It had taken him a matter of seconds to exit the shebeen, race up the stairs, find his four fallen comrades and work out what had happened. His fury at the incompetence that had allowed one man to penetrate their defences and steal their most precious possession had swiftly given way to the realization of a golden opportunity.
Killaman gathered up the weapons lying by the bodies, shoved Mabeki’s pistol into the waistband of his trousers, and slung the straps of the AK-47s round his left shoulder. He retrieved the keys of the Hilux truck from the tabletop where they had been thrown when they’d first arrived in Chitongo. Then he went back outside and looked down at the men milling around in the road, some staring into the distance, others arguing about what to do next, the rest standing about aimlessly.
Among the milling rabble was the man who had fired at Carver, another member of the kidnap gang, who went by the name Silent Death. He was looking up at the building, waiting for Killaman to tell him what to do next. The rest were swiftly losing interest, now that the excitement seemed to have passed. Soon they would all return to the shebeen and the moment would be lost.
A series of pillars that supported the roof ran down the balustrade about ten feet apart. Killaman grabbed hold of one of them with his right hand and pulled himself up on to the balustrade so that everyone down below could see him, swinging his left arm up and making the guns hanging from it clearly visible.
‘Get the truck… go!’ he shouted at Silent Death, throwing the keys down to him. Then he turned his attention to the crowd. ‘Comrades!’ he cried. ‘Listen to me now!’
Killaman waited until every face had turned towards him and an expectant hush had fallen.
‘Something very precious that belongs to me has been taken – a white girl. I will offer ten thousand American dollars to any man who helps me recover this girl. Fifty thousand to anyone who kills the white man who stole her from me. I have guns for you to shoot, I have a truck for you to ride in. Now, who will join me?’
There was a clamour of volunteers. A couple of fights broke out as men competed for Killaman’s attention. He picked the four meanest-looking individuals he could find. Then he ordered them into the Hilux, clambered in next to Silent Death and set off in pursuit of the VW van and its passengers.
17
There was a football pitch on the edge of town, out beyond the last houses. On the road leading up to it, just behind one of the goals, stood a large warehouse used for storing food sent to the area by aid agencies. To one side of the pitch, by the halfway line, was a small stand made of scaffolding with a dozen rows of seats to hold a couple of hundred spectators. Directly opposite, on the far side of the ground, a motley collection of concrete buildings, little more than tin-roofed huts, provided changing rooms and an office. The playing area itself comprised an area of flat, beaten-down earth without a blade of grass upon it, surrounded by a few wooden poles topped by rudimentary floodlights. Carver had taken one look at the aerial photographs of the village and picked it immediately as his extraction point.
His plan had been to coordinate his arrival there with that of the helicopter. That way there’d be no hanging around. The chopper would touch down, the girl would be bundled aboard, swiftly followed by Carver, then they’d be off again. Now he had time to kill. And what bothered him was the possibility that time might kill him first.
‘Pull up over there,’ Carver said, as Justus got to the warehouse. He pointed towards a padlocked door, above which a security light gave off enough of a weak, flickering glow to illuminate the van and draw any pursuer’s eye. Just raising his arm made the cracked surfaces of his broken rib grind together, sending another agonizing jab into his chest.
Carver gave Justus the torch. That hurt too. Everything hurt. There were painkillers in Carver’s medical kit, but any dose strong enough to make him forget his ribs would by definition dull his senses and lessen his effectiveness. It was better to hurt and stay alive than be drugged up and die.
‘Take her over to the huts,’ he said. ‘One of them is painted pale blue. I’ll meet you inside it.’
The girl looked from Carver to Justus and back again. Carver had tried to explain to her that they were all working for her uncle Wendell Klerk, but she was still mentally paralysed by the unrelenting traumas she’d been forced to endure.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘You’ll be safe with him.’
‘Have no fear, Miss Zalika,’ said Justus, grinning, as he pulled out from beneath the dashboard a weapon that looked like an oversized black pistol. ‘This is a very powerful shotgun. No one gonna get you now.’
‘Go,’ said Carver. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’
Justus got out of the VW, walked round to the passenger door and took Zalika’s hand, helping her out. She gave one last look towards Carver then let Justus lead her away.
Carver watched them go. He spent about a minute more in the VW van. Then he grabbed his gun and walked across to the warehouse door. He put a single bullet through the padlock and freed the chain that secured it. Then he opened the door. An alarm began to ring. Carver did not seem concerned. Another twenty seconds passed as he stood by the half-open door. Finally he took a step back, looked at the opening, nodded to himself and loped away towards the changing rooms.
Not far away, he could hear the growl of an approaching engine. Carver picked up his pace.
18
Four men had been picked to go with Killaman, but twice as many clung on to the Hilux as it set off after the VW van. Many of those who had been left behind then dashed off to their homes to pick up weapons of their own. After a lifetime of conflict, almost all had some form of military experience, either for government or rebel forces, or even both. Many had kept hold of old weapons. They grabbed whatever they could find then started running after the departing vehicles. They didn’t care that the cars had left them far behind. They could run for hours if the need arose. And the tens of thousands of dollars at stake provided all the incentive they required.
Most of the men carried regular knives and guns. One, though, had a long thin tube on his shoulder. At the rear end it flared like the mouth of a trumpet. At the front the tube appeared to swell, before tapering to a point. This was the unmistakable silhouette of an RPG-7 grenade-launcher, a weapon beloved by terrorists, guerrillas and freedom fighters the world over for its ability to take out small buildings, armoured vehicles and even helicopters. It was, by some distance, the most precious single item in the entire village.
As Killaman’s forces converged on Carver, Justus and the girl, a Bell JetRanger was skimming over the hills to the west of the Zambezi.
‘For fuck’s sake, man, can’t you make this heap fly any faster?’ Morrison was shouting at the pilot.
‘Forget it, Flattie, I’m maxing it already,’ he replied. ‘And if you keep yelling in my ear, putting me off my stroke, I will make a mistake and hit a tree or a fucking power line. And then we will all be dead. But I tell you what, boet, it will be worth it just to get a little peace. Ek se, you are one loud item.’
19
Silent Death was driving the Hilux that was leading the pursuit of Carver, Justus and the girl. He had followed the road the VW had taken, but had been too far behind to catch sight of his prey. Then he heard the shrill clamour of the warehouse alarm. He looked across at Killaman and asked, ‘Is that them?’