The Last King of Scotland (1998) (32 page)

We walked up the second passageway. At the end, Wasswa pressed another button. I heard motion on the other side. The door swung open.

Amin was wearing an electric-blue safari suit with matching sombrero. He hugged me. In the mirrors I could see his wide shoulders in front of me, and the red-hide
Proceedings of the Law Society of Uganda
swinging shut behind. Their gold lettering glittered in the light.

“Ah, my good friend Doctor Nicholas. It is very nice to see you again, yes?”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” I said, in a careful monotone, trying to reacquaint myself with the nursery-like atmosphere of his bedroom. The toys and board games on the floor. The portrait of Lumumba. The television showing a boxing match.

“Now, first you must have some breakfast,” Amin said, grinning. “Then you can go home and you will be strong to do work tomorrow. I myself will be busy also. For there are many things happening in Uganda at this time.”

We went down to the dining-room and I ate surprisingly heartily, speaking carefully when Amin asked me questions. I was, I realized, lucky to have escaped with my life and I was determined now to get out of this situation and take the next plane home. As I left, I felt faint from having eaten too much and too quickly.

“One more thing,” Amin said, as I was at the door. “As proof of your loyalty I want you to renounce your British citizenship and take up Ugandan citizenship immediately. Then I will know you are truly my friend. Wasswa has drawn up the papers and contacted London.”

I looked back at him, the beast, and wished that I had done as Stone had asked. Walking down the steps outside the Lodge to the van, I felt physically wrecked. My bones were aching, and the sunlight made me blink. I got into the van and drove home like a zombie.

Back in the bungalow later that day, I pulled myself together. I packed quickly. I just knew I had to get out. I took only a few changes of clothes, my passport, some traveller’s cheques I’d taped to the bottom of a drawer for safekeeping – and my journal. The latter Amin had returned to me during the meal, enjoining me once again to write in future exactly what he told me.

“Come back soon and I will tell you all of my life-story,” he had said. “It is very exciting. Because, as you know, I am the hero of all Africa.”

E
arly the following morning, I got into the van and drove to the airport. I drove fast: I longed to be in Scotland, cleansed of this place and its horrors. And I drove fast because I was scared. I knew that it was likely Amin would be having me watched now – but there was nothing untoward in the wing mirror when I looked.

When I got to the airport, there was a crowd of would-be passengers standing outside the complex. The entrance was barred by a contingent of troops. I got out of the van and walked over. I struggled through the crowds to where you could see on to the runway through the fence. One of the planes there, Air France 139, was surrounded by more troops. Next to the walkway were two dark-haired Arabs, and a blonde woman chatting to a Ugandan army officer. The woman was wearing a black skirt and had a machine-pistol slung over her shoulder.

“What’s happened?” I asked one of others who was looking.

“The PLO have hijacked this plane from Tel Aviv and brought it here. They’ve stopped all the flights.”

I walked back to the van and sat there for a while, agitated and angry, cursing Amin, cursing the PLO, most of all cursing myself. I’d have to plan things more carefully. I decided the best thing to do was to go to Mulago, just as if it were a normal day.

I didn’t tell Paterson or any of the others about my incarceration and the horrors I’d witnessed, just excusing myself as having been sick. Everyone was talking about the hijack anyway, and my odd disappearance was soon forgotten.

Later that day, the phone rang in my office at the hospital. It was Wasswa. “How are you feeling?” he said. “I didn’t expect you to be back at work so soon. You’ve been very thoughtless, you know. You are lucky he didn’t have you killed.”

I said nothing.

“Nicholas…you have probably heard about the Palestinians hijacking this plane from Israel and bringing it to Entebbe. Well, the President wants you to come to the airport. He says it is very important that the hostages are given the best medical treatment Uganda can offer.”

“Haven’t I been through enough?” I replied, coldly.

“You are not in a position to argue. And neither am I. He says you must go quick.”

