On the riverside of promise (9 page)

Only a couple of them wore shoddy boots; the
rest rode barefoot. They had grim, lean faces. They were mostly
skin and bones like on the edge of starvation, but their red-shot
eyes shone with a cruel, alarming intensity. In the back of the
faded green and grey rover lay two dead bodies, the white of their
feet marred by the red of their blood.

The sisters stood motionless, following the
example of the mother superior, who was looking at the band of
marauding bandits with contempt that bordered on hate.

Another rover passed through the gate. It
braked badly and skid for a few feet on the courtyard dirt. Ten
more men, slightly yet markedly better fed, better equipped. Some
wore sunglasses, some berets and caps. Ethan noticed a big brute of
a man sitting in the co-driver’s seat. Once everyone else had
jumped off the rover, he stepped out. He was wearing spotless
combat fatigues as if they had just been pressed. He wore the
insignia of a Major. It was a good thing he didn’t seem familiar at
all.

“That’s their leader; if we get to him, the
rest will follow,” he said to Nicole who was eying the bandits with
seeping, fervent anger. She did not answer; she gave Ethan a sharp
accusing look and simply turned away. The next moment she vanished
inside the impromptu hospital room.

Ethan called after her, but she ignored him.
It was at that point when he attracted the attention of one of the
armed men, who pointed his rifle at him and shouted something
incomprehensible; it sounded like Igbo but not a dialect Ethan
could understand clearly.

Ethan put his hands up and grinned like an
idiot, trying to look the part of a mildly insignificant,
completely harmless fool of a journalist. The armed bandit was
still aiming the rifle at him, shouting incoherently, looking back
and forth nervously. Ethan thought it could be he was asking
’should I shoot him?’; it could be he was asking ’can I shoot
him?’. It would’ve made little difference had that been the case
though.

The burly man was overlooking the sisters
with one hand cradling a short-barreled AK-47; the paratrooper
version. In his hands, it looked little more than a large handgun.
He motioned with his free hand and half a dozen men fanned out two
by two’s, going inside the rooms and halls on the west side of the
monastery.

The rising heat added to the tension; Ethan
was sweating. He was hoping Ludwig had gotten everybody out in
time; more people would mean more problems to solve. He was also
hoping Nicole wasn’t thinking of doing anything stupid. Stupid
tended to pile on stupid and that had a propensity to make people
end up dead or worse.

He was searching for a sight of her, but to
no avail; for the first time the thought entered his mind that
perhaps she was already running away. It wouldn’t help him much,
but it wouldn’t make things harder either.

Ethan’s self-appointed guard had stopped
shouting; now he was grinning, showing a cave of a mouth. He was
still aiming his gun though and Ethan thought it was time to make
his move. He shouted, “Look, Press!” and pointing at his Leica he
reached with the other hand at his vest’s chest pocket, fumbling
for the press pass.

The guard instantly drew back the AKs loading
arm carefully, waiting for Ethan to make the mistake of flinching.
For a bunch of ragtag bandits, they exhibited quite the streak of a
rather unexpected professionalism; stupid nervous people with guns
would’ve shot him dead. Ethan glanced at the leader who was quietly
coming his way, while the rest of his men loitered near the sisters
pointing guns and casting leery glances. That man, Ethan thought,
was probably the sole reason why these wretches behaved themselves
almost like soldiers.

The leader approached Ethan gracefully,
making sure his insignia was prominently visible. He silently
reached at Ethan’s vest pocket and pulled out his press pass,
signed and stamped by the IPA and the UN in one of the British
embassy’s cultural attache’s offices. The leader took a look at it
and read aloud with a thick, grossly cacophonous accent:

“Richard Owls. London Times. Lost?” he asked
with a grin that showed perfect white teeth and more than a couple
of gold casings.

