Blood Ransom (13 page)

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 10:03 A.M.

NEAR TAGALA VILLAGE

Nick loosened the cowling with a screwdriver, praying that he’d finally found the problem. If it was the fuel line, though, his life had just gotten a lot more complicated—as if that were even possible. He didn’t have time to be stuck in the middle of the jungle with nowhere to go for parts and no radio access on the eve of a presidential election that, according to Chad and Natalie, had a good chance of ending in disaster.

He glanced back at the plane. Not that he couldn’t fix the problem. Three years flying bush planes through the jungle had prepared him for just about anything, but clogged fuel lines always meant more complications, something he wasn’t in the mood for. It had already taken one miracle to land the plane. It was going to take a second to get it out of here.

With the cowling off, he cut the safety wire and shot up a prayer as he checked to see if the fuel was still getting to the filter.

Bingo. He’d been right.

Forty-five minutes later the plane was good to go. He grabbed his logbook from the cockpit and scribbled a few notes in the margin for the mechanic back in Kasili. As he wrote, an envelope slid out from the back of the logbook and landed on the floor.

Nick picked up the letter, staring at the return address, then shoved the envelope back into the logbook. At twenty-one, his reaction had been to run away. Some days it seemed as if he was still running.

Still looking for a way to buy your redemption
,
Nicholas Gilbert?

Shoving away the thought, he jumped down from the cockpit, focusing instead on a swarm of luminous butterflies hovering over the tail of the plane. Beyond them the trees, in a stunning array of greens and browns, were covered with orchids and creeping vines. The jungle never ceased to amaze him.

He took a swig of the small water bottle Natalie had left him. It was here, among the familiar noises of the jungle, that he’d made his peace with God. For the most part. Amy’s letter managed to dredge up those doubts and drag him back to a time he wasn’t sure he was ready to revisit.

The roar of a vehicle yanked him from his thoughts. He certainly wasn’t expecting company, and whoever it was probably meant more trouble than a blocked fuel line ever would be. He moved away from the plane.

He was right. A jeep pulled up with three men carrying rifles.

Nick frowned. Apparently there was one thing he wasn’t prepared for: a vehicle full of government soldiers and automatic weapons.

Setting the water bottle on the tail flap, he decided to take the friendly approach, a diplomatic tactic that had saved him more than a time or two when dealing with the authorities. “Morning, fellows. Hope you’re not looking for a ride, because I’ve been having a bit of engine trouble.”

The three men, wearing military garb, jumped from the vehicle, quickly bridging the distance between them in long, booted strides.

The tallest took an extra step toward him. “Where are they?”

Nick held up his hand. “Now wait a minute, fellows. No hellos, or how are you—”

He was cut off with a sharp blow to the jaw. He hit the ground
with a hard thud, air whooshing from his lungs. Okay. So they didn’t appreciate his sense of humor.

Struggling to catch his breath, he rubbed his jaw and forced himself to stand back up. He hadn’t survived four years as an Air Force pilot to be taken out by a bunch of bullies in some godforsaken jungle. And while three rifles might put him at a disadvantage, he wasn’t ready to surrender.

“I’ll ask you one more time: where are they?”

Nick folded his arms across his chest and tried to look confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The two Americans traveling from Kasili to Bogama on a private plane that never made it to Bogama.”

“I don’t—”

The soldier hit him again. This time on the left temple. Stars exploded in his head, and he blinked his eyes and tried to refocus. He decided to play it straight. “I was with a couple who left from here for the capital a few hours ago, but I haven’t heard from them since. My radio’s down, and I don’t have any way to contact them.”

Nick ducked as the man swung the butt of his rifle. He felt the deafening crack against his temple…then nothing.

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 10:54 A.M.

NEAR TAGALA VILLAGE

Nick opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut again. The blaring sunlight shot a stabbing pain through his temple. His skull—his entire body, for that matter—felt as if it had been run over by a tank. He struggled to clear the fog that enveloped his head. His plane had gone down…Crashed…No…A mechanical problem. The fuel filter was clogged. He’d fixed the plane. Three men with weapons showed up—

“Mr. Gilbert?”

Nick jerked his head up at the sound of his name, wincing at the sudden movement. His head pounded. He reached up to find the source of the pain and found a rising lump on his forehead.

A familiar face hovered over him. Brown skin, yellow T-shirt, tan shorts. Bell…Mel? Mbella. That was his name. One of Joseph’s friends who had helped him this morning before Chad and Natalie headed for the river.

