The Outlaw (14 page)

"She must be miles from her host tree by now," said Yakuuba. "Why is she flying so far south?"

"Our leader does not have enough to worry him," said Paaté. "Caring for a hundred thousand poor people is not sufficient burden for his heart. He needs to worry about the country's insect life as well."

"And why is she flying in the middle of the day?" asked Yakuuba. "Rhinoceros beetles do most of their flying at night and in the early morning."

"I don't know about that," said Paaté, "but I'll tell you what the beetle's thinking. She's thinking,
Why are those people traveling on top of the bus? People usually travel inside buses. Very strange behavior.
"

They were entering Kongoussi, the town that Jake had seen from his horse the day before. On a small traffic island in the center of town a Statue of Liberty lookalike gazed up at them as they passed. On the left was a large covered market with an open-air forecourt for vegetable sellers. On the right was a hospital, a bar, and a Total gas station.

"That's odd," said Yakuuba. "It has something attached to its head."

Paaté threw up his hands in exasperation. "Enough!" he cried. "I'll catch it for you,
inshallah,
and you can examine it close up, on condition that you promise not to say another word about it." He whipped off his beret, pulled a herder's staff out of a nearby travel bag, and took a needle and thread from his top pocket.

"What are you doing?" asked Jake.

"Making a beetle catcher." Paaté wound the thread six times around the head of the staff and sewed his beret onto it. "There, perfect."

Paaté held on to the outer rail of the roof rack and leaned over toward the rhinoceros beetle. He made soft clucking noises with his tongue and positioned the beret ready to swoop. If he had seen the tree coming up on his left, he could have avoided it. As it was, an overhanging branch struck him on the shoulder and swept him clean off his perch. He hit the road with a sickening thud, and his right arm snapped like a twig.

Yakuuba was the first to react. He climbed down onto the window frame, jumped clear of the bus, rolled on the ground below, got up, and ran to the aid of his friend.

"We have to stay with them," said Jake. "Come on—there's a ladder at the back of the bus."

They picked their way over the luggage and clambered off the roof and onto the ladder. Jake climbed down until he was a couple feet off the ground, and then, air running like a cartoon character, he jumped.

He sprawled in the dust, and a second or two later so did Kas. They were shaken but unhurt. The bus drove on, oblivious, toward the Kongoussi bus stop.

Jake looked back up the road. He watched Yakuuba help Paaté to his feet and lead him gently in the direction of the hospital.

Kongoussi
Hospital would have won no awards for architecture. It was a rectangular concrete block with a corrugated tin roof. Inside, it was as hot as a baker's oven. A corridor ran the length of the building, with wards on either side.

There was a long line in the waiting room, but one of the doctors noticed Paaté's spectacular broken bone and took him through to a ward straightaway. Yakuuba, Jake, and Kas followed them in.

The doctor was a gangly young man with a good-natured face and big round glasses. "My name is Dr. Saudogo," he said. "I'm going to give you a little shot of anesthetic to numb your arm."

The other bed in Paaté's ward was occupied by a teenager in the grip of a raging fever. His forehead was damp with sweat and he shivered uncontrollably. A bag of intravenous fluid hung from a stand above his head, connected to the boy's wrist via a long tube. "Visitors at last!" shouted the boy. "If ashes must be eaten, it is best for them to be eaten by a crowd."

"Abdul has cerebral malaria," whispered the doctor. "The delirium comes and goes, but don't worry, he is perfectly harmless."

"I know you!" cried Abdul, extending a trembling finger toward Yakuuba. "You busted my yellow-necked milk cow out of Burizanga cow prison last year."

Jake could not believe his ears. "Don't tell me there are prisons for cows as well as bicycles."

"Yes," said Paaté. "If a policeman finds a cow wandering on public land, he impounds it in the cow prison behind the mayor's office. The owner of the cow has to pay the mayor ten thousand francs for its release."

"Twenty-four cows he freed that night!" cried Abdul. "It was epic! The minstrels of Burizanga wrote a song to celebrate the occasion."

He began to beat time on the headboard of his bed. Yakuuba started to protest, but to no avail; Abdul was determined to sing the Burizanga cow liberation song.

 

"He saw the guards and he saw
the lock and he saw the hoof-proof door, OH

He saw the guards and he saw the lock and he pitied
the plight of the poor, SO

He tricked the guards and he picked the lock and
released the twenty-four, MOO!

