With the sun low in the sky, they set down on a deserted stretch of road about ten kilometres north-east of Al Dabbah, a small town on the wide green sweep of the Blue Nile. The country here was very dry. Since leaving the green and fertile highlands of Ethiopia, the land had become increasingly barren and featureless and there were few signs of human habitation. The big herds, so clearly visible from the air in Kenya, were long since gone, and now, for as far as they could see, there was desolation.
This was a country at war with itself. The signs of the long descent into chaos were everywhere. Villages raised, charred, empty. Shot-up tanks and columns of burned-out vehicles shimmering in the heat. Sometimes Crowbar would descend to get a closer look, and they could make out the close-spaced hummocks of shallow graves, rows of them, as if planted in the hope that crops might grow instead of hate. Not far from Khartoum they overflew a refugee camp, a city of white plastic and canvas that seemed to go on forever. It was like seeing London from the air for the first time, and then realising that every building was a makeshift shelter, every monument a tent, each street an open sewer.
They had agreed that Clay would set out immediately, find transport and try to reach Dongola, about 180 kilometres north, that night. Crowbar would aim to land at the Dongola airfield at seven the next morning. He wasn’t sure who was going to show up to meet them, or when. He’d dangled the lure. They would just have to wait and see if anyone bit. And if they did, they would have to play it as it came.
Crowbar reached into the plane’s rear storage compartment, pulled out one of the bags he’d been toting around since Zanzibar and handed it to Clay. ‘You may need this,’ he said.
Clay opened the bag, looked inside, caught a breath. ‘Jesus, Koevoet.’ It was a scoped Galil MAR assault rifle with a folding stock – a smaller, lightweight version of the R4 he’d used in Angola. It was a beautiful weapon.
The corners of Crowbar’s mouth flipped up into a grin. ‘Nice scope on it, too, seun, but a shorter barrel. You get there early, find a good place, close enough in, and cover me. I’m depending on you, ja. Use that spirit of yours one more time.’
Clay stood a moment, weighing the Galil in his hand. ‘I’m sorry, oom, I…’
Crowbar put his hand on Clay’s shoulder. ‘Who knows,’ he said. ‘That old juju man may just have been right.’
Clay replaced the weapon, zipped the bag closed and stashed it in his backpack, along with three extra thirty-five-round magazines. Crowbar also handed him two M27 frags and one smoke cannister.
‘Got enough cash?’ said Crowbar.
‘Plenty.’
‘Then get going. See you tomorrow morning.’
They shook hands and Clay started off towards town, the last of the day’s light throwing long shadows across the sand.
Soon it was dark. And with the darkness came the cold. Stars appeared: Aldebaran, blood red, lost as an equinoctial marker here almost five thousand years ago; Sirius, destined to burn on as the brightest star in the sky long after our own sun was gone; so many others he could not name.
Trudging through this ruined country he could feel the uncertainty burning away his patience, and he knew that these killings – those done and yet to come – were just parts of a whole, a seemingly endless firmament of death. And in this detachment, he began to see a possibility that perhaps, one day, he might exorcise the murderous spirit that had taken hold inside him and live in peace. One day. If he could get to Cairo. If he could find Rania. If he could convince her to leave with him. If they could escape. If they could find a place where they might be free of the past. If.
Hope was a dangerous thing.
After two hours of walking, Clay reached Al-Dabbah. He found the main road through town and struck north. Time was running on. He needed to find transport to have any hope of reaching the airfield in time. It wasn’t until he was nearing the outskirts of town that he came upon what appeared to be a garage. Vehicles in various states of disrepair hulked in the sand, their punctured bodies painted orange by the flamelight from a glowing brazier. The owner of the place, a dark-skinned and suspicious local, showed him an old Enfield motorbike. It was banged up, but the engine ran and the tyres looked reasonable. Clay haggled a price, paid cash and started north, the way lit only by stars and the wavering yellow cone of light from the bike’s headlamp. The road was unpaved, shot through with potholes, cut by ruts and washouts. After a while, the moon rose, a shimmering, waning half.
His progress was slow. By midnight, he was still some forty kilometres from Dongola. He continued north, the bike rattling over the dusty washboard, the Blue Nile warm and fragrant on his right. Stars beckoned, the town’s far-off glow staining the horizon. Not long after, he hit the first roadblock.
Clay slowed and cut his lights as the barrier came into view. It had been placed where the road skirted the river’s narrow floodplain of fertile ground. Old car wheel rims had been arranged across the tarmac to stop traffic. Two soldiers stood warming themselves beside a steel drum set back on the shoulder. Orange flame jumped from the mouth of the drum and lit the faces of the men, glinted on the barrels of their rifles. Clay could smell the smoke, hear the men’s voices. He could try to talk or bribe his way through. But given what he had come here to do and what he was carrying, the risks were too great. He would have to detour around, approach the airfield from the west. He turned the bike around and started back the way he’d come.
