The Outlaw (4 page)

Jake sprang to his feet and chased after the stranger, closing his fist around the only weapon he had to hand, the golden fork. He caught up with him right by the doors of the delivery van and plunged the fork into the back of the man's thigh. The kidnapper yelped and staggered and dropped his hostage.

"Come on!" Jake grabbed his sister's hand and pulled her up. Side by side they ran along the back of the hotel. From the darkness behind them he heard the slam of a van door and a frenzy of revving, but they did not look back. They burst out of the alleyway and sprinted alongside the swimming pool, heading for the glittering lights of the hotel lobby.

The poolside waiter was perched on one of the lounge chairs, chin in hands, but he jumped to his feet when he saw Jake and Kas. "
Calmez-vous!
" he cried, stepping out into their path. "Slow down! No running by the pool!"

"Get out of the way!" shouted Jake. "Someone's after us!"

As if to confirm his words, the Nissan burst through the shrubbery at the other end of the pool and careered toward them, plowing through chairs, umbrellas, and plastic coffee tables.

The waiter bent down and picked up a large net used for clearing leaves out of the swimming pool. As Jake and Kas ran past him, he swung the pole in a wide arc and brought the net down over their heads, trapping them both in its mesh. Jake felt a sharp pain in his left temple as his sister's head collided with his own.

They're working together,
thought Jake.
The delivery man and the waiter. They're both in on this thing, whatever it is.
Jake's vision narrowed suddenly, and he was very aware of his own breathing, fast and loud.

The van screeched to a stop right behind them, and Jake and Kas were dragged toward it. Jake caught a whiff of cheap after-shave as the waiter bundled them into the back. Doors slammed, and the vehicle moved off fast, its wheels spinning on the poolside tiles.

"Kirsty, are you all right?" said Jake.

"My head hurts," sobbed Kirsty.

So did Jake's. He could hardly think straight, it hurt so much. He took his phone out, switched on the flashlight function, and had a look around. They were in the van's storage area, separated from the driver's cab by a thick wooden partition. Piled up against the partition were about forty huge wooden crates of stock cubes. The smell was overpowering.

"Help!" Jake lashed out at the sides of the van with his fists and feet. "We're being kidnapped!"

"Help!" echoed Kirsty. "Somebody, please, help us!"

Immediately the van's loudspeaker crackled into life. Every Jumbo advertising van had a triangular speaker mounted on top, useful for blaring out local dance music and stock-cube infomercials. Jake and Kirsty's banging and shouting were soon drowned out by an earsplitting techno beat.

"
Jumbo poulet, Jumbo poulet!
" thundered a man's voice on the loudspeaker.

"
Enrichi en vitamine A!
" sang a backup group.

"
Jumbo-Jumbo!
"

"
Poulet-poulet!
"

"
Enrichi en vitamine A!
"

Jake and Kas's desperate yells resounded within the van, but passersby outside would be hearing only Jumbo music. This was a perfect kidnap vehicle, proclaiming chicken-flavored innocence down every byway.

"Ring my phone," said Kas. "It's in Mum's handbag."

The signal inside the van was faint—only one bar—but it was enough. After a couple of rings, Mrs. Knight answered. "Jake," she said, "have you found Kirsty? Tell her to come back this minute."

"Mum, we've been kidnapped."

"I can't hear a word you're saying, Jake. Step away from the speakers."

"We're in a van, Mum. We're being abducted."

"What?"

"Abducted," said Jake. "Kidnapped."

"No!" The word was somewhere between a shriek and a sob.

"We were round the back of the hotel and this man came for us. We're in a Jumbo van. Orange and yellow."

"You're with Kas?"

"Yes."

"Are you hurt?" Mrs. Knight was properly crying now.

"He banged our heads together. I'm nearly out of battery, Mum."

"We'll call you back, Jake. Everything will be all right, do you hear?"

Jake hung up. The van was going faster now, and the surface of the road was smoother, as if they had turned out of the hotel parking lot onto a main road. Every moment was taking them farther away from their parents.

"What's happening?" asked Kas.

"They're going to call us back."

"Make sure your phone's on Mosquito."

