Ejecta (2 page)

Guiscard waved to his employees as he guided the Mog through the gate and into the large courtyard beyond. A sharp left hand turn carried them toward the north end of the compound where a long, low shed-like structure gave shelter to a half-a-dozen vehicles of various types and vintages. “So, what do you think?” Guiscard inquired, as the vehicle came to a stop in the shade provided by a metal roof. “Should we leave the rock on the truck? Or unload it?”

“Anything worth that much money should never be referred to as a ‘
rock
,’” Palmer responded lightly. “But yes, why unload, just to load again? Especially when we could have a cold beer instead.”

“Makes sense to me,” Guiscard said as he killed the engine. “Let’s celebrate…. How much are you going to pay me?”

“How does fifty-grand sound?” Palmer answered.

“Fifty sounds good.
Real
good,” Guiscard replied enthusiastically. “That kind of money will go a long ways in Chad.”

Both men exited the truck. The American paused long enough to climb up and give the iron an affectionate pat before jumping down again. Then they crossed the sun baked inner courtyard to the south end of the compound. That was where the family’s U-shaped home was located. All of the windows looked in on the central garden which was centered around a group of carefully tended palms. The artificial oasis was made possible by water pumped from hundreds of feet below.

And, true to Guiscard’s promise, refreshments
were
waiting on one of the four glass topped tables that graced the outside eating area. All courtesy of Guiscard’s seldom seen mother. A real beauty for whom Guiscard’s father had been required to pay an enormous bride’s price of twenty-five camels. After that it had been necessary for the newly married couple to live with her parents for a full year prior to being allowed to go out on their own.

But if Madam Guiscard was beautiful, her good looks were routinely hidden by both a veil and multiple layers of indigo clothing, which had the effect of causing her sweat to evaporate slowly.

The wrought iron chairs made a loud scraping sound as they were pulled away from the table and the men took their seats. It was relatively cool under the palms. The water gurgled happily as it cascaded down the sides of the fountain, and laughter could be heard from the kitchen.

There was a galvanized bucket of ice cold
Gala
beer from Moundou sitting on the floor tiles between them. Something that would never be allowed in most Muslim homes. But Tuaregs are famous for cutting religious corners, and the beer had long been a staple at
Le fort,
even after Guiscard senior’s death. There were also bowls of salted peanuts, some raw veggies, and a plateful of pastries. The appetizers were made of millet flour, which had been mixed with egg and sugar, before being fried in peanut oil. They were delicious, especially when combined with some
Gala,
which slid down the back of Palmer’s throat like a cold river.

The next hour passed rather comfortably as the two men ate snacks, drank beer, and relived their college days. So it wasn’t long before Palmer ran over his self-imposed limit of three beers, and was gradually transformed into the “other” him. A man who was louder and more outgoing than normal. As the light began to fade dinner was served.

Palmer caught a glimpse of Madam Guiscard, as she sent two servant girls out with the main course, but she disappeared shortly thereafter. The American turned to his host. “Will your mother join us?”

Guiscard smiled. “Tuareg men and women don’t eat together, Alex…. Not in traditional families. And once my father died mother went back to the old ways.”

So the friends were left to consume the
Jarret de boeuf
by themselves, both taking food from the same platter, as day turned to night. The stew was delicious, but the burgundy was a tad too dry for Palmer’s taste, although it went down smoothly enough. So that by the time dinner was over, and the two men parted company, the American was drunk. A familiar state and one he had promised himself to avoid.

Having stumbled into his room he collapsed face down on the bed and quickly lapsed into unconsciousness. A place where the memories of two tours in Afghanistan couldn’t find him, where there was no fear, and friends lived forever.

And that’s where Palmer was when the insistent rattle of AK-47 fire was heard. The door to his room slammed open and Guiscard barged in. The engineer was clad in nothing more than a tee shirt, plaid boxers, and a pair of flip flops. “Alex! Get up! There are bandits inside the walls!”

1
^st
Lieutenant Alex Palmer remembered that there had been insurgents inside the building the marines called “Fort Apache” too. They had been admitted to the compound by a traitorous interpreter who shot Staff Sergeant Gomez in the back before being gunned down himself. The American’s head hurt, his mouth was dust dry, and he had a powerful urge to pee. “Here,” Guiscard said, as he handed his house guest a well worn Mle. 1935 single action 7.65mm pistol. It had probably been in North Africa since World War II and, if there was any rifling left in the barrel, that would be a miracle. “Let’s go!”

