But that eminently sensible course of action was another problem for her. Not because of what Captain Christophe might say or do — but because of what he had said and done already. Specifically, what he had said about the men who might be coming after them. Who might be aboard Nellie now, asking about their absent friends and missing cargo. And chopping off hands while they did so.
‘Please, Colonel,’ she said. ‘Check on the captain later. Check on Nellie first.’
Kebila looked at her thoughtfully for a moment longer, then he said, ‘Very well. I will order a squad to accompany us,’ sounding to the squirming Anastasia like a parent who knows his child is lying but is willing to give them enough rope to hang themselves. Been there, done that, she thought.
But once again Anastasia found herself with a problem. If Esan saw a squad of soldiers coming down the jetty he would either turn tail or open fire. ‘Why do we need a squad?’ she said, feeling her eyes sliding guiltily away from his once again and fighting to hold his gaze like an honest person would. ‘Surely we can check on the existence of an ancient riverboat and a couple of youngsters without back-up.’
‘Hmmm…’ he said. ‘Very well.’ More rope. He picked up a phone handset and spoke into it without dialling. ‘Car and driver,’ he ordered. ‘Sergeant Major Tchaba, I think.’ He hung up, looked at her for a moment longer then said, ‘Right. Let’s go.’ He picked up a cellphone, checked that it was on and slipped it into his uniform jacket pocket. Then he rose and led her across to the door of his office. Here he paused for a moment and lifted a Sam Browne off a coat stand. As he ushered her out and followed her down towards the front of the building, he slipped the wide belt and shoulder strap securely into place, and patted the leather holster that now sat snugly on his right hip.
The car was waiting for them beyond the security gates at the main entrance, its engine running. A huge soldier sat in the driver’s seat and, as she followed Kebila into the back, Anastasia noticed that he had several powerful-looking weapons on the passenger’s seat at his side. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Sergeant Major Tchaba before,’ said Kebila easily. ‘Though given the range of your adventures in my country I wouldn’t be surprised if you had. He is the diplomatic solution to both our requirements, I think. A one-man army.’
Anastasia’s irritation at having been outmanoeuvred vanished the instant Sergeant Major Tchaba pulled up behind the ruined office complex that led down to the jetty and the marina beyond. For a battered flat bed truck had appeared from nowhere and was sitting parked with arrogant disregard for the law half on and half off the pavement. Something about it made Anastasia fear the worst. ‘I’d bring as many of those as you can carry,’ she said to Tchaba, nodding to the guns. ‘Just in case…’
Tchaba looked back at Kebila and the colonel nodded.
Suddenly full of the most terrifying premonitions, Anastasia hurried the two soldiers down the hill through the apparent hurricane damage, therefore, too focussed on Nellie to register properly the fact that Tchaba was limping. She did notice, however, that he was checking and preparing his considerable arsenal of weapons as he moved. But as she reached the landward end of the little jetty where the venerable riverboat was moored, she slowed, frowning. Kebila closed up behind her, and Tchaba stepped closer behind the pair of them, his hands at last still as the quiet clicking and cocking and sliding of metal on metal was done.
It was then that she realized two things. Firstly and most worryingly, there was the sound of moaning coming from Nellie. It wasn’t all that loud, but it was enough to carry over the lapping of the waves and the stirring of the hulls and the tapping of the rigging nearby. Secondly and almost comically, she realized that Tchaba had a false foot. It hit the ground with a decided thump each time he took a limping step. Under almost every circumstance this would not have mattered. But Anastasia wanted more than anything to approach Nellie unsuspected, along a wooden jetty, its hollowness likely to amplify any sound made on the boards that made up its surface.
‘The sergeant has to wait here!’ she breathed. ‘We have to get aboard as quietly as possible. Can’t you hear?’
Kebila nodded once. Prepared to move forward.
‘I need a gun,’ she whispered.
Kebila paused. She could feel the weight of his speculative gaze on her. The moaning from Nellie intensified. Someone started counting in Matadi. Neither sound was pleasant.
‘Ten… Nine…’
He nodded again. Tchaba passed her a boxy pistol. She recognized it as a Browning BDM. The same as the one with which General Moses Nlong had shot Celine. How apt.
‘Cocked,’ whispered the sergeant. ‘One in the chamber. Fourteen in the clip. Double action mode — just keep pulling the trigger.’
‘… Eight…’
She nodded and was off. Imagining herself to be as light as Tania the Fairy Queen from long-past childhood stories, she ran on tiptoe along the thankfully silent planks, holding the Browning two-handed out in front of her, level with her groin, pointing downwards, at the end of her straight arms, completely unconscious of Sergeant Tchaba’s approving, respectful nod.
‘… Seven…’
She was aware of Kebila behind her, but only on an almost psychic level — he was making no more noise than she was. So she was able to hear the rough male Matadi voice saying, ‘… Six…’
At the seaward end of the jetty she paused again.
‘… Five…’
The moon gave enough light for her to see that Nellie’s deck was stirring as the waves came in at the top of the tide. Her weight would not make much difference as she stepped aboard. Nor would Kebila’s if they timed it right. And the deck boards were solid and unlikely to creak. Even so, she kicked off her flip-flops just in case. She looked across at Kebila and he nodded, understanding. They waited for a down-swoop…
‘… Four…’
… and stepped aboard.
Steadying himself against the up-swoop of the next wave in, Kebila went for the bridge house and the companionway that would take him below, as Anastasia paused for a heartbeat and looked around the familiar deck.
‘… Three…’
Anastasia was in motion, flitting like a moth towards the column of brightness that soared like a faint square searchlight up from the skylight that gave brightness to the cabin below. Both of them moved like ghosts and the good old planks of the deck did not let them down.
‘… Two…’
Anastasia stood, spraddle-legged, looking down into the cabin through the glass skylight. She could see Ado, her blouse gone, sitting at the table with her hands stretched out before her, tied by cord which pulled them tight. Beside her, foreshortened by the fact that Anastasia was looking straight down from above his head, stood the man who was counting. And he was holding a matchet above Ado’s wrists. Anastasia risked a quick glance across at Kebila who was crouching ready to go down the companionway at double speed. She looked back. The man with the matchet had a bald spot right at the top of his skull. She aimed at that.
‘… One…’ said the man beside Ado, and raised the matchet, two-handed.
Ado screamed.
Anastasia pulled the trigger. The Browning’s bullet exploded in through the skylight and hit the man on the top of the head with all the force of a baseball bat. It went straight through his skull and body, slamming into the deck between his feet. He sat down as though a huge weight had suddenly landed on his shoulders, dropping the matchet as he did so. He flopped backwards and lay still. It all happened so fast that glass was still falling on his prone body.