After about five kilometres he left the main road and followed a small dirt track that led west towards the hills. Fifteen minutes in he turned north again, Polaris showing the way. Cross-country, in the near-dark, the going was slow. Riding with one hand was hard enough on a half-decent road, but now the bike bumped and lurched over the hard, uneven ground, powered out in swales of soft sand. The inside of his left forearm was bruised and sore from working the clutch lever. Twice he went over the handlebars, picked himself up, righted the bike and kept going. He was running out of time.
Then, with the sky lightening in the east, the rear tyre blew.
He stopped and inspected the damage. The sidewall had ruptured, spilling a big flap of fibre belting and rubber. He tried to continue, but with each revolution the tyre disintegrated further, tearing itself to pieces. Soon there was nothing left, and the bike was churning along on an almost bare rim. There was no point in going on.
Clay dismounted and scanned the horizon with the binoculars. He could just make out the low mud-brick and concrete jumble of Dongola town, and beyond, the darker thread of vegetation along the river. The airfield was still at least ten kilometres away. Less than an hour until Crowbar was scheduled to land. Clay filled his lungs, hefted his pack, secured the chest and waist straps, tightened it all down and started to run.
As the sun broke the horizon, he reached a rise and looked down across the sweep of desert towards the Nile. The airstrip cut a grey scar on the outskirts of the dawn-lit town. At four minutes per kilometre he would arrive at the airstrip just as Crowbar was landing. He upped his pace, pushing hard, watching the sun’s fiery rebirth, his feet skimming across the rocky ground.
As he neared the airstrip, he began searching the sky. The sun was up and the heat was coming. He wasn’t going to make it in time. Crowbar would land, expecting him to be there, expecting cover. He would be walking into an ambush. Clay bit down, kept going. Sweat poured from his temples, soaked his shirt. Less than a kilometre to go and still he hadn’t seen or heard a plane approaching.
Clay glanced at his watch. Just gone seven. Not like Crowbar to be late. Could he have arrived early?
As he neared the airstrip he could make out a cluster of small buildings on the town side, an elevated fuel bowser, the wind sock hanging limp from its post. No sign of people, no aircraft on the ground that he could see. Relief poured through him. He plotted a course around the far end of the strip and towards a sandy ridge that ran parallel to the landing strip, just beyond the apron.
Twenty-five minutes later, Clay lay tucked behind the crest of the ridge on the eastern edge of the airfield, watching the sky. It was now almost an hour since the agreed arrival time had come and gone, and still no sign of Crowbar’s little Cessna.
And whoever Crowbar was expecting, there was no sign of them, either. Where were the people that ran this place, dishevelled though it was? Why was it unattended? When he’d first arrived, he’d assumed that guards or attendants might be sleeping in one of the buildings, or would arrive at daybreak. But he’d seen no movement, no indication of occupation. Now, as the sun rose in the sky, he knew something was wrong.
Clay checked his watch again. Crowbar was more than an hour late. Had there been engine trouble? They had plenty of fuel, so it couldn’t be that. Had he perhaps run foul of local militia? Had Crowbar abandoned him, even – set him up, left him to die? No, that was crazy thinking. The heat was getting to him, he was dehydrated. Anything could have delayed Crowbar. There was no point speculating. None of it was in his control anyway. He was here. He would wait. He shut it all away, focused on the job.
From where he lay, Clay had a commanding view of the buildings and the access road that led to the main road and town. He arranged some brush to provide himself a bit of camouflage, dialled in the scope, and, using the ragged windsock that now fluttered near the hut, estimated windage. He scanned the airstrip through the scope, focused on the fuel bowser, picked a target at the base of the elevated platform. At two hundred metres, with the MAR’s shorter barrel, it would probably take him a few shots to hit centre.
And then he heard it. A faint hum at first, coming on the breeze. He lifted his head, scanned the horizon. There it was: a small plane approaching from the south, descending towards the field. Clay watched the aircraft parallel the runway, then turn and line up for final approach. It was Crowbar.
Clay watched the Cessna float in over the runway, touch down with a puff of dust and then taxi to the ramp and stop beside the fuel bowser. Crowbar shut down the engine and jumped to the ground, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. He stood a moment, surveying the deserted airstrip. Then he walked to the fuel dispenser and unhooked the nozzle. A moment later he clambered up the steel frame to the single rusting tank and rapped on the side. Bone rang on hollow steel. But there was depth to the sound, the sway of fuel. Crowbar jumped down, grabbed the nozzle, clambered up onto the wing strut and started to fill the tanks.