So I drove to the airport again. They had taken the hostages off the plane into the terminal building. Two hundred and fifty of them were huddled in little groups, the terrorists standing among them with machine-pistols and megaphones. The blonde woman, I discovered, was Gabriele Krieger, a German member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (not the PLO, as I had thought earlier). The Israelis on the passenger list, and all those with Jewish-sounding names, were soon hived off into a separate room. It was a depressing sight. We were able to give them malaria tablets and distribute blankets – and to take one woman, Dora Bloch, to Mulago for treatment after she choked on some food.

But otherwise Krieger, who said she and her companions had wired the building with explosives, wouldn’t allow us near them. All looked to be in shock, naturally enough – as much from discovering that arrival at Entebbe was not the end of their ordeal as from anything else. They had apparently imagined that they would be released when they got to Uganda. I learned that the terrorists had given a deadline of two days for their demands about the release of fifty-three Palestinian prisoners around the world to be met – otherwise all the hostages, Jews and Gentiles alike, would be killed.

I was about to leave when Amin arrived in a large Sikorsky helicopter – together with Medina, a contingent of guards in white shorts and red berets, and some photographers from the Ministry of Information.

“Everyone stay where you are,” shouted one of the guards as they clattered into the hall. “Sit down! Sit down! Don’t move!”

Amin walked in. He was wearing full field marshal’s uniform, with a resplendent complement of medals. As well as Medina, one of his young sons was there – Campbell, I think – also dressed in uniform.

At first Amin just strolled among the non-Israeli hostages, smiling as they looked up at him in bewilderment. He admired the blonde terrorist’s machine-pistol, and patted a small French boy on the head. I saw the boy exchange glances with Campbell. Then Amin clapped his hands together. The room fell silent. It was like being in a theatre the moment before the production begins.

“Hello, my good friends. Well, I have some good news to tell you. The bad dream is over. I have been negotiating with the Palestinians and I have been on the phone to Tel Aviv. As a result of my efforts, they have agreed to release all forty-seven hostages without Israeli passports or Jewish blood. I am releasing these people immediately as a gesture of my good faith. Right now there is a plane waiting outside to take you. OK, OK, goodbye.”

Clapping and cheering, the Gentile hostages began to gather up their hand-luggage. The photographers rushed about getting shots of them, and of a smiling, beneficent Amin.

Then he went through to the other room. In the confusion, I was able to follow him in. The Israelis stirred from their makeshift beds on the floor and looked at him expectantly. He clapped his hands again.

“For those of you that do not know me, I am Field Marshal Amin, President of Uganda. I want to welcome you to my country. I promise to do everything within my power to make your stay here as pleasant a one as possible. I have already arranged for food and water and medical care to be made available. It was I that persuaded the Palestinians to allow you off the aeroplane and to release some of your fellow passengers.

“You must understand, I want to conclude this episode as soon as possible. The Palestinians are fair and just people. I myself am visiting Damascus and saw how well they treated the Jews there. So make yourself comfortable here also, please. I have already got the Palestinians to extend the deadline, but you must understand that negotiations for your release have failed up till now because of Israeli stubbornness. But I continue to try…because I am appointed by God Almighty to be your saviour.”

He paused for a moment, and smiled at his astonished audience.

“One more thing. And this is very important. This is very very important. Please, do not try to escape. As the Palestinians have wired the building with explosives. This is very important. In the meantime, look on me as your host. I shall arrange for your release as soon as the Israeli government stops its stupidity and agrees to the reasonable demands of the Palestinian people. I am sorry for your inconvenience. I do hope the Palestinian demands are met before the Israeli government forces them to use explosives on you.”

He beamed at them – for such a man, he really did have a beautiful smile – and nodded his head, as if trying to convince them that he was doing them a kindness; as, no doubt, he genuinely thought he was.

“I have an idea: I think you Israelis should compose a letter to your government to persuade them to agree with the Palestinian demands. Then we can all have a party and you can go home. Isn’t that better than the Palestinians blowing you all up? You see, the Israeli government is gambling with your lives. Anyway, I go now to negotiate your release and safety…Yes, it is true, I go to shape your destiny and save your lives…Shaloml Shalom! OK…Shalom.”

