He lay forward and pushed the barrel of the rifle out of the embrasure in the wall, careful to avoid any mud or debris getting near the muzzle. He eased the butt into his right shoulder, flipped up the rear sight and then looked through it, shutting his left eye as he always did when aiming, seeing the cross-hairs of the front sight through the eyepiece aperture. He checked the elevation on the rear sight, six hundred and fifty metres, the nearest the setting would allow to the estimate he had made from the map measurements provided by Kitchener and the distance that Gordon himself had calculated, with a minute upwards adjustment that Mayne had made when he test-fired the rifle over a measured distance near the Nile south of Korti. He looked up from the sights, wetted the forefinger of his left hand and held it in the air, sensing nothing; the wind had gone. He eased the butt from his shoulder and propped it on his bag, leaving the rifle balanced on the embrasure. He was ready.
He lay on his back, looking around. The air seemed preternaturally still, unnervingly so. Somewhere in the distance he heard the cry of a tropical bird, a harsh, grating sound, perhaps what counted in this place as the dawn chorus; but the sky was still dark. He realised that the brickworks to the left had gone quiet, the place where the wounded cow had blindly circled round and round, groaning and wheezing. He saw that Charrière was cleaning his hunting knife, wiping congealed blood off the blade and leaving streaks of darkness on his blanket. Mayne gestured towards the brickworks. ‘You’ve been busy.’
Charrière said nothing, but finished cleaning his knife and laid it down on the edge of the blanket, its blade gleaming dully. It was a knife that Mayne himself had used years before to butcher deer, and one that Charrière’s ancestors had blooded through generations of hunting and war; its worn bone handle and the point of the blade, shaped through countless resharpenings and honings, seemed so perfectly fitted to Charrière that it had become an extension of himself, just as Mayne felt with his rifle. Charrière stared intently for a few moments at the rear of the fort, as if scanning for something, then turned to Mayne, his eyes unfathomable in the gloom. ‘The cow dropped dead. Something big came up and dragged it down into the river.’
‘A crocodile?’
‘I only saw marks on the ground. I was not here.’
Mayne looked at the knife, and thought again. ‘Our pursuers?’
‘I found three of them asleep in the desert.’
Mayne stared at him. ‘Identity?’
‘They were Sudanese, but each with different tattoos, from different tribes. They had English tobacco, and Martini-Henry rifles. I did not linger.’
Mayne thought hard, wondering who they might be. ‘Did you travel far?’
‘I took your rifle case on my back. I crossed the river at the point north of Khartoum where the White Nile joins the Blue Nile. I went far down the river, for several miles. I saw the steamers.’
‘You saw them?’ Mayne exclaimed, alarmed. ‘You’re sure they’re the ones? They shouldn’t be that close to us yet.’
‘I saw the turrets with gun emplacements, and the armour plating the sailors have built around the edges. They were anchored, but getting up steam. The soldiers had been ashore foraging for wood, chopping up water-lifting devices for fuel. The Nile is falling at a rate of three feet a day. They must have seen the mudflats, and decided to press on.’
‘That means they could be here very soon.’
‘They could be here shortly after dawn.’
Mayne thought hard, his mind racing. It was essential that he complete his mission before the steamers hove into view. He must be gone before any of the British soldiers or sailors saw him. He turned again to Charrière. ‘Did you see anything else?’
‘I walked through the Mahdi’s camp. I passed thousands of them, asleep on the desert floor. They have their spears beside them, polished and sharpened. Less than an hour from now this place will light up, in more ways than one. The artillery are positioned to blast at the main gates of the city. The main force will come over the river from the west, and others will attack the landward defences to the east. Khartoum will be overrun within minutes. The Ansar will be at the gates of the palace at dawn.’
Mayne thought for a moment. ‘Our pursuers. You said you found three in the desert. There were four when we saw them behind us at Abu Klea.’
‘He’s here.’
‘What do you mean, here?’
‘Don’t look.’ Charrière lowered his voice. ‘He followed us here yesterday evening. He’s an Ababda tribesman; he was their tracker and he’s good. He returned to their camp in the night and saw his companions with their throats cut, and now he’s come back here. He will make his move soon.’
‘Where is he?’ Mayne whispered.
‘I’ve been watching him while you’ve been loading your rifle. He’s been making his way around the wall to the entrance where you came in. When I laid those mimosa branches in the gaps after you left last night, I made it so that I can see out through them, but he will not be able to see in without looking over them. Don’t move. He’s there now.’
In a single lightning movement Charrière tossed off his blanket, picked up his knife and threw it past Mayne, the blade swishing through the air so fast he could barely see it. There was a shriek from behind the wall, and Charrière bounded forward, followed by Mayne. Charrière pushed through the branches and reached the man, pulling the knife out of his chest and preparing to lunge again. Mayne grabbed his arm and stopped him. ‘Let me question him first.’
The man had a grey robe but no headdress, and a wickedly curved knife lay by his side. He had the three slashed marks on his cheeks of the Ababda tribe. He was a warrior, but his eyes were full of fear, and the red stain from his chest was spreading over his robe, the blood pooling on the ground below. Mayne knelt down close to his head. ‘Who sent you?’ he snarled.
The man gargled, spitting out blood and foaming at the mouth, his eyes wide, his skin turning grey. He gave a death rattle, and his head slumped backwards. He had said something, two words, but Mayne had only heard the second clearly: Pasha, the Ottoman word for general. It could be any number of Arab leaders who sported that title; the Ottomans and their minions were masters of intrigue, and any of them could have spies and secret missions in the desert. But how could these men have known to follow Mayne and Charrière from Korti? Who else could have wanted them dead before they reached Gordon?
And then he remembered. The Sudanese used Pasha for the British too; he had even done it himself in Khartoum, for Gordon. It was how the doomed General Hicks had been known to his Egyptian troops. And there was someone else, someone who had been called that by his fanatical bodyguard.
His heart pounded.
Kitchener Pasha.
He looked up at Charrière. ‘It was Kitchener. I’m sure of it. He was suspicious of me, and must have guessed my role. He idolised Gordon, and couldn’t bear to think of what I might be planning to do.’ He rocked back for a moment, feeling overwhelming relief. For days now he had been nagged by uncertainty, wondering whether Colonel Wilson might have had him followed, or even Wolseley. But Kitchener would have acted alone; in the desert he followed no orders. Mayne remembered Burnaby’s dying warning: don’t trust anyone. Burnaby had been watching and listening during the Korti conference, and would have sensed the depth of Kitchener’s loyalty to Gordon. Mayne shut his eyes for a moment. He felt in control again, and a sudden need to be behind the sights of his rifle, focusing on what he did best.