That was when they came.
Two vehicles, speeding towards the airfield, red dust spiralling into the by-now blue morning sky. Crowbar had seen them, too. Clay watched him reach for his .45, work the action, replace it in its concealed shoulder holster and continue pumping. Clay filled his lungs, steadied himself, tracked the lead vehicle with the Galil’s scope.
The vehicles pulled up side by side, just short of the Cessna – a white Toyota Hilux and what looked to be a retired taxi. The Toyota’s passenger door opened. A tall Nubian in a white jelabia emerged from the vehicle and stepped forwards. He appeared unarmed. Clay tracked the man as he walked towards the plane, cross hairs set between his shoulder blades.
Crowbar jumped to the ground, set the nozzle down and wiped his hands on his trousers. He and the Nubian faced each other a few metres apart. Words were exchanged. After a moment, the two men closed the distance and shook hands.
It made sense. Crowbar wouldn’t have leaked information about a rendezvous to the AB without having ensured that someone was actually coming to meet them. He knew the AB would seek to confirm the story. This was the Sudanese contact Crowbar had spoken of. Whether he, too, had been compromised by the AB, and was here to finish what Manheim had started, there was no way of telling. Not yet. Clay exhaled, moved his head away from the scope a moment, rolled his neck, stretched his shoulders, went back to it.
Crowbar walked to the plane, opened the rear cargo compartment, reached inside. Clay scanned the Nubian’s loose-fitting jelabia through the scope, looking for any sign of a concealed weapon, but saw none. He shifted left and scoped the Hilux. The driver was sitting with both hands on the wheel. There were two other black men in the taxi. The one in the front passenger seat was holding something. Clay increased magnification. The distinctive muzzle and foresight of an AK-47 came into focus. Despite the weapon’s ubiquity here, Clay’s pulse jumped.
Crowbar closed the Cessna’s rear storage door and started back towards the Nubian. He was carrying something, a package about the size of a shoe box. He handed it to the Nubian. The African opened the top, looked inside, closed it again, nodded and walked back to the Hilux.
Just then, another vehicle appeared on the access road. It was coming in fast, riding a tornado of dust. The Nubian stood and watched it come. Crowbar reached for his gun. Clay brought the Galil around, cross haired the windscreen of the approaching vehicle. The taxi’s doors opened and two Sudanese jumped out and swung their AK-47s around towards the approaching vehicle, which seemed to have gained speed. It was big, black, some kind of four-wheel-drive truck – a Ford; the kind of thing the American government liked to use abroad. The vehicle sped past the empty guard shack and careened to halt in a shower of gravel a few metres from the other two vehicles.
Dust billowed and for a moment Clay’s view was obscured. He heard car doors open, and then, almost immediately, the sound of automatic weapons firing, rounds crashing into metal, shattering glass, puncturing flesh. Then the screams of men, an AK barking in reply and falling silent. Clay looked on, unable to distinguish a target.
Slowly the dust cleared. The Hilux and the taxi had been reduced to smoking wrecks. The two Sudanese lay sprawled in the dust, leaking blood. Crowbar and the Nubian were nowhere to be seen.
Three men emerged from the Ford, two black, one white. One of the black men was carrying a belt-fed machine gun, the other an Uzi. Clay trained the Galil’s scope on the white man. He was facing away, giving orders, waving a pistol in one hand, pointing with the other. The two black men started moving towards the plane, weapons at the ready. They had just cleared the taxi’s smoking hulk when Clay heard the pop-pop of Crowbar’s .45 Jericho. One of the black men spun to the ground, his Uzi pitching into the dust. The other dove behind the Hilux.
Clay set the Galil’s cross hairs in the middle of the white man’s back, flipped the fire selector switch to R – semi-automatic – and placed the palp of his finger on the trigger. It could only be one man. Clay filled his lungs, began a slow exhale.
‘Pull that trigger and you’re a dead man.’
Adrenaline arced through Clay’s brain, crashed through the wall of dopamine that had already begun building within him in anticipation of the kill – this revenge to which he had set himself. The voice had come from behind. Clay moved his finger away from the trigger, pushed it trembling onto the Galil’s receiver cover.
‘Now let go of the weapon and stand up. Put your hands on you head.’ The voice was familiar, the accent distinctive. From the airfield, more firing, the hammering of the machine gun, Crowbar’s Jericho answering.
Clay stood, raised his hands.
‘Turn around.’
The Uzi’s barrel gaped. Manheim sneered. It pushed his nose even further across his face.
‘Sloppy, Straker,’ he said, shaking his head as he raised the Uzi.