Читать книгу Shadow Search - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Jomo drove first to the area where Karima’s house was situated. He kept up a steady speed so as not to alert the security men stationed around the property.

“We should go that way,” he stated, pointing along the street. “Out of the city. If I had Karima’s kids that’s the way I’d go. Up country, into the bush. And I’d keep going until I was in rebel country.”

He kept driving, passing other houses, each with its own large grounds.

“They would go this way,” Jomo said. “To the places they know and where they can hide. And they will have friends out there. Their followers.”

Bolan studied the far-reaching spread of the empty plain. It was mostly flat land in the region, though there were mountains to the north and some hills in between. Between the plains and the mountain range, according to Jomo, there were great swathes of deep forest country.

“Give it your best shot, Jomo.”

The African nodded and set the Land Rover along the road. They traveled for a couple of miles until the last of the houses were well behind them. Then he slowed the SUV, stopping a couple of times to climb out and check the edge of the road. The third time he did it he beckoned for Bolan to join him. There was a full moon. It cast a pale light across the land, allowing them to see reasonably well.

“A four-wheel drive vehicle left the road here,” he said, indicating faint marks in the dust. He squatted on his heels, staring down at the tracks. “Since the kidnapping the weather’s been pretty calm. Not a lot of wind so these tracks haven’t been filled yet. I say they are two days old. No more.”

Bolan studied the tire marks. There was no doubt they had been made only a couple of days ago. Jomo’s evaluation rang true. If the tread marks had been any older they would have been obliterated by now. The edges were dry and starting to crumble, some of the upper rims starting to fall in.

“One good gust of wind and these are gone,” Jomo said.

“Heading straight north,” Bolan said. “How far to the cover of the forest?”

“Three days’ steady travel before they reach the hard growth. They would have to leave the vehicle then. Go on foot. The forest is too dense to drive through. That’s if they go that far. They might have a rendezvous point closer. Somewhere out in the bush.”

Jomo pushed to his feet and followed Bolan back to the Land Rover. They climbed in and Jomo started the motor, swinging the vehicle around and driving off the road. The tires sank into the dusty ground. Jomo pushed down on the gas pedal and the SUV surged forward. They drove for a while before Jomo spoke.

“I don’t think they’ll use the forest. More likely to stay on the plain and use the villages to the north. The tribes who back the rebels occupy that region.”

“You know them?”

Jomo laughed. “Know them? I’m from the Tempai tribe. Karima’s people. The rebels are Kirandi. The two tribes have been at each other’s throats for decades. Things don’t change as fast once you leave the big cities.”

As full darkness fell and the moon vanished behind clouds, Jomo switched on the headlights. The powerful beams cut through the gloom. Even in the dark Jomo seemed to know where he was going. The ride was bumpy. Land Rovers were not designed for smooth riding and every jolt and bounce was transmitted to Bolan’s spine. They drove at a steady speed for the next three hours. Bolan was silently grateful when Jomo rolled to a stop and cut the motor.

The night was alive with the chatter of insects and the deeper sounds of animals. There was little chance of concealing the vehicle out on the flat, featureless plain so they didn’t bother.

“It’s safer to sleep inside the vehicle,” Jomo said. “You want the front or the rear?”

“I don’t care,” Bolan answered.

From the equipment in the rear of the SUV Jomo produced blankets. He tossed one to Bolan. He also produced an SA-80 carbine, a short version of the British SA-80 battle rifle, chambered for the 5.56 mm round. This second version of the carbine was capable of taking 30-round magazines from the M-16. It was a sturdy, hard-wearing weapon, and though it had failed to excite the British military as had its predecessor, the SA-80 carbine had found its own market by being sold abroad. There were a bunch of long, beautifully marked feathers fixed to the stock, held in place by tight rawhide thongs. Jomo noticed Bolan studying the feathers.

“From an eagle. Took them myself when I was younger. I kept them all these years, part of Tempai tradition.” The African laughed. “You see, Belasko, we are all still held by our beliefs.”

“Eagle feathers beat murdering children any day,” Bolan said.

The soldier took time to remove his 9 mm Uzi from his bag before he pulled his blanket round him and settled in the passenger seat.

“I’ll take first watch,” Bolan said. “Wake you in a few hours.”

Jomo sighed. “I knew you were going to say that,” he grumbled before he settled himself down to catch some sleep.