He waved goodbye and walked out into the other room. Most of the non-Israelis had already made their way to the new plane – except for the Air France captain, who approached Amin as he was leaving.

“Excuse me, monsieur, I am the captain of the Airbus. Thank you for releasing some of the passengers. But those people in there are also my responsibility. They are just ordinary people, they have nothing to do with the war in Israel.”

“Ah, Captain,” Amin said, “it’s so good to meet you. When you get to Paris, give a message to your government. Tell them the Palestinians only want a little piece of land of their own. Tell them the Palestinians only want one thing: peace!”

“Monsieur, I am not going to Paris. I feel it is my duty to remain here and look after my passengers. I beg you, allow them to leave now.”

“As I said, Captain, it is very good to meet you. I’m afraid I must go now. I have urgent government business to attend to. I have to fly to the Organization of African Unity conference in Mauritius for a few days. It is my final meeting as Chairman and therefore very important.”

He walked out of the hall abruptly, followed by his retinue. I watched him get into the helicopter. The sweeping wind from its rotors made the windows of the terminal rattle. As it lifted off, I wondered whether I myself would ever be able to leave.

Back at home that night, the phone rang while I was lying in bed. I got up to answer it, sure that it would be Wasswa once again. The line was crackly.

“Hello,” I said.

“Doctor Nicholas Garrigan?” said the distant voice of the operator.

“Yes?”

“I have Colonel Sara Zach on the line for you from Tel Aviv.”

I thought it was a joke.

“Nicholas?” said a voice I recognized, although its curt tones were curiously modulated by the wah-wah of the satellite.

“Is that really you? Sara?” I said. “Colonel? What is this?”

“It is me,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”

“You left me,” I said. “Why did you leave without saying goodbye?”

“I had to,” she said. “I should have thought that was obvious. But we can’t talk about that now. There are more important things. Have you been to the airport since the hijack?”

“Yes. But how did you know I was here? How did you know I was in Kampala?”

“Nicholas, there is not time to explain. I need you to do two things. First, you must tell me everything that you saw at the airport. The layout of the hall in which they are holding them, how many soldiers are there. I also need descriptions of the Palestinians and what weapons they are carrying.”

“Why?”

“Just tell me. You can save lives by telling me. Please, for the sake of us if not anything else.”

So I told Sara what I had seen that day. She made me repeat it and asked me about some things in detail.

“There is one more thing I need you to do for me,” she said.

“What?”

“You must go and speak to Amin when he gets back from Mauritius, you must tell him how he will be regarded as a great statesman and a holy man internationally if he releases the hostages. Tell him he will be admired all over the world. Can you do that for me?”

“I can’t get involved in all that,” I said. “I’m in enough trouble as it is. You know he put me in prison?”

“I did not know that, Nicholas. I am sorry.”

“I’m not made for this kind of thing, Sara,” I said. “I just want to go home now. I just want to get out of here.”

“It’s your duty,” she said. “Please. Time is running out.”

∗

Time, time, time. It circles round me, overtakes me, stops me in my tracks with an outstretched palm. Simama hapa! Who goes there? I do. I will.

On the island now, in this bone-chilling winter, the journal – as I rewrite it in a colder, saner light – has become even more of a mouldy pamphlet than it ever was. For it was touched by blisters of jungle green even before I sent it back. I have continued to make entries – obsessively putting in everything I discover, everything I glean. I’m as bad as a marabou stork collecting rubbish.

For instance, I read in the newspapers recently that the man who faked the Hitler diaries has put up a pair of trophy underpants for public auction in Germany. They are drab grey, and he claims that they belonged to Amin.

Equally, I hear that artist John MacNaught has recently represented Idi as Bonnie Prince Charlie in a show at Inverness Printmakers’ Gallery. Crossing to Skye in a tiny boat named
Uganda
, dressed in tartan and wearing the Jacobite White Cockade in his beret, Idi is apparently shown against the backcloth of the saltire, the blue-and-white St Andrew’s-cross flag. Below the image are various inscriptions: Idi is My Darling; Rise and Follow Idi; The Big Chevalier; Amin Righ Non Gael (Amin, King of the Gaels)…