The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (28 page)

“You can save the divide-and-conquer crap. It's demeaning, even for you. The letters were my idea.”

“Just as I suspected, you're all plotting against me. I've got news for you. I'm smarter than all of you combined.”

“You're so smart you threw my mother overboard like a bag of garbage. You killed her over money.”

“I never touched your mother, although I had every right to. She was nothing more than a low-life blackmailer. For someone who has such disdain for money, you weren't above taking mine.”

“What drove you to become so evil? You're so twisted I'm not sure you realize what you've done. As for your precious money, you'll be happy to know I spent every dime helping these people.”

“We've revisited your mother's accident a hundred times. You were just a child. You'll never believe me no matter what I say. This little charade, as you call it, has cost me millions. If you wasted my money on these wretched people, you're dumber than I thought. It could've been different. If only….”

“If only what? If I could forget what you did? Look the other way while you embezzled millions? You're contemptible. Someday, you'll hear a judge say, ‘Maxwell Turner, you're guilty as charged.'”

Max pushed back the tent flap and looked out at the Africans staring back. The silence weighed heavily. He turned around and faced his son. His expression lacked conviction. White spittle balls outlined his mouth. Eyes that had been confident now looked jittery. “Why, you ungrateful little shit,” he screamed, running at his son. The punch was more of a slap, but it knocked Arthur down. Max started to kick his son in the face, but stopped. “Do you really think you had a chance?” he shouted at Arthur. “It's like it says in the Gospel of Matthew: ‘Brother shall deliver the brother unto death, and the father the child.'”

Arthur stood up, walked over to his cot and sat down. A steady flow of blood oozed from his nose. His wife dabbed at the blood with her sleeve. “If it'll make you feel better, hit me again. I don't need to prove which one of us is the better man. And by the way, your bible quotation isn't complete. The very next line is: ‘and the children shall rise up against their parents, and cause them to be put to death.'”

Turner didn't hear his son's retort, his mind was elsewhere. “You can't win. I've got powerful friends.”

“You've never had a friend, you didn't pay for.”

“Not even you, Arthur?”

“After what you tried to do to my wife. How can you even go there? I suppose you think it's normal for a father to try to seduce his own daughter-in-law. It must kill you knowing there's nothing you can do to hurt me.”

Before Max could stop himself, his ego got the best of him. He blurted out a bit of damning information. “Who do you think is behind these attacks? These criminals were holding you hostage and I made them pay.”

“What are you talking about?”

Although Max's confession about ordering the Arab attack was accurate, he never admitted intent to harm his son. If he had, his story would have been more believable.

“Let me get this straight. You want me to believe you were trying to frighten these people into releasing me.”

“I can see you don't believe me, Arthur. Luckily, I've stopped the attack on this camp.I'm the only thing between you and these barbarians. And this is the thanks I get.”

“Well, I'll say one thing. It'll be ironic if you had anything to do with the attack that's coming tomorrow. Yes, it's tomorrow. Haven't you heard? The Janjaweed is attacking in the morning, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. You're about to witness cruelty the likes of which evenyou can't imagine.

“Think about your epitaph: ‘Here lies Maxwell Turner. He's passed on to his just reward.' Know the only thing wrong?” He waited for his father's response. When he didn't get one, he continued. “Nobody gets buried over here. Everything that dies ends up in a hyena's belly.”

Turner didn't walk out of the tent, he bolted. He ran through the camp until he found Rigby. When he spoke, his voice trembled. “I have to get on that plane.”

Rigby turned and pointed at Otto's Cessna as it lifted off. “Your place is here with your son.” It took an instant for Rigby's words to sink in.

“Then you need to get someone to drive me over the border.”

“I can't spare the vehicle. I sure as hell can't spare a driver who can fire a weapon. Tomorrow morning, a mob of screaming Arabs will stampede into this camp. Their purpose is to massacre these helpless people. I aim to ruin their day. Now, you and your bodyguard can either fight or hide with the women. It's your call, Max.”

Max's face was etched with fear. He started to protest, but had second thoughts. Wordlessly, Max walked away. His usual weightlifter's swagger was reduced to a slumping stagger. He sat down on a cot and buried his face in his hands. Bob tried to console him, but Max pushed him away.

***

That night, Rigby, Jesse and Dutchy rested on the crest of the tallest sand dune. They passed a cigarette back and forth until it was too short to hold. The night air smelled musty. Snaky streaks of lightning illuminated the horizon. The jagged flashes were followed by low rumbling thunder. Above them, the unpolluted sky was filled with stars.

Croxford glanced at Jesse before disrupting the quiet. “Thanks for not hassling Max about the illegal arms dealing.”

“At this point, I'm not sure he's involved in arms trafficking.”

“After this is over, do whatever you want with him.”

“You mean assuming we're still alive. By the way, what are the rules of engagement?”

“Dutchy, did you hear that? Spooner wants to know about the rules of engagement.” Dutchy didn't answer. His short whistle followed by a snort meant he was asleep.

Rigby digested the concept in silence before answering. “Jesse, just make sure you take out one helicopter. You let me worry about the rules.”

“What difference does it make? Anyway, I think whoever sent you that note was trying to make sure you left Africa. Looking back, it wasn't such a bad idea.”