Bolan cradled the Uzi across his thighs. He gave himself time to adjust to the African night, his eyes gradually focussing on distant shapes and the deeper shadows that enveloped them. He could distinguish between solid objects and the false shapes formed from light and dark. It was easy to become fooled by imaginary shapes, believing them to exist until close examination identified them as nothing more than illusions. He changed his line of vision often, not allowing himself to concentrate on one spot for too long. When the eyes became fixed on one spot it was not unknown for the mind to start seeing things moving. Inanimate objects took on a phantom life, seeming to shift from spot to spot. The mind, the night, and the boredom that could set in during long sentry spells combined to distract the man on duty. It was all too easy to fall under the spell.

Bolan thought about Karima’s children. What would be going through those young minds? Snatched from their normal existence to be dragged off into the wilds, surrounded by strangers who, on their own admission, were opposed to everything their father stood for. It would be a far from pleasant episode. The other side of the coin might ease the burden for them. Children were resilient beings, often showing a surprising tenacity when placed in dangerous situations. Bolan hoped that Karima’s son and daughter would be able to exhibit those characteristics.

Thinking about the children brought his attention back to the bomb incident. He hadn’t voiced his real feelings about it to Karima. That the terrorists had set off the bomb because they might no longer have the children as bargaining chips. The unexpected turn of events, coming in the middle of the kidnap process didn’t gel as far as Bolan was concerned. Why make such a dramatic gesture when they already had their lever? He accepted that trying to fathom the terrorists was difficult. They were by definition unstable and liable to unexpected changes in their procedures. But he still felt the bombing had come out of left field.

The soldier didn’t dwell on the matter for too long. Speculation only led to confusion. If there was a logical reason behind the bombing it would reveal itself in time. It wouldn’t be hurried no matter how long Bolan deliberated over it.

As the night closed in, the heat of the day slipped away, replaced by a noticeable chill. Cold air coming in from the west, drifting in from the coast. Bolan pulled his blanket tight over his shoulders. Behind him he could hear Jomo’s heavy breathing. The African was taking full advantage of his time out.

An hour passed. Bolan had just checked his watch when he heard the gentle, insistent sound of his cell phone. He took it from his pocket and accepted the call.

“Did I wake you?” Aaron Kurtzman asked, without a trace of regret.

“No,” Bolan said. “I felt guilty keeping you awake so I decided to sit up all night.”

“It’s called teamwork,” the computer expert replied. “Okay, we ran more checks on your people out there. Can’t find a damn thing out of place as far as the vice-president is concerned. If he’s off the rails he’s keeping it well hidden.”

“Okay.”

“Simon Chakra on the other hand,” Kurtzman went on, then paused. “You still awake?”

“What do you think?”

Kurtzman chuckled.

“Native Kirandi. He’s been in the army since he was big enough to hold a rifle without falling over. He came up through the ranks, then went to the U.K. to complete his officer training, as a lot of African officers seem to do. I got into some reports written about him by the officer school. It seems our boy always had a thing about Tempala’s national identity. Back then he talked a streak but didn’t show any radical tendencies. It was written down as a sort of home-boy zeal. He went back to Tempala and worked his ass off in the army. Good combat record during some internal strife over ten years back. Good officer. So much so that when Karima was made top man he promoted Chakra to military commander. Chakra has never been shy at declaring his full support for Karima and his policies.”

“All sounds good, Bear.”

“I’ll bet Karima doesn’t know about his boy having an account in the Cayman Islands. Cash deposits over the last few months. The guy has close on three and a half million in U.S. dollars. It also seems he was seen in the company of two Cuban advisor-types on an unofficial trip to Havana last month. One of our covert units in Cuba spotted him in deep talks with these guys at a villa just outside the city. They keep watch on anything happening in Cuba, take pictures and send them through to their agency. No one had recognized Chakra until a few days ago. On the global scale he’s not a real player. Sit him back down in Tempala, I guess you’d have him a good way up the ladder.”

“Be interesting to find out if any of the so-called rebels from Tempala have been cosying up to Castro’s advisors,” Bolan said.

“Way ahead there, Striker. I did some more trawling and came up with IDs on two Tempalan nationals. Rudolph Zimbala and Shempi Harruri. They are part of the ruling council of the rebel faction. Both have been mixing with our Cuban buddies. The same faces cropped up from the pictures taken with Chakra.”

“Any feedback on what they were discussing?”

