‘In my bed, at a ripe old age, with a good book, a comfy woman and a bottle of single malt whisky,’ the man said smugly.
‘Don’t count on that.’
One of the soldiers came out of the barracks building, a bucket in his hand. He put it down on the ground. Inside, the remains of Chris’s head were clearly visible. His skin was starting to peel away, but otherwise it was the same rugged, familiar face that had fought alongside them through Afghanistan and then Batota. Ollie could feel his stomach churning: he had a strong constitution, and had needed it when he was seriously hitting the bottle, but there were some sights that were hard for even the strongest man to take.
And this was one of them.
One by one, the five soldiers guarding them dipped tin cups into the water and took a long swig of the stained liquid.
‘They’re going to need some courage to take your lives later this morning,’ said Wallace. ‘And your man was brave enough . . . some of that stuff should do the trick.’
Ollie took a step closer to the man. ‘You bas—’ But before he could finish the sentence a pair of soldiers grabbed his shoulders and pushed him straight back into the line. An open-topped military truck, painted camouflage green, had already reversed into position and parked right next to them. One soldier pulled its back down, while another gestured to the five men to climb on board.
Ollie led the way. He and the others stepped up onto the truck, and five soldiers followed them. They were armed with AK-47s, with knives and handguns on their belts. But the prisoners weren’t bound. They intend to parade us like captives through Ancient Rome, realised Ollie. And we’ll look less impressive if we have chains on us.
He fingered the knife in his pocket. They’re just not counting on this, he thought with a tight smile.
Wallace bolted up the truck. ‘It doesn’t make any difference to us whether the crowd sees live colonialist scum or dead ones. In fact, they prefer the dead variety, although I’m sure they’d rather not pass up the opportunity of watching you be executed. So don’t get any smart ideas about escaping.’
The truck roared into life, and the soldiers in the parade ground stepped aside, forming a column as they drove out towards the gates. The roads around the barracks were empty. How far it was to the stadium, Ollie wasn’t sure. Probably only a few minutes’ drive. He glanced into the eyes of the soldiers standing opposite him. They were expressionless, implacable, and he knew that once it came to a fight they would be formidable opponents. However, he and the others had been through the drill a hundred times back in their cell. As soon as the attack started, they’d plunge their knives straight into their necks.
One blade for each man. That was a fair fight.
The truck lurched over a pothole, then ploughed forwards. They were approaching the centre of the city, then they would start heading west towards the stadium. Up ahead of them, the President’s motorcade had joined the procession. A big black Lexus LS 460L, it was carrying President Kapembwa, and was accompanied by eight Sixth Brigade soldiers riding Honda motorbikes. Behind them was a heavily armoured Land Rover. Inside, Ollie could see Wallace, accompanied by Newton and Archie Sharratt. Briefly, his eye caught Newton’s, but the man just looked away. If he was ashamed of himself, you couldn’t see it in his face.
The crowds were starting to build up along the side of the road: a few people at first, then more as the line of vehicles turned into one of the big roads. As Ollie looked into the crowd, he could see only a sullen mass of faces.
We get one shot at this, he told himself.
We’ll make it work, or we’ll die trying.
Steve noted that he and Nick were not the only white men in the crowd. They’d taken up a position 800 yards down from the stadium. There was one other elderly white man, and a pair of youngish backpackers. But Steve was still aware that they stood out amid the men and women thronging the edge of the wide avenue.
He checked his watch. Ten-fifteen. They were already running late.
The mood was tense. Steve could see it in the eyes of the people thronging the street. They were angry, on the edge of violence, and once some trouble kicked off, there was no way of knowing which way they might turn. They didn’t like Kapembwa, but that didn’t mean they were ready for a bunch of white boys to start coming in and re-ordering their country. We shouldn’t expect the crowd to be on our side, Steve reminded himself. We’ll just grab our blokes, then get out of here as fast as we can. Treat the whole country as our enemy: that way there’s a chance of staying alive.
There were street snacks on sale: fried chicken, stewed goat, and big burning racks of sweetcorn. Only a few people were buying. Up close, you could feel the poverty of the people. The kids were undernourished, most of them dressed in rags. Their parents didn’t look in any better shape. Average life expectancy for men had fallen to just thirty-seven, and for women thirty-four. As you looked around, there weren’t any old people. Nobody makes it that far, I guess, decided Steve.