Guiscard charged out through the door with the American right behind him. Palmer saw a muzzle flash up on the east wall, followed by the cloth ripping sound of automatic fire, and an abbreviated scream. But who was firing, and at whom, remained a mystery. Then he heard the sudden roar of a diesel engine. “They have the Mog!” Guiscard yelled. “Head them off at the gate!”

But it was too late for that. Two men opened the gate from the inside, hopped aboard the big truck as it drew even with them, and clung to the back of the Mercedes as it vanished into the night. Guiscard fired his pistol, and half a dozen rifle shots were heard, but all to no avail. The 4 X 4 was gone, as was the Mongo Iron, and Palmer’s money. “You have other vehicles,” he said, “let’s go after them!”

“No,” Guiscard replied disgustedly. “That would be suicidal…. They’re expecting that—and have some sort of ambush waiting for us. Don’t worry my friend…. It’s the truck they want. We’ll find your rock laying next to the road.”

The comment was intended to be reassuring, but wasn’t since there were lots of roads, and lots of rocks in the southern Sahara. Palmer couldn’t say that of course. Not in the immediate aftermath of Guiscard’s loss.

Guiscard’s major domo, a dark complected southerner named Benji Obasambo, materialized in front of them. He was carrying an AK-47 and spoke English with a British accent. “They brought a metal ladder,” the Chadian said disgustedly. “It’s still leaning against the wall…. And they were quiet.
Very
quiet. It looks like Ebolowa was asleep when they slit his throat. If so then good riddance! Once inside they went straight to the Mog.”

“And the keys were in the ignition,” Guiscard said regretfully. “I know because
I
was the one who left them there! Were there any other casualties?”

“They shot Mr. Kwara,” the major domo said sadly. “But he took one of the bastards with him.”

Guiscard winced. Kwara had been employed by the family for more than ten-years and had a huge family to support in Cameroon. “Put the body in the big cooler,” Guiscard instructed. “The police will want to see it—and we’ll have to contact his wife. And count heads…. Let’s make sure that everyone who should be here is.”

Obasambo nodded grimly and turned to go. “Well,” Guiscard said, as he turned to Palmer. “It looks like I’ll be going into Mongo come first light. That’s where the police station is. Would you like to come? Maybe we’ll find your rock along the way.”

Palmer didn’t believe in luck, not
that
kind of luck, but nodded anyway. “Sure, count me in.”

***

Mongo, Chad

When a uniformed policeman told Police Chief Bahir Jann that Andre Guiscard and another man were waiting to see him the policeman was anything but surprised. And why should he be? Given the fact that he was already aware of what had taken place the night before. Partly via word of mouth, because news had an almost miraculous ability to traverse large seeming empty expanses of desert, but he had a more reliable source of information as well. Namely his half-brother Basel who was the proud owner of a nearly new Unimog! Because in Chad, as in so many places throughout Africa, anyone who hoped to escape grinding poverty was well advised to work
both
sides of the law. But none of that was visible on the police chief’s narrow face as he nodded. “Let Monsieur Guiscard wait for fifteen minutes—then send him in.”

The policeman, who was used to Jann’s ways, smiled knowingly. “Yes, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Fifteen-minutes and then send him in.”

Meanwhile, out in the police station’s lime green waiting room, Palmer was sitting next to a man who looked as though he’d been there for years. As did many of the other people who crowded the benches. All waiting to be summoned, or in some cases, dismissed. The only source of entertainment was the gloomy looking sergeant who stood behind a fortress-like counter where he was working his way through a stack of travel documents. The old fashioned stamp made a monotonous
thud-thump-thud
as it made contact with the ink pad, left an impression on paper, and returned to the pad.

But finally, after exactly fifteen-minutes had elapsed, a corporal appeared. He was a northerner, and therefore of Arab descent, like all of the other policemen Palmer had seen thus far. Dozens of people turned to look, each hoping to hear his or her name, but it wasn’t to be. “Monsieur Guiscard?” the policeman inquired politely. “Chief Jann will see you now.”

Guiscard, who had been looking at a plastic covered wall map, turned at the sound of his name. “Thank you…. Would it be alright if my friend Monsieur Palmer comes along as well?”