“Oh, I don't know. I might have missed meeting the goat rapist.”

“Humor in the face of great peril. Jesse, you're the best.”

The desert air seduced Jesse. Exhausted, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Rigby, on the other hand, was too restless to sleep. His dream was a war flashback. It started with a meeting in the colonel's office.

Rigby glanced at Willie, and thought about how bad they both felt. They hadn't drawn a sober breath in five days
.
“I apologize for cutting short your leave,” the colonel said. “We're having a problem with a rather disagreeable chap in one of the indigenous tribal territories. Your third man's name is Sam Mabota?”

We both nodded affirmatively. The sound of the colonel's voice made my head pound.

“And would you be disposed to call Mabota a Christian?”

“Well I suppose he's a Christian.” I burped painfully. “Colonel, could I trouble you for a glass of water?” He smiled but ignored my request.

“Let me ask you both, a question. Do you believe in witchcraft?”

“Of course not,” Willie answered without consulting me.

“Does Sam Mabota believe in witchery?”

“Probably, but there isn't an African on this continent who doesn't believe in some type of sorcery,” I said.

“Have either of you heard the term, ‘
tokoloshe
'?”

“Africans believe a
tokoloshe
is a demon. They say they're short, hairy little buggers running around impregnating married women. I might have gone to boarding school with a
tokoloshe
.” When the colonel didn't smile, I apologized. “Sorry, sir, we had a long night.”

“Some women sleep on elevated beds to prevent these mythical dwarfs from sneaking into their beds,” said the colonel. “My God, it's hard to comprehend the ignorance. Why can't we have a normal war? Did you know Rhodesia has a law against using witchcraft? It's called the ‘Witchcraft Suppression Act.'”

The colonel turned his back to us, he sighed deeply before continuing.

“When this war ends, I plan to return to Ireland. I've heard some say that Africa marks the soul with unseen graffiti. I'm afraid it hasn't been that way for me, certainly not in a good way.”

“Sir, don't the Irish believe in leprechauns?” I asked.

He was red-faced when he spoke. “Mr. Croxford, leprechauns are born in a bottle of Irish whiskey. I would expect if you continue your excessive consumption, someday soon you'll find yourself visited by lots of creepy-crawly things, including leprechauns.”

The colonel gave us a description of our target, which was the antiseptic term we used to label someone marked for assassination. The tribal chief was a self-proclaimed wizard terrifying the local population. Intelligence reported that the man was using his influence to win support for the armed insurgents. Those terrorists were setting explosive booby traps on the only road to Botswana. The road was a vital link to South Africa. He was also using his self-proclaimed supernatural powers to foretell the future. The future he saw was one with the whites losing the war. He had preached to his followers that the whites would eventually be forced to leave Rhodesia. He was also accused of masterminding the poisoning of white farmers.

“Gentlemen, normally this would be a simple matter of one bullet, and one very dead witchdoctor. This old boy's a special case. He has a large following, and that's precisely why an African should be involved in his death. Show the populace he's no more of a witch than I am. That's why I asked you about Sam Mabota. Well, there you have it.”

“Sir, if you could possibly spare us another week of leave, we would be in your debt.” I looked over to Willie, who put on his best pathetic look.

“Nonsense, I've already arranged a helicopter. The flight to Bulawayo should sober you both up. Goodbye and good hunting.”

“Thank you, sir,” we exclaimed in unison, coming to attention.

As soon as we were outside, Willie spoke. “That was a lousy selling job you just did. We just came off twenty straight days on patrol. Why didn't you mention that?”

***

Sam was happy to see us. He reveled at having a helicopter pick him up. That was before we told him about our mission. Sam listened patiently and then spoke. “This chief is a wicked sorcerer. He says that someday a terrible disease will afflict those men and women who have sex with strangers. They say he's never without his pet tokoloshe at his side. The tokoloshe is invisible and drinks human blood. If we kill this chief, he'll come back as a hyena to avenge his death. When he kills, he kills without mercy.”

“Sam,” said Willie, “if it makes you feel any better, I'll do the shooting.”

It was a long flight to our victim's village. For the last ten kilometers the pilot flew at treetop level hoping to mask the sound of our helicopter. Sam was insistent about where he wanted the pilot to land. When the pilot refused, Sam pitched a fit. Willie held his rifle to the pilot's neck and demanded that he follow Sam's instructions. We didn't believe in witchcraft, at least not entirely, but we believed in Sam. He had kept us from getting killed too many times not to.

Willie found a perfect hide on top of a hill looking down on the village. We used the old ploy of me fronting as a captured soldier and Sam masquerading as the conquering terrorist. Reluctantly, Willie supplied me with a few facial bruises. Sam marched me into the village at gunpoint.

At first, the chief was friendly, but something made him suspicious. The other villagers lingered in their huts. The village dogs were hostile, and nipped at our ankles. Sam sensed it was turning against us. He took his hat off and dropped it on the ground. It was the predetermined signal for Willie to fire. It seemed like an eternity, but I heard the distant report of Willie's 206. It was a long shot, but Willie was an accomplished marksman. The highspeed bullet smashed into the chief's torso. He just stood there looking confused, gasping for air. He went to his knees first and then fell forward flat on his face.