Defender(6)

There came the thump and boom of half-a-dozen pairs of army boots crossing wooden floorboards.

"Good day, colonel," Lundt offered languidly. His hands tellingly remained in his pockets.

Baptiste, the rebel leader – tall, blue-black, with thick, wiry hair pressed awkwardly under a dirty green beret – ignored the greeting. Instead he stood close, bristling with self-importance, surrounded by three of his minders and his 2IC, Mobuto, the butcher. Their skin shone with sweat, contrasting with their dull jungle-camouflage uniforms, all tinged ochre by a permanent film of fine dirt.

"This sniper," Baptiste began. "Trouble is following you, English."

"Not me, colonel. You have a way of pissing off a lot of very important people, and all you do is draw unnecessary attention to yourself – and to me. I’m not at all surprised he was sent after you."

"Give Baptiste news of the soon-to-be-dead President Namakobo’s movements," demanded the colonel, pompously referring to himself in the third person.

"I’m afraid I have none. I’m expecting advice from London at any moment," Lundt replied.

The rebel leader moved in even closer, standing toe to toe with the foreigner.

"Mobuto tells me that you were waiting for advice from London yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, English. And today – still nothing."

"These are difficult times, colonel. It’s very important that you make your move deliberately and at just the right moment. When they learn that you’ve killed their man, the British Government won’t be so keen to intervene here. They’ll be afraid that by helping President Namakobo they’ll be over-committed; they’ve already got enough on their plate in Afghanistan. For years they’ve had great influence in Malfajiri. Now, they won’t be so confident. But we can’t afford to have Namakobo here in Cullentown when you make your move against his government. With or without British help, he has strong tribal alliances throughout this country, and he and Dr. Siziba are the only two who could turn things against you. Siziba being in exile, he’s not an immediate problem for you. You must wait until—"

"No! No more wait. You come now." Baptiste turned on his heel and moved swiftly back into the house. His minders closed around Lundt and led him away in the wake of their Colonel. Mobuto followed.

The rebel_ soldiers herded the foreigner deep into the house. Baptiste led the way, his chin jutting in the air and his right hand resting habitually on the butt of his holstered .44 Magnum. The stench grew worse as they frog-marched along the corridors, and then in file down a set of stairs that must have been condemned 20 or more years ago. Lundt fought the temptation to retch. The rotting concrete walls that cocooned the stairs were smeared with the brown stain of blood splatter, and underfoot the wooden steps reeked of urine. What had been a basement at one time, was now an endless black cavern, a torture chamber. In those first seconds as he was pushed away from the stairs, the darkness, smell and incessant moans of invisible prisoners gave the impression of infinite space. The rebel soldiers moved through the darkened abyss comfortably.

Gradually, Lundt could distinguish shapes and movement. Cages materialised along the walls to his left and right, four or five on each side, and each with a dozen or more people inside. Baptiste withdrew the Magnum from its holster and rattled the barrel along the bars of the cages, taunting the terrified occupants with each calculated step. Clang, clang, clang! Wretched, lucifugous creatures, all of them. They fell silent at the very sight of Baptiste, and scuttled away to the rear of their pens like nocturnal animals away from light, as Baptiste and his posse cut a swath along the bars. The fear was palpable, the stench inhuman.

At the end of the chasm, Baptiste came to a stop. "Come here," he snarled. Lundt was grappled forward by the minders and within a second found himself thrust alongside the Colonel. "See what Baptiste has for you."

"I don't know why you've brought me here, Colonel," he replied. For the first time in a very, very long time Victor Lundt was feeling dread. Surely this wasn't the end of the line. Not like this, down here. "This has nothing to do with me."

"It has everything to do with you." Baptiste pushed him into an open cage.

Lundt stumbled against a solitary figure, a man, sitting in a wooden chair. In the same instant, Baptiste pulled a length of string suspended from the roof and a blazing single bulb came to life, illuminating a space ten feet square in blinding yellow light. Lundt staggered back towards the wall, his face frozen in disbelief. Baptiste smiled.

The man in the chair, or what was left of him, was the sniper, Collins, arms bound behind him and ankles strapped to the legs of the chair by strands of thin copper wire. Deep blood-encrusted gouges, the result of many days in this position, were evident around the wrists and ankles. His face was a mess, the flesh battered and swollen, both eyes completely closed over. Blood dripped from his open mouth. Teeth were missing. His head was hanging at a repulsive angle, no doubt from the sheer exhaustion of lasting through the beatings he'd received. He stunk of his own excrement. The only sound was the bubbling rasp of his attempts to breathe with lungs full of blood, as the ribs had been broken early in the treatment. Occasionally, the head would move, and Lundt realised that Collins was sobbing, barely audible amidst the laughing and jeering of Baptiste's men. "You assured me this man was dead, Colonel." Lundt spat the words at Baptiste.