'Why did you really do it, McGrath? Loyalty to Wyvern Transport?'


'Be damned to that, Mannix. I want out of this and I want out alive and unhurt. And the more we've got pulling for us, the better chance each man has. You have to have unity on this. You owe it to your people, and they to you.'


There at last was the political undertone I'd been expecting. I said, 'All right, what are you, McGrath? IRA or Ulster Loyalist?'


'Do I have to be either.'


'Yes, you do. Unity in face of oppression, casual shooting, kneecapping threats - it's all there. And I'm not one of your American pseudo-Irish sympathizers. As far as I'm concerned, both of your bloody so-called movements can fall into the nearest bog and the sooner the better.'


As I'd hoped, this sort of talk did get some rise out of him. He shifted one hand instinctively to his right-hand coat pocket, arresting the movement almost instantly. But it was a dead giveaway.


'All right,' I said, having achieved what I wanted. 'We won't talk politics. Let's change the subject. Where did you get the gun?'


'I found it in the tank we salvaged.'


'And where is it now?'


'In my cab.'


I shook my head gently, hefting the shotgun very slightly.


He actually laughed. 'You're in no danger from me, Mister Mannix. You're one man I look to to get us all out of this mess.'


I said, 'I'll have that gun, McGrath - now.'


With no hesitation he dipped into his pocket, produced the pistol and tossed it onto my lap. There'll be others,' he said.


'And from now on, you can consider yourself under open arrest.'


Now he gave me a belly laugh. 'Ah, it's the military ways you're picking up, Mister Mannix. Just like old times.'


'Old times in what army, McGrath? And just by the way, I suppose that isn't your real name. No doubt you're on a good few wanted lists, aren't you?'


He looked pensive. 'They were the days, all right. Well, the name now, that's something of a convenience. I've had several, and passports to match in my time. All this -' He waved at the darkness around us, '- this was going to be a bit of a holiday for me. Things were getting a little hot at home so I thought I'd take a sabbatical. Now I find it's a working holiday.'


I wondered what to do. Keeping McGrath around would be like leading a tiger on a length of string. He was a killing machine, proficient and amoral; a most dangerous man, but extremely useful in times of war. I couldn't trust him, but I found that I couldn't quite dislike him, which troubled my conscience only a little. And I felt we could work together for the moment at all events. There would be a showdown one day, but not yet.


I could hand him over to Sadiq, and he might be strung up from the next telegraph post; but quite apart from my liking the man, it would be a course of action very deleterious to our morale. The crew were civilians and nothing scares a civilian more than summary military law. I thought about McGrath's views on our relative toughness, and said abruptly, 'How old are you, McGrath?'


He was mildly surprised. 'Forty-nine.'


So was I; and only an accident of birth had prevented me from being even more like him than he realized. In spite of what I'd said about Irish politics, I could to a degree understand the motives that drove him, and saw that they might have been my own. It was only chance that my weapon had become a boardroom rather than a gun. 'Listen carefully,' I said. 'If you don't keep in line from now on you won't make your half-century. You were right, McGrath - we do think the same. But from now on even more so. Your thoughts and your actions will be dictated by me. You won't do one single goddamn thing .without my say-so. And I'll pull the plug on you any time I feel it's better that way. Am I understood?'


He gazed at me steadily. 'I said you were a tough man. I know what you're thinking, Mannix. You're thinking that I'd be a good man to have around if things get tougher. You're thinking that you can point me like a weapon and I'll go off, aren't you? Well, I won't argue with you about that, because I feel much the same myself. And speaking of guns -'


'You're not getting it back.'


'Oh, that's all right,' he said. There's nothing so easy to come by in a war as a gun. All I was going to say was that I've not had a chance to clean it up yet. Careless of me, I know. You'll want to do it yourself, I imagine.'


I secured the safety catch on the shotgun and lowered it to the floor of the Land Rover. 'Just remember this, McGrath. I'm never going to stop watching you.'


'On probation, am I?'


'Not at all. You're awaiting trial. Be sure and stay around. Don't go jumping bail, will you?'


'Out there on my own? You have to be joking, Mannix. Now what did you think I went to all this trouble for, if not to prevent that very thing from happening with my lads . . . and I still wish I knew for sure which one came running to you. It wasn't really necessary now, was it?'


I waved a hand in dismissal. I felt no sense of danger from McGrath for the moment, and he must have had the same feeling about me, for he raised a hand and ambled away.


'We'll all be needing a bit of sleep, I think. See you in the morning, Mannix. Thanks for the chat,' he said and was gone.


I sat for a while longer wondering if I was doing the right thing.


CHAPTER 16


Early next morning I did a check round the camp. There seemed to be more Nyalans than ever camped some little distance from where we were sited, and the soldiers' camp was further off still, so that we covered a pretty vast area. Lights still burned on the rig, because full daylight had not yet arrived, and there was movement as the medical staff tended their patients, the skeleton night watch making way for the full team. I found Sister Ursula tidying up in the makeshift operating theatre.


'Morning, Sister. Everything all right?'


She offered a wry smile. 'Not exactly all right, but as well as we can expect.' She bustled about just as she would in a regular hospital, and probably saw nothing incongruous in her newly acquired methods; habit skirts tucked into her belt, one hand free to grasp at holds as she swung expertly about the rig.


'No deaths last night, thanks be to God. It's a pity about Kanja, but no doubt we'll manage.'


I told her about the cotton warehouses and she nodded. 'Cool and spacious, much easier for my nurses, certainly.' We had reached the fridge and she opened it, checked the contents against a list, reshuffled the dwindling stores and closed it swiftly, to let as little cold air escape as possible. 'This has been a Godsend,' she commented.


She somehow pronounced the word with an audible uppercase G.


'From God via Wyvern Transport,' I said a little more harshly than was kind. I sometimes tired of the religious habit of thanking God for strictly man-made assistance. She took me up on it at once.


.'Don't you believe in God, Mister Mannix? Or in thanking Him?'


Having spent some time the night before in a short seminar on the philosophy of terrorism from McGrath, I didn't feel in the least like getting into another on religion. 'We'll debate it some other time, Sister. We've both got enough else to do at the moment. Where are the doctors?'


'Doctor Marriot's having coffee and Doctor Kat is still asleep.' She smiled. 'He didn't know it but last night I put a sleeping draught in his tea. It knocked him out.'


She showed all the signs of being a very bossy woman. 'Don't ever try that on me, Sister,' I said, smiling back, 'or there'll be trouble. I like to make my own decisions.'


'You have enough sense to know when to stop. But the Doctor was out on his feet and wouldn't admit it.'


'But what happens if there's an emergency? He'd be no good to us doped to the eyebrows.'


She raised one at me. 'I know my dosage. He'll wake up fresh as a daisy. In the meantime there is Doctor Marriot, and me. By the way, Sister Mary is still not to be allowed up here, please. She can travel in the truck again, with the children. Don't listen to anything she says to the contrary.'


She was indeed a bossy woman. She went on, 'I've got Nurse Mulira and Nurse Chula who are both well-trained, and the others are doing well too. Sister Mary doesn't realize how frail she is.'


'Point taken, ma'am. By the way, how much sleep did you get last night?'


'Mind your own business.' Before I could object to that blunt statement she went on, 'I've just been with Mister Otter man. He's not too well again . . .' She looked down past me. 'Someone wants you. I think it's urgent.'


'It always is. Be ready to move in about an hour, Sister.'


I swung down off the rig. Sadiq's sergeant looked harassed. 'The captain wants you, please. It is very urgent.'


I followed him to the command car and found Sadiq examin ing a battered map. He had an air of mixed gloom and relief. He said, 'The radio is working. I have just had new orders. I have been reassigned.'


I leaned against the car and suddenly felt terribly tired.


'Good God, that's all we need. What orders? And where from?'


'I have heard from a senior officer, Colonel Maksa. I am to take my troops and join him at Ngingwe.' This was on the nearside of the blocked road to Kanja.


'Ngingwe! Sadiq, does this make sense to you?'


'No, sir. But I am not to query orders from a superior.'


The sergeant returned with Geoff Wingstead. I, recapped what Sadiq had told me, and Wingstead looked as puzzled as I had. 'I can't see how this Colonel Maksa got to Ngingwe, or why he wants Captain Sadiq there,' he said.


The only good thing in all this was that the radio was working again. If someone had got through to us, we could perhaps get through to others. And we were desperate for news.


'Tell me what Colonel Maksa's politics are,' I asked Sadiq.


'I don't know, Mister Mannix. We never spoke of such things. I don't know him well. But - he has not always been such an admirer of the President.'


'So he could be on either side. What will you do?'


'I cannot disobey a direct order.'


'It's been done. What did you say to him?'


'We could not answer. The lines are still bad, and perhaps we do not have the range.'


'You mean he spoke to you but you couldn't reply. So he doesn't know if you heard the order. Did it refer directly to you or was it a general call for assembly at Ngingwe?'


'It was a direct order to me.'


'Who else knows about this?' I asked.


'Only my sergeant.'


Wingstead said, 'You want him to put the headphone to a deaf ear, to be a modern Nelson, is that it?' We both looked at Sadiq, who looked stubborn.


'Look, Captain. You could be running into big trouble. What if Colonel Maksa is a rebel?'


'I have thought of that, sir. You should not think I am so stupid as to go off without checking.'


'How can you do that?' Wingstead asked.


'I will try to speak to headquarters, to General Kigonde or someone on his staff,' he said. 'But my sergeant has tried very often to get through, without any luck. Our radio is not strong enough.'


Wingstead said abruptly, 'I think we can fix that.'


'How?' I knew that his own intervehicle radios were very limited indeed.


He said, 'I've got reason to think we're harbouring a fairly proficient amateur radio jockey.'


'For God's sake, who?' I asked.


Wingstead said, 'Sandy Bing. A few days ago we caught him in your staff car, Captain, fiddling with your radio. There was a soldier on duty but Bing told him he had your permission. We caught him at it and I read him the riot act. But I let it go at that. We're not military nor police and I had other things on my mind besides a bored youngster.'


'Did you know about this talent of his?' I asked.


'I'd caught him once myself fiddling with the set in the Land Rover. That's really too mild a word for what he'd been doing. He had the damn set in pieces. I bawled him out and watched while he put the bits back together. He knew what he was doing and it worked as well as ever afterwards. He's damned enthusiastic and wants to work with radio one day. Sam Wilson told me that he's for ever at any set he can get his hands on.'


'What do you think he can do? Amplify this set?'


'Maybe. Come along with me, Neil. I'll talk to Bing, but I want a word with Basil first. This will delay our start again, I'm afraid.'


Sadiq agreed to wait and see if Bing could get him through to his headquarters before taking any other action. My guess was that he wanted to stay with us, but right now he was torn by a conflict of orders and emotions, and it was hard to guess which would triumph.


Less than an hour later we stood watching as Sandy Bing delved happily into the bowels of a transmitter. Sadiq allowed him access to his own car radio, which Bing wanted as he said it was better than anything we had, though still underpowered for what he wanted. He got his fingers into its guts and went to work, slightly cock-a-hoop but determined to prove his value. He wanted to cannibalize one of Kemp's radios too, to build an extra power stage; at first Kemp dug his heels in, but common sense finally won him round.


'We'll need a better antenna,' said Bing, in his element. 'I'll need copper wire and insulators.'


Hammond managed to find whatever was needed. The travelling repair shop was amazingly well kitted out.


Our start was delayed by over four hours, and the morning was shot before Bing started to get results. Eventually he got the beefed-up transmitter on the air which was in itself a triumph, but that was just the beginning. General Kigonde's headquarters were hard to locate and contact, and once we'd found them there was another problem; a captain doesn't simply chat to his commander-in-chief whenever he wants to. It took an hour for Sadiq to get patched through to the military radio network and another hour of battling through the chain of command.


I'll give Sadiq his due; it takes a brave and determined man to bully and threaten his way through a guard of civilian secretaries, colonels and brigadiers. He really laid his neck on the block and if Kigonde hadn't been available, or didn't back him, I wouldn't have given two cents for his later chances of promotion. When he spoke to Kigonde the sun was high in the sky and he was nearly as high with tension and triumph.


'You did OK, Sandy,' I said to Bing, who was standing by with a grin all over his face as the final connection came through. Wingstead clapped him on the shoulder and there were smiles all round.


Sadiq and Kigonde spoke only in Nyalan, and the Captain's side of the conversation became more and more curt and monosyllabic. Sadiq looked perturbed; obviously he would like to tell us what was going on, but dared not sever the precious connection, and Kigonde might run out of patience at any moment and do his own cutting off from the far end. I was sick with impatience and the need for news. At last I extended a hand for the headphones and put a whipcrack into my own voice.


Tell him I want to speak to him.'


Before Sadiq could react I took the headphones away from him. There was a lot of static as I thumbed the speak button and said, 'General Kigonde, this is Mannix. What is happening, please?'


He might have been taken aback but didn't close me out.


'Mister Mannix, there is no time for talk. Your Captain has received orders and he must obey them. I cannot supervise the movement of every part of the army myself.'


'Has he told you the situation at Ngingwe? That it is a dead end? The road goes nowhere now. We need him, General. Has he told you what's happening here, with your people?'


Through the static, Kigonde said, 'Captain Sadiq has orders to obey. Mister Mannix, I know you have many people in trouble there, but there is trouble everywhere.'


That gave me an idea. I said, 'General Kigonde, do you know who gave Captain Sadiq his orders?'


'I did not get the name. Why do you ask?'


'Does the name Colonel Maksa mean anything to you?' It was taking a gamble but I didn't think the chances of Maksa or anyone on his staff overhearing this conversation were strong. It was a risk we had to take.