He tricked the guards and he picked the lock and his
name's YAKUUBA SOR!"

 

The doctor looked up sharply from his work when he heard Sor's name.

"Delirium," said Yakuuba. "Completely out of his mind, poor lad."

"Perhaps," said the doctor. "Or maybe that was one of his lucid moments. Either way, I am a great admirer of this Yakuuba Sor. I have heard impressive things."

Jake turned to his sister. "Stay here," he whispered. "I need the toilet."

On his way out of the hospital Jake asked one of the nurses where he might find
le WC,
and she pointed to an open-air cubicle in the far corner of the compound. It was a simple pit toilet—a hole in the ground. The mud walls and the concrete floor were covered with cockroaches, which scuttled this way and that when Jake entered.

As he stood there, another insect scuttled in. It was not a cockroach. It was a brown beetle with a shiny head and long black horns, just like the one that had caused Paaté's accident. And Yakuuba was right: the insect was wearing several tiny attachments. There seemed to be metal antennae on its thorax and something on its head that looked very like a—
Surely not!

"Hello, Jake," called an English voice just outside. "I would like a word with you."

Jake left the cubicle. There before him stood a white man with a ponytail. He wore a linen jacket and khaki trousers, and he was sending a text message on his phone.

"There you are," said the man, putting the phone away. "I recognize you from the photos your father showed me."

"Who are you?"

"Roy Dexter, MI6. I've come for you and your sister."

Jake bit his lip.
At last. Rescue!

Dexter popped into the toilet cubicle holding a small tin and came out again almost straightaway.

"What is it?" asked Jake. "Is it some sort of droid? Is that a camera on its head? Is that what you used to find us?"

"Never you mind," said Dexter. "Where is your sister?"

"She's in the hospital."

"Is she hurt?"

"She's fine," said Jake. "Yakuuba was taking us home."

The agent started. "
Yakuuba Sor?
"

"Keep your hair on," said Jake. "Sor's not as bad as the police seem to think. He's been helping us."

"
Helping you?
"

"Taking us back to Ouaga. He wants to talk to Dad, straighten things out."

"Sure he does." Dexter drew a pistol from his jacket pocket. "Where is Sor now, Jake? Is he in the hospital?"

"You're not listening to me. Our kidnapping had nothing to do with Yakuuba. He's a good man."

"Just tell me where he is."

"Why is your hand shaking? You don't need to be afraid of Yakuuba Sor."

"Stop messing me about!" Dexter grabbed Jake by the ear. "He's in the hospital, isn't he? He's with your sister."

"Get off—you're hurting me!"

Dexter twisted Jake's ear and marched him into the hospital. A nurse shrieked when she saw the pistol and dropped the tray she was carrying. Terrified men and women shrank back against the walls of the waiting room.

"Spit it out, lad. Which ward are they in?"

"I can't remember."

"I should have let you stay kidnapped." Dexter strode up the corridor, flinging open the doors one by one. Jake stumbled alongside him, left ear first.

Ward 1. "Kirsty!" called the agent.

No reply, just pallid stares from the ward's occupants.

Ward 2. "Kirsty!"

No reply.

Ward 3. "Kirsty!"

"Yes?" said Kas, looking up. "Who are y—?" She saw the pistol and stopped dead.

"Nobody move!" cried Dexter. He marched Jake into the ward and slammed the door with his heel. Paaté, Yakuuba, Dr. Saudogo, and poor delirious Abdul found themselves staring down the barrel of a Herstal 9mm Browning.

"What's happening?" asked Kas. "Who is this?"

"He's from MI6," said Jake, "which basically means that he's a British spy."

"That's good," said the doctor. "The British are an honorable race."

"Shut up," said Dexter. "Come over here, Kirsty, and stand next to your brother."

Kas did as she was told.

"Nice disguise, princess," muttered Dexter. "Tell me, which of these four gentlemen is Yakuuba Sor?"

"Don't tell him!" cried Jake.

"
S'il vous plaît, monsieur,
" said the doctor, holding up his hands. "Can you not see that there are sick people here?"

As quick as a scorpion, Dexter raised his pistol and fired at the drip bag above Abdul's head. The bag exploded, showering the teenager with intravenous fluid. Abdul whooped and shivered and wiped his eyes.