“Just doing a story,” replied Ethan and added
“Major, sir,” with an afterthought, hoping to feed the man’s ego.
Indeed he smiled when he heard the rank and offered Ethan his press
pass back. He took a quick look around him, the sun glinting off
his black Ray Bans. Whoever the man was, he was turning in a
profit, Ethan thought. When he spoke again, he wasn’t smiling
anymore:

“I’m a moody person. Lost two men on the way.
Why are you here? What’s so important about nuns?”

Ethan didn’t have a very hard time faking
intimidation. The man was imposing enough. Reminded him a bit of
his friend James, only without the redeeming qualities. He replied
with some difficulty, trying to find the words:

“The missionary work… Taking care of people
in the middle of a war. Their stoic manner; really good press back
home. Good press anywhere, really. Takes the focus away from the
British involvement, too. Wins points with my editor.”

The brute looked at him as if examining a
weird kind of exotic fly; it was a distant, focused stare.
“Politics, journalists. Same shit, eh?” he said suddenly and
laughed out loud all alone, his laughter echoing faintly in the
relative silence of the monastery courtyard.

“Just doing my job, Major, sir,” replied
Ethan with a faint smile, his eyes still trying to steal a glimpse
of Nicole; she must be really gone, he thought.

The sisters were huddled close together, as
if waiting for a verdict on them. The mother superior was eying him
and the leader of the bandits intensely. Maybe she was thinking of
doing something stupid herself. That would complicate things right
when he was trying to achieve a sense of rapprochement, if anything
like that could be achieved with the likes of these people.

“I’m no major, Dick. I’ll call you Dick. No
Major Yuembe anymore. I’m King, King Yuembe!” shouted the so-called
Major, triumphantly raising both arms in the air. He fired off a
couple of shots, eliciting a response of wild gunfire in the air
from his men who cheered and eyed the sisters with venomous stares.
They looked barely able to hold themselves; another example in
forced discipline. He laughed heartily once more, before settling
down his gaze towards Ethan again. Ethan pitched the idea of the
story he had been working on in his mind:

“I think you’d make the perfect story,
really. I could show the world your living conditions, the way
you’re defending your freedom. Add a bit about your back-story,
where you came from, what made you quit the army. It’d be a
fantastic piece, a world first,” Ethan said and aimed the camera at
Yuembe. He took on a haughty pose like a model, indeed the kind of
self-gratifying stance photographers tend to think is fit for
nobility portraits. The camera clicked and Ethan rolled the film a
couple of times, taking a few more shots. Then Yuembe yanked the
camera off its straps suddenly and Ethan felt his plan wasn’t
working the way it should.

“I’ll keep that film. I like pictures; but I
don’t like the publicity. Understand?”

Ethan nodded, frowning warily. He replied
carefully:

“No problem. I can see it could hamper your
activities; I can do a text piece only, full page with stock photos
or something,” he said, insisting on trying to stroke the man’s
ego. He knew it wouldn’t work when the man took the film out of the
camera, tucked it inside a pocket and then just threw the camera
away, breaking the lens. He then asked Ethan, edging his face
closer to his the way a boxer might before a fight:

“You think we are freedom fighters?” he said
through almost clenched-shut teeth. Ethan’s frown became a deep,
long furrow. Looking distraught and casting glances around him, he
seemed completely at a loss. To complete the show, he said
weakly:

“Well, of course.”

Yuembe broke down in laughter and said
something in that dialect Ethan couldn’t quite get. All the men
laughed along in earnest, pointing at Ethan like a freak exhibit.
Maybe writing up a story wouldn’t hold, but the stupid journalist
ploy still had something in it. Just maybe, Ethan thought to
himself.

Some of the men that had been searching
around the monastery called out, grabbing Yuembe’s attention. They
had found the caravan’s Rovers and supplies. Yuembe and his men
exchanged a few words from a distance, more like shouts. Then he
picked a few of them by eying them alone, motioned with a hand and
another half a dozen men left their guns behind. Soon they started
loading the crates bearing the sign of the Red Cross first onto
their own trucks.