Static crackled at me and then Kigonde said, 'That is ... perhaps different. He was in command of forces in the north. I have not heard from him.'


Doubt crept into Kigonde's voice.


I said urgently, 'General, I think you do have doubts about Colonel Maksa. If he were against you what better could he do than draw off your troops? Captain Sadiq is completely loyal. Where would you get the best use out of him? Here with us, or cut off upcountry? If I were you I'd cancel those orders, General.'


'You may be right, Mister Mannix. I must say the Captain would be better off for my purposes further west. I will send him to Makara instead.'


'But we're going to Makara ourselves. Can he stay with us until we get there?'


I was really pushing my luck and I wasn't surprised when he demanded to speak to Sadiq again. It was a long one-sided conversation, and when he rang off we could all see that he had been told something that had shaken him badly.


He remembered his manners before anything else, turned to Bing and said, 'Thank you very much. I am grateful to you,' which pleased Bing immensely. But Sadiq didn't look grateful, only distressed.


'Let's go and sit down, Captain,' I said. 'Geoff, you, me and Basil only, I think. Move it out, you guys. Find something to do.'


Sadiq filled us in on the conversation. He was to move westwards to Makara with us, but once there he was to push on towards Fort Pirie, leaving us to cope. It was as much as we could have expected. But it occurred to me that the General must be in a bad way if he was calling such minor outfits as Sadiq's to his assistance.


'The General says that the Government is in power in Port Luard once again. The rebellion is crushed and almost all the rebels are rounded up,' Sadiq said. That was what Kigonde would say, especially on the air, and none of us put too much faith in it. But at least it meant that the Government hadn't been crushed.


'The rebellion was premature, I think,' Sadiq said. 'The opposition was not ready and has been beaten quite easily in most places.'


'But not everywhere. Does he know where this Colonel Maksa is? I think we have to assume he's on the wrong side, don't you?' I said.


'Yes, the Colonel's politics are suspect. And he is known to be hereabouts. There are planes looking for him and his force.'


'Planes?' said Wingstead in alarm. 'Whose planes?'


'Ah, it is all most unfortunate, sir. We were wrong, you see. The Air Force, Air Chief Marshall Semangala is on the side of the Government.'


'Ouseman's allies!' My jaw dropped. Then why was Mister Wingstead's plane shot down, for God's sake?'


'I don't know, Mister Mannix. But perhaps the Air Force expected that any civilian planes flying in the battle area belonged to the rebels,' Sadiq said unhappily. I thought of Max Otterman, fighting for his life somewhere on the rig, and rage caught in my throat.


Geoff Wingstead was ahead of me. 'What about the bombing of Kodowa, then? The troop moving through the town at the time was Kigonde's own Second Battalion. Are you going to tell us that was a mistake, too?'


'Ah, that was very bad. Air Force Intelligence thought that the Second Battalion was already with the Seventh Brigade at Bir Oassa. When they saw troops moving north they thought it was the enemy trying to cut off the Seventh Brigade from corning south. So they attacked.' Sadiq looked anguished.


A mistake! They'd bombed their own men thinking they were the enemy. It wouldn't be the first time that had happened in a war. But they'd bombed them in the middle of a town when they could easily have waited to catch them out in the open. So would somebody eventually apologize for this colossal, tragic mistake? Apologize for the pits full of corpses, the ruined town, the wrecked and tortured people on the rig or hobbling through the wasted country? To Sister Ursula and Dr Kat, to Dr Marriot for the killing of her husband? To Antoine Dufour for the death of his partner?


Somebody ought to say they were sorry. But nobody ever would.


CHAPTER 17


We left Kodowa again.


We went north-west this time, descending from the scrubland to the rainforest country of the lower plains, the same sort of terrain that we'd moved through on our journey northwards. The people in the little villages we passed through came out to see us but they weren't laughing this time. They gazed at the great rig and the strange load it carried and their faces were troubled. Even the children were subdued, catching the uneasiness of their elders.


The rig's passengers varied. Some improved and were allowed to ride in one of the trucks, others collapsed and were given a place on the bedding. Two women gave birth on the rig, and Dr Kat removed a swollen appendix from a ten-year-old boy. The medical supplies dwindled steadily.


At each village Sadiq sent his men out to forage. A couple of beat-up trucks were added to the convoy as well as provisions. Occasionally they found petrol and it was added to our store. Our own food became more basic and the beer had long since run out. But we managed.


In one village we found a small cache of clothing and bartered food for it, and it did feel wonderful to be wearing something clean for a while. The men were beginning to look shaggy as beards sprouted.


With each few hours the make-up of the flock of Nyalans that trailed along after us subtly altered. The convoy was behaving much like a comet in space, picking up and losing bits of its tail as it went along. Groups of Nyalans would arrive at some village where they had kin or were too weary to walk further, and would leave us there. Others would follow along. There may have been several hundred in our wake, and there was something of a ritual, almost mystic, quality in their behaviour. Often one or more would approach the rig and reach up to touch it wonderingly before dropping behind again.


It was Dan Atheridge who explained it to me. He'd lived here for many years, and spoke a little Nyalan. His arm troubled him and he had to be restrained from doing too much; but I knew that he was deliberately driving himself into exhaustion in an attempt to numb the pain and horror of leaving his wife Susie somewhere behind him in the hills beyond Kanja. He had begged to be allowed to go off and try to find her, but had finally been persuaded not to.


I asked him about the Nyalans.


'Your rig's turning into a juggernaut, Neil,' he said.


'That's an Indian thing, isn't it? A sort of God-mobile?'


That got a smile from him. 'You could put it that way. Actually it's one of the names of the god Krishna. It became applied to a huge idol that's dragged through the streets in a town in India annually in his honour. In the olden days sacrificial victims were thrown under it to be crushed to death. A rather bloodthirsty deity, I fear.'


'It isn't inappropriate,' I said. 'Except that nobody's been run down by the rig yet, which God forbid.'


'It's followed in procession by thousands of devotees, who regard it as a sacred symbol of their wellbeing. That's the similarity, Neil. This rig of yours has become a fetish to the Nyalans. You're leading them to the promised land, wherever that is. Out of danger anyway.'


'I hope that's true, Dan. Still, I guess they have to believe in something.'


I mentioned the parallel with the Pied Piper and he smiled again. 'I hope you think of them as children rather than as rats, Neil.'


I got precisely the other viewpoint from Russ Burns some time later that day, when we stopped at last, more than halfway to Makara.


Several of us were waiting for whatever Brad Bishop could offer as an evening meal. Making idle conversation, I mentioned Atheridge's theory about the new role of the rig as a fetish, and Wingstead was fascinated. I could see him formulating an article for some truckers' magazine. Burns' attitude was very different and typical of him.


'More like rats,' he said when I invoked the Pied Piper image. 'Little brown bastards, eating up everything that isn't nailed down. Probably carrying disease too.' I felt a strong desire to hit him. Wingstead got up and walked away.


After a strained silence Burns spoke again. 'How come you work for a limey outfit?' He seemed to enjoy baiting me.


'Good pay,' I said briefly.


He snorted. 'For pushing this thing along?'


'Good enough,' I said. He seemed to have got the notion that I was a transport man and I didn't bother to disillusion him. It wasn't worth the trouble, and in any case right now it was nearer the truth than otherwise.


'What do you do with Lat-Am?' I asked him.


'I'm a tool pusher. Harry here's a shooter.'


'Come again? I don't know oil jargon.'


Zimmerman laughed. 'Russ is a drilling superintendent. Me, I make loud bangs in oil wells. Blasting.'


'Been in Nyala long?' I didn't take to Burns but Zimmerman was a much more likeable man. They made an odd pair.


'A while. Six months or so. We were based in Bir Oassa but we went down to the coast to take a look. The desert country's better. We should have stayed up there.'


'You can say that again,' Burns said, 'then we'd be out of this crummy mess.'


'I was up in Bir Oassa earlier this month,' I said. 'Didn't have much time to look at the oilfields, though. How you doing there?'


'We brought in three,' Zimmerman said. 'Good sweet oil, low sulphur; needs no doctor at all. Lat-Am isn't doing badly on this one.'


'What about the war, though?'


Burns shrugged. That's no skin off Lat-Am's ass. We'll stop pumping, that's all. The oil's still in the ground and we've got the concession. Whoever wins the war will need us.'


It was a point of view, I suppose.


They talked then between themselves for a while, using oilfield jargon which I understood better than I'd let on. Burns appealed to me less and less; he was a guy for whom the word chauvinist might have been invented. Texas was Paradise and the Alamo was the navel of the earth; he might grudgingly concede that California wasn't bad, but the East Coast was full of goddamn liberals and Jews and longhaired hippies. You might as well be in Europe, where everyone was effete and decadent. Still, the easterners were at least American and he could get along with them if he had to. The rest of the world was divided between commies, niggers, Ayrabs and gooks, and fit only for plundering for oil.


The next day we arrived at Makara. It was no bigger than other villages we'd passed through, but it earned its place on the map because of the bridge which spanned the river there. Further west, near Lake Pirie where the river joined the huge Katali there was a delta, and building a bridge would not have been possible. Our first concern was to find out whether the river was passable, and Sadiq, Kemp and I went ahead of the convoy to take a look. To our relief the bridge stood firm and was fit for crossing.


We halted outside the village and sent off another scouting party to investigate the cotton warehouses. Word came back that they were intact, empty and serviceable as a hospital, and so we moved to the cotton factory and camped there. Apart from the grave faces of the local people there was no sign of trouble anywhere.


That was the last good thing that happened that day.


Dr Katabisirua came to look at the warehouses and arranged for some Nyalan women to give the largest a clean through before bringing in the patients, which he wouldn't do until the next day. 'My nurses are tired from the journey,' he said, 'and that is when mistakes are made.'


He was very despondent. Two more burn patients had died and he feared for one of the new born babies. Some of the wounded were not improving as he would wish. 'And now Sister Ursula tells me we have no more Ringer's lactate.'


'What's that?'


'A replacement for lost plasma. We have no substitute.' There was no hospital closer than Lasulu, and that was as far away as the moon. He also fretted about Sister Mary who was sinking into frail senility under the stress.


By the end of our talk I was even more depressed than he was. There wasn't a thing I could do for him or his patients, and I was profoundly frustrated by my helplessness. Never before in my adult life had I been unable to cope with a situation, and it galled me.


Burns, passing by, said casually, 'Hey, Mannix, the coon captain wants you,' and walked on.


'Burns!'


He looked back over his shoulder. 'Yes?'


'Come here.'


He swung back. 'You got a beef?'


I said, This morning Captain Sadiq persuaded his superior officer to let him stay with this convoy. He put his career on the line for us. What's more, over the past few days he's worked harder than you could in a month, and a damned sight more willingly. Around here you'll speak respectfully of and to him. Got the idea?'


Touchy, aren't you?' he said.


'Yes I am. Don't push me, Burns.'


'What the hell do you want from me?' he asked.


I sighed, letting my neck muscles relax. 'You will not refer to the Captain as a coon or a nigger. Nor his soldiers, nor any other Nyalans, come to that. We're fed up with it.'


'Why should I take orders from you?' he asked.


I said, 'Because right now I'm top man around here. As long as you're with us you do what I say, and if you don't toe the line you'll be out on your can. And you won't hold a job with Lat-Am or any other oil company after this is over. If you don't think I can swing that then you just ask Mister Kemp.'


I turned my back and walked away, seething. If I'd been near him much longer I couldn't have kept my hands off him, which wouldn't have solved any problems. I passed a couple of staring men and then McGrath was beside me, speaking softly.


'Need any help, Mannix?'


'No,' I said curtly. McGrath stuck in my craw too.


'I'll be around if you do.' He returned to his job.


I recalled that the reason for this outburst had been that Captain Sadiq wanted a word, and I set about finding him. It was a routine matter he wanted settled. After our business was over I pointed to the milling flock of Nyalans around the camp.


'Captain, how many of them are there?' I asked.


'Perhaps two hundred, Mister Mannix. But they do not stay with us for long. It is only that there are always more of them.'


'Yes, I've noticed that. I understand they've attached themselves to the rig, made some sort of mascot of it. Do you know anything about it?'


'I am of Islam,' he said. 'These people have different ideas from you and me. But they are not savages, Mister Mannix. Perhaps it is no more than the thing Mister Lang hangs in the cab of his tractor. It is a lucky charm.'


'That's a rabbit's foot. I see what you mean,' I said, impressed by his logic. 'Just a bigger talisman than usual. But I'm worried about them. Are they getting enough food and water? What if a real sickness strikes among them? What can we do to stop them, make them return to their homes?'


'I do not think anything will stop them, sir. They manage for food, and none will walk further than he can achieve. For each of them, that is enough.'


One thing it ensured was a redistribution of the local population, a reshuffle of families, genes and customs; perhaps not altogether a bad thing. But it was a hell of a way to go about it. And suppose ill fortune should fall on these people while they were tailing us. Would they see their erstwhile lucky talisman becoming a force of evil instead, and if so what might they take it into their collective heads to do about it, and about us?


I reflected on the crusades. Not all of them were made by armed and mailed men; there was the Peasants' Crusade led by Peter the Hermit, and the Children's Crusade. If I remembered my history, terrible things happened to those kids. And come to think of it, Hamelin's rats and children didn't do too well either.


I didn't much relish the role of a twentieth century Peter leading a mad crusade into nowhere. A whole lot of people could die that way. The thought of an armoured column ploughing through this mob chilled my blood.


The run-in with Burns later that day was inevitable, a curtain-raiser to the real drama that followed. The men who work the oil rigs are a tough bunch and you don't get to boss a drilling crew by backing down from a fight. Maybe I should have handled Burns more tactfully, maybe I was losing my touch, but there it was. I had threatened him and I might have known he wouldn't stand still for it.


