Zambezi (53 page)

‘Ah, poachers, the archenemies of people like us.’ Hassan laughed. ‘It is our fate to be together to the end, Miranda. Don’t fight it, my darling.’

*

‘He’ll make it, but he’ll have a hell of a scar,’ Jed said as he tied the free ends of the crepe bandage together. ‘Won’t hurt his political career either.’

General Crusher Calvert had been lucky to escape death or paralysis. The bullet from Hassan bin Zayid’s AK-47 had carved a deep and ugly furrow down the right side of his neck. The wound had bled profusely, but the projectile had missed his windpipe and carotid artery.

‘Lucky we got to him when we did,’ Chris said. She checked the general’s pulse. It was strong and regular. ‘The lethabarb will wear off, but there’s no way of telling how much he was given.’

‘Lethabarb?’ Jones asked.

‘It’s a common tranquilliser used on animals. Bin Zayid runs a cheetah-breeding and research program here. He would have had easy access to the stuff and known how to use it, so I’m betting that’s what he used.’

‘Well, it looks like Miranda’s must have worn off sooner than he expected,’ Jed said. ‘Chris, you stay with Calvert. Get him back to hospital with Wylde’s men. I’m going on.’

‘Who made you the boss?’ she asked, hands on hips. ‘Miranda is as much my responsibility as yours. Harold, what was your mission?’

‘To rescue General Calvert, ma’am.’

Jed noted the way Jones addressed Chris. He realised he still didn’t know what position she held in the CIA. It was academic, anyway – no one was going to tell him what to do.

‘Right. There’s your general, Jones. Go with Mr Wylde’s men and see that he gets to hospital safely,’ Chris said.

Jones looked at Jed.

‘He’s not in charge of you, Jones. Now get out of here!’ Chris snapped.

Jones and Wylde’s men slid the coffin from the back of bin Zayid’s Land Rover. Jed motioned with a flick of his head for Chris to move away from the others. ‘Listen to me. I may have lost Miranda already I don’t want to lose you too.’

‘Cut the crap, I’m coming with you,’ Chris said.

‘OK,’ said Jed. ‘We don’t have time to argue. Now, bin Zayid’s got no aircraft, no vehicle …’

They rejoined the others.

‘There’s an ultralight parked in the hangar. Why didn’t he take that?’ Jones asked.

‘It could be because it doesn’t have the range to get where he wants to. It might have been part of a fallback plan in case he had to go looking for Calvert’s plane if it crashed in the bush,’ Chris said.

‘He could still have used it to escape the immediate area, but only if he had Miranda with him,’

Jed said. ‘That means she could be on the loose. What’s the best way out of here, if not by air? The road’s too obvious, it’s too easy for him to get caught at a roadblock.’

‘He’ll head for the river,’ Chris concluded, finishing Jed’s thought. ‘He must have a boat hidden near the bush camp – that’s how he got Calvert off the plane in the first place.’

*

By the time Hassan reached the river he was almost dragging Miranda through the bush. She was hobbling, thanks to the deep cut inflicted by the snare, and her bare feet left bloody smears on the dry grass. He cared nothing for her pain, but he needed her alive as a hostage. She fell in a heap when they reached the muddy bank of the Zambezi.

Hassan moved the branches he and Juma had used to camouflage the boat and tossed them into the bush.

‘Get up, you bitch,’ he panted. He, too, was exhausted, but he could not afford to rest. He dragged Miranda up by the hair, but her scream was muffled by the tape he had fixed to her mouth. He pushed her into the boat and she fell on her side.

Her bloodied feet stained the deck as she pulled herself into a sitting position. She looked up into his eyes, determined not to show him fear. Hassan had to admire her spirit.

‘This is so you don’t try any more little tricks, or think about jumping out,’ he said as he looped a length of rope around the bindings on her wrists and tied the free ends around the pole supporting the plastic seat next to his. ‘Now, stay down,’ he ordered, pushing her back onto her side.

The boat was powered by a big outboard motor, which was fed from a tin gasoline tank that could be removed when the boat was not in use. Hassan squeezed a bulb in the middle of the rubber hose that connected the tank to the engine. Miranda knew from her own trips back and forth across the river that this was to pump some fuel into the engine in order to prime it. Her face was a few inches from the tank and the gasoline fumes stung the inside of her nose.

