‘Thank you,’ Jaeger replied. ‘I won’t, either. You’ve all saved me in more ways than I can explain.’
The chief glanced at a figure standing at his side – a young, finely muscled man. ‘My son is one of the best seamen in all Bioko… You are sure you will not let the men ferry you across? You know they would gladly do so.’
Jaeger shook his head. ‘When President Chambara finds out I’m gone, he’ll take revenge any way he can. Any excuse. We say our goodbyes here. It’s the only way.’
The chief rose to his feet. ‘It has been three fine years, William. Insh’Allah you will make it across the Gulf and from there to your home. And one day, when the curse of Chambara finally is lifted, insh’Allah you will come back and visit.’
‘Insh’Allah,’ Jaeger echoed. He and the chief shook hands. ‘I’d like that.’
Jaeger glanced momentarily at a line of faces that ringed the hut. Kids. Dusty, scuffed up, semi-naked – but happy. Maybe that was what the children here had taught him – the meaning of happiness.
His eyes returned to the chief. ‘Tell them why for me, but only when we’re good and gone.’
The chief smiled. ‘I will. Now go. You have done here many good things. Go with that knowledge, and with lightness in your heart.’
Jaeger and Raff made their way towards the beach, threading through the cover of the thickest groves of palm trees. The fewer people who saw them make their getaway, the fewer who were likely to suffer any reprisals.
It was Raff who broke the silence. He could tell how much it pained his friend to abandon his young charges.
‘Insh’Allah?’ he queried. ‘The villagers round here – they’re Muslim?’
‘They are. And you know what – these people, they’re some of the best-hearted I ever met.’
Raff eyed him. ‘Three years alone on Bioko Island, and bugger me if the mighty Jaeger-bomb has gone soft.’
Jaeger flashed his friend a wry smile. Maybe Raff was right. Maybe he had.
They were approaching the pristine white sands of the beach when a figure ran up beside them, panting breathlessly. Barefooted, bare-chested, and dressed only in a pair of raggedy shorts, he looked to be no more than eight years old. The expression on his face was one of panic approaching terror.
‘Sir, sir!’ He grabbed Jaeger’s hand. ‘They are coming. President Chambara’s men. My father – someone radioed through a warning. They are coming! To find you! To take you back!’
Jaeger crouched down until he was at the boy’s eye level. ‘Little Mo, listen: no one’s taking me back.’ He slipped off the fake Oakleys and pressed them into the kid’s hand. He ruffled the boy’s dusty, child-wiry hair. ‘Let’s see them on, then,’ he prompted.
Little Mo slid the sunglasses over his eyes. They were so large that he had to hold them in place.
Jaeger grinned. ‘Dude! You look awesome! But keep them hidden – at least until Chambara’s men are gone.’ A pause. ‘Now, run. Get back to your father. Stay inside. And Mo, tell him from me – thanks for the warning.’
The kid gave Jaeger one last hug, full of reluctance at their parting, before he scuttled off, tears pricking his eyes.
Jaeger and Raff melted into the cover of the nearby bush. They crouched low, whisper-distance close, Jaeger grabbing Raff’s wrist so as to do a quick time check.
‘Around two hours to last light,’ he murmured. ‘Two options… One, we make a break for it right now, in broad daylight. Two, we hide up and sneak away come nightfall. From what I know of Chambara, he’ll get his fast patrol boats out scouring the ocean, in addition to whatever force he’s sending direct to the village. It’s no more than forty minutes by boat from Malabo: we’ll barely have hit the water before they’re on top of us. Which means… no choice: we wait for nightfall.’
Raff nodded. ‘Mate, you’ve been here three years. You got the local knowledge. But we need a hiding place where no one will ever think to look for us.’
His eyes scanned their surroundings, coming to rest upon the dark and brooding vegetation lying at the far end of the beach. ‘Mangrove swamp. Snakes, crocs, mosquitoes, scorpions, leeches and waist-deep shitty mud. Last place anyone sane would ever want to hide.’
Raff delved deep in his pocket, pulling out a distinctive-looking knife. He handed it to Jaeger. ‘Keep it handy, just in case.’
Jaeger slipped it open and felt across the five-inch semi-serrated blade, testing it for keenness. ‘This another fake?’
Raff scowled. ‘With weaponry, I don’t cut corners.’
‘So, Chambara’s men are on their way,’ Jaeger mused, ‘no doubt to drag us back to Black Beach. And we’ve got one blade between us…’
Raff pulled out a second, identical knife. ‘Trust me, even getting these through Bioko airport was a miracle.’
Jaeger gave a bleak smile. ‘Okay, one blade each: we’re unstoppable.’
The two men flitted through the palm grove towards the distant swampland.
From the outside, the maze of wild, tangled roots and branches looked impenetrable. Undeterred, Raff dropped to a belly-crawl and squirmed his way ahead, slipping through impossible gaps, unseen creatures slithering out of his way. He didn’t stop until he was a good sixty feet inside, Jaeger crawling closely behind him.
The last thing Jaeger had done on the beach was grab some old palm fronds and scuttle backwards across the sand, wiping their footprints away. By the time he’d wriggled his way deep inside the mangroves, every last sign of their passing had been swept clean.
The two men proceeded to immerse themselves in the evil-smelling black mud that formed the base of the swamp. By the time they were done, just their heads remained above the surface, and even those were coated in a thick film of muck and filth. The only thing that picked them out from their surroundings was the whites of their eyes.
Jaeger could feel the dark surface of the swamp bubbling and seething with life all around him. ‘Almost makes me homesick for Black Beach,’ he muttered.
Raff grunted an acknowledgement, the flash of his teeth the only thing that revealed his position.
Jaeger’s eyes roved around the latticework of wood that formed a tight-woven cathedral above their heads. Even the largest mangrove was no thicker than a man’s wrist, rising to little more than twenty feet in height. But where the roots thrust out of the mud and were washed daily by the tide, they grew arrow straight for a good five feet or more.
Raff reached for one and sawed through it at ground level, using the serrated edge of his knife to do so. He made a further cut at around four feet, handing the length of wood to Jaeger.
Jaeger flashed him a questioning look.
‘Krav Maga,’ Raff growled. ‘Stick-fighting skills with Corporal Carter. Ring any bells?’
Jaeger smiled. How could he forget?
He took his blade and began to hone one end of the hard, tough wood, tapering it into an arrow-like point.
Slowly, a short, sharp stabbing spear took shape.
Corporal Carter had been the doyen of weaponry, not to mention hand-to-hand combat. Both he and Raff had trained Jaeger’s unit in Krav Maga, a hybrid martial art first developed in Israel. A blend of kung fu and raw street fighting, it taught you how to survive in real-life situations.
Unlike most martial arts, Krav Maga was all about bringing a battle to an end as quickly as possible, by doing maximum damage to your enemy. Systemic damage was what Carter had always called it: damage designed to be terminal. There were no rules, and all moves were aimed at hitting the most vulnerable parts of the body – the eyes, nose, neck, groin and knee. And hard.