The Mosquito was the most downloaded ringtone of the decade. It was the ultimate in subversive classroom communication, a ringtone exploiting the fact that some frequencies of sound are audible only to under-twenties. After a few moments of silence the phone began to whine. Jake handed his sister an earphone and kept one for himself.

"Hello," said Kas.

"Hello, princess." This time it was their father's voice, cool and level. "How is your head?"

"It hurts."

"Your mother and I love you both very much. You know that. But right now we have to master our emotions."

"I'm scared, Dad."

"Of course you are. But the sooner you regain your composure, the better off you will be. There are two of you, so you can help each other with that. Breathe together, really long deep breaths. Are you breathing?"

"Yes."

"We're going to get you back."

"I know."

"Good girl. Is your brother there?"

"Yes," said Jake.

"This is going to turn out all right, son. Tell me, how many men were there?"

Two.

"African?"

"Yes."

"French speaking?"

"Yes."

"Turbans?"

"No."

"Listen carefully, both of you. I've done training on this sort of thing, and I'm going to give you some important advice. You must cooperate with these people, whoever they are. Don't make them angry. Don't whine. And Kas, don't be sarcastic."

"All right."

"Don't resist them in any way. And whatever you do, don't look them in the eyes. They will interpret that as a challenge."

Jake felt a convulsion in his throat and put his hand over his mouth.
Adventurers don't cry,
he told himself.

"You've done really well so far," continued Mr. Knight. "The most dangerous part of any abduction is the first few minutes. That's when kidnappers are most stressed out and most likely to be violent. What else do you remember about them?"

"Not much."

"Come on, son. The more information we can give to the police, the sooner they can find you."

"The driver is wearing a black T-shirt, black trousers, baseball cap, and sunglasses—"

"
Sunglasses?
At night?"

"Yes. The other one is dressed as a waiter. Short-sleeved white shirt, bow tie, black trousers."

"He had a tattoo," said Kirsty.

"A tattoo? Well done, princess! Whereabouts?"

"On his arm. A spider in a web."

"Did either of them h—" Mr. Knight broke off suddenly, then tried again. "Did either of them have a gun?"

"Didn't see one," said Kas.

"Can you describe the van?"

"Orange and yellow Nissan. Just a normal Jumbo publicity van.

"License plate?"

"Don't know."

"Do you have any idea where you are?"

"We're all boxed in," said Jake, "so I can't get a proper GPS fix. All I have is a basic cell tower ID."

"How accurate is that?"

"In the city, it gives a position to within about three hundred meters."

"Can you send it to me?"

"I can do better than that. I can set my phone to publish the cell tower ID to Twitter every thirty seconds."

"How do I access it?"

"Get hold of Griff Keating," said Jake. "He's a year ahead of me at school. He knows all about positioning."

"I'll give him a call," said Mr. Knight. "There's one more thing I want you both to promise me. Don't try to escape."

"Why not?"

"It's too dangerous. When a hostage gets injured or killed, it's usually the result of some harebrained escape attempt. Just stay where you are, keep your phone out of sight, and breathe nice and slow."

"Okay."

"Look after each other. Try to keep your spirits up. You'll be home before you know it. I'm going to talk to Commissioner Beogo and then phone the Foreign Office. I'll ring you soon." Mr. Knight sobbed and tried to disguise it as a cough. Then the line went dead.

Jake pulled off his tie and crouched next to Kas in the darkness, breathing in the musty smell of fear and chicken-stock cubes.
I was hoping for adventure,
thought Jake,
but this is not what I had in mind.

The
Chameleon was an excellent host. He gave Sheikh Ahmed Abdullai the place of honor in the banqueting tent, a reclining wicker chair piled high with leather cushions. On a table at the sheikh's right hand was arrayed a dazzling variety of meat and drink: calabashes of peanuts and chickpeas, skewers of succulent roasted goat, sweet red onions, sprigs of rosemary, and a mound of rice drenched in palm oil. There were soft black dates from the slopes of Tamanrasset and a constant flow of tea laced with fresh mint and ginger.