But that was yet to come. First we had to set up the cotton warehouse for Dr Kat to move in to the next day, and we parked the rig close by in order to run a cable from its generator. Ben Hammond, as usual, provided ideas and the equipment to put them into action, and his goody box included a sizeable reel of cable and several powerful lamps.


While this was being done I had a look around the warehouse. It was just a huge barn about a quarter full of cotton stacked at the far end. The bottom stacks were compressed but the upper layers were soft and would provide comfort for everybody soon, including myself. I intended to sleep there that night. The biggest mattress in the world, but better not smoke in bed.


Late in the afternoon I saw Harry Zimmerman sitting on an upturned box near the Land Rover, smoking and drinking a mug of tea. I sensed that he was waiting for me, though his opening remark was casual enough.


'Been a busy day,' he said.


'Sure has. And it'll be a busy night. I've got another job for you, anytime you're ready.' I dropped down beside him. 'Trade you for a mouthful of that gunfire, Harry.'


'What have you got to trade?' he asked as he handed over the mug. I took a swig and passed it back.


'Good soft bed for tonight.'


'Now you're talking. Anyone in it?'


'Sorry, only me - and probably all the rest of the crew. We may as well doss down in comfort for one night before handing the warehouse over to the medics.'


He was silent.for a spell and then said, 'Seen Russ about?'


'No. Why?'


'Just thought I'd mention it. He's spoiling for a fight. Can be nasty, once he's off and flying.'


It was a fair warning and I wasn't particularly surprised nodded my thanks and crossed to the Land Rover. Zimmerman seemed to be waiting for something to happen. It did. As I opened the door an object rolled off the seat and smashed at my feet. It was my bottle of Scotch, and it was quite empty.


'Russ did this, Harry?'


'I'm afraid so.'


He'd left the bottle where I'd find it; it was a direct challenge. There would have been just enough in it to put an edge on his appetite for supper, or for a brawl.


'Where is he?'


'Neil, Russ is one tough guy to tangle with. Be careful.'


I said, 'He's not going to hurt me. I'm going to straighten your buddy out.'


'Hell, he's not my buddy,' Zimmerman said, and there was an edge to his normally placid voice. 'We just work together. I've seen this before and I don't have a taste for it. He's having a game of poker with some of your guys.'


I picked up the pieces of glass and ditched ail but the largest which had the label still attached, and closed the car door. Zimmerman added, 'Watch his left. He has a sneaky curve punch there.'


'Thanks.'


I knew where to find Burns. One of the lamps leading from the generator cable had been looped over a tree so that the light shone on the ground below. Five men were sitting playing cards, using a suitcase as a table. I didn't notice who they were; I had eyes only for Burns. He played a hand casually but I knew he'd seen me arrive and his back had stiffened.


I stopped just outside the circle of light and said, 'Burns, come here. I want you.'


He looked up and shaded his eyes. 'Why, it's our top man,' he said. 'What can I do for you, Mannix?'


Cards went down all round the circle. I said, 'Come over here.'


'Sure. Why not?' He uncoiled his lean length from the ground.


I watched him come. He was younger, taller, heavier and probably faster than I was, so I'd have to get in first. It's a stupid man who starts a fight without reckoning the odds. Burns knew that too; he was spoiling for a fight, as Zimmerman had warned me, and he had set up the time and place. It was years since I'd done much fighting except with words, while he was probably well in practice.


I was aware of figures forming the inevitable spectators' ring, but I couldn't afford to take my eyes off Burns. Witnesses were in any case going to be more on my side than on his, so long as I could hold my own.


I


I held up the bottle shard. 'Did you drink my whisky?'


'Sure I drank it. What's wrong with borrowing a little booze? It was good stuff while it lasted.'


I controlled my anger, and was so intent that when the interruption came I couldn't quite credit it. A hand came over my shoulder and took the broken glass from me. 'Do you mind if I have a look at that?' a voice said.


McGrath stepped out beside me and peered at the label. Everyone else stood motionless.


'I've seen this before. Isn't it the bottle you were keeping for medical emergencies, now?'


Then without warning the hand not holding the shard connected with Burns just at the angle of his jaw and the Texan grunted, staggered and dropped as though poleaxed. Only afterwards did I see the cosh.


I grabbed McGrath by the arm. 'God damn it, McGrath, I told you not to go off half-cocked!'


He said so that only I could hear, 'You couldn't have whipped this bucko and we both know it. He'd take you to pieces. I've had my eye on him; he's dangerous.' Coming from McGrath that was a ludicrous statement. 'Now if I don't defuse him he'll come looking for both of us and he might have a gun by then. He has to be made harmless. That OK with you?'


'Christ, no! I don't want him killed,' I said.


'I wouldn't kill him. I said made harmless. Now, have I your leave?'


I didn't have much choice. 'Don't hurt him,' I said.


'Not really hurt, no,' McGrath said. He pushed his way through the knot of men who had gathered round Burns. They made way instantly, though none faster than Jones and Bob Pitman. Neither Wingstead nor Kemp were present.


McGrath took Burns by his shirtfront, hauled him to his feet and shook him. 'Are you all right, Texas?' he asked.


Burns' eyes looked fogged. He put a hand up to his jaw and mumbled, 'You son of a bitch - you busted it!'


'Not at all,' said McGrath, 'Or you couldn't be saying so. I didn't hit you all that hard, did I now? And I don't think that's the language for someone in your position to be using.'


The hand that had held the cosh came up again and this time there was a knife in it. McGrath was a walking armoury. He pressed the sharp edge against Burns' throat and a ribbon of blood trickled down. He pushed Burns until the Texan's back was against a truck.


'Now listen,' McGrath said in a matter-of-fact voice, 'You can have your throat cut fast, slow or not at all. Take your pick.'


Burns choked. 'Not - not at all.'


'Well, then, you can answer a couple of questions, and if you give the right answers you get a prize, your life. Here comes the first question. Are you ready?'


'Yes,' whispered Burns.


McGrath said, 'Right, this is it. Name one boss in this camp.'


'Y-you.'


'Wrong,' said McGrath pleasantly. 'You're losing points, sonny. But I'll give you another go. Guess again.'


Burns hesitated and the knife shifted. More blood soaked into his shirt. 'Mannix?'


'Mister. Mannix, yes. But a little more respect with it, please. Now here comes the next question. Are you ready for it?'


'Christ, yes.' Burns face was running with sweat.


'Then here goes. Name another boss.'


'Wing . . . Mister Wingstead.'


'Oh, very good. See how well you can do when you try. So from now on when Mister Mannix or Mister Wingstead says for you to jump, you jump. Got that?'


'Yes.'


'And if you give either of them any trouble, guess what? Third question.'


'You bastard -'


McGrath's hand moved once more. Burns gasped, 'I won't give them any trouble. Let go of me, damn you!'


McGrath did just that and Burns sagged against the truck. His hand went to his throat and came away covered with blood. He stared at McGrath and then appealed to me. 'He's crazy! You keep him away from me.'


'He'll never touch you again. Not if you do what he's just told you,' I said. Then I pressed the lesson home. 'You said you'd borrowed that Scotch. I want it returned.'


He gaped at me. 'You're as crazy as he is! You know I can't do that.'


'In my book a man who takes what he can't return is a thief.'


He said nothing and I let it go at that. I turned to the others. 'All right, the show is over. There's no -'


I was interrupted by a distant commotion of voices.


'Mannix! Ben Hammond, you there?'


It was Kemp calling. Hammond shouted back, 'We're both here. What is it?'


Kemp came out of the dark at a jog trot, looking strained. Burns was forgotten in the face of a new crisis.


'Come up to the rig. Geoff wants you.'


'What the hell is it?'


'It's Max. He's gone into convulsions. We think he's dying.'


There was a murmur around us. To most of the crew Otterman was not well-known but he was the man who'd saved Wingstead's life at risk to his own. They were taking a close interest in his progress, and at that moment were no more free of superstition than the Nyalans who followed their talisman through the countryside: Otterman's sudden turn for the worse was a bad omen. As for me, I'd flown with him, liked him, and felt a stab of sorrow at Kemp's news.


And then the quiet of the night was shattered again. To the east there was thunder. There followed noises like Fourth of July rockets, and the earth shook underfoot. It was the sound of heavy gunfire and small arms. The war was catching up with us at last.


CHAPTER 18


Things began to happen fast.


From the military camp soldiers came running towards the warehouse. People milled about in the darkness and shouted questions. The men around me were galvanized into agitation which could become panic.


I shouted for attention. 'That was gunfire. Keep together and stay quiet. Let the soldiers do their job. Hammond, you there?'


'Yes, I'm here.'


'Set guards round all the transports, especially the trucks and cars. The rig can't be shifted so it's reasonably safe. Basil, go tell the doctors and staff to stay put whatever happens. I'm sorry about Max, but tell Geoff I need him here fast.'


He ran off and I went on, 'Zimmerman - if Russ Burns isn't fit get him to the medics. I'm going to find the Captain.'


I heard Burns mumble, 'I'll be OK, Harry,' and turned away. I wondered what had become of McGrath; at the very first sound of battle he had disappeared, cat-like, into the night. I headed off towards the military area, stumbling over camp litter. I heard guns firing again before I found Captain Sadiq.


He was at his staff car, and inevitably on the radio. He spoke for some time, looking alarmed and then ripped off the headphones.


'What's happening?' I asked.


'Army units coming from the east, from Kodowa. They ran into a patrol of men and started shooting.'


'We heard a big gun.'


'I think they shelled a truck.'


'They must be the rebels,' I said.


'Maybe, Mister Mannix. Men become nervous in the dark.'


'How many?'


'I don't know yet. My corporal reported many vehicles coming this way. Not in battalion strength but not far short. Then the transmission stopped.'


So a whole platoon of Sadiq's men was possibly wiped out. I asked if he knew how far off they were.


'Six miles, maybe. They could be here in half an hour or less.'


This could be a nasty mess. With the Nyalan civilians strung out all the way to the bridge, with our sick and wounded, and with a small bunch of virtually unarmed white rig-pushers, there could be a massacre. And to prevent it a handful of soldiers armed with rifles and one or two light mounted guns.


Sadiq said, 'If we stand and fight it will be useless. We couldn't combat a company, let alone this strength. Sergeant! Get the men ready to pull out. There must be no shooting under any circumstances. We'll be moving that way.' He pointed away from Makara. This had been in English and was clearly for my benefit, but he carried on in Nyalan. The sergeant went off at a run.


I said, 'So you're pulling out - leaving us? What the hell are we supposed to do on our own?'


He raised a hand to silence me. Danger had increased his authority and he knew it. 'No, Mister Mannix. There are tracks beyond the warehouses which lead into the bush. I'm going to hide my men there. If I am to be of any Use it can only be from a position of surprise. I suggest that you make your camp look as peaceful as possible. And that means hiding all weapons, including your shotgun. And anything that Mister McGrath may have.'


'You know about him?'


'I am not a fool, Mister Mannix. You took a pistol from him, but he may have some other weapon. When the soldiers come act peacefully. As soon as possible give me a signal. If they are loyal troops you fire this.'


He handed me a Very pistol and a couple of cartridges.


The white star will signal no danger. If there is trouble, fire the red. Try not to provoke them.'


Sadiq could simply vanish into the bush and desert us but I felt that he would do no such thing. I said, 'Thank you, Captain. And good luck.'


He saluted me, jumped into his car, and was gone into the night.


'Remarkable,' said a voice behind me. Wingstead had been listening. I nodded briefly, then called Bing. 'Get back to the rig, Sandy. Tell the men to gather round quietly and wait for us. And take the guards off the trucks. Tell Mister Hammond I said so.' I debated giving instructions to immobilize the transports but reflected that it might do us as much harm as our enemy. , Zimmerman was beside me. I said to him, 'Please go fetch Mister Kemp. He'll be at the rig. And get Doctor Kat as well. Tell him he must leave his patients for a few minutes.'


Wingstead said, 'I gather we aren't sure if it's the goodies or the baddies who are coming along, right?'


'Exactly right. So we play it as cool as we can. What's happened with Otterman?'


'He was having some sort of convulsion. God knows what it is; the medics have nothing left to sedate him with. I feel responsible but I can't do him one bit of good. I've never had a man working for me die before.'


'Well, he's not dead yet. They'll pull him through if they can,' I said, but it was hollow comfort. We hurried back to the rig, and I noticed that the Nyalan refugees had vanished; like the soldiers, they had dissolved back into the land. It had needed no bush telegraph to pass the word. They had heard and recognized the gunfire.


Back at the rig Hammond had got my message and gathered the men together. The army's pulling out,' someone said.


'Who's doing the shooting?'


'Hold it! Just shut up and listen. Harry, you translate for our Russian friends, please. This is the position as far as we know. There's a force coming down from Kodowa. They ran into one of Sadiq's patrols and we think they shot them up, so it's likely that they're rebels. But we can't be sure yet. Mistakes happen in the dark.'


And in broad daylight too, I thought, remembering the bombing raid on Kodowa.


'If they are rebels they'll be too much for Sadiq to handle, so he's done a little disappearing act with his men. We'll signal to let him know if the new arrivals are friendly or otherwise. If they want to know where Sadiq is, he's gone off with his men. It's important that everybody tells the same story. He left us as soon as we got here. Right?'


Kemp asked, 'Why this flimflam? He's supposed to stay and guard the rig, isn't he?'


Not for the first time I despaired of Kemp's singlemindedness. I said, 'I'll explain later,' and turned back to the men.


