‘He’s right - we owe him, Steve,’ said Ian sharply.
Steve backed away. The pair of fishermen at the dockside were looking at them warily, and they were both big, hulking guys with muscles toned from years of hauling nets. If it came to a ruck, there was no doubt whose side they were going to be on, he decided.
‘This isn’t his war,’ Ian continued. ‘He didn’t ask to get mixed up in this.’
True enough, acknowledged Steve. Each of them were carrying three gold Krugerrands, worth about $1,000 apiece. Steve took three from his belt and handed them across to Kingston with a pat on the back. ‘Good luck,’ he said - and meant it.
The three men started to walk towards the single taxi. The driver had already opened the door for them, a thick smile on his lips. He’d seen the three gold coins. The strange men on the jetty might look rough, but they had money, and that made them a rarity in Siavonga.
‘You’re paying for the rest of the trip,’ Steve said, glancing across at Ian.
‘In that case, we’re travelling economy,’ Ian replied with a rough smile.
They asked the taxi driver to take them to the only money-changer in town - an Egyptian called Hazem, who offered to swap one Krugerrand for the local currency, the Tukan kwacha. The official rate was three point two kwacha to the dollar, which made the gold coins worth $3,200. Hazem offered them $2,500 and allowed himself to be haggled up to $3,000. They were still getting ripped off, Steve knew, but they had more important things to worry about right now.
‘Take us to the best hotel in town,’ said Ian, climbing back into the taxi.
‘I hope they’ve got some grub,’ said Nick. ‘I’m bloody starving.’
Ollie reckoned he had a bruise for every pothole the truck had crashed through. By the time it finally pulled up, his bones were aching and he was wet through from the rain that had poured down on them as they travelled towards Ibera. They had spent the last fifteen hours strapped in the back of the truck whilst it made its way south, twisting through the traffic, with a two-vehicle military escort. Even with the soldiers clearing the way, it was still a painfully slow journey, with constant obstacles on the road.
But that hardly mattered Ollie thought. It wasn’t as if things were going to get any better when they arrived.
‘Move yourselves,’ barked Wallace.
Ollie stood up and started to lower himself out of the truck. It was night now, with heavy clouds covering the city, and there were only a few lights illuminating the parade ground where the truck had pulled up.
But Ollie didn’t need any light to recognise it.
The Headquarters of the Sixth Brigade.
The very last place in Batota they wanted to be right now.
A reception party of ten soldiers had lined up to greet them, each of them armed with an AK-47. The six men climbed out one by one until they were all standing on the ground. One of the soldiers slammed the butt of his rifle into Ganju’s ribs, then gestured towards a nearby building. One by one they started to walk. They were taken into a barracks block, then down a flight of concrete stairs that led into a damp basement. One light bulb provided all the illumination, but it was enough to see the four cells. In the first, two men were chained up, but the light was so bad, it was impossible to see anything apart from two pairs of beaten, starving eyes.
One cell door was open.
The soldier threw Ganju inside, then motioned to the rest of the men to follow. As the door slammed behind them and the key was turned in the lock, Wallace relit his cigar, the flame from his lighter briefly revealing the blood and excrement that covered the walls and the floor.
‘Just in case you boys were wondering what the drill is,’ he said with a cruel grin, ‘we’re going to try you, then we’re going to execute you. So if I were you, I’d pray for a quick death. It’s the best you can hope for now.’
The receptionist at Eagle Wing Lodge wasn’t impressed, decided Steve. And frankly, who could blame her? Three blokes, wet to their skins, their faces muddy and bruised, and with what looked like full military kit attached to their chests. I wouldn’t want us checking into the hotel either, he thought.
Putting 1,000 kwacha down on the table, he said, ‘We need a room badly.’
‘Three rooms,’ said Ian. ‘I’m not sharing with this bloke.’ He flashed the receptionist a rough grin. ‘I mean, just smell him.’
The Eagle Wing was the closest to an upscale hotel you could find anywhere in the area. Located five miles from the town, it had a fine position on a ridge of high ground looking down onto the valley and then the lake below. With thirty individual wooden huts, it was built for the safari tours, but this was way out of season, and the place was empty, kept open with a skeleton staff until the rains were through. The reception fronted a bar and restaurant, and was decorated with pictures of big game. The woman at the desk was eyeing the notes on the table. Steve put another 200 down. ‘That’s for you,’ he said.