"
Monsieur,
that liquid was quinine solution," said the doctor. "If I do not replace the bag, my patient will die."

"If you continue to fool around, you will all die," said the Englishman. "It's you, isn't it?" he added, leveling the pistol at the doctor's chest and speaking loudly, almost disguising the fear in his voice. "Yakuuba Sor, master of disguise! It takes more than a white coat to fool a secret agent."

"I doubt that," muttered Dr. Saudogo.

Yakuuba Sor raised a hand and stepped forward. "If a blind man's salt falls among stones," he said, "he will lick everything he picks up. I am your salt,
monsieur.
What is your business with me?"

"My business, Mr. Sor?" Dexter turned to him, and the pistol in his hand began to shake violently. "I have brought you a gift from Ambassador Knight and High Commissioner Beogo."

"No!" Paaté spoke from his bed, his voice thick with pain. "He wants to protect me, but I can't let him. You see,
monsieur, I
am Yakuuba Sor."

Dexter wheeled around and glared at Paaté.

"As it happens," said Dr. Saudogo, "you were right the first time. I am Yakuuba Sor."

"Liar," croaked Abdul, glaring at the doctor. "
I'm
Yakuuba Sor."

"Silence!" shouted the spy. "I see that I have stumbled into a nest of terrorist sympathizers. Roll up your left sleeves, all of you. I want to see which one of you has the spiderweb tattoo."

Abdul reached for his sleeve, and his hand lighted on the intravenous needle in his wrist. "Yakuuba Sor is immortal," he murmured. "Malaria or no malaria, quinine or no quinine, Yakuuba Sor will never die. You want a tattoo? I'll give you one myself!" With that he slid the needle out of his wrist, un-clipped it carefully from its drip, and hurled the needle at the Englishman.

The agent fired twice and the teenager's head snapped back against the headboard. He was dead before his needle hit the ground.

He shot him.
The hairs on the back of Jake's neck stood on end.
He actually shot him.

"One down," said Dexter.

Dr. Saudogo bellowed and ran at the spy, but he was not quick enough. The spy shot him in the stomach at point-blank range, and the doctor crumpled at his feet.

"Two down," said Dexter.

"Stop!" shouted Sor. His sleeve was rolled up, exposing the spiderweb tattoo. "I'm the one you want!"

"Wait your turn," said Dexter, taking aim at Paaté.

"Jake, do something!" screamed Kas. "Your sword!"

Jake reached for the Tuareg sword in his belt, but it was no longer there. He had left it on the roof of the bus.

Paaté swung his legs off the bed and tried to stand up, cradling his broken arm in front of him. He did not stand a chance, poor lad. A shot rang out, a faraway look came into Paaté's eyes, and he gazed down at the hole in his chest. Then he coughed and slumped over sideways onto the bed. Kas howled like a wounded animal and buried her face in her hands.

"Three down," said Dexter, swiveling to point the pistol at Sor. He glanced at the spiderweb tattoo and shook his head. "You have very loyal friends, Mr. Sor, and now you will be joining them."

The outlaw must have known he was about to die, but he did not seem to care much. He took Paaté's hand in his own and stroked it. "
Désolé, Paaté,
" he whispered.
I'm so very sorry.

Dexter squeezed the trigger and a fourth bang resounded through the ward. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete wall behind Yakuuba and shattered a window. The outlaw was unscathed.

"You missed." Sor's voice was devoid of emotion. "Try again."

Dexter frowned and leveled the pistol at the outlaw's head.

"My name is Yakuuba," said Sor. "Yakuuba Sor, Friend of the Poor. Damn your red ears!"

Dexter blinked and seemed to sway a little.

Then Jake saw it. Sticking into the gunman's ankle, not far from the dying doctor's outstretched hand, was an empty anesthetic syringe.

Dexter's eyelids flickered. He scowled at his trigger finger, willing it to obey him. Then he staggered backward three or four paces and crumpled to the ground. His pistol clattered on the polished cement floor.

After that, the ward was full of people, all talking and shouting at once.

Jake
hugged his knees and pressed himself against the wall. He had never seen anyone die before today, let alone be shot, and now he had seen three people murdered in the space of half a minute. It was too much to take in.