Joss nodded. But somehow he looked strange. His eyes were half closed, as if he’d just taken something or had a big drink. Suddenly I realised that in the heat of the moment I’d given him a stream of orders. Had I offended him?
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you what to do. I was just saying what I thought ought to be done.’
‘Fine, fine,’ he said, but he sounded vague.
‘Another thing. See that single tree on the rock up there? There’s two bodies just this side, of it. Let’s get them brought in. First, though, I need some men in here with me and Phil, to help clear the secure area. Can you spare me five?’
I had a feeling I’d blown our relationship, and I wasn’t sure whether he was going to detail anybody to help.
The next few minutes were tense. Inside, the dust was settling, but the heat was horrendous, like in an oven. I took off my Bergen and began sorting some det cord. The walls of the secure area looked pretty solid: there were concrete blocks on the outside, and I expected there’d be a lining of steel on the inside. The door was as solid as the wall, with a heavy-duty lock — a serious, precision-made combination job, with three dials. The bullets fired at it had bounced off, leaving practically no marks. Phil took one look at it, and said, ‘We’ll not pick that bugger.’ So I made up a charge with a couple of ounces of PE, and I was taping it in position when five guys shambled in.
‘Thank God,’ I muttered to Phil. ‘He’s still on side.’
I turned to the Kamangans, and said, ‘Okay, I’m going to blow the door. I expect some of the mine staff to be inside. Once the door’s open, I want you to go in and round up anyone who’s in there. All right? Take prisoners. No shooting unless you’re fired at first. Understood?’
The senior man, a corporal, nodded.
‘We’re going to need these people to get the machinery going again,’ I said. ‘That’s why it’s important — no killing.’
With everyone round the corner out of the way, I cracked off the charge. Inside the tin walls, the noise and shock-wave were stupendous. The door swung ajar. Beyond it, black darkness. We needed torches. For a few seconds I stood with my back flattened against the outer wall, listening. Wild yells were still coming from the direction of the bungalow, but inside the building there was silence, except for the noise of water splashing. Then came a sudden rumble, a shuddering noise and a hum as, somewhere in the depths, a small engine started up. An emergency generator. Lights came on, dim and flickering.
Immediately inside the main door I could see a small, box-like cubicle partitioned off, with a window in the side — the place where workers were checked in and out. Peering cautiously in, I found the rest of the first room was empty — a kind of air-lock. I beckoned the others after me and slipped through the door.
Going into that enclosed space reminded me of a week I’d once spent on an aircraft carrier, when a simulated battle was being fought and the whole ship was sealed against nuclear, biological or chemical attack. Now I got the same feeling of instant claustrophobia, intensified by the fact that the air-conditioning system had gone down and the room was stiflingly hot.
With the five Kamangans lined up covering me, I tried the door in the far wall. Locked. But this was a flimsier affair altogether. Det cord round the lock and handle would sort it. Phil moved the Kamangans out of the way along one wall while I taped some cord into place.
I was on the point of cracking it off when suddenly I heard a movement on the far side. Somebody was fiddling a key into the lock. I whipped back against the wall, pulling my pistol out. The handle turned and the door opened slowly, inch by inch, as though the person pushing it was scared of what might lie beyond. There was a scuffling sound, as if several people were milling about. Then a hand appeared, and the sight of it amazed me, because its skin was white.
I stood transfixed as the owner emerged into view: an aged white ghost of a man, bent and shuffling, bald on top of the head, with a few wisps of long grey hair straggling down over his ears and white stubble bristling from his cheeks. He was wearing a filthy yellow T-shirt that hung loose over his bony shoulders, and even filthier grey trousers, with the remains of a pair of tennis shoes lashed round his bare feet. He looked as though he’d just risen from his grave, so deathly pale was his complexion.
When I made a sound, and he turned and saw me, he started, as if I’d stuck a knife in his ribs, and gave a croak of ‘Mon dieu!’ For a second I wasn’t sure what he’d said. I’d expected something in English, and didn’t recognise the French. Before I could answer, he buckled at the knees, and the next thing I knew he was stretched out full-length, face down on the deck, still in the doorway.
‘Pull him through!’ I snapped at Phil. ‘Get this door shut.’
In a flash I whipped out the key, closed the door and locked it from the outside. We dragged the old guy through the ante-room and sat him up against the wall in the main building, where the heat wasn’t quite so devastating. He looked even closer to death, but when I poured the contents of a water-bottle over his head, he came round.
As his eyes opened, I said, ‘Take it easy. You’re all right.’
Phil handed him another bottle with the top open, and asked, ‘Who are you?’
‘Boisset,’ he replied. After a long swallow, he added, ‘François Boisset.’
‘You’re French?’
‘Belgique.’
‘Belgian! You speak English?’
‘A little.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Je suis I’ingénieur… I am the engineer. I am in command of the machin, the machinery. You are who?’
‘British,’ I told him. ‘We’re helping the government forces.’
‘L’armée du gouvernement? Dieu merci!’
Even in the dim light of the shed, the old man was having trouble with his eyes, screwing them half shut.
‘You seem very weak,’ I said. Maybe the blacks had been starving him. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Hungry? No.’ He sounded surprised. ‘I am a prisoner. Since more than a year I am a prisoner of these Afundis. In one whole year I have not seen daylight.’
In short sentences, often lapsing into French, he told his story. When the rebel forces took over the mine, they’d shot most of the staff. But they’d kept him and a few key workers to run the machinery. He himself had spent most of the time confined to a cell inside the secure area, only being brought out when something went wrong and his specialist knowledge was needed. Having no radio, he’d completely lost touch with the outside world.
‘So who’s inside the works now?’ I asked.
‘Seven men. Four workers, three Afundi guards.’
‘Do they have weapons?’
‘Two Afundis only.’
‘Can you talk to them in their own language?’
‘Of course. They sent me out to see what was happening.’ A gleam came into his watery blue eyes as he added, ‘So, for the first time, I have the key!’
I looked at Phil. ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Those guys have got to come out. I don’t think the Afundis are going to have much chance once they get outside, but there’s no way they’re stopping in there.’
‘Salauds!’ exclaimed Boisset with surprising force. ‘Je m’en merde.’