'When they get here I want the camp to look normal. Remember, we know nothing about their politics and care less. We're paid to push the rig, that's all. We're a crowd of foreigners in the middle of a shooting war, trying to keep our noses clean, and we're scared.'


'None of us will have to be Laurence Olivier to act that part,' someone said.


'Let Mister Wingstead or me answer any questions. And no rough stuff, no opposition, no matter what.' This wouldn't be easy. Men like this wouldn't willingly allow themselves to be pushed around. But it was essential. Opposition could only bring reprisal.


A voice said, 'Why stay here? Why don't we scarper and hide out in the bush till they've gone, same as the army?'


Dr Kat said sharply, 'I am not leaving my patients.'


'I don't think it'd wash, or I'd be the first to go,' Wingstead put in. 'If there's no-one here they'll get suspicious and come looking for us.'


His calm decisiveness was what was needed. There wasn't a man amongst them who didn't respect him.


I said, 'Right, let's get this camp looking peaceful.'


I left Wingstead to organize things and went to the Land Rover to get the shotgun and its shells. I took them into the warehouse and hid them deep inside a bale of cotton, hoping that nobody had seen me do it. Then I went back to rejoin Wingstead at the rig.


He had persuaded the doctors and Sister Ursula to accept our need for deception, and to brief the nurses. I had a quick Took at Otterman and was not reassured. He looked desperately ill.


Geoff and I made a quick tour of the camp, checking to make sure that everything looked reasonably normal. Of the Nyalans there was no sign whatsoever, and Sadiq had taken off his platoon complete with all their transport. Camp fires had been extinguished and there was nothing to show that his departure had been anything other than orderly.


We settled down around the rig, tense and nervous, to wait for our visitors. They took about an hour to reach us, and it was probably the longest wait of our lives.


CHAPTER 19


We heard them before we saw them.


Bert Proctor cocked his head at the distant rumble, then settled at the table and picked up his cards. 'Just go on with the game,' he said quietly.


Ron Jones got up. 'Count me out, Bert. I'm too nervous,' he said.


I took his place. 'Deal me in. Just take it easy, Ron. No sweat.'


As Proctor dealt I noticed that Russ Burns was one of my fellow players. To my surprise he spoke to me directly.


'You play goddamn rough, Mannix,' he said. The 'Mister' had disappeared. 'Where did you get that goon you set on me?'


'I didn't get him. I inherited him. He's one of Wyvern's best rig hands,' I said. I didn't expect friendship from Burns but he sounded easy enough.


'I really thought he was going to cut my throat. He's pretty dangerous,' Burns said.


'I'll try to keep him on a leash,' I said casually. 'By the way, anyone seen Mick lately?'


There were headshakes all round.


Burns looked at his cards and cursed them. 'We've got a few things to sort out, you and me, after this is over,' he said, 'but if there's trouble in the meantime, I'm with you. What say?'


'Suits me.' We played a round or two with less than full attention. The engine noises were louder and there were voices shouting. Soon we put our cards down to watch the arrival of the army.


A few motorcyclists came first. They roared to a halt just over the crest of the hill that led down to Makara and the camp, and there was a glow in the sky behind them as the rest followed. Soldiers came through the bush on each side of the road. I hoped they wouldn't fan out far enough to find Sadiq's team.


The minutes ticked by and there were rustling sounds in the undergrowth. They were being cautious, not knowing what they were getting into, and nervous men could do stupid things. We stood fully illuminated while they closed in around us, and felt terrifyingly vulnerable.


Wingstead said loudly, 'I'm going to bed. We've got a busy day ahead. Goodnight, everyone.'


. I followed his lead. 'Me too. That's enough poker for one night.'


Hammond, in a flash of inspiration, said equally loudly, 'What about all the activity out there, Mister Wingstead? Anything we should know about?'


'No, I don't think so,' he replied. 'Just manoeuvres, I should guess. They won't bother us.'


Truck after truck was coming over the crest towards us. I couldn't see any tanks but the trucks' headlights began to light up the whole camp in a glaring display. A ring of armed soldiers was gathered on the fringes of the camp, and we knew we were surrounded.


I shouted to carry over the engine roar, 'We've got company. Let's hope they can spare us some food and medical stuff.'


Into the light came a command car. In the back was a captain, his uniform identical to Sadiq's except that he wore a red brassard on his right arm. He was unlike Sadiq in looks too; where Sadiq had a distinctly Arabic cast and a light skin this was the blackest man I had ever seen. He was huge and burly and most unnervingly wearing enormous dark glasses; in combination with his dark skin and the night the effect was weird.


He stood up in the back of the car and looked from us to the rig and then back. He said in English, 'Who are you?'


I answered. The rig team of Wyvern Transport. Who are you?' But my counterattack didn't work; I hadn't thought it would.


'Are you in charge of- of this?' He indicated the rig.


'No,' I said, 'that's Mister Wingstead here. I am his associate. We were taking a transformer up to the oilfields. But now we have to head back westward.'


'Where is Captain Sadiq?' he asked abruptly.


I'd been expecting that question.


'He should be well on the road to Fort Pirie by now. He left at first light with his men.'


'You're lying,' the captain said. 'Where is he?'


One of his men hitched his rifle. We were in the hands of a military power, and an unfriendly one at that. I hadn't been accustomed to shutting up at anyone else's say-so for a long time and it was an unpleasant sensation. I put an edge on my voice. 'Now wait a minute, captain. You're not dealing with soldiers now. You'd better consult your superior officer before you start dictating to civilians. I told you that Captain Sadiq left this morning and pushed on. He had orders reassigning him. I don't know where he is now and I can't say I care. He left us flat.'


All this rolled off his back without touching. 'I do not believe you,' he said. There is much that is strange here. Who are all the people we found on the road as we came up?'


'Women and children? They're local folk, following us for food, and they're in a bad way. I think you should be doing something to help them.'


He regarded the rig again. 'What is that stuff up there?' He'd recognized the incongruity of the thatching.


That's a long story,' I said. 'You've been in Kodowa lately? Then you'll know what it was like there. The hospital wasn't usable so we turned the rig into a travelling hospital. We're trying to get the patients to Fort Pirie. Perhaps you can help us, Captain.'


He looked at me unbelievingly. 'Why didn't you take them to Kanja? There's a hospital there and it's closer.'


'We tried. But there's a bridge down in between.'


Apparently he hadn't known that, because he fired questions at me about it and then called a couple of messengers and rattled off orders to them. Then he turned to me and said curtly, 'I am leaving soldiers on guard here. You will stay until I return or until the Colonel arrives.'


'We're going no place, Captain,' I said. 'Not until morning, at any rate. Then perhaps you can help us get the rig across the bridge.'


He gave another order and the car swung round and drove off. A circle of soldiers, rifles at the ready, stood around us. The guns they held were Kalashnikovs.


I sighed and sat down.


'Well done. You're quite a con man,' Wingstead said.


'Cool it, Geoff. God knows how many of them understand English.'


Then we realized that the soldiers had orders to do more than just stand around watching us. A sergeant was doing what sergeants do, and corporals were doing what corporals do; passing orders from top to bottom. They began to swarm over our camp and vehicles and I heard the sound of breaking glass.


'Hold on! What are you doing there?' Kemp asked angrily.


'We follow orders. You go back,' a sullen voice answered.


I turned to a sergeant. 'What's the name of your colonel?'


He considered the question and decided to answer it. 'Colonel Maksa,' he said. 'He will be here soon. Now you go back.'


Reluctantly we retreated away from the vehicles. I hoped to God the soldiers wouldn't try clambering over the rig too, and that they'd respect the doctors and nurses.


We stood around helplessly.


'What the hell do they want?' Kemp asked.


'You could try asking Colonel Maksa when he arrives, but I don't recommend it. I bet he's another man who asks questions and doesn't answer them. I'm pretty sure these are rebel troops; the regulars would be more respectful. But I remembered Hussein and doubted my own words.'


'Are you going to send that signal to Sadiq?'


'Not yet. Let's keep that ace in the hole for when we really need it.'


Kemp said, 'Bloody terrorists. Don't they know they can't win?'


'I wouldn't be too sure of that,' Wingstead said. 'And I wouldn't use that word too freely. One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. No doubt they see themselves as glorious liberators.'


The doors of the warehouse opened and light streamed out. Soldiers were manhandling two men into the open; they were Dan Atheridge and Antoine Dufour, who had retired to sleep on the cotton bales. Atheridge was writhing as someone wrenched his broken arm clear of its sling.


'Good God, what are they doing to them?' Kemp asked in horror.


'I'd like to know,' I said grimly. 'Those two are about the most pacifist of the lot of us.' I wondered if it had anything to do with the shotgun I'd hidden.


Into this scene drove two staff cars; in one was our black-goggled Captain and in the other a large, impressive man who must have been Colonel Maksa. He had the Arabic features of many of his countrymen, marred by a disfiguring scar across his face. His uniform looked as though it had just been delivered from the tailors, in marked contrast to the bedraggled appearance of his Captain and men. He stood up as his car stopped and looked at us coldly.


I tried to take the initiative.


'I must make a formal protest, Colonel Maksa,' I said.


'Must you?' This was a more sophisticated man than the Captain, and just those two words warned me that he could be very dangerous.


'We are a civilian engineering team. Your soldiers have been interfering with our camp and assaulting our men. I protest most strongly!'


'Have they?' he asked indifferently. He alighted from his car and walked past me to look at the rig, then returned to confer with his Captain.


At last he turned back to us.


'Line up your men,' he ordered. Wingstead gestured to the crew and they came to stand with him in a ragged line. The soldiers brought Dufour and Atheridge and dumped them among us. Both looked dazed. I glanced down the line. The two Lat-Am men were there, Burns at his most belligerent and being restrained by a nervous Zimmerman. So were both the Russians, and I hoped that Zimmerman would remember that if they were slow in obeying orders because they couldn't understand them there might be trouble. It would be ironic if they were killed by Moscow-made weapons.


All our own men were there save Mick McGrath, and on him I had begun to pin absurd hopes. None of the medical people were present. There were soldiers in front and behind us, and paradoxically the very fact they were behind us made me feel a little better, because otherwise this would look too much like an execution.


Maksa spoke to his Captain, who barked an order.


'Go into the warehouse.'


'Now wait a goddamn -' began Wingstead.


The Captain thrust his black-visored face alarmingly close. 'I would not argue. Do what the Colonel wishes,' he said. 'He doesn't like arguments.'


I didn't know if this was a warning or a threat. We walked forward between a line of guards and entered the warehouse.


We crowded towards the rear where the cotton was piled. Atheridge collapsed to the floor. Dufour looked dazed still but was on his feet. The doors were closed and a line of Maksa's troops stood just inside them, holding sub-machine-guns.


I had to know about the shotgun. I said to Hammond, keeping my voice low, 'Drift over to the corner behind you, to the left. Get some of the others to do the same. I need a diversion at the door. I want their attention away from that corner for a few seconds.'


Russ Burns said softly, 'I'll do it.'


'Right. Just keep them talking for a few moments.'


He nodded curtly and edged away. I passed Bishop as I moved slowly towards the corner and said to him, 'Brad, keep Sandy out of this if you can.'


He moved in the opposite direction, taking Bing by the arm as he did so. Zimmerman followed Burns and the two Russians went with him as though connected by magnets. We were spread about, and the five soldiers couldn't watch all of us.


Burns went up to the soldiers and started talking. They converged on him threateningly and their voices rose. As all eyes were on them I slipped away into the corner, shielded by the little knot of men around Ben Hammond.


I scrabbled at the cotton searching for the exact spot, and my fingers encountered nothing. The sweat on my forehead was an icy film. The shotgun was gone. I rejoined the others as the warehouse doors opened again.


We were being joined by the whole of the medical staff. They were upset and angry, both Sister Ursula and Dr Kat boiling with rage.


'What's happening out there?' Wingstead asked.


'They made us leave our patients,' Dr Kat said hoarsely. 'They turned guns on us. Guns! We are medical people, not soldiers! We must go back.'


The black bars of Sister Ursula's eyebrows were drawn down and she looked furious. They are barbarians. They must let us go back, Mister Mannix. There's a baby out there that needs help, and Mister Otterman is dangerously ill.'


'Where's Sister Mary?' someone asked, and Sister Ursula looked more angry still. 'She's ill herself. We must make their leader see reason!'


Until the Colonel came there was nothing to do but wait. I considered the two missing factors: McGrath and the shotgun.


It was inevitable that I should put them together. When I hid the shotgun, I had thought I wasn't seen but there was no knowing how much McGrath knew. He was used to acting independently, and sometimes dangerously so, and I knew him to be a killer. I hoped that he wasn't going to do anything bull-headed: one wrong move and we could all be dead.


I was still brooding when the warehouse doors opened and Maksa walked in. When I saw the shotgun in his hands I felt as though I'd been kicked in the teeth.


He stared at us then said, 'I want to talk to you. Get into a line.' A jerk of the shotgun barrel reinforced the order. He gave a curt command and the soldiers filed out except for one sergeant and the doors closed behind them. We shuffled into a line to face our captor.


He said, 'I am Colonel Maksa, commander of the fifteenth Infantry Battalion of the Nyalan Peoples' Liberation Army. I am here in pursuit of an unfriendly military force under the command of Captain Sadiq. I have reason to think you are shielding them in an act of aggression against the Nyalan Peoples' Republic and I intend to have this information from you.'


'Colonel, we really don't -' Wingstead began.


'Be silent! I will ask you in due course. I will begin by knowing all your names and your business, starting with you.' He thrust the shotgun in the direction of Ritchie Thorpe, who was at the far end of the line.


'Uh . . . Mister Wingstead?'