“Are you all right, Mr. Gilbert?”

“I don’t know.”

Nick looked around from where he sat on the ground, his vision still blurry. He rubbed his eyes, then tried to assess any other physical damage the soldiers had done. His limbs tingled, and his head and jaw were killing him, but he’d live. At least he hoped so.

An ant crawled up his pant leg and he swatted at it, knocking it onto the dusty red earth. Above him, vines twisted around a tree until the trunk disappeared into the thick vegetation. The three roughnecks must have dragged him away from the plane after knocking him out. He glanced at his watch. He didn’t think he’d been out for more than a couple minutes, but if the lump on his forehead was any indication of the force they’d used, he’d be lucky if he didn’t have a concussion.

His stomach roiled as he glanced at the plane. At least it was still there, but if they’d done any damage he was sunk. No tools, no radio, few resources…Walking to the capital on foot was an additional nightmare he hoped to avoid.

Mbella squatted in front of him. “Don’t worry. They’re gone now.”

Nick tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. Where had he put his water bottle? He managed to stand. “Did you see the soldiers who attacked me?”

“Yes, sir.” Mbella shrugged. “I heard them talking. There is a reward for your friends.”

“A reward?” Nick stopped at the open door of the plane and spun around. Surely the boy had heard wrong.

“Everyone will be looking for your friends. The army, police, maybe even the taxi drivers in the city.”

Great. If what Mbella said was true, he was stuck in the middle of the jungle with no way to warn Chad and Natalie. He turned back toward the plane. This news didn’t put any of them in a good situation. And it proved Chad’s theory that something big was about to happen. Why else would someone care about a handful of photos taken in the middle of nowhere?

A wave of dizziness passed over him. “How long was I out?”

“Five, ten minutes, maybe.” Mbella’s gaze lowered. “I would offer to take you back to my village, except…”

Nick frowned at the pause. There was fear in the boy’s eyes.

“What happened, Mbella?”

“Other men, not with the army, they…they came to our village looking for you too,” he finally continued.

Other men…Ghost Soldiers?

Nick grabbed his water bottle and took a swig, not sure he wanted to hear what was coming next. “And…”

The boy pressed his lips together. “They burned down three of our huts and beat my father.”

“So this has become personal.” Nick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mbella just shrugged. “Will the plane still fly?”

“I hope so.”

Nick glanced around him. The rebels had far less scruples than any government soldier and wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. And this was the kind of jungle where it wouldn’t be hard to disappear and never be found.

The distant rumbling of an engine reached them. Mbella scrambled toward the plane. “They’re coming. We’ve got to go.”

Nick shook his head. Before he could take off, there were things he had to check. Procedures to follow. He glanced down the narrow strip he’d planned to use as a runway. While the airplane didn’t require a long runway, taking off still wouldn’t be easy. One mistake and he’d end up clipping a tree and bringing the plane down.

And there were other issues to consider. He’d changed the fuel filter, but there were no guarantees that the plane was ready to fly. No way to check weather patterns or ensure there were no other mechanical issues—

Mbella tugged at his sleeve. “Come on, Mr. Gilbert. If the men who were at our village find you, they will do more than hit you on the head with their guns. You’ve got to hurry.”

The boy was right. Money was always a huge motivator. Forcing himself to ignore his pounding temple, Nick made sure the path in front of the plane was clear before climbing into the cockpit and throwing on his seat belt. He pressed on the brake pedals to check
the pressure and made sure all the electrical switches were off. So far, so good.

“I can see them, Mr. Gilbert. They’re coming!”

“I want you to run home.”

“No—”

“Now!”

Nick drew in a sharp breath as Mbella tore off into the jungle. He forced himself not to turn around and watch the boy. He’d be fine. It was him they were after.

Taking off without letting things warm up to operating temperature might not be good for the engine, but at the moment, that was the least of his worries. He turned the battery switch on. The fans began to whirl. Pumping the throttle, he turned the key and listened to the propeller start to turn.

He glanced back. They couldn’t be much more than fifty meters behind him.

I need a miracle
,
God…

The plane shook beneath him as Nick eased the plane forward. The interior panels rattled, blocking out the sound of the pursuing jeep. Nick pushed the throttle further. A bullet pinged off the side of the plane.

Twenty more seconds. That’s all he needed.

Another bullet skimmed the side of the plane. If any damage had been done, it was too late now.

Ten seconds.