The corporal had no instructions to the contrary. So he opened a waist-high door and motioned for the men to pass through the portal that served to separate those who were in need of something from those who could provide it. Those left in the waiting room had no choice but to remain where they were, endure the steadily increasing heat, and watch the ever present flies circle the stationary ceiling fan. The morning wore on.

***

Jann could be quite personable when he chose to be—which was one of the reasons why he had risen from gendarme to chief. He rose as the visitors entered his office, left the protection of his tidy desk, and came out to meet them. “Bonjour!” Jann said cheerfully. “I’m sorry about the delay—but criminals never take a day off!”

Guiscard laughed politely. “Chief Jann…. This is Alex Palmer. He was a guest at
Le fort
when the bandits attacked. You read my report?”

“Yes! Of course!” Jann lied smoothly, as he shook the American’s hand. “Two dead…. I was very sorry to hear of it. And they took your truck. The thieves grow bolder with each passing day. Please…. Have a seat. I will ring for coffee.”

A civilian arrived thirty-seconds later and placed a tray on the desk. Jann lifted the brass pot with his left hand, poured the piping hot coffee into a cup with his right, and took a tentative sip. Then, having assured himself that the brew was acceptable, he poured coffee for his guests. Guiscard first, given his position with the government, followed by the American.

Then, once both men had been served, it was time for all three of them to drink. The coffee was strong, dark, and flavored with cardamom. There was a moment of silence so each person could enjoy their coffee, followed by a polite “
fi sehtuk
” (to your health) from Guiscard.

“Thank you,” Jann answered automatically. “Now, as to the bandits, I will dispatch Sergeant Antalas to your home. He and his assistant will take statements, dust the metal ladder for fingerprints, and collect any other evidence that may be available. Meanwhile a bulletin has gone out—and police units throughout Chad will be on the lookout for your truck.”

***

Guiscard thanked the police officer, but Palmer could tell that his old friend was pissed, even if it wasn’t clear why. Five-minutes later, as the two of them exited the building, his suspicions were confirmed. “That rotten bastard!” Guiscard said feelingly, as he started the Land Rover.

“’Rotten bastard?’” Palmer inquired mildly. “Why do you say that?”

“Because of the ladder,” Guiscard answered, as he released the brake.

Palmer put on his sunglasses. “Yeah? What about it?”

“He knew about it,” Guiscard answered, as the engine came to life. “And it wasn’t in the report! I forgot to write it down and I was going to tell him about it!”

“Uh oh,” Palmer replied grimly. “So Jann was in on it?”

“It’s a distinct possibility,” Guiscard replied, as he guided the 4 X 4 between a pair of gaping potholes. “There have been rumors about Jann. Nothing solid mind you…. But some people have questions about the big house that he lives in and the Mercedes parked next to it.”

Both sides of the street were lined with ramshackle buildings seemingly held together by many layers of peeling paint, garish Coke signs, and the force of gravity. Squinty-eyed men sat on the hoods of half-cannibalized cars as children chased soccer balls up narrow alleys and brightly clad women went about their endless work. “So what, if anything, can we do?” Palmer inquired.

“Go after the bastards ourselves,” Guiscard said with a sideways glance. “Unless you’re willing to go home without your rock.”

“The iron is a lot more than a rock,” Palmer insisted defensively. “But no…. I’m not about to let those bastards keep the iron.”

“Good,” the Chadian replied with a characteristic grin. “Go Wildcats!”

***

South of Mongo, Chad

Haani Damya was a tracker. A very special tracker who had grown up in the desert, where his fathers and uncles taught him how to follow vehicles instead of the increasingly scarce animals. It was a skill Damya regularly rented out to the police, the army,
and
various types of criminals. And, like many people in the area, the Tuareg scout was related to Madame Guiscard and her son.

Which was why the indigo clad tribesman was sitting on a bucket seat attached to the front right fender of the Guiscard family’s venerable Volvo C303 utility vehicle. A precarious position that provided the tracker with an unobstructed view of the road whipping past below his feet, and more importantly, of the complex tracery of tire tracks recorded on the soft surface of the
piste.
Every tire had its own unique tread pattern, wear marks, and flaws. Therefore each snaking mark was different to Damya’s discerning eye.