‘I did,’ called back Ivan. ‘He and Mr Makarov are on their way.’
‘Then I would suggest to your men, Senior Lieutenant,’ bellowed Richard in his rough, workaday Russian, certain that every man behind Ivan could hear him loud and clear, ‘that if they wish to continue working for Bashnev/Sevmash and have any hope of a ticket home that they had better get back aboard.’ His voice seemed to echo off the flanks of the massive hovercraft as they crouched side by side on the slipway, making a kind of steel-walled valley in which the two mobs confronting each other seemed trapped like gladiators in the Coliseum.
‘But that’s Pavel Zaytsev!’ called an anonymous Russian voice.
The whole scrum of Russians surged forward, until Ivan bellowed, ‘Vernis! Get back!’ And Caleb Maina’s men cocked their weapons with a crisp precision which reminded Richard all too forcefully that many of them were local and — in spirit at least — on the side of Kebila’s troops. Just as the men backing Kebila were from Zhukov’s crew. And Russian to a man. And, now he thought of it, Caleb Maina, the man commanding the armed guards holding the Russians back was a cousin to Laurent Kebila, whose men they were threatening. And, as Kebila had already explained, that relationship here could be closer than that between brothers or father and son in the West. Christ! This was getting complicated!
‘Tishina!’ bellowed Richard in his foretop voice, rapidly running out of patience. ‘Shut up! If it’s Pavel Zaytsev, what in Hell’s name is he doing dressed as an African god?’ He was beside the fallen man now, kneeling at the edge of a puddle of blood that looked black in the yellow light. He pressed his fingers to a stubbled throat as rough as coarse sandpaper and checked gently but in vain for the throb of a pulse.
‘You know the answer to that,’ whispered Robin in her most withering voice, like a devil at his shoulder. ‘It was a boys’ game. They were teasing each other. Big brave Pavel there wanted to see if he could scare the poor benighted locals. Dress up as their ju-ju leader and do a magic dance. And if they’ve only blown his balls off then he’s lucky!’
‘He’s not lucky,’ spat Richard. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh! Christ! I …’
‘Vernis!’ bellowed Richard, pulling himself to his feet. ‘Shut up!’
He was probably talking to Ivan’s men. But Robin wondered …
Then he repeated, ‘If you’re all still out here instead of back in your quarters aboard Volgograd when Mr Asov and Mr Makarov arrive, then you’re finished. Nee da dyeloni! Totally fucked. Sacked without pay and left to find your own way home. I’ve seen it happen. They did it to a couple of bodyguards called Paznak and Voroshilov. God knows what happened to them. They’re probably out there in the jungle somewhere trying to hitch a lift to Moscow from a passing panther!’
‘Hey,’ called another anonymous Russian voice. ‘I know them! I know about them! Paznak and Voroshilov really are nee da dyeloni. The Angličan is telling the truth.’
‘Of course he is!’ bellowed Ivan. ‘And you do not want to be in the govno like them! Remember it was Zaytsev and his mates who started this.’
‘Zaytsev’s a zalupa!’ called another voice. ‘They’re all masturbators. This whole thing is pizdets. I’m going back to my bunk.’
‘Yeah,’ called another. ‘He asked for it. He got it. He’s a RUS Makaroniki anyway. Yobanyi karas!’
‘Right,’ called a third rough voice. ‘Typical Politsiye mudak!
Suddenly the pressure on Ivan was lessening. It looked to Richard like the men Ivan had pointed out as being army men — the GRU — were giving up on the situation. Though, under the lemony glare, it was hard to tell one bald skull from another.
The pressure on Kebila began to slacken too as his men all began to stream away, round the corner, and in through the gaping front of Stalingrad.
Then suddenly both sets of men were moving slowly and angrily back up the sloping slipways, into the gaping hovercraft and back to their bunks.
So that when Max arrived, slightly the worse for wear, breathing metaphorical fire and brimstone liberally mixed with actual vodka fumes, and with Felix icily at his side, there was nothing to be seen except a circle of men and women with a fallen god lying in a big black puddle of blood at their heart.
‘What’s all the fuss about?’ demanded Max angrily.
‘RUS Sergeant Pavel Zaytsev,’ answered Ivan, nodding down at the bundle of straw and raffia lying on the ground.
‘Why’s he in that get-up?’ demanded Felix, who had less experience of Benin La Bas than the others.
‘He’s dressed as the local god Ngoboi,’ explained Robin tersely. ‘He did it to wind up Colonel Kebila’s men. To see how superstitious they were, how easily frightened. But he screwed up somehow and they shot him. He’s dead.’
‘He was Africa trained,’ said Ivan. ‘One of the experts who was going to instruct the others on local conditions. He should have known better.’
‘He should have known better all round,’ said Kebila with masterly understatement, and a great deal of sheer sangfroid, for he was clearly enraged that this had happened. ‘He should have known better than to put on the costume in the first place. He certainly should have known better than to come out here alone …’
‘Ngoboi always has at least two attendants,’ supplied Richard to Ivan.
‘And he should have known the dance,’ Kebila concluded.
‘Right,’ said Robin pointedly. ‘There’s no use putting on the get-up if you don’t know the right moves.’
Max looked down at the unfortunate soldier. He was also furious and not a little drunk. But he was no fool. ‘How much damage has this done?’ he demanded of the two leaders. ‘Will the men be at each others’ throats now?’
‘My men won’t be too happy that the Russians have committed a sacrilege like this,’ said Kebila. ‘It’s not as bad as defacing the Qur’an is to Moslems. But it’s close enough. All in all, it’ll have strengthened my command internally, though. It’s made Corporal Oshodi a local hero.’ He looked up. It really wasn’t necessary to explain that Oshodi had fired the fatal shot. ‘Even the hard-line Poro men who wouldn’t, unlike him, even dream of shooting Ngoboi think he’s done a good job with a blasphemy like this. At least, that’s how it looks at the moment.’
‘My men will have to do some team-building,’ said Ivan bitterly. ‘Or rather, I’ll have to do it with them. Maybe right back to the start. They’re not happy with Kebila’s men for killing one of their own, no matter how stupidly he was behaving. But that doesn’t mean they’re unified. Quite the reverse, I’m afraid. Everyone’ll have a down on the Politzia — not that they didn’t in the first place. They’ll be down on the RUS for certain — on the assumption that it was Zaytsev’s mates that dreamed this up with him — and probably the Vityaz as well because they and the RUS hang around together. Though I don’t know which way the FSB will jump — they tend to side with the Politzia against the GRU under normal circumstances. And the army men think the internal services — Politsia and FSB — are a bit of a joke. The whole command could come to pieces. It’ll require some very delicate handling.’
‘Well, you have to handle it — delicately or not — and you’ll have to do it on the run,’ snapped Felix. ‘We’ve no intention of hanging about here while you mollycoddle a bunch of prima donnas.’
‘Ballet dancers,’ whispered Kebila with a sneer. And Richard really, truly hoped that no one else heard or understood the colonel.