Wingstead nodded gently. 'As the Colonel says, Ritch. Just tell him your name.'


'I'm Richard Thorpe. I work for Mister Wingstead there. For Wyvern Transport.'


The gun's muzzle travelled to the next man. 'You?'


'Bert Proctor. I drive a rig for Wyvern. I'm English.'


'Me too. Derek Grafton, Wyvern Transport.'


'Sam Wilson. Driver . . .'


The roll call continued. Some were sullen, one or two clearly terrified, a couple displayed bravado, but no-one refused to answer. The nurses, clustered together, answered in Nyalan but Dr Kat refused to do so, speaking only English and trying to get in a word about his patients. Maksa brushed him aside and went on down the line. Once the flow of voices stopped Maksa said icily, 'Well? Do you refuse to name yourself?'


Zimmerman raised his voice.


'Colonel, they don't understand you. They don't speak English.'


'Who are they?'


'They're Russians: truck drivers. Their names are -' and he supplied the two names which the rest of us could never remember. Maksa's brows converged and he said, 'Russians? I find that most interesting. You speak Russian, then?'


'Yes, a little.'


'Who are you?'


'Harry Zimmerman. I'm a blaster for Lat-Am Oil, and I'm an American. And I don't have anything to do with your war or this captain you're after.'


Maksa looked at him coldly. 'Enough! Next?'


As he looked along the line his sergeant whispered to him. The next man was Russ Burns. , 'Russell Burns, Lat-Am Oil, a good Texan, and one who doesn't like being shoved around. What are you going to do about it?'


Burns was looking for trouble once again.


'My sergeant tells me he has already had trouble, with you. You insulted my soldiers. Is this true?'


'You're damn right I did! I don't like being pushed around by a bunch of bastards like you.'


He stepped out of the line-up.


'Burns, cut it out!' I said.


Zimmerman added, 'For God's sake, Russ, take it easy.'


The shotgun rose in the Colonel's hand to point straight at the Texan. Burns gave way but was already too late. The Colonel stepped forward and put the muzzle of the shotgun under Burns' chin and tilted his head back.


'You are not very respectful,' Maksa said. 'What is this -has someone tried to kill you already?'


The shotgun rubbed against the bandage round Burns' throat, and he swallowed convulsively. But some mad bravado made him say, That's none of your damn business. I cut myself shaving.'


Maksa smiled genially. 'A man with a sense of humour,' he said, and pulled the trigger.


The top of Burns' head blew off. His body splayed out over the floor, pooled with blood. The line scattered with shock. Maksa backed up near the door and his sergeant flanked him with his own gun at the ready. Someone was puking his guts out, and one of the nurses was down on the warehouse floor in a dead faint. The bloody horror of war had caught up with us.


CHAPTER 20


Horror gave way to anger. The men started to voice their outrage. I looked down at Burns' body. Nine one third inch lead slugs, together weighing over an ounce, driven with explosive force from close range had pretty well demolished him. It was the quickest of deaths and quite painless for him; but we felt it, the bowel-loosening pain of fear that sudden death brings.


Maksa's voice rose over the babble.


'Be silent!' he said. He hefted the shotgun and his eyes raked us. 'Who owns this?'


Nobody spoke.


'Who owns this shotgun?' he demanded again.


I was debating what to do when Maksa forced my hand. He stepped forward, scanning us, and then pointed. 'You - come here.' The person he had indicated was Helen Chula. After a moment's hesitation she walked slowly towards him, and he grabbed her by the arm, swung her round to face us and jammed the shotgun against her back. 'I ask for the third time, and there will not be a fourth. Who owns this gun?'


I had never found violence of much use in solving my problems, but it seemed to work for Maksa. He1 could give McGrath pointers in terrorism. I said, 'It's mine,' and stepped forward.


Maksa thrust Helen away. I heard her sobbing but could see nothing but the muzzle of the shotgun as it pointed at my belly. It loomed as large as a fifteen inch navy gun.


'So,' said Maksa. 'We have an American civilian, wandering around with a weapon during an armed conflict. A dangerous thing to do, would you not agree?'


'It's a sporting gun,' I said with a dry mouth.


'Can you produce your licence?'


I swallowed. 'No.'


'And I suppose you will also tell me that you do not work for your CIA.'


'I don't. I work for a British firm, and no-one else.'


'Backing the corruption of our so-called Government?'


'Not at all.'


'A man can have two masters,' he said thoughtfully. 'You Americans and the British have always worked in double harness. You imperialists stick together, don't you? You give up your colonies and tell the United Nations that now Nyala is self-governing. But you don't leave my country alone after that.'


I kept silent.


He went on, 'You say we are independent, but you keep the money strings tight. You choke us with loans and reap the profits yourselves; you corrupt our politicians; you plunder us of raw material and sell us the so-called benefits of Western civilization in return, to take back the money you gave us. And now you have been joined by the dogs of Moscow: the old Czarist imperialists ally themselves with you to loot our oil and ruin our country.'


He drew a long breath, controlling himself, and then changed tack.


'Now, about Captain Sadiq. Where is he and what are his plans?'


I said, 'Colonel Maksa, the Captain pulled his men out early today and went away. We know no more than that.'


He said, 'I have talked enough to you. You weary me. I can get more from the others.'


I stood frozen. The Colonel slid his hand down the gun barrel, and then a new voice cut in from high up and behind me. It wasn't very loud but it was very firm.


'If you lift that shotgun I'll cut you in half, colonel.'


Maksa glared over my shoulder. I spun round to see a big black-faced man aiming a sub-machine gun at the Colonel: I turned swiftly and took Maksa's gun away from him.


The man on the cotton stack swung the machine gun in a slow arc to point it at the Nyalan sergeant. Without a word the soldier put his gun down and backed away. Hammond picked it up and we held both men under guard. The man with the black face and McGrath's voice swung himself down to the floor. Voices murmured in recognition and relief, and then fell silent again. The atmosphere had changed dramatically, despite Russ Burns' body sprawling at our feet.


I said, 'Maksa, you've seen what this gun can do. One twitch from you and I'll blow your backbone out.'


'If you shoot me you'll bring.the soldiers in. They'll kill you all.'


'No they won't,' Hammond said. They didn't come in when you shot Russ there.'


McGrath, his face and arms covered with blacking, slung the gun over his shoulder. 'Raise your hands and turn round, Maksa,' he said. Trembling with anger, the Colonel turned as McGrath's hand came out of his pocket holding the cosh. He hit Maksa behind the ear and the Colonel dropped solidly.


McGrath turned to the sergeant. 'Now you, son. Turn round.'


He obeyed unwillingly. Again there was a surge of movement and McGrath said, 'Keep it down, you flaming fools. We'll have the guards in if they hear that going on. Just you keep quiet now.'


Relief made my tone edgy. 'Where the hell have you been, McGrath?'


'Out and about.' He began to strip off the colonel's uniform jacket with its red brassard on one sleeve. 'Give me a hand. Tie him up and dump him back there in the cotton. Same with his sergeant.'


'Goddamnit, we're taking one hell of a risk, McGrath. We might have been able to talk our way out of that jam, but there's no chance now.'


'You weren't going to be given much more time to talk, Mr Mannix,' he said mildly. He was right but I hated to admit it; to be that close to death was hard to accept.


McGrath went on, tugging on a pair of trousers. 'Do you know what they're doing out there? They're piling up petrol drums. They were going to burn down the warehouse.'


'With us in it?' Kemp asked in horror.


Someone said, 'For God's sake, we've got to get out of here.'


'Take it easy,' said McGrath. They won't strike a match before the Colonel's out.' He was dressing in the Colonel's uniform. 'Who's for the other outfit? Who fits?'


As we considered this he went on, 'I'm sorry, but I've got a bit more bad news for you.'


'What now?'


'Max Otterman's dead.'


Dr Kat said, 'I should have been with him.'


McGrath said gently, 'He was murdered.'


We stood rigid with shock.


'I saw the soldiers going over the rig after they brought you in here. They were pretty rough on everybody, even their own sick people. Then Max started convulsing and calling out, the way he's been doing, and they . . . Well, they booted him off the rig. I think his neck's broken.'


'Oh my God!' Wingstead whispered.


'I think the fall may have killed him. But one of the troops put a bullet in him as well. I'm sorry to have to tell you.'


The change in everyone's attitude was almost tangible. Neither the war, the bombing in Kodowa, our own capture, nor the death of Russ Burns had had this effect. It had come closer with the news of the intended burning of our prison. But the callous murder of our pilot had done the trick; it had roused them to fighting pitch.


Wingstead said, 'You've got a plan, McGrath, haven't you?'


'Carry on as though the Colonel were still here.' McGrath adjusted his uniform. Sam Wilson was getting into the other. Dr Kat bent over Burn's body.


McGrath said, 'Leave Russ where he is. He's evidence if anyone comes in. They know there was a shooting.' He picked up the sergeant's Uzi. 'Anyone know how to use this?'


'I do,' Wilson and Zimmerman both said. McGrath tossed it to Wilson. That's fine. It fits your image. Here, add this.' He tossed Wilson a small pot of blacking. 'It stinks but it'll do.' Wilson started to smear the stuff on his face and hands.


I held on to the shotgun, and Wingstead took the Colonel's pistol. That made four guns plus McGrath's cosh and God knows what else he had in the way of knives or other lethal instruments. It wasn't much to start a war with.


Wingstead said, 'Mick, how did you get in here?'


He pointed upwards. 'Easy. Through the roof. It's corrugated iron but some of it's so old it's soft as butter. But we're not going out that way. There's a door at the back of this shed. I couldn't open it from the outside, it's bolted. And from the inside it's hidden behind the cotton. But we can leave that way.'


Hammond said eagerly, Then let's go.' 'Not yet, Ben. We can reduce the odds out there a bit first. Now listen. When I saw what was likely to happen I ducked out; didn't like the idea of waiting to be rounded up. I went into the bush to look for Sadiq. I damn near got shot by his lads. They're trigger-happy.'


'How far away is he?' Wingstead asked.


'Not far. He's been scouting and these are his conclusions. This Fifteenth Battalion has been in action, probably against the loyalist Seventh Brigade, and came off worst. There are about two hundred men, a quarter of the battalion.'


'It's a hell of a lot more than we can handle,' Zimmerman said.


'Will you wait a minute, now,' McGrath said irritably. 'Maksa has sent most of them across the bridge, leaving about fifty men and a few vehicles on this side. Many of them are wounded. There are only two officers outside. Sadiq's ready to attack. His mortars can drop bombs on them like confetti at a wedding when he gets the signal.'


'Let's hear your plan,' I said.


'It goes like this. We take out the officers first. That way the men have nobody to direct them, and they'll run or surrender.'


'Just how do we do that?' Hammond asked.


'Well, as you see, I borrowed a dab or two of boot polish from the Captain, and here I am like a bloody nigger minstrel in the Colonel's uniform. If I put his cap on I reckon I can get away with it for as long as it takes to call them in here, one by one.'


'It won't work,' said Zimmerman. 'You haven't the voice for it.'


Lang said, 'We've got Doctor Kat though.'


McGrath took a piece of paper from his old jacket. 'Most of the officers are on the other side of the water. The ones here are Captain Mosira, that's the laddie in the dark glasses, and Lieutenant Chawa. We get them in here and deal with them. Then we go out the back way, smuggle the nurses back onto the rig, it's got a light guard but they'll be no problem, and then signal to Sadiq to start his action.'


Wingstead had a tough time of it with Katabisirua. The Doctor was concerned about violating his noncombatant status as a medical man.


'For Christ's sake, Doctor, we're not asking you to kill anyone. Just talk to them,' McGrath said. Eventually Dr Kat agreed to do what we wanted.


I said to McGrath, 'What happens after we knock off the officers?'


McGrath took out a knife and squatted on the floor. 'When Sadiq makes his attack he doesn't want any interference from across the bridge. So our job is to hold the bridge.' He scratched lines in the dirt floor. 'Here's the river and here's the bridge. On it near the other side they've stationed a Saracen armoured troop carrier. We have to stop it coming across and at the same time block the bridge somehow.'


'What's it armed with?'


'A heavy machine gun in a turret, and twin light machine guns on a Scarfe ring.'


Hammond blew out his cheeks. 'How in hell do we stop a thing like that? Bullets will bounce off. It'll be moving as soon as Sadiq attacks.'


'I stop it,' said McGrath. 'With Barry Lang's help.'


Lang stared at him.


'Look, here's the rig. All our tractors bar one have been coupled, ready to take it across the river. The free tractor is here, near the bridge. We take it onto the bridge and ram that bloody Saracen with it.'


Wingstead said sharply, 'You won't have a chance, Mick. The heavy machine gun will shoot hell out of you.'


'Not if we go backwards,' said McGrath simply.


Lang's face lit up.


'Behind that cab are twenty tons of steel plate set in cement. The thing's armoured like a tank. Nothing they've got will penetrate it and it outweighs the Saracen by a long chalk. What we need is covering fire. The cab windows aren't armoured and we'll have to lean out to see our way backwards. The rebels on this side will be busy but there may be some shooting and it'll be up to the rest of you to give us protection.'


Kemp said, 'With what?'


I said, 'We've already got three guns and a pistol and we'll get more from each officer. And there are four or five guards out there with sub-machine-guns that we can. pick up too. I think the time for talking is over.'


'I agree,' McGrath said briskly, standing up. 'I.want everybody lined up again, except for a couple of you behind the doors.'


'What about me?' I asked.