Hassan started the engine and put the throttle into reverse. The boat glided away from the bank.

‘Jed, look!’ Chris whispered.

‘I see one man, at the helm,’ he said. He crouched low in the boat and rested his left hand and the wooden stock of the SLR on the gunwale of the boat. ‘I don’t see Miranda, though.’

When they had reached their boat, Chris and Jed had rowed silently away from the main riverbank to a reed-covered island in the middle of the Zambezi. Rather than motoring up and down the Zambian shore looking for where bin Zayid had hidden his boat, they had decided to wait, and watch and listen for him.

‘Give me the night-vision monocle,’ Chris whispered. Jed handed the device to her and she peered through it. Bin Zayid was bathed in a watery green light. ‘It’s him all right.’

Jed put the monocle back on and swung the rifle a little to the left. He lined up the iron foresight of the old rifle on the man’s torso. He estimated the target was about two hundred metres away The Arab’s boat was moving backwards, slowly, away from the shore. ‘I’m going to take the shot.’

Chris stayed perfectly still.

Jed raised the rifle slightly to compensate for the bullet’s fall. It was a long time since he’d fired a rifle without the benefit of a state-of-the-art telescopic sight, but he had always been a good marksman. He took a deep breath then let half the air out of his lungs. He followed the slowly moving figure, aimed off ever so slightly to compensate for the movement of the target’s boat, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot split the peace of the night and half-a-dozen startled waterbirds erupted noisily from their night roosts. A hippo grunted angrily nearby.

‘He’s down. You got him!’ Chris said.

‘Start the engine!’ Jed ordered. He kept the rifle trained on the boat. Jed wasn’t so sure it was a clean shot. The target had moved as he fired, as though he was bending down for something in the bottom of the boat.

Hassan bin Zayid pitched forwards and landed between the boat’s two seats. Miranda kicked at him with her aching feet. He moaned in pain. He was not dead, but she was overjoyed that someone was out there looking for them – someone who was prepared to shoot first and ask questions later.

Hassan yelped like a dog as Miranda’s foot connected with his left forearm, which was hanging by his side with white bone protruding from one of the two holes. He kicked back at her and reached for the AK-47 with his good hand. He rolled into a sitting position and cradled the rifle in his lap. With his right hand he pushed the selector down two notches to automatic and lifted the weapon by the pistol grip. To their left, from the direction where the shot had come from, Miranda heard a marine engine roar to life. Hassan leaned the rifle’s barrel on the edge of the boat and squeezed the trigger.

The shots went wide, but Chris and Jed both ducked instinctively. Chris eased off on the throttle. ‘I don’t want to shoot in case Miranda’s down there with him out of sight,’ Jed called above the noise of the engine. ‘We’ve got to get closer to them, Chris. Faster!’

Chris knew he was right, but she was terrified. She opened the throttle.

Hassan dropped the AK-47 and pushed his boat’s throttle forwards. He steered from a crouch. With the extra jerry cans of gasoline in the bottom of the boat he had enough fuel to reach Mozambique. He doubted his pursuers had such reserves. It was not over yet, but he would need medical attention as soon as possible. His shattered arm was bleeding profusely He would splint and bandage it as soon as he lost the other boat, then call his comrades by satellite phone and arrange for them to meet him somewhere on the shores of Lake Cahora Bassa, across the border near the town of Zumbo. It might take them a day or more to reach the rendezvous point, but he had the will to survive.

A hippo broke the surface of the river in front of him, its huge jaws wide in surprised anger.

Hassan swung the helm over hard and Miranda was thrown against the side of the boat. A collision with one of the huge beasts at the speed he was now doing could kill him as sure as any bullet.

Hassan reached again for his rifle and fired another wild three-round burst at his pursuers.

Chris jinked to the left to avoid the fusillade, but realised she had turned the wrong way when she felt the thump of displaced air as a bullet tore past her head. ‘That was too close!’ she cried.

‘Stay with him. That’s about ten or twelve rounds he’s fired. It’ll be hard for him to reload and drive, especially if he’s wounded,’ Jed yelled.

Great, Chris thought. Only eighteen or twenty more shots she had to survive. The two boats were equally matched in horsepower – as well as the need to avoid mammalian obstacles – and Chris found she was not able to close the gap between them, which now stood at about a hundred metres.

