from that place.
They struck away from the river and headed north-east for the border, going up the narrow gully they had come down until they got to the comparative safety of the other side of the ridge where they rested a while and had a brief council of war. At a gesture from Chip Nair stood guard on Hendrix and he and Stafford withdrew from earshot. 'What now?' said Chip.
Up to that moment Stafford had had no opportunity for constructive thinking; all his efforts had been bent on staying alive and out of trouble and he had not considered the implications of what he had seen. Those people stripped to trek back to Keekorok troubled him. If they travelled when the sun was up they would get terribly sun-burned, and Chip had indicated that travel at night could be dangerous. He said, 'How far is it to Keekorok from here?'
'About eleven or twelve miles – in a straight line. But no one travels in a straight line in the bush. Say fifteen miles.'
That was a long way; a day's march. Stafford was not worried about Gunnarsson or Kosters. Gunnarsson was tough enough and the young Dutchman looked fit. Michele '