The tent was warm and full of laughter. As the constellation Orion rose in the night sky, a trio of minstrels strummed on their three-stringed lutes, reciting for their guest the heroic ballad of Askia Muhammad. The sheikh congratulated himself on his good fortune to have been welcomed so warmly in this desert paradise. He grinned and consumed and let the music wash over him, entirely drunk with pleasure.

"More goat for his holiness," cried the Chameleon, clicking his fingers at the serving boys. "And bring a goblet of Mariama's mango wine.
Ko weedu heewi fu, nayidi hebbiteede.
Even if a lake is full, it can always take some more!"

The sheikh mumbled his thanks and slumped farther down into his nest of cushions. He accepted two more skewers of goat and a large clay goblet brimming with mango wine. He was beginning to feel sleepy.

"I must leave you for a few moments, Sheikh Ahmed," murmured the Chameleon. "Make yourself at home."

He slipped out into the moist night air and walked to the Needle Hut, where Paaté the tailor was hard at work. Paaté was eighteen, the same age as the Chameleon, and they were the best of friends.

"
Salaam aleykum,
Paaté," said the Chameleon, clapping his friend on the back. "How is my robe coming along?"

"
Aleykum asalaam,
" said Paaté. "I'm sewing on the last sequins now."

"And the wig?"

"Already done." Paaté pointed to a row of upturned calabashes on a nearby workbench, one of which wore a fine black wig with two braided locks of hair dangling down in front. "Do you think it looks like him?"

"It's perfect," said the Chameleon. "And what about my magic shoes?"

"Over there," said Paaté, pointing at a pair of camel-skin moccasins in the corner of the hut.

"And my false stomach?"

"Make it yourself," said Paaté. "Why should I do all the work?"

"Because you do it so well."

"And another thing," said Paaté. "Why do we have to be nice to that hateful man for two whole days and waste perfectly good food on him?"

The Chameleon raised his eyebrows. "What would you have me do?"

"What we always do to villains. Teach him a lesson."

"And what of the other men in his traveling party? The minstrel and the five servants. Should they also be taught a lesson?"

"Certainly they should. If they follow him, they must be as wicked as he is."

"Wicked men are very rare," said the Chameleon. "Unimaginative men are far more common. Talk to them, Paaté. Help them to see that they have a choice."

Paaté frowned. "So I stay here and preach to five unwashed servants and an irritating minstrel, while you go gallivanting around the province with your magic shoes."

The Chameleon grinned and clicked his heels together. "Precisely," he said. "The grain merchants of Djibo are about to get the shock of their lives."

Ever
heard of Mungo Park?" asked Jake.

"No," said Kas. "Why.?"

"Famous explorer. Went on two long journeys, mapping the river Niger all the way to its source. Wrote a book about his adventures,
Travels in the Interior of Africa.
I was reading it on the plane."

"And you're telling me this because...?"

"Because he got kidnapped, too, at one point. He was taken prisoner by a wicked Moor in Hausaland, but after a month he managed to escape."

"You're loving this little adventure of ours, aren't you?" said Kas.

"No."

"Yes, you are. You're thinking about how this is going to look to your mates back home. Big Mungo Jake, intrepid African explorer, kidnapped in Ouagadougou by a man with a spider tattoo. Well, just you wait until Mr. Spider Tattoo gets nasty and—"

"All right, keep your hair on. I only mentioned Mungo Park because Dad told us to keep our spirits up. And if you think I'm enjoying any of this, then you've got even less brain than—"

The Mosquito whined suddenly, making them jump. Jake put his earphones in.

"Jake." It was his father's voice. "How are you bearing up?"

"Not bad," said Jake. "We're still in the van."

"How's that slow breathing going?"

"Fine. Did you speak to Griff?"

"Yes. He's a bright lad, isn't he? He combined your Twitter feed with a map of Burkina Faso, so we can follow your progress in real time. You are still heading north away from Ouagadougou. There is only one road north, and that's the road that leads to Kongoussi and Djibo."

"Good," said Jake. "They know which road we're on," he whispered to Kas.

"Commissioner Beogo has scrambled four police vehicles," continued Mr. Knight. "Two from Ouagadougou and two from Kongoussi. The cars will converge on your position within the next half hour. Is there anything else in the back of the van with you?"

"Stock-cube crates," said Jake. "Loads of them."