'When an officer walks through that door he'll expect to see Maksa, you and Mister Wingstead, because you're the boss men. So you'll be right there in line, under the guns.' He gave his knife to Lang and the cosh to Bert Proctor. 'You two take anyone coming through that door but only after the doors are closed. Harry, you take the other machine-gun and go stand up there where I was. If the guards do come in you can fire over our heads, and if that happens everyone ducks fast. Doctor Kat, you're in line too. Think your voice can carry outside?'


The doctor nodded reluctantly.


'I'll take the shotgun, Mister Mannix, if you don't mind,' McGrath said. I handed it over to him with some hesitation, but he was right, he had to look the part. It left me feeling vulnerable again.


We stood like actors waiting for a curtain to rise. Facing me was McGrath looking surprisingly like Maksa even from where I stood. Just as I had taken over from Kemp and Wingstead in one crisis, so now McGrath had as easily taken over from me. He was a natural leader and afterwards he would be damned hard to control. If there was an afterwards.


CHAPTER 21


McGrath went and opened one of the doors. He put his arm through the narrow opening, holding the shotgun at the ready. Dr Kat stood immediately behind him out of sight, so that the voice should seem to come from the bogus colonel. McGrath's head was averted as though he were keeping an eye on his prisoners, but light fell on his shoulder tabs and brassarded arm. When Dr Kat spoke it didn't sound much like Maksa but we could only hope that the soldiers would accept it. McGrath closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief.


'Right,' he said. Two officers are coming in. You ready, you three?'


The attack team nodded silently, and at the rear of the warehouse Zimmerman waved his machine-gun and dropped out of sight behind the topmost stack of cotton. McGrath strode across to Burns' body and stood beside it with his back to the doors. His legs were apart and he held the shotgun so that it pointed down towards the shattered skull. It was a nice piece of stage setting; anyone entering would see his back and then their eyes would be drawn to Burns, a particularly nasty sight.


McGrath judged it was too quiet.


'Say something, Mister Mannix,' he said. 'Carry on your conversation with the Colonel.'


'I don't want your bloody oil,' I improvised. 'I'm not in the oil business. I work for a firm of electrical engineers.' Behind McGrath Proctor had his ear to the door and the cosh raised. I carried on, 'We're certainly not responsible for how you run your country ...'


The door opened and two officers walked in, Mosira still wearing his dark glasses and a much younger officer following him. I went on speaking. 'Colonel Maksa, I demand that you allow our medical people to see their . . .'


Proctor hit the lieutenant hard with the cosh and he went straight down. Captain Mosira was putting up a struggle, groping for his pistol. Lang had an arm round the Captain's neck but his knife waved wildly in the air. Mosira couldn't shout because of the stranglehold but it was not until McGrath turned and drove the butt of the shotgun against his head that he collapsed.


Outside all was quiet, and in the warehouse nobody spoke either. McGrath turned to Barry Lang and held out his hand for the knife. 'I said, don't be squeamish,' he said coldly.


Lang gave him the knife. 'I'm sorry, Mick, I just -'


'Who can use this?'


'I can,' said Hammond.


McGrath instantly tossed him the knife. 'Right, lads, let's pick up our loot and get this lot out of the way.'


Both officers had worn pistols and the lieutenant had a grenade at his belt. In the distribution I got one of the pistols. We looked to McGrath for guidance.


'Let's get those guards, lads. There are only six or seven of them. It'll be easy.'


It was entirely McGrath who made it work, his drive and coolness that kept the exercise moving. But paradoxically Maksa's own personality also helped us. He was clearly a martinet and no enlisted man was going to question his orders. The guards entered on demand and were easy to deal with.


We looked round the warehouse. The soldiers were laid in a row behind the cotton bales, together with the body of Russ Burns. The door in the rear was opened with ease and we were ready to leave.


McGrath said, 'As soon as possible we get that signal off. You know the drill, Mister Mannix?'


I nodded. The back of the warehouse faced away from our camp so we'd have to go around it and might run into enemy soldiers at any moment. One group was to get the medical team and Dan Atheridge to the rig and then rejoin the rest of us, who'd be in cover as close to the bridge as we could get. We'd leapfrog one another to get in place, ready to protect McGrath and his tractor team-mate. There had been some doubt as to who that would be.


McGrath looked at Barry Lang speculatively. He had jibbed at knifing Mosira and this made McGrath uncertain of his mettle. But they usually teamed up, and it was safer to work with a man one knew, so McGrath said to him, 'Right then, Barry, you're with me in the cab. Just stick close, you hear me?'


'What's the signal for Sadiq to attack? The Very pistol?' I asked.


'Yes, a red flare the way you planned.'


The Very pistol's still in a suitcase by the rig, unless they found it.'


He grinned, swarmed up on top of the cotton and came down again with the Very pistol in his hand. 'Full of surprises, aren't I?' he said.


I didn't ask him how he knew where it was. He'd obviously been hiding nearby when I hid the thing. He might have seen me go off with the shotgun too, and I wondered again how Maksa had come by it.


'You take it,' McGrath said, handing me the signal pistol. 'You'll be in charge of this exercise, Mister Mannix.'


I said, 'Just what are you going to do?'


He grinned. 'I'm going to march Barry out of here at gunpoint. I still look like the Colonel, and I've got Sam as my sergeant. We're going to take Lang down to the bridge and when we're near enough we'll make a break for the tractor. Sam will get into cover and wait for you to come up, if you're not there already.'


It was audacious but it could work. Wingstead said, 'You'll have every eye on you.'


'Well, it's a chance, I'll grant you. But it should get us to the cab. You get off the signal the instant we make our break, so that Sadiq can keep those laddies too busy to think for a bit.'


As quietly as possible we barricaded the front doors with cotton bales, and were ready to go. I opened the rear door a crack and looked out. There was some moonlight, which would help McGrath in the tractor later on, and the night was fairly quiet. We left cautiously.


As we rounded the warehouse we could see the fires from the rebels' camp, and brighter lights around our rig. I could see soldiers in the light near the rig but there weren't many of them. There was plenty of cover all the way to the bridge, just as we had visualized.


'OK, Mick, start walking,' I whispered.


We moved away from the warehouse according to plan. McGrath and his party stepped out, Lang first with a submachine-gun jammed into his spine. Next was Wilson his sergeant's cap pulled well down over his face. McGrath followed with the shotgun. It looked pretty good to me. I paced myself so that I was not too far ahead of McGrath, and the rest passed me to fan out ahead.


The marchers were almost opposite the rig when a soldier called out. I heard an indistinguishable answer from McGrath and a sharp retort, and then the soldier raised his gun. He didn't fire but was clearly puzzled.


Then there came the rip fire of an Uzi from beyond the rig. Someone had been spotted. The soldier turned uncertainly and McGrath cut him down with the shotgun. Then he and Lang bolted for their tractor. Wilson disappeared into the roadside cover. The shotgun blasted again and then gunfire crackled all around us, lighting up the night with flashes. I pointed the Very pistol skywards and the cartridge blossomed as I ran for cover, Bert Proctor at my side.


Soldiers tumbled out everywhere and guns were popping off all over the place. Then there was an ear-splitting roar as engines churned and a confusion of lights as headlamps came on. The night was split by the explosions of mortar bombs landing in the rebels' camp.


We left the cover of the bushes and charged towards our convoy. The nearest vehicle was Kemp's Land Rover and we flung ourselves down beside it. An engine rumbled as a vehicle came towards us and when I saw what it was I groaned aloud. It was a Saracen. Maksa's men must have already got it off the Bridge. It moved slowly and the gun turret swung uncertainly from side to side, seeking a target.


'It's coming this way!' Proctor gasped.


Behind us the deeper voice of our tractor roared as McGrath fired its engine. The Saracen was bearing down on it. We had to do something to stop its progress. The Uzi wouldn't be much good against armour but perhaps a Very cartridge slamming against the turret would at least startle and confuse the driver. As the Saracen passed us, already opening fire on the tractor, I took aim and let fly. The missile grazed the spinning turret and hit the armoured casing behind it, igniting as it landed. I must have done something right; there was a flash and a vast explosion which threw us sideways and rocked the Land Rover. When we staggered up the Saracen was on fire and inside someone was screaming.


I groped for my pistol but couldn't find it, and watched the Burning Saracen run off the road into the bushes as our tractor massed it. McGrath leaned out and yelled at me.


'Lang's bought it. Get him out of here!'


I ran to the passenger side of the cab. The Saracen had set Bushes burning and in the flaring light I saw blood on Lang's chest as I hauled him out of his seat. Proctor took him from me as we ran alongside the tractor.


McGrath yelled at me, 'Stay with me. Get in!' I clung onto the swinging cab door, hooked a foot over the seat and threw myself inside.


'Welcome aboard,' McGrath grunted. 'Watch our rear. Say if anything gets in our way.' He looked rearwards out of his own window. I followed suit.


Driving backwards can be tricky on a quiet Sunday morning in the suburbs. In these conditions it was terrifying. The tractor swayed from side to side, weaving down the road and onto the bridge. In the rear mirror I could see the second Saracen at the far end. There were heavy thumps on the tractor casing; we were being fired on by the Saracen as it retreated ahead of us. The driver had decided that he'd have more room to manoeuvre and fight off the bridge. We wanted to ram him before he could leave. We made it by a hair.


The Saracen's driver misjudged and reversed into the parapet; his correction cost him the race. The tractor bucked and slammed with an almighty wrench into the front of the Saracen, and there was a shower of sparks in the air. Our engine nearly stalled but McGrath poured on power, and ground the tractor into the Saracen.


'Go, you bastard, go!' McGrath's face was savage with joy as he wrestled with wheel and accelerator.


There wasn't much doubt that we'd won. The armoured car was a solid lump of metal but it didn't weigh much over ten tons to the tractor's forty. The impact must have knocked the Saracen's crew out because the shooting stopped at once. The turret was buckled and useless.


McGrath kept up a steady pressure and the tractor moved remorselessly backwards, pushing the armoured car. He judged his angle carefully and there was a grinding crunch as the Saracen was forced against the coping wall of the bridge. But we didn't want the bridge itself damaged and McGrath stopped short of sending it into the river, which would have shattered the wall.


The Saracen's engine was ground into scrap and wasn't going anywhere under its own power. The bridge was effectively blocked to the enemy, and Sadiq was free to get on with the job.


McGrath put the tractor gently into forward gear. There was no opposition as we travelled back across the bridge and stopped to form a secondary blockade. We tumbled out of the cab to an enthusiastic welcome.


'Where's Barry?' I asked.


'We've got him back to the rig. He's with the medics,' Proctor said.


McGrath stirred and stretched hugely. I said, 'That was damn good driving, Mick.'


'You didn't do too badly yourself. What the hell did you use on that first Saracen - a flame-thrower?'


'I fired the Very gun at it. It shouldn't have worked but it did.'


Looking around, we could see figures heading off towards the river downstream from the bridge. There was some scattered shooting. The remains of Maksa's force were intent only on escaping back to their own side. More mortars fired and the shooting stopped.


We tensed up at this renewal of hostilities but it was happening a long way off from us, to our relief.


Geoff Wingstead was beside me. 'I've had it. This is Sadiq's war. Let him fight it from now on. I'm all for going back to being a truck driver.'


'Me too - only I'll be happy just to ride that desk of mine.'


McGrath said, 'I'll be happier when we've got a detachment down here; they still might try to rush that bridge and Sadiq isn't nearby. We might still be wanted.'


'I hope to God not. We've had one casualty and we don't want any more.'


Wingstead said, 'I'm afraid we've had more than one.'


I said, 'Who else, then?'


He pointed to a group of men at the foot of the water tanker, consisting of Harry Zimmerman, a Russian, and Brad Bishop.


'One of the Russians bought it,' Wingstead told me. Together we walked over to Zimmerman, who was looking sadly at the huddled body. 'I'm sorry about this, my friend,' I said to his fellow countryman, standing impassively by, then to Zimmerman, 'Who was he - Brezhnev or Kosygin?' I never could tell them apart.


Zimmerman sighed. 'His name was Andrei Djavakhishkili and he came from Tbilisi in Georgia. He was a nice guy when you got to know him.'


The remaining two hours to dawn were quiet. Sadiq had joined us, and we sat in the cover of our vehicles, waiting for the morning light. We didn't expect the enemy to try anything; their only passage was blocked off and the decisiveness of Sadiq's action, and our own, must have rocked their morale.


With the rising of the sun we could see no sign of movement from across the river. The scene was one of destruction; burnt out vegetation still smouldered, the camp site littered with debris, and the wreckage of the first Saracen huddled in a ditch. We found the bodies of three men near it, one shot and two who had died of burns. There were more bodies up the hill at the soldiers' camp but Sadiq's men were taking care of them and we didn't want to see the site of that battle.


Our tractor blocked the nearside of the bridge and at the far end the second Saracen lay canted over diagonally across the road and forced up hard against the coping. There was no sign of men or vehicles beyond.


I said to Sadiq, 'What now, Captain?'


He studied the opposite bank carefully through binoculars, holding them one-handed as his left arm was in a sling. He was no longer the immaculate officer whose pants were creased to a knife edge and whose shoes gleamed. He'd lost his boot polish to McGrath. His uniform was scorched and rumpled.


There were lines of strain about his eyes and mouth. Presently he said, 'We watch and wait for one, two hours maybe. If everything is still quiet I will send scouts across the river.'


'Risky.'


'Would you expect anything else in war, Mister Mannix?'


'You did well last night, Captain. It was a fine operation.'


He nodded gravely. 'Yes, we did well. But you all did well, especially Mister McGrath. He is very efficient. Without him it might not have come about.'


I knew that and didn't want to dwell on it. I would have liked to admire McGrath whole-heartedly but found it impossible. I was pleased to hear that Sadiq had sustained no losses among his men, and only a couple were wounded.


