In front of the weapons were two old Land Rovers, both carefully sealed in plastic to prevent them rusting up. Steve recognised them at once: indeed, he’d thought about stocking a few in the garage, since some of the older Land Rovers were now attracting serious interest from collectors. They were rugged Series II jeeps dating back to the early 1960s, the days when a Land Rover was a fighting or a farming vehicle, not an expensive way of ferrying the kids to school. In the back were four drums of diesel. Beside them were propped wooden rafts with slots for the wheels, so the Land Rovers could be floated out beneath the waterfall and out onto the road.
Perfect, thought Steve. We’ve everything we need to break out of this godforsaken country.
‘Right,’ said Ollie. ‘It’s past nine, and we’re all tired and hungry. I reckon we need to get some grub cooked and down our throats. In the morning, we’ll start working on getting out of here.’
Dan and Ganju set to work. They opened up some cans of sausages and beans and started frying up a massive stew over the gasfire. There was plenty of tea, so they used the water from the lake to boil up a brew, served in tin mugs, with evaporated milk. There were some spare clothes as well: jeans and T-shirts and socks, along with some soap, so while Dan was cooking, the rest of the men had a wash in the lake and shaved off the stubble growing on their chins. Within half an hour, they were sitting around the fire, washed and shaved and wearing dry clothes, and eating mounds of sausage and bean stew from tin plates.
We’re feeling better already, thought Steve to himself. Like men again. Taking charge of our own destiny.
‘No chance the General left a stack of rum, is there?’ Maksim asked with a broad grin.
‘Afraid not,’ Sam told him.
‘He’s done us proud all the same,’ said Ollie. He shovelled some more of the food into his mouth, then raised his cup of tea. ‘To the General,’ he said. ‘He didn’t leave this stash for us, but if he knew Sam was here and if he knew we had just assassinated Kapembwa - that’s down to you, Maksie - then I reckon he would be glad for us to help ourselves.’
‘To the General,’ grunted the men in unison.
Ganju was fiddling with a shortwave radio that had been tucked into one of the boxes. It was an old Grundig model from the late 1970s, but its batteries were intact, and it worked fine. After twisting the dial, he finally managed to tune it to the BBC World Service. ‘There have been dramatic developments during a day of political chaos and turmoil in Batota,’ said the newsreader.
For a second, the men stopped eating and listened with rapt attention.
‘President Kapembwa has been assassinated during a break-out by the foreign mercenaries who were due to stand trial in Ibera for plotting the downfall of the veteran Batotean leader. As the men were being paraded through the country’s capital, a rescue was staged. During the fighting, the President was killed. His senior military adviser Esram Matola has this afternoon declared martial law in Batota. He has appointed himself President and postponed the elections until the situation has been stabilised.’
Matola’s voice came on the bulletin: ‘The people of Batota are united in their grief for the passing of our nation’s greatest ever leader, a man who liberated us from the tyranny of the colonial oppressor. Eventually the colonialists took their vengeance upon him in the only way they know how, through murder and blood. The borders of the country have been sealed, and the Army is determined to impose discipline and order in this difficult time. The men responsible for the death of our beloved leader will be hunted down like the dogs they are and, when captured, will be made to pay the price for this terrible crime.’
The broadcaster switched quickly to the rest of the world news: floods in Indonesia, sharp falls in share prices on Wall Street, and a suicide bomber killing thirty people in Baghdad. The men remained silent. It was clear enough that Matola had taken charge of the country, and the Army was out hunting for them.
We’ll be fine in this cave, reflected Steve. It was so well hidden you might not stumble across it in 100 years.
But getting to the border? It was eighty or ninety miles north of here, and they could expected to be hunted across every inch of it.
‘Any chance of getting some cricket scores out of that thing?’ said Dan, nodding towards the radio. ‘The first Test against you Poms will have started. I reckon your boys will have taken a pasting by now.’
‘Watch it,’ grumbled Ollie.
‘And the Six Nations scores,’ said Nick. ‘Another malleting for the English at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.’