Jed grabbed the side of the boat and stood. ‘Pull over, bin Zayid, you’re finished!’ he cried, and fired two shots high over the other boat.

‘Are you crazy?’ Chris shouted.

Jed dropped down again to a crouch in front of Chris as Hassan answered with a long burst of rifle fire. None of the bullets came near them.

‘Don’t tell me you’re deliberately trying to get him to shoot at you?’ Chris asked.

Jed looked her in the eyes, his stare cold and hard. There was not the slightest inkling of fear or panic in his eyes. ‘If I get hit, promise me you’ll kill him.’

*

Miranda wriggled in the bottom of the boat as hot, spent bullet cartridges rained down on her. Her face was next to the fuel tank and suddenly she had an idea. The tape on her mouth had been splashed with bilge water when Hassan turned to avoid the hippos. Miranda found that by moving her jaw she was able to stretch and loosen the dampened gag. She pushed her face into the putrid water, which was mixed with the mud and blood from her feet. She glanced up to see if Hassan was watching, but his concentration was alternating between the river ahead and the people following them. She worked her lower jaw furiously and the sodden tape began to fall away. She rubbed her face against the side of the boat and peeled off more of the tape until she was able to open her mouth completely.

Miranda rolled back onto her other side and craned her head back until she could get her mouth around the rubber fuel hose that fed into the gas tank. She bit down hard and pulled on the hose, worrying it as viciously as a dog with a rat.

To his right, on the Zimbabwean side, Hassan could see the twinkle of hurricane lanterns at the Mana Pools campsite and staff houses. Ahead of him the Zambezi glittered wide and clear in the moonlight.

Now that he was in the middle of the river, there was less chance of him running into a hippo pod.

The throttle was wide open and the other boat was no closer. He laughed and turned and fired three more shots. Hassan didn’t notice the leak until the engine coughed.

The outboard chugged twice then suddenly cut out. Hassan wiggled the throttle and looked around him. Seeing the severed fuel line he raised his good hand and slapped Miranda hard across the face.

He knelt and fumbled with the free end of the hose, trying awkwardly to reconnect it.

Miranda leaned over and head-butted his shattered arm. Hassan bellowed in pain and fell to his knees. Even in his agony he realised that the other boat’s engine sounded very close now.

Eventually, Hassan managed to drag himself back into his seat. With his good hand he swung the wheel and pointed the still-coasting boat towards the shore. He would land on the Zimbabwean side, just downstream of the main camp in Mana Pools National Park. The rangers would be alert now, wakened by the gunshots, and the Zambian police would be on their way from the other side soon. He needed to get hold of the boat that was pursuing them. He had lost his prime hostage, but he still had Miranda. If the man following him was who he thought it was, then he still had a chance to complete the part of this mission that mattered to him most.

‘Stop cowering, Miranda, I am not going to hit you again,’ he said, his voice calm now. He reached down and grabbed the fuel tank. He unscrewed the cap, one-handed, then lifted the can and tipped the remainder of its contents over the prone woman.

‘No!’ Miranda screamed and coughed as gasoline soaked her hair and eyes, and filled her mouth.

The cold fuel drenched her breasts, her arms and her dress. ‘I’m sorry, Hassan.’

‘Sorry! My God, Miranda, what a pathetic thing to say. You spied on me, you lied to me, and you and your father caused the death of my only living relative. You think that if you say “sorry” this will all go away?’

‘I never meant to hurt you, or your brother, Hassan. I thought you were a good guy, that they were wrong about you.’ She coughed and retched as the gasoline fumes invaded her lungs.

‘A good guy? There’s no such thing in the world we live in these days, Miranda. You’re about to find that out the hard way’ He grabbed a handful of her hair and lifted her up. ‘Is that your father following us, Miranda?’

She looked at the other boat, which had also cut its engine and was now gliding closer to them.

Miranda gasped as she saw Christine Wallis and her father.

‘Well, is that Daddy, come to rescue his precious little lying bitch?’

Miranda said nothing, but Hassan saw the look on the man’s face.

‘Miranda!’ Jed cried out.

‘Ah,’ said Hassan, ‘I knew it. Keep your distance, Sergeant Banks. You know I’ll kill her if you try anything.’

‘Let her go, you sick fuck,’ Jed yelled back.

‘Oh, I will, Jed, let her go that is. Surprised?’

Jed held his tongue, and brought the SLR up into his shoulder.