The Outlaw (12 page)

"There's the bus station," said Paaté, pointing along the central market street to a sign bearing the letters STMB. "So-ciété Transport Mamadou Bagadumba, the most punctual bus company in the country."

A crowd of people was converging on the bus station. Some rode pillion on motorbikes, holding their traveling bags above their heads. Others rode makeshift wooden carts pulled by donkeys. Still others hurried along on foot.

The bus was already there. The STMB lettering across the side of the bus was chipped and faded, and the gaping window frames were without glass. Two mechanics tinkered and squabbled beneath the raised hood. This did not look like a bus that was going anywhere soon.

A rickety scaffold had been erected next to the vehicle. Three young porters were balancing on top of the scaffold, taking people's luggage from ground level and hoisting it up to their colleagues on the bus roof. The porters wore blue STMB overalls and baseball caps. Their biceps shone with perspiration as they worked.

Yakuuba and his companions dismounted. Paaté threw the reins over Silalé's head and looped them through a metal ring in the wall of the bus station. The stallion snorted and twisted his head to nuzzle Jake's palm.

Two beggar boys ran up to Yakuuba and bowed so low, their noses almost touched the ground. They were identical twins with shaved heads, big eyes, and protruding front teeth.

"Hassan and Husseyni," whispered Mariama. "President and vice-president of our Friends of the Poor Djibo cell."

"Which is which?"

"I'm not sure, but they're both very loyal. They have agreed to ride the horses back to the camp with me."

"You mean you're not coming with us?"

"Buses make me sick," said Mariama, climbing back onto her horse, "and Ouagadougou makes me lonely.
Bon voyage, tuubaakus.
"

They said their goodbyes to Mariama and watched the horses depart. Then they joined the line, or rather the throng, at the ticket office.

"When does the bus leave?" asked Kas, eyeing it with suspicion.

"In principle," said Paaté, "fifteen minutes ago."

"I thought you said STMB was punctual," said Jake.

"Shut up, Ali," hissed Paaté. "You're not supposed to be talking. And all I said was that STMB is the most punctual bus company in the country. The others are even worse, I promise you."

Kas was starting to draw curious looks. Her indigo dress and silver-threaded shawl were out of keeping with the squalor of the bus station.

"They are wondering where you are from," said Paaté. "I'm going to have to say something." He shrugged his three-stringed lute off his shoulder and began to tune it. "Greatness must be honored!" he yelled. "People of the bus, lend me your ears. Genealogy burns in my bones; I must speak and find relief."

As the crowd pressed around him, Paaté fingerpicked an elaborate arpeggio, tapped the body of his lute three times, and began to chant: "Her name is Kadija Zabri, her name is Princess Zabri, Kadija the fair, Kadija the discreet, her name is Kadija Zabri. Loving daughter to Zabri Mannga, Sammba Mannga, Saalu Mannga, Booyi Mannga, Amnatu Mannga, Kumbo Mannga, Jeneba Mannga, an honorable generation. Mannga Haamidi, Mamadou Haamidi, a lofty generation. Haamidi Alu, Iisaa Alu, Buguuru Alu, Fajaaji Alu, Atiko Alu, Abdusalam Alu, Sekeeru Alu, Salaamata Alu, Djiika Alu, a pious generation. Alu Oumarou, Galo Oumarou, I'm halfway there already. Do you hear me, people of the bus?"

"We hear you!" cried a voice.

"Get on with it!" cried another.

"Oumarou Ba Samba, Hama Ba Samba, Maaliki Ba Samba, Bure Ba Samba, Alu Ba Samba, an honorable generation. Ba Samba Nyorgo, Hamadum Nyorgo, Hamadi Njaare Nyorgo, Bura Nyorgo, Buubu Nyorgo, Oumarou Nyorgo, a lofty generation. Nyorgo Mbuula, Mbabba Mbuula, Belko Mbuula, Paaté Mbuula, a pious generation. Mbuula Ali, Mboldi Ali, sons of Ali Simbi Ko'e, the first of the Tuareg Maasina, an honorable, lofty, pious forefather indeed!"

There was some nodding and clapping and a few cries of "Welcome to Djibo, Princess Zabri!"

Kas patted the amber beads in her hair and smiled back graciously.

"What about me?" whispered Jake. "I'm new in town as well."

"They don't seem so interested in you," said Paaté. "Take your tickets, my friends—it's time to climb aboard!"

The hood of the bus was lowered, the man with the wrenches slid out from the vehicle's underbelly, and the passenger door stood open. The travelers surged at once toward the open door, waving their tickets above their heads.

"Come on, your highnesses!" cried Yakuuba. "If you hang back now, you'll be standing all the way to Ouaga!"

Jake and Kas waded into the fray and were carried toward the bus by the eager tide. The crowd at the door formed a bone-crushing bottleneck, but Paaté's cries of "Make way for the princess" seemed to ease their passage. A minute later they were on the bus. They managed to get the last available seats, four seats together along the very back row.

"We will feel all the bumps, sitting back here," said Yakuuba, "but at least no one will bother us. Try to make yourself comfortable, if you can."

Even after the last seats were taken, the bus continued to fill up. Passengers stood shoulder to shoulder all the way along the aisle. They bickered and gossiped and stowed their bags and chickens in the overhead luggage racks.

The engine spluttered into life and the horn blared to signal imminent departure. The interior of the bus was hot and stuffy in spite of the open windows, and exhaust fumes seemed to be leaking in under the seats.

"I don't feel too great," said Jake. "I think I'm going to throw up."

"Serves you right for guzzling all that dirty well water yesterday," said Kas. "Don't worry," she added. "A few hours from now we'll be back at home and you can be as ill as you want. You can lie in bed all day tomorrow drinking chicken noodle soup."

The porters who had been tying luggage onto the roof rack now swung themselves down from the roof and in through the empty window frames. Street peddlers outside were also making the most of the vehicle's lack of windows. They offered up their wares on enormous oval plates: hunks of grilled fish, cobs of corn, sesame-seed biscuits, bananas—all sorts of tempting delicacies jostled for position. Clusters of
garibous
—quranic students—congregated at the windows. They brandished their begging bowls and yelled shrill blessings at the passengers.

Paaté tossed the boys a handful of coins. "I used to be a
garibou
myself," he said. "Besides, this journey of ours needs all the blessings it can get."

There was a stir at the front of the bus. People were rising from their seats and craning their necks to look. A man in uniform had gotten on the bus. It was a
gendarme,
a member of Burkina Faso's military police.

The policeman said a few words to the bus driver and turned to glare at the passengers. "
Cartes d'identité!
" he cried.

"Heaven help us," muttered Paaté. "It's an identity check."

"Is that normal?" asked Jake.

"Five years ago, yes, but these days they only do it if they're looking for someone in particular."

"Who do you think they're looking for?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Fine," said Jake, rising from his seat. "We'll just have to tell him who we are."

Yakuuba shoved him back into his seat with a firm hand. "Never tell the truth to a man in uniform," he said.

The
gendarme
was making his way slowly up the aisle, elbowing past the standing peasants and checking identity cards as he went. He stopped to remonstrate with an old woman in the aisle. She did not have an identity card, neither did she speak French. The
gendarme
tutted and scowled and pushed the woman aside. He had a pistol in his belt.

Kas seemed to be having some trouble breathing. She had paled under her moringa-pulp tan, and her lower lip was trembling.

"What is it?" whispered Jake.

"It's him," Kas said. "
It's the waiter.
"

The
gendarme
was now no more than ten feet away. He was a thirty-something man wearing a camouflage uniform, a green beret, and black ankle-high boots. He had tired, bloodshot eyes and a slight swelling on his right temple. Jake's eye wandered again to those black boots. He had seen boots like that before. Keep your eyes lowered, their father had told them.
Lowered eyes meant ample opportunity to study boots.

"It can't be," whispered Jake. "Same boots, for sure, but that doesn't necessarily mean—"

"Look at that lump above his eye," said Kas. "Don't you remember, Jake, he got hit by a stone when those boys rescued us. I'm telling you, it's him."

Yakuuba wagged his index finger in front of her face. "Stop talking
tuubaaku
language," he hissed. "You are a Tuareg princess, remember?"

"But Yakuuba, this is important," whispered Kas. "
That's one of the men who kidnapped us.
"

The
gendarme
was now only two rows from the back of the bus and heading inexorably their way. Jake clenched his teeth hard to stop them from chattering. His sister was right; it was definitely their kidnapper. Up close, even the sickly smell of his aftershave was familiar.

The Chameleon stood up. He moved down the aisle and tried to squeeze past the
gendarme.

"
Carte d'identité,
" snapped the gendarme, holding out a stiff arm to block his way.

Yakuuba took out his identity card and handed it over.

The name on the card provoked quite a reaction. The
gendarme
gave an audible gasp, and his hand went straight to the gun in his belt. Quick as a flash, Sor seized the policeman's collar, put a foot behind his leg, and flipped him over onto the floor of the bus. The throw Jake had just witnessed was real wrestling magic: sudden, powerful, and perfectly controlled.
No one has ever seen dust on the Chameleon's knees.

The Chameleon did not hang around to chat with his opponent. He snatched back the identity card, grabbed the lip of the overhead luggage compartment, swung himself feet first through the empty window frame, and landed on the forecourt of the bus station. The onlookers marveled to see an overweight sheikh display such grace and agility.

The
gendarme
was quick to react. As he got up from the floor, he drew his pistol from its holster and flicked the safety catch off. With his other hand he grabbed the whistle around his neck and blew it hard and shrill. Then he launched himself out of the window in pursuit of the outlaw.

Jake stood up and craned his neck to watch the chase unfold. The Chameleon was heading toward the gates of the bus station, and it seemed very likely that he would get away, but just as he neared the gates, he was met by two more
gendarmes
coming in, summoned no doubt by their colleague's frantic whistle blowing. The Chameleon skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust, turned around, and sprinted back across the forecourt.

"
Couchez-vous tous par terre!
" cried the whistle blower. "Everybody get down!"

Everyone except the Chameleon threw themselves into the dust. The
gendarme
trained his pistol at the Chameleon's head and pulled the trigger. A chunk of concrete dropped out of the wall behind the fleeing outlaw. The
gendarme
swore and took aim at the larger target of Sor's body, and this time he did not miss. Sor dropped to the ground and lay there motionless.

Jake and Kas stared in disbelief. Paaté clapped a hand to his mouth. "
Allahu akbar,
" he said. "It is not possible."

A hue and cry went up from the passengers on the bus and from those on the forecourt. Peddlers, porters, and donkey cart owners rushed forward and formed a tight huddle around the outlaw's body, pointing at the bullet hole and shaking their heads in shock. Men who died like this at the hands of the police were usually thieves, but this man did not look like a thief. If anything he looked like a sheikh.

The
gendarme
blew on the barrel of his pistol, replaced it in its holster, and swaggered toward the crowd, swinging his shoulders like a small-town sheriff. "Get away from that body!" he shouted. "Stand clear, I tell you!"

"I know this sheikh," muttered a local grain merchant. "I met him the other night at the home of Al Hajji Amadou. His name is Sheikh Ahmed Abdullai Keita, and he performs miracles that would make your eyes spin in their sockets."

"The police have murdered a holy man!" cried an old woman.

"An evil day indeed!" moaned another.

"Get away from there," said the
gendarme,
reaching the edge of the crowd. "Stand aside and let me through."

"Woe is us!"

"Misery me!"

"The sheikh is dead and so are we!"

"Wait! Look at that!"

"He's moving!"

"
Allahu akbar!
"

"He's getting up!"

"He's taking off his stomach!"

"It's another miracle!"

The
gendarme
gave a bloodcurdling roar and barged his way through to the center of the crowd. When he got there, the Chameleon's body was nowhere to be seen. All that was left was a stomach-shaped cushion with a bullet entry hole in one side and an exit hole in the other.

"Where is he?" snapped the
gendarme.
"Which way did he go?"

"Over there," said the grain merchant, pointing to a towering pyramid of millet sacks. "He ran and hid in there, behind my grain."

The
gendarme
sprinted over to the pyramid and squeezed in behind the millet sacks. There was nobody there. He dashed out the other side and ran into a young porter wearing blue STMB overalls and a baseball cap.

"Did you see the sheikh?" gasped the
gendarme,
grabbing the porter by his lapels.

"Was he wearing green robes?" said the porter.

"Yes."

"Little pointy beard? Dangly hair?"

"Exactly. Where did he go?"

"Up there," said the porter, pointing into the branches of a mango tree that overhung the wall of the bus station.