‘The Batotean people will never again fall under the tyranny of the British, the Americans or the mining companies,’ he said, looking straight into the camera. ‘They can send their mercenaries, their dogs of war, but we will never be defeated. And tomorrow, these men will pay the ultimate price for the treachery to which they have confessed.’
‘Notice something?’ said Ian, standing next to Steve.
A cool night breeze was blowing through the garden, and the scent of the jacaranda trees that lined the streets in this part of town wafted through the air.
‘What - that he’s a sodding nutter?’ said Steve.
‘Well, that’s true enough, but something else . . .’
Steve shook his head.
‘There was no sign of Chris,’ said Ian, his tone tense.
Steve already knew what he was saying. He’d noticed it himself as the men were paraded past. He just didn’t want to think about what it meant. Not right now anyway.
‘That’s right,’ said Nick, putting his beer down. ‘Where the hell was Chris in the line-up?’
Steve looked across at Ian. Someone would have to explain it.
‘They must have done something bad to get Ollie and the boys to read that rubbish,’ said Ian. ‘And Chris will have been the guy they did it to. He’s a Recce, after all.’
‘Dead, you reckon?’ said Steve.
‘Yeah, I reckon,’ Ian replied heavily. ‘Or as near as makes no fecking difference.’
Thirty-Eight
WALLACE SLAMMED THE DOOR SHUT on the cell. Some food had been put down on the floor. Nothing much. Two loaves of stale bread, some black and squishy bananas and a bucket of water. Ollie sat down on the hard ground next to it. It didn’t make any difference what the food looked like. He didn’t feel like eating.
‘You boys get some beauty sleep,’ Wallace said mockingly.
Nobody replied. Then: ‘What’s it to be?’ asked David. ‘The bullet or the rope?’
‘We’ll make it a surprise for you,’ said Wallace. ‘I wouldn’t want to stop you from getting a good night’s sleep.’ He chuckled to himself as he walked back up the stairs to the parade ground, leaving the men alone in their cell.
‘Thanks for saving my skin,’ David said to Ollie and Dan.
Ollie shrugged. ‘There wasn’t any choice,’ he said flatly. ‘They’d have crucified you the same way they crucified Chris. They were going to murder us all, so we did the right thing. Gave them their confessions and bought ourselves a bit more time.’
‘If we’re going to die, it should be the bullet,’ said Maksim, mashing up some banana into a lump of hard bread and chewing on the sandwich. ‘A soldier’s death - that’s the least we deserve. In the Russian Army, a soldier always gets a bullet.’ He laughed. ‘Actually, so do the criminals and the politicians. No rope factories, you see.’
‘Or the sword,’ said Ganju, his tone reflective. ‘A man should have the right to die by his own sword. That way, it is easier for his soul to be transmitted from one body to the next one.’
‘You really believe that?’ Maksim asked.
‘It is the tradition of samsara,’ said Ganju quietly. ‘All your actions in this world are added up, and they determine your destiny once your soul is reborn. Our bodies are like a coat. When it’s worn out, we put it aside and put on a new one - but the soul carries on.’
‘What are you coming back as, Maksie?’ said Dan.
‘A mad bull, I reckon,’ growled Ian.
‘A barman in a brothel,’ Maksie replied. ‘An expensive one.’
‘And I’ll own the bloody place,’ said Dan. ‘The man with the tab that never runs out.’
‘I think I’ll be the barman at a lapdancing club - something a bit more upmarket,’ said Ollie.
‘Maybe Nick’s mum’s gaff,’ grinned Dan.
‘Doesn’t sound that classy to me,’ said Ollie. ‘I mean, given the state of Nick, what the hell can his mum look like?’
‘We’ve got less than twelve hours,’ said Steve, glancing at his watch.
They were looking at a street map of Ibera.
‘The Sixth Brigade barracks is here,’ said Ian, pointing to a spot on the map towards the north of the city, and only a couple of miles from where they were spending the night. ‘If we reckon they are keeping them penned up there because it’s the safest place, then they will have to come down these roads here to get to the National Stadium out in the south-west of the city.’ He was tracing a finger down a row of streets. ‘In order to be paraded at the rally at ten in the morning, then they need to come down this one.’ He jabbed at the Akwa Road, a wide avenue that cut through the west of the city. ‘And that’s where we strike.’