The mother superior was talking with some
sisters in a low-keyed voice; they seemed somewhat relieved. It was
beginning to look like the bandits would simply loot what they
could and leave. Organised and disciplined as they seemed to be,
they were nothing more than dangerous, cruel thieves.

Yuembe then took out a camouflage-patterned
handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. He took off his
glasses and wiped the lenses as well; his round black eyes were big
and calm, the eyelashes almost delicate. They belonged to a man who
should’ve become an artist or a doctor, maybe even a priest. In any
case, they didn’t look like the kind of eyes that belonged to a
professional lethal parasite.

That grin of his gave him away; Ethan had
seen that grin once too many. He knew even himself had sported such
a grin at times past. The thought disturbed him and for a minute he
was out of character, looking grim and serious all of a sudden.
Yuembe saw the change on his face; he was instantly intrigued. He
looked at Ethan from head to toe, scanning him slowly, measuring
him up. He asked him then, hands around his waist, the Ray Bans
dangling from his chest pocket:

“You do not approve? Wouldn’t look good on
your story?” he said and then made a motion in the air with his
free hand, stopping at the mention of each word like showing off a
neon headline sign: “Former Nigerian Army Major Pillages
Monastery.”

Ethan simply shook his head. Yuembe went on
with what he had in mind:

“I am not a man of the press, like you. But I
know what spices up a story,” he said, winked and nodded towards
the sisters who were still clutching their rosaries. Some of them
were praying on their knees, some of them were simply staring at
the men who guarded them straight in the eyes, as if they thought
shame alone could turn them away.

“Major, there’s nothing more to gain here
other than those sacks of rice, those crates of medication and the
canned food. That’s all there is,” Ethan said, thinking he should
at least try and reason with the man, even though he seemed to be
toying with ideas that went beyond looting.

“Been here long enough, Mr. Owls? Are you
sure that’s all? Maybe you and I have different taste in things,”
Yuembe said with a devilish grin and then barked an order.

Half a dozen men complied and went inside the
eastern blocks of the monastery. Pretty soon, one of them shouted
back from the impromptu hospital. Another one was holding a vest
with a red cross painted on it. Some groggy voices and malformed
protests were put down after a few slaps and kicks laid the
patients back on their beds for good.

Yuembe shouted back more orders, looking
pissed off; veins shot out from his temples and neck. He didn’t
seem to care about the red cross or the infirmary and the people
inside. That was good; it mean Ludwig and his people were probably
safe and not a moment too soon. Probably Nicole as well. He had
thought she might help him sound more convincing, but she was still
nowhere to be seen. Maybe she’d have been a problem anyway, Ethan
thought.

His thoughts where cut short when he suddenly
heard a shout from one of Yuembe’s men and then saw bloodied pieces
of skull bounce off a door, the rest of the bandit’s body slumping
against it a flick of an eye later, when the gunshot was heard. A
high velocity rifle. Though a familiar sound to Ethan, he had been
more than just surprised to see its effects so vividly at that
point.

Everyone froze still; it was the sisters
panicked shrieks and loud prayers that roused everyone back into
frenzied random activity. Ethan hesitated; if someone had stayed
behind trying to be a hero, should he go all out and take a shot at
Yuembe right now? What about the sisters? They were completely
exposed. No, he decided he couldn’t risk their lives.

Yuembe aimed his AK nervously at Ethan and
shouted at his men infuriated. They quickly aimed their guns at
windows and doorways, covering their comrades; a couple of them
grabbed the sisters by force one by one and started to tie their
hands together.

A few of the sisters tried to resist,
spitting and kicking furiously. Yuembe’s men used the AKs stocks
like clubs; the nuns suffered. A few cracks were heard; bones were
broken. The mother superior’s proud facade had collapsed; she was
now begging the men in whatever dialect ran through her tongue,
with what few words she knew. Their captors seemed to enjoy their
work, smiling as they heard the wailings and sobs of the hapless
sisters. Yuembe shouted at the top of his lungs: