Eddie knew he couldn’t turn quickly enough to outgun the treacherous porter. But nor was he willing to give up his weapon so easily. He held position, waiting to see if any of the others would give him the moment’s distraction he needed to take a shot…
Chumbo made a move — but it was the wrong one. He charged at Wemba, bringing up his gun—
Wemba fired first.
A wet rosette burst open above Chumbo’s heart. He staggered, managing one final step before collapsing into the dirt.
Behind him, Fortune’s own gleaming gun rose—
Another shot erupted from the revolver. The round tore through Fortune’s sleeve, the tall man lurching backwards as he clutched at the wound. ‘I–I said, drop them!’ shouted Wemba. His aim flicked between Eddie and Paris, challenging them to make a move.
The Englishman reluctantly let his Browning fall. Paris regarded the injured Fortune with dismay, then did the same. ‘Kick them away!’ Wemba ordered.
‘Cretien,’ said Fortune, jaw tight with pain. ‘What is this? I trusted you!’
‘I know, I–I am sorry,’ Wemba replied. ‘But I need money, and they… they paid much more than you.’ He called out to the militia. ‘C’est moi, c’est Cretien! Je les ai capturés! Ne tirez pas!’
‘You son of a bitch!’ Nina growled.
Lydia stared in horror at Chumbo’s still-twitching body. ‘Don’t… don’t make things worse,’ she whimpered.
Eddie glanced into the ruins. The Insekt Posse cautiously emerged from cover at a command from their leader, AKs raised. ‘I think it’s about to get worse, whatever we do.’
The militia surrounded their prisoners, forcing them at gunpoint to kneel with their hands behind their heads. Fortune gasped as he lifted his palm from his injury. Eddie quickly assessed the wound, seeing that his friend had lived up to his name: while his clothing was ruined, he had suffered only a flesh wound, the bullet’s heat even cauterising it.
Wemba spoke nervously to the new arrivals. None replied, regarding him with deep suspicion. But nor did they threaten him directly, apparently awaiting further orders.
They soon came. The deep voice that had organised the rabble drew closer, in conversation with another man. The encircling militia parted to let their commander through. Eddie risked turning his head, wanting to see his opponents.
He got a double shock when he did.
One was John Brice, the dishevelled Englishman giving him a mocking smile as he passed. He went to Wemba and held out a hand, the porter reaching into a pocket — the one into which he had thrust something when Eddie startled him the day before — and handing over a small metal tube.
The other was someone Eddie thought was dead.
‘Mukobo…’ he said, shocked. The reaction from the expedition’s other Congolese members was equally horrified.
Philippe Mukobo regarded each of them in turn with a threatening stare. The documentary team responded with uncertain fear, no one holding his gaze for more than a moment. Kimba didn’t even dare look him in the eye. Paris and Fortune both held out for just long enough to establish that they were the defenders of the others before following suit.
Mukobo’s hostility, however, was concentrated on one man. ‘Chase,’ he growled to Eddie. One hand went to his holstered gold-plated automatic. ‘I remember you. You captured me… twice. But now… I have captured you.’
He drew the gun — and placed its muzzle against Eddie’s forehead.
15
Eddie tensed, about to lunge at Mukobo, but knew he would not survive—
‘Philippe. Don’t.’ The command from Brice froze the warlord’s finger on the trigger.
Fury rose in Mukobo’s eyes. ‘Are you telling me what to do, Brice? This is my land. I rule here!’
‘And I’m here to make sure of it. But I only meant for you not to kill him yet.’ He indicated Nina. ‘They’re married — and she’s the archaeologist who found this place. As long as we’ve got Chase, she’ll tell us everything we need to know.’
‘She will tell me anyway,’ growled Mukobo. But after a nerve-racking moment he lowered the gun and faced Nina. ‘You are in charge?’
Nina was about to reply, but Fisher beat her to it. ‘No, I–I am,’ he said, forced bravado cracking at the edges. ‘I’m the director — I tell the others how to make the film?’ He glanced at the camera. ‘You know, the movie?’
‘I know what a director is,’ Mukobo replied coldly. ‘We do have movies, even here in the Congo. So. You are in charge here?’
‘I — no, you are in charge,’ said Fisher, spotting the trap just in time. ‘You are. Very definitely.’
‘Yes. I am,’ he said with cruel amusement. Holstering the gun, he addressed his captives. ‘I am known as Le Fauchet, but my real name is Philippe Mukobo. It is a name some of you already know well, but soon, everyone in the world will know me. When I say this is my land, it is not an idle boast. This corrupt nation will soon be divided — and this half will be mine.’
‘What about Kabanda?’ said Paris. ‘Won’t he be in charge?’
Mukobo’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the secessionist leader. ‘Without me to unite the militias, he would be nothing! He does not know how to fight.’ A sly smile. ‘But we will give him a demonstration once we have our country.’
‘Great, so you’re going to follow your civil war with a civil war,’ said Eddie sarcastically. ‘What happens then, you keep civil warring until there’s only you left?’
The warlord did not reply, instead nodding to a muscular giant with a long machete strapped across his back. ‘Luaba.’ The man punched the Yorkshireman hard in the stomach. Eddie collapsed, gasping.
‘Eddie!’ Nina cried. She tried to help him, but another man shoved her back.
‘He is already dead,’ said Mukobo ominously, ‘his heart has just not yet stopped beating. But you may still have a chance to stay alive.’ He surveyed the ruins. ‘The lost City of the Damned. It is real.’
‘You’ve heard of it?’
‘In stories, as a boy. The city in the jungle, where a great treasure was hidden. I never believed they were true, but now…’ He stared at the Palace Without Entrance. ‘Tell me what you know. All of it.’
She gave Eddie a worried look before speaking. ‘This place is called Zhakana — it was the centre of a civilisation that existed thousands of years ago.’
‘How did it end?’ Brice’s question was posed with genuine interest.
‘I don’t know. According to legend, the people died out because of a curse — something here that they revered ended up killing them.’
‘If this place was lost,’ said Mukobo, ‘how did you find it?’
‘The records of King Solomon of Israel — we discovered them recently. They described how the empire of Sheba knew of Zhakana. When Queen Makeda married Solomon, she brought him here to see it for himself.’
‘Solomon built the palace,’ Ziff added.
‘I have heard of King Solomon, of course,’ Mukobo said, though the boast seemed directed more at his men to show his intellectual superiority than at the archaeologists. ‘What is inside?’
‘We don’t know,’ Nina replied.
His voice became threatening. ‘But my scouts saw you come out.’
‘We only got as far as the first room — one of us was hurt.’ She glanced at Rivero. The kneeling cameraman was barely able to hold himself upright, ashen-faced and sweating. ‘We needed to call for a medical evacuation.’
‘They must have a satellite phone,’ said Brice, suddenly concerned. ‘Did you make the call?’
‘Not yet.’