“The covert team was unable to get any sound bites, only the images. But the data they sent back to home base was that one of the Cubans was seen with all three of their visitors, one Hector Campos. He is an advisor in the organization and promotion of internal resistance. Just what Tempala is going through at the moment.”

“Thanks, Bear,” Bolan said. “You come up with anything else let me know.”

“Can’t pick up anything on that cell phone number, but I haven’t given up yet. Soon as we can grab a bird I’m going to run some satellite surveillance over Tempala. See if we can pick up anything that might suggest what’s going on.”

BOLAN SAW OUT HIS WATCH, going over the information Kurtzman had furnished him with. Did the disclosed facts about Simon Chakra point to him being the man behind the kidnapping of Karima’s children? The man would certainly have been privy to the comings and goings of the president and his family. Those facts on their own didn’t make the man guilty. But they put him in the frame. Chakra would need watching until the facts could be confirmed.

It was coming up to one a.m. when Bolan roused Jomo. The policeman climbed out of the Land Rover and walked around to stretch his legs. He rummaged in the rear of the vehicle and produced a pack of plastic bottles holding mineral water. He took one for himself and handed a second to Bolan.

“You should have woken me before this,” Jomo said, glancing at his watch.

“No sweat,” Bolan replied.

The soldier took his place in the rear of the Land Rover, finding a reasonably comfortable spot. Bolan took a drink from the bottle, only then realizing how thirsty he was. He pulled the blanket around him, keeping the Uzi close and settled down to get some rest. A little while later he felt the Land Rover rock gently as Jomo climbed in and took his place in the passenger seat. Bolan let himself relax, sleep coming quickly.

It seemed only minutes later when he felt Jomo’s big hand on his shoulder. The African was shaking him.

“Belasko. Wake up, Belasko, we have visitors.”

Bolan woke quickly, the Uzi ready for use as he sat upright, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. It was already well into the dawn. Pale light flooded the plain. Somewhere close by birds erupted from thick brush, wheeling and swooping as they rose into the air. The sound of their passing came as a soft rush of feathered panic.

“Stand beside me,” Jomo said.

He was at the front of the Land Rover. He carried his SA-80 carbine with the butt resting against his hip. He stood motionless except for his large head, which moved back and forth as he scanned the close terrain. Bolan moved up alongside, Uzi in plain sight but not at a threatening angle.

“They will come out when they are ready.”

Off to the right the high brush shivered slightly. A hint of movement but enough to indicate that someone, or something was in there. Bolan spotted the disturbance but made no indication. He stayed as still as Jomo, aware they were being observed by an unseen viewer.

“Any idea who they are?” Bolan asked.

“Some of my people. One of the Tempai tribes. My people were farmers. These are bush people. Nomads. They move from region to region with their cattle. When the grass is used up in one place they seek another. On and on through each year. By the time they return to where they started the grass has grown again. It is the way they have lived for hundreds of years. Other tribes across Africa do the same.”

“Are they friendly?”

“Yes, but cautious. If you had come here with your own cattle you would probably be dead by now.”

“Territorial people?”

“Very much so.” Jomo paused. “They’re coming out.”

Bolan saw the Tempai appear from the bush from a number of locations around the Land Rover. They were tall, lean, with skin as black as ebony. They were clad in bright, patterned robes that seemed to be casually draped around their bodies. Simple pieces of jewelry adorned their wrists and ankles. Each man carried a long, slender spear which he held across his chest, resting against his left shoulder. Bolan noted that there were feathers similar to Jomo’s tied to the shafts of the spears.

“The position of the spear lets you know how they feel about you,” Jomo said. “The way they have them makes it difficult to use quickly so they are telling us they mean us no harm.”

“How would we know if they did mean us harm?”

“Man, they would throw the bloody things at us,” Jomo replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

The Tempai formed a loose half-circle in front of Bolan and Jomo. One them made a casual move with his free hand and launched into a fluid, lilting address. Jomo listened in respectful silence until the man had finished. Before he replied, the policeman showed his weapon to the Tempai, then slung it from his shoulder, muzzle down. He spoke directly to the tribesman who had delivered the speech, in their own tongue. When he had finished the Tempai spokesman nodded enthusiastically, turning in Bolan’s direction. He held out a long arm, hand held palm out.

Bolan slung his Uzi as Jomo had done, then stepped forward and greeted the Tempai with his own raised hand. There was a chorus of approval from the watching tribesmen.