‘We want you to stand in front of the camera and read out this statement,’ Park said.
Ollie could feel his chest tightening. He was afraid, he didn’t mind admitting that, at least to himself. Wallace was a killer, insane - of that there could be no question - and he’d stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
But I’m not bloody reading that, he told himself with grim determination. It doesn’t matter what they threaten us with.
Wallace suddenly jumped forward. He’d grabbed hold of David, wrestling the man to the ground. Two soldiers immediately stepped in, pinning him to the floor by pressing down on his chest, leaving David gasping for breath.
‘If you haven’t read that statement in ten minutes, then this man is next,’ threatened Wallace.
The backpackers’ hostel occupied an old colonial building in one of the smartest districts of Ibera, in the north-east of the city. The streets had once been home to the grand mining and farming families, as well as the diplomats posted to the capital, and the houses were big, with ten or eleven bedrooms, pools, and gardens that would have been lush if anyone had had the time and money to look after them. Three of the old buildings had been turned into cheap hostels for travellers, the rooms converted to dorms where you could get a bed and meal for the equivalent of a couple of quid a night, and along the street outside was a string of internet cafés and shops selling phone cards and walking boots.
It’ll do, decided Steve, as they pulled up in the Hyundai. Just so long as we can stay safe until we break our boys out.
Sam slipped inside to secure them a room. A minute later, the owner stepped out to great them. With straggly black hair tied in a ponytail, and a multi-coloured T-shirt, he looked like a bass player from Aerosmith on a bad day.
‘You boys can kip down in room seven,’ he said, handing across a key. ‘There’s some space for Sam in the women’s dorm. Grab yourself a beer on the terrace, and I’ll get the cook to heat you up some stew.’
The beer felt cold and refreshing as Steve opened up the bottle and started to pour it down his throat. There were five other people still up, even though it was just after eleven. Only gap year students and intrepid travellers were still trying to come to Batota, and that meant the backpackers’ hostels were one of the few bits of the economy still making any money. At one table, a pair of German students were drinking beer and sending texts on their mobiles. On another, a tough-looking Scottish woman in her sixties was reading a Joseph Conrad novel. Then there was a pair of Canadian blokes in their forties, serious wildlife buffs, with thick beards, sturdy walking boots and a small pile of books on all the different animals in Batota.
Steve smiled and nodded to each of them in turn, said good evening, but then walked out into the garden followed by Nick and Ian. He didn’t want to be overheard, not by anyone.
‘How long do you reckon we have?’ said Ian.
Steve shook his head. ‘The bastard won’t hang around.’
He looked at the TV hooked up in one corner of the bar. It was tuned to the Government-controlled Batotean Broadcasting Corporation, and the nightly news was just starting. The newsreader was announcing that the executions of the foreign mercenaries were scheduled for ten o’clock tomorrow morning.
As he listened to the words, Steve took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Christ,’ he muttered to himself.
Then a picture of Ollie flashed up on the screen. He looked terrible, noted Steve. His face was covered with stubble, sweat and grime, and his eyes were haggard and bloodshot. In a slow, mechanical voice, he started to speak. ‘We are agents of British-American imperialism. We have been sent here by our governments, and by the mining and oil conglomerates, to assassinate President Kapembwa and to bring Batota back under the heel of colonial rule.’
One by one, the rest of the men appeared on the screen, each one of them reciting the same statement. David, followed by Dan, by Maksim, and then by Ganju. You could see the anger in each man’s eyes, but also sense the despair.
They’ve done something to them, realised Steve. Something bloody awful to get them to read that crap.
‘The execution of the foreign mercenaries and the agents of imperialism will take place in the morning at the Juberra Jail in Ibera,’ the newsreader repeated. ‘But first they will be taken through the city, and paraded at the election rally that our glorious President is holding in the National Stadium so that the Batotean people may demonstrate that they will never again be brought under colonial rule.’
On the screen, a shot of Kapembwa suddenly flashed up. He was wearing a bright red top and a black baseball cap, and there was a hint of venom in his eyes.