Nick eased up on the throttle. Trees whizzed by. The jungle closed in around him.

He was out of runway.

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 11:19 A.M.

KALAMBALI SQUARE, KASILI

Stephen slammed down the phone. The line was dead. He glanced at the clock on his computer screen and tried to shake the uneasy feeling that wouldn’t leave him. It was after eleven, and Natalie hadn’t shown up for work. Combing his fingers through his hair, he tried to make sense of the photos she’d brought him. Tried to find another explanation for what had happened.

He rubbed the beads of moisture from his forehead with his handkerchief and eyed the stalled ceiling fan. No power meant no fans to relieve the heat. He might have lived beneath the Dhambizao sun for over four decades, but today was blistering hot.

He undid the top button of his shirt and walked to the open window to catch the breeze. The uncut grass along the edge of the property stood motionless in the heat. The only thing moving was the uniformed security guard walking along the inside of the front gate.

He pushed open the window farther and waited for a stray breeze to find him. Power outages, limited supplies, and the lack of progress, as the West called it, had always been a part of his life, rarely questioned along with the corruption, disease, and death that surrounded him.

Rarely questioned, perhaps, but ever present. And with it, the
underlying current of frustration and restlessness. The photos reminded him of that. Natalie’s claims that the photos were tied to a slave trade and rumors of a rigged election was something he didn’t want to believe. Among the dozens of candidates, Bernard Okella was the only real contender running against President Tau. The fifty-five-year-old from a rival tribe had risen through the ranks and managed to find a few friends in parliament—supporters who dared to openly oppose President Tau. No one expected Okella to win, but Stephen was afraid of what might happen if he did. He wanted to believe the UN’s promises of a fair election, but even President Tau’s additional assurances that this time things would be different rang hollow.

Stephen moved to sit back down at his desk, still trying to erase the lingering horror of that fatal election seventeen years ago. That day, like today, had been stiflingly hot. Shops lining the streets had closed and been cleared of pedestrians by the police. The only vehicles out were driven by military officials ensuring people stayed in their houses. No formal meetings were allowed. No schools attended. No power…

No power.

His fingernails bit into the palm of his hand. The former president had given orders to cut the power in the city as added insurance people couldn’t communicate with each other or the outside world. He wanted complete control over the situation to guarantee his reign of supremacy continued.

Stephen shook his head. Today was different. The power outage had nothing to do with the election. It was simply a technical issue. The power plants were too old and weren’t able to keep up with the demand. The same problem that had plagued the city for years.

But if the power outage was connected through the elections…If there was a plan to rig the election to gain power over the country’s resources, including hundreds of slaves…

He fished his car keys from the top drawer of his desk, then stepped outside and into his one luxury. Most Dhambizans didn’t
even dream about one day owning a car. The odds were simply too remote. Unfortunately, he feared it wasn’t nearly as remote anymore as the odds of the wrong person gaining the presidency. Maybe there was one thing he could do to dismiss the connection of the lack of power and the upcoming election.

He drove to the power station, hurried inside the one-story building, then flashed his government badge at the receptionist, demanding to see Mr. Diagne. Amadzi Diagne had been in his graduating class at the University of Bogama. They’d lost track of each other until they both found jobs in Kasili. Since then, they’d met for drinks every few months, rehashing their naïve days when they’d foolishly thought they could save the world—or at least their small part of it.

The receptionist told him to take a seat and went back to drinking her morning tea. He complied and sat down on a cracked leather chair beside a man who was either looking for a job or a handout. More than likely, he’d get neither.

Thirty minutes later, a second woman wearing a navy-blue uniform led Stephen down a long hall with chipped blue walls.

“Stephen.” Amadzi stood as Stephen entered the office, reached out to shake his hand. “It’s been too long. I think I owe you a drink.”

“It has been a long time.” Stephen shook his friend’s hand, then took the offered chair across the desk, wondering where the past twenty years had gone since they’d graduated together. Wondering even more so how many of those years he’d wasted. “Dema seems to be treating you well.”

Amadzi patted his round stomach. “My wife complains that I work too many hours, but she still feeds me well so I can’t complain.”

Stephen laughed. “And your children?”

“They are fine. Neema graduates from university this year.”

This time Stephen’s smile was forced as he remembered what he was missing with his own two girls. “You must be proud.”

“I am. And what about your wife? I haven’t seen Anna in two, maybe three, years.”