Our losses were worse.


The Russian was dead. Lang was in a bad way and lay on Dr Kat's operating table. Proctor had a bullet graze on the leg and Kemp on the shoulder, and others had an assortment of bruises and abrasions. But a roll call proved one man missing. After a search we found the body of Ron Jones, shot through the head and stomach by machine-gun bullets.


CHAPTER 22


It was ten o'clock before Sadiq took his chance on the bridge. First he wanted the tractor shifted so that if necessary he could get troops across fast, and we were wary of sending anyone out of cover to do that until we felt fairly sure, it was safe. Sadiq would not send scouts across, as being too dangerous. He was going to cross first himself in the Scorpion tank, which was a brave thing to do because even a lone infantryman might have a tank-killing weapon. He was taking three men with him, a driver, a gunner and a radio operator, and he left instructions that nobody was to move until he came back or sent a coded all clear signal.


Before that we'd cleaned up the camp, repairing what was possible and listing what needed repair when we could spare the time. Luckily Maksa's men had not destroyed much of importance, though there were two car windows shattered and sundry minor damage done here and there. Bishop and Bing, with help from the others, got a food supply moving, and on the rig the medical people were kept very busy.


Max Otterman's body had been found at the foot of the rig with a bullet in his back and two ribs broken, presumably by the fall though the damage could have been done by a boot. It was an appalling death. We organized a digging party off the road and held a mass funeral service. Otterman, Burns, Ron Jones and Andrei Djavakhishkili, a Rhodesian, an American, a Welshman and a Russian, shared one grave, though we gave them each separate headboards. In another grave were two of Sadiq's men and with them four rebels, all with the common bond of being Nyalans.


Both the ailing infant and the hospital's other serious patient, Sister Mary, had survived the night. But the two doctors and the nursing staff were under great strain and an urgent discussion on ways and means was long overdue.


Astonishingly, during the early hours of the morning we had visitors.


Sandy Bing, carrying a bucket of hot water towards the rig, stopped and said, 'I'll be damned, Mister Wingstead! Just look at them.'


In the distance, quietly and almost shyly, little clumps of Nyalans were reappearing, still mostly women and children, to stand in respectful yet wary homage to their travelling talisman. Some of them spoke to the soldiers, and Dr Kat and two of the Nyalan nurses went down among them, to return with news that the vast majority had melted away just far enough to be within earshot of the fight, and close enough to come back if they felt all was safe again. It was truly extraordinary.


'I think it may mean that the other soldiers have all gone,' Dr Kat told us. They speak of them as evil, and they would not come back if they were still close by.'


'But they'd be across the river, Doctor Kat. How could these people know?'


'I think you call it the bush telegraph,' the surgeon said with his first smile for a long time. 'It really does work quite well. You will see, the Captain will return to give us an all clear. In the meantime, they have brought me a woman who .broke her leg last night. I must go back and see to her.'


I went to have a look at the Saracen that had caught fire. I was curious to see why it had happened; an armoured car isn't a paper bag to be burned up by a Very flare.


It was simple enough when we reconstructed what had occurred. At the time that the shooting started someone must have been filling the gas tank and in the hurry to get things moving the fuel tank cap hadn't been screwed back on properly. When the Very ignited, a spark must have gone straight into the tank, blowing up the vehicle in fine style. We found the cap still on its hinge, military fashion, but hanging loose.


I had another job to do that I didn't relish, and that was to speak to McGrath alone. I started by telling him about the Saracen and he grinned approval.


'Dead lucky. We have to have some of it,' he commented.


I said, 'McGrath, there's something bothering me.'


'Why then, let's have it,' he said calmly.


'In the warehouse you told us that Maksa was getting ready to burn it down with us inside. But I found no petrol drums anywhere near the warehouse, and there's no fuel of theirs this side of the river. Our tanker is still locked and nobody took the keys.'


'Well, maybe they were going to do it another way,' he said easily.


'Don't mess with me, McGrath. Did you actually hear them say anything like that?'


'Oh for Christ's sake,' he said, driven out of his normal calm, 'I had to say something to get you lot moving! You were just going to stand there and take it. Or try talking your way out, I suppose.'


'You were safe enough, free and armed. Why the hell did you bother to come back for us?'


'If I thought I could have got away through this benighted country on my own, Mannix, I'd have done so. I need you, that's why.' He crowned this casually selfish statement with one more shocking. 'I must say Otterman's death came in handy. That really did the trick.'


I felt disgusted, and then had another appalling idea.


'McGrath, did you kill Ron Jones?'


He looked amused rather than alarmed. 'Why should I do that?'


'You know why. And you had time to do it. In God's name, how can I believe you even if you say you didn't?'


'Well now, you can't, Mannix, so if I were you I'd stop worrying about it. I didn't as a matter of fact, though he's no great loss for all that. In fact he was more dangerous to you than I've ever been.'


I couldn't help rising to the bait. 'What do you mean?'


'Well, he was a bit of a sniveller, wasn't he? You know that, the way he came babbling things to you that he shouldn't. He saw you take the shotgun into the warehouse, Mannix, and it was he who told the Colonel about it. I heard him myself.'


Quite suddenly I knew that this was the truth. I recalled Jones's fear in the warehouse, the way he hung back from Maksa as he'd always hung back from McGrath, perhaps fearing lest he be unmasked before us all for Maksa's pleasure. Any regret I had for his death ebbed away, and despite myself I felt a nagging touch of understanding of McGrath and his ruthlessness. He'd manoeuvred us into doing the one thing he knew best; fighting and killing. He'd done it all for the most selfish of reasons, and without compunction. And yet he was brave, efficient and vital to our cause; and perhaps justified as well.


I walked away from him in silence. I would never know if he had killed Ron Jones, but the worst of it, and the thing that filled me with contempt for myself as well as for him, was that I didn't care. I prayed that I wouldn't become any more like him.


McGrath was a maverick, intelligent, sound in military thinking and utterly without fear. I felt that he might be a useful man to have about in a war, but perhaps on the first day of peace he ought to be shot without mercy, and that was one hell of an assessment.


«


Sadiq had decided that it was time to go.


'Mister Mannix, if I do not return I have told my sergeant to take command of the soldiers,' he said. 'And they are to stay with you unless given alternative orders in person by a superior.'


Thank you. I wish you good luck.'


He saluted and climbed up into the Scorpion, dropping down through the command hatch and dogging it shut. He was taking no chances. The tank trundled slowly across the bridge. Sadiq had reckoned he could pass the wrecked Saracen but might have to nudge it aside and he proved right. Once past it he picked up speed and the driver did not bother to avoid the scattered bodies. I remembered being told back in Korea that if one wanted to sham dead on a battlefield better not to do it with tanks around.


Not a shot was fired as the tank left the bridge. It began to climb the hill beyond, then swerved and entered the bush and was lost to view. We settled down to wait in the hopeful expectation of hearing nothing. It was a long hour before the Scorpion rumbled back up the hill towards us. Sadiq got out and said, 'There is nothing. They have pulled out and gone.'


There was a ragged cheer from soldiers and civilians alike.


'Which way, do you think?' Wingstead asked.


Their vehicles must have gone on up the road.' This wasn't good news because it was to be our route too. He went on, 'We found two of them damaged and off the road, and there are many uniform jackets lying there. I think the Fifteenth Battalion has disbanded. They were nearly finished anyway, and the fight with us has destroyed them.'


'Now that I am certain the bridge is clear I will send scouts further ahead. I will place men to form a holding force while we decide what must be done next.'


And so the next item on the agenda was a council of war.


Sadiq's active force was down to twenty-two. There were sixteen of us and a medical staff of nine including three semi-trained nurses. On the rig were fifteen Nyalans, including the mother and her sick baby. So we totalled some seventy odd people, many of whom could not take care of themselves. We couldn't stay where we were nor could we turn back, which left us with an obvious conclusion. We had to carry on towards Lake Pirie and possible freedom in Manzu if we couldn't travel on to Port Luard.


Food and medical supplies were in shorter supply than ever, and our stock of petrol was dwindling fast. The only thing we had in plenty was water. The soldiers had run short of ammunition and had no mortar bombs left. We were ragged, weary and uncomfortable. But morale was high.


We reckoned that we could make Fort Pirie in three days or less, and it would be downhill all the way, with villages scattered along the route. We debated yet again leaving the rig but there were still too many sick people to accommodate in the other vehicles, and by now the contraption was beginning to take on a talisman-like quality to us as well as to the Nyalans. We'd got it this far: surely we could get it the rest of the way.


Kemp and Hammond went to inspect the bridge. Though well constructed it had taken a battering and they were concerned for its integrity. They decided that it was sound enough to get the rig across but with nobody on board except for the drivers. That meant that the invalids must be carried across, and Dr Kat set Sister Ursula to organize this with her usual barnstorming efficiency. We had little rest for the remainder of that day. At last we settled down for a final night in the Makara camp, a guard of soldiers on watch, ready to move out at first light.


Kemp and Hammond drove the rig, McGrath had charge of the towing tractor, and Thorpe joined Bob Pitman in running the airlift truck to give the rig its necessary boost. There was a large audience as Nyalans emerged to stare as the rig inched its way across; the Saracen had been towed clear and someone had had the mangled bodies removed. After an hour of tension it was across, and the job of transferring the sick on improvised stretchers began.


It was mid-morning before we really got going. We had quite a selection of vehicles to choose from, our inheritance from the Fifteenth Battalion. In spite of possible fuel problems Sadiq insisted on taking the remaining Saracen, but we ditched some of the trucks. We left the Russian pipe truck but took Dufour's vehicle with us, at the Frenchman's insistence. Brad Bishop said that he had so little cooking to do that the chuck wagon might as well be ditched too, but he didn't mean it.


Kemp, who had been a passenger on the rig because of his shoulder wound, had joined Wingstead and me in the Land Rover. Atheridge drove with Dufour. Their common ordeal at the hands of Maksa's men had forged a bond between them, just as one now existed between Harry Zimmerman and the Russian, Vashily Kirilenko; with his partner's death the nicknames had disappeared.


Wingstead said, 'Ben Hammond can move the convoy out. Let's drive on. We have to talk about McGrath.'


'I think he's psychopathic,' Wingstead went on. 'He's been with you more than with anyone else lately, Neil. What do you think?'


Kemp intervened, 'He's an unscrupulous bastard, and it was me who hired him. If you think I've made a mistake for God's sake say so.'


'Don't take this personally,' Wingstead said. 'If you want my candid opinion, he's the best bloody truck man you've ever hired. He's a damned marvel with that tractor.'


'Amen to that,' I said.


Kemp was still on the defensive. 'Well, I knew that. I couldn't afford to turn him down, Geoff. I knew we'd need the top men for this job. But his papers weren't in order. I advertised for heavy haulage drivers and he applied. He could do the job and had the necessary certificates, but I found discrepancies. I think he's travelling on a false .passport.'


Kemp had come a long way on his own.


I told them what I knew, both fact and speculation. At the end there was silence before either spoke.


Then Kemp said, 'He killed Sisley? But why should he?'


'He has only one answer to every problem - violence. I think he's a hard line gunman on the run from Ireland. He's dangerous. To look at he's a big amiable Mick straight from the bog. He works at that image.'


Wingstead asked, 'Do you think he could have killed Burke too?'


'Not the way Jones told it.'


'And you're not sure about Ron Jones' death.'


'No, that's only a gut feeling. But four men saw McGrath gun Sisley down. Burke ran off and is very likely dead by now. Jones is dead. Lang is gravely wounded, though thank God I know that one isn't at McGrath's door. That leaves Bob Pitman and if I were he I'd be walking carefully right now. Whatever we know or suspect about McGrath I suggest we keep it buttoned up, or we could find ourselves in deep trouble.'


We turned our attention to the future.


There's a biggish town, Batanda, not far across the Manzu border,' Wingstead said. 'I haven't found anyone who's been there, but the country itself is known to be relatively stable. There must be a road from Batanda to the ferry on Lake Pirie, because a lot of trade goes on between the two countries at that point. If we can take the ferry to Manzu and drive to Batanda we should be safe.'


'What's Fort Pirie like?' Kemp asked.


'Another Makara, not much there at all. And there may have been military activity there, so God knows what we'll find.'


Kemp asked, 'What are Sadiq's plans?'


'He'll stay with us as far as Fort Pirie, and help us cross the ferry if the road to Lasulu isn't clear. He won't cross himself, of course. He'll keep his men inside his own border. But I think he'll welcome our departure.'


'Not half as much as I will,' Kemp said fervently.v The bush country was left behind and the rainforest began to close in, green and oppressive. The exuberant plant life had eroded the road surface, roots bursting through the tarmac. The trees that bordered the road were very tall, their boughs arched so that it was like driving through a tunnel. There was more bird life but the game, which had been sparse before, was now nonexistent.


In the days before Maro Ofanwe improved matters this road had been not much more than a track, only one car wide for miles at a stretch. Traffic was one way on Mondays., Wednesdays and Fridays, and the other way on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Sundays you stayed home or took your chances and prayed to God. A lot of other roads in Nyala were still like that.


Occasionally there was a hard won clearing, usually with a scattering of grass huts clustered about a warehouse. These were the collection points for the cotton, coffee and cacao beans from the plantations hewed out of the forest. There were people in all these villages but little in the way of food or goods, and hardly anyone spoke English. We asked for news but it was scanty and the people ill-informed.


One or two villages were larger and we were able to drain storage tanks and pumps of available petrol. It was a good sign that there was some, as it meant that there'd been little traffic that way. Somehow enough food was found to keep us going, though it was pretty unpalatable. Behind and around us, our escort of Nyalans swelled and diminished as people joined in for a few miles, dropped out and were replaced by others. The train was growing, though; Sadiq told us there were several hundred people now, coming as remorselessly as a horde of locusts, and with consequences for the countryside nearly as disastrous. There was nothing we could do about it.