Stephen squirmed in his chair, hoping Amadzi didn’t sense his sadness. One day he’d learn to hide his grief. “She is well. She’s visiting her mother in Bogama with the twins.” He’d never admit she’d been there for the past seven months, or that she had no plans to return to their sparsely furnished apartment he’d bought for her five years ago. There were certain aspects of his life he had no intention of sharing with anyone.

Stephen glanced around Amadzi’s office, trying to find some value in his own career. He couldn’t. Unlike the walls in the hallway, this room had been recently painted and lined with a half dozen file cabinets. Several calendars hung on the wall alongside diplomas and framed photos of family. The newness, though, stopped there. An archaic computer sat on the desk.

Bernard Okella promised to change technology throughout the country with upgrades in electricity and phone lines if elected president. Stephen didn’t trust a word. Ten years from now they’d still be using out-of-date equipment and struggling to feed their children. That was the spoiled pot of goza they’d been handed.

“I heard they promoted you.” Stephen swallowed any signs of jealousy. Stroke the giver and he just might receive the information he wanted.

Amadzi held up his hand and shrugged. “They pay me half of what I’m worth, but even that bought me a second home outside Bogama.”

“At least they have a good man in line to revamp our decrepit power system.”

“Trying to flatter or insult me, Stephen? Why don’t you just admit yours is a dead-end job?”

Stephen flinched. When he was half drunk the comment would have rolled off. Today it felt like a poisoned arrow to his heart, but he couldn’t afford to return the insult.

“What I want is the truth,” he said instead. “The election is in two days and the city’s without power. A plot by President Tau or
perhaps Bernard Okella, who wants to make a point to the voters of how rundown our city is?”

“This has nothing to do with the election.” Amadzi’s gaze flickered, his lips pressed tightly together. “There was a fire.”

Stephen read his eyes. “I don’t believe you. I need to know the truth. You remember as well as I do what happened seventeen years ago. Thousands were butchered in the streets and even more left homeless—”

“You’ve never been one to push for answers, Stephen.” Amadzi stood and rested his hands against the top of his desk. “I wouldn’t start now if I were you.”

“Why not?” Stephen stayed seated. He wasn’t ready to walk out. Not yet.

“Like I said, there was a fire. One of the conduits overheated and will have to be replaced. I’ve been told that part of what is needed for the repairs won’t arrive until Saturday. Until then…well, I’m afraid we will all have to wait.”

Stephen glanced out the open window that overlooked the power plant. A repair truck sat vacant. No workers. No sign that anything was being done to resolve the issue. A sick feeling knotted his stomach. With the phones down and the power out, they were like a zebra surrounded by a pride of lions: helpless.

No. Stephen tugged on the collar of his shirt. Amadzi had given him a reasonable explanation. He should just walk away and accept the answer as truth. What did it matter? Nothing he could say or do would make a difference.

Amadzi smiled as if they’d been chatting about the next World Cup. “Let’s go out for drinks next Friday night. The election will be over and life will go back to being normal again.”

It was a dismissal. Stephen shook his old friend’s hand, said his good-byes. Amadzi was right. Why start asking questions now?

Stephen walked down the sidewalk toward his car, jingling his
keys in one hand. Patrick was there, leaning against the hood of Stephen’s car.

Stephen stopped a few meters away. “What are you doing here, Patrick?”

“I could ask you the same question.” Patrick slid a pair of sunglasses from his front pocket and put them on. “Let’s just say that Amadzi owed me a favor.”

Stephen decided to ignore the clear implication that Patrick was having him shadowed. For now, anyway. “The power’s out. Phones are out. I thought—”

“You thought what? That you could sweep in and save the day. You’re simply a liaison for the government aid programs, Stephen.” Patrick folded his arms across his chest. “There was a fire.”

“That’s what I was told.”

“And you don’t believe it?”

“With the elections in two days, I’m not sure what I believe.”

“That’s your problem, Stephen. You’re like the president, running with both sides so you can please everyone. Eventually, you’re going to have to make a choice.”

Stephen tried to ignore the hidden insult. “Natalie is missing.”

If he’d hoped for a reaction, he didn’t get one. “She took a plane to Bogama yesterday afternoon with one of the doctors from here and the boy who took those photos.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s my job to know these things.” Patrick took a step closer to him. “Remember the proverb: ‘If you try and run after two warthogs, you’ll never catch either of them.’ ”

Stephen’s jaw tensed. “Meaning?”

“It’s time you decide which side you’re on.”