Two days passed without incident. On the rig, Lang's condition worsened and one of the soldiers died of his wounds. Sister Ursula nursed with devotion, coming among us to do spot checks on our continuing health and bully us into keeping clean, inside as well as out. If she could she'd have dispensed compulsory laxatives all round.


Margretta Marriot did the rounds too, changing bandages and keeping a watch for infection. There was little for her to do on the rig now except basic nursing, and sometimes she rode with one or other of us. A dour woman at best, I thought, and now she had retreated into a pit of misery that only work could alleviate. Sister Ursula, for all her hectoring, was more of a tonic.


On the morning of the third day Sadiq's scouts returned with news that they'd reached the Katali river and seen Lake Pirie shining in the sun. From where we were camped it was only a couple of hours' drive in a car, and spirits lifted; whatever was going to happen there, we'd reached another of our goals with the convoy still intact.


I'd travelled for most of the previous day in the cab of the water tanker with Sam Wilson (we each gave one another a turn in the comparative comfort of the Land Rover) and now I was with Thorpe in the travelling workshop when a messenger came asking me to join Captain Sadiq.


'I am going ahead, Mister Mannix,' he told me. 'I wish to see for myself what the situation is. There is a village ahead with petrol pumps. Would you and Mister Kemp drive there with us to look at it, please?'


I said, 'Harry Zimmerman told me there was a fuel depot hereabouts, one of his own company's places. We'll take him with us.'


Zimmerman, Kemp and I pushed on behind the soldiers, glad of the release. Soon enough we saw a welcome bottle-green expanse spreading out between the trees, and the road ran down through them to emerge on the shore of a large body of water, a sight quite astonishing after the endless days of bush and forest, and incredibly refreshing to the eye. It stretched away, placid in the blazing sun.


For a while we just sat and stared at it. Then we drove along the lakeside road for another mile or two.


Eventually we arrived at what might have passed for civilization. The place consisted of a roadside filling station with a big, faded Lat-Am fascia board; it was obviously a gas and oil distribution centre. Behind it was an extensive compound fenced in by cyclone netting, which contained stacks of drums. I supposed the gas and oil would be hauled along the road by tankers, transferred to ground tanks here and then rebottled in the drums for distribution to planters and farmers.


If anyone spoke English we were likely to find him here, though I did curse my lack of foresight in not bringing an interpreter with us. It proved not to be necessary.


At first there was nobody to be seen and few sounds; a water pump chugging somewhere, scrawny chickens pecking about, the monotonous link of some wild bird. I eyed the chickens speculatively, then blew a blast on the horn which scattered them, though not very far. They were used to traffic. A hornbill rose lazily from a tree and settled in another, cocked its head and looked down with beady eyes, as unconcerned as the chickens. At the sixth blast the door of the cabin behind the pumps opened, and a brown face peered warily at us through the crack.


We'd had this sort of nervous reaction before and could hardly blame the locals for being cautious, but at least our non-military car and clothing should prove reassuring. I called out cheerfully, 'Good morning. Are you open for business?'


The door opened wider and a Nyalan stepped out into the sun. He wore a tired overall on which the logo of Lat-Am was printed, a travesty of the livery which they inflicted on their gas station attendants in more affluent places.


'I am not open,' he said. 'I got no custom.'


I got out of the car into the scorching morning air. 'You have now,' I told him. Through the open door I saw a familiar red pattern painted on an ice box. 'You got cold Coca-Cola in there?'


'How many?' he asked cautiously.


'I could drink two. Two each - six of them. I'll pay.' I pulled out a handful of coins, wondering as I did so how he managed to keep them cold. He thought about it, then went in and returned with the Cokes, blissfully chilling to the touch in the narrow-waisted bottles that were still used in this part of the world. I sank half of my first in one swallow. 'Quiet around here, is it?'


He shrugged. 'There is trouble. Trouble come and the people they stop coming.'


'Trouble meaning the war?'


He shook his head. 'I don't know about no war. But there are many soldiers.'


Kemp asked, 'Soldiers where - here?' It certainly didn't look like it. Our untapped mine of information doled out another nugget. 'Not here. In Fort Pirie they are come.'


I swallowed air this time. Soldiers in Fort Pirie could be bad news if they were rebels, and I wondered how Sadiq was getting on.


'Has there been any fighting here at all?' Kemp asked.


A headshake. 'Not here.'


'Where then?'


This time we got the shrug again. 'Somewhere else. I do not know.'


This was like drawing teeth the hard way. I downed some more Coke in silence and tried to keep my impatience under control. Then, surprisingly, the attendant carried on unasked. Two tanks come two days ago from Fort Pirie. Then they go back again. They not buy nothing.'


'Did they threaten you? I mean, were they bad people?'


'I think not so bad. Gov'ment people.'


They might or might not be, but it sounded a little better. At least they weren't hellbent on destruction like the last lot we'd met up with.


The attendant suddenly went into his cabin and returned with another opened Coke, which he began to drink himself. I recognized a social gesture; he must have decided that we were acceptable, and was letting his guard down a little by drinking with us. I wondered with amusement how much of his stock vanished in this way, and how he fiddled his books to account for it. I didn't yet know him very well.


'Soldiers come by now, one half-hour ago. Not many. They go that way. Also they go that way this morning, then come back. They not stop here.'


He indicated the direction of the river and I realized that he was talking about Sadiq, but we weren't in a hurry to enlighten him about our association with any military force.


We exchanged a few more generalities and then, noticing the wires leading down to the cabin from a pole across the road, I said, 'Do you mind if we use your telephone?'


'No use. It dead.'


That would have been too easy. 'It's the trouble that caused it, I suppose. What about your radio?'


'It play dance music, long time only music. Sometimes nothing at all.' He decided that it was his turn to ask questions. 'You people. Where you from?'


'We've come from Kodowa.'


'A man said that Kodowa is not there no more. Is bombed, burnt. Is that true?'


'Yes, it's true. But Makara is all right. 'Was Fort Pirie bombed?'


Now we were trading information. 'No bombs there. No fighting, just many soldiers, the man he say. Where you go?'


'We are going to Fort Pirie, if it's safe there. We have more people waiting back there for us, men and women. We are not soldiers.'


'White women? Very bad for them here. They should stay in city, here is dangerous.' He seemed genuinely anxious.


'Believe me, my friend, they'd like nothing better. We are going to go back and get them, tell them it's safe here. When we come back we would like to buy gas, OK?'


'I not sell gas.'


'Sorry, I mean petrol. Petrol and other things if you have them to sell. Meantime, how many Cokes have you got in that ice box in there?'


'Many. Maybe twenty, twenty-four.'


'I'll buy the lot. Find a box and if you've got any more, put them in the cold right away. We'll buy them when we come back.'


He seemed bemused by this but was quite ready to deal with me, especially as I produced the cash at once. Kemp said, 'Do you have many people living here? Could we get food for our people, perhaps?'


The attendant thought about this. He was careful with his answers. 'Not so many people. Many of them go away when trouble comes, but I think maybe you can get food.'


Kemp had noticed the chickens, and caught a glimpse of a small field of corn out behind the cabin. Even his mind, running mainly to thoughts of fuel, road conditions and other such technicalities, could spare a moment to dwell on the emptiness of our stomachs. The station hand was back with us now with some twenty icy bottles in a cardboard box, for which he gravely accepted and counted my money and rung it into his little till. Zimmerman, who'd said nothing, watched with interest as he filled our tank with gas and rung up that sale as well. After we drove off he said, 'He runs a pretty tight ship. That's good to see. We're both on the same payroll, him and me. We've got to give him a square deal when we bring the convoy in.'


Zimmerman was a Lat-Am man and he regarded the station in a rather proprietorial manner.


'Don't worry, Harry,' I said to him, feeling unwarranted optimism rising inside me. 'We won't rip him off, I promise you.' I patted the box of Cokes. 'This is going to make them sit up, isn't it? Something tells me that it's going to be easy all the way from now on.'


It wasn't quite like that.


CHAPTER 23


There was some restrained rejoicing when we got back to camp with the news and the Cokes, which hadn't yet lost all their chill. Geoff Wingstead decided that unless we heard anything to the contrary from Sadiq within an hour, he'd move the rig on as far as the filling station, thus saving some valuable time. I suggested that he leave Kemp in charge of this phase of the operation and come on ahead again with me. I'd had a couple of ideas that I wanted to check out.


He agreed and we left taking Zimmerman with us and adding Ben Hammond to the Land Rover complement. Proctor was quite able to take Hammond's place for this easy run. This time I bypassed the gas station and we carried on for a little way, with the forest, which was still quite dense at the station, now thinning away until there was only a narrow screen between the road and the gleam of sunlight on water. When we had a clear view I pulled off and stopped. At this point Lake Pirie was about five miles wide, broadening out to our right. We were told that where the ferry crossed it was a couple of miles across, with the far bank visible, but I wasn't sure how far downwater that would be from where the road came out; local maps were not entirely accurate, as we had often discovered. Wingstead said, 'It doesn't look like a river.' It wouldn't, to an Englishman to whom the Thames was the Father of Waters, but I recalled the Mississippi and smiled. 'It's all part of the Katali,' I said. 'It would have been better if they hadn't put the word Lake into it at all. Think of it as the Pirie Stretch and you'll have a better mental picture.' It was a long stretch, being in fact about thirty miles from where it broadened out to where it abruptly narrowed again, a pond by African standards but still a sizeable body of water.


'It's a pity it isn't navigable, like most of the European rivers,' Kemp said, his mind as ever on transport of one sort or another.


'It's the same with most African rivers,' I said. 'What with waterfalls, rapids, shoals, rocks and crocodiles they just aren't very cooperative.' Zimmerman laughed aloud. We sat for a while and then heard the rumble of traffic and a moment later a Saracen came into view, moving towards us from the river. There wasn't much we could do except hope that it was ours, and it was; a couple of Sadiq's men waved and the armoured car stopped alongside us.


'We came back to look for you, sir. To stop you going any further,' one of them said.


'What's wrong?'


It was bad news. The ferry crossing was about six miles downstream, and the Nyalan ferrypoint and the road to it were occupied by a rebel force, not a large one but probably a guard detachment. There was no ferry movement at all. All this Sadiq had seen from far off, which was bad enough, but what was worse was that he had picked up radio conversations, thanks to Ring's expertise; and it was apparent that Kigonde had not told him the whole truth. The opposition was stronger than we'd been led to believe. A large part of the army had defected and the countryside through to Fort Pirie and perhaps as far down as Lasulu was in rebel hands.


From what the soldiers told us, there was even some doubt as to whether they should be called rebels or military representatives of a new ruling Government; all news from Port Luard had ceased. There was no indication as to which way the Air Force had gone, but no doubt that whichever side they started on they'd find a way of ending up on the side of the victors.


Thank you for the news,' I said, though I didn't feel at all thankful. Tell Captain Sadiq that we will bring the convoy no further than the filling station along the road there. We'll wait there until we hear from him.'


Sadiq would probably regard even this as dangerously close to the enemy. The Saracen turned back and so did we, bearing a cargo of gloom to the gas station. Wingstead said, 'Christ, can't anything go right?' It wasn't like him to be dejected and I hoped it was caused by nothing more than exhaustion.


'Why couldn't they have been government troops?' Zimmerman asked plaintively.


'You think that would make much difference? In a civil war the best bet for a foreigner is to stay clear of all troops whichever side they're on. There'll be bastards like Maksa on both sides.'


We arrived at the station and I took the Land Rover round the back of the cabin out of sight of the road. The Nyalan attendant popped out with a disapproving face, then relaxed when he saw who we were. 'I got more Cokes getting cold, like you said,' he announced proudly.


'You know the trouble we talked about? Well, it's not far away, my friend. There are soldiers down at the ferry and they are not friends of your Government.'


The others got out of the car and joined me. I said, 'We would like to look around here. I think there is going to be more trouble, and it may come this way. If I were you I'd go tell your people in the village to go away until it's over, and that means you too.'


He said, 'Other people, they already go. But not me.'


'Why not?'


'I leave and Mister Obukwe, he kill me,' he said very positively.


'Who's he?'


'My boss in Fort Pirie.'


I thought that Mr Obukwe must be quite a terrifying guy to instil such company loyalty, and exchanged a grin with Harry Zimmerman. He came forward and said, 'What's your name?'


The attendant thought about answering him. 'Sam Kironji,' he said at last. Zimmerman stuck out his hand.


'Pleased to meet you, Sam. My name is Harry Zimmerman. Call me Harry. And I work for Lat-Am same as you. Look here.' He opened a wallet and produced a plastic identification badge, to which Kironji reacted with delight.


'Very good you come. You tell Mister Obukwe I got no trade except I sell Coca-Cola.'


'Sure, I'll tell him. But if you want to leave, Sam, it'll be OK. Neil here is right, there could be trouble coming this way.'


Kironji thought about it and then gave him a great smile.


'I stay. This is my place, I take care of it. Also I not afraid of the soldiers like them.' He waved a contemptuous hand at his departed fellow inhabitants. 'You want Cokes, other things, I got them maybe.'


I said, 'Sure, we want Cokes and food and all sorts of things. Soon our trucks will come here and we'll want lots of petrol too.' Probably more than you've ever seen sold in a year, I thought. I pointed to a hard-surfaced track which led away from the road. Tell me, Sam, where does that track go to?'


'The river.'


'But you're already at the river.'


'It go compound, back there,' he said, waving a vague hand.

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