Payback (23 page)

He
was just making his way back to use the phone in his cabana when he saw the battered old Ford taxi arrive at the ranch house. Lydia got out, looking much better now, and strode purposefully up to the main door. She had decided that she had not flown all this way to delay any longer what she came out to do. Tom Bates or no Tom Bates.

Chapter Twelve

Banto knew that the hunter was approaching him an hour before he had any visual sign. Perched high in the ceiba tree, he first heard distant birds in the forest canopy as they followed something big moving below. They were not warning each other, simply swooping down joyfully to feed on the disturbed butterflies, moths, bugs and, for the buzzards and hawks, the frogs, darting lizards and disoriented bats. Then, soon after, the extreme upper register of his auditory nerves—long since vestigial in modern man—began to pick out the faint high-frequency sounds given off by breaking wood and steel severing through vegetation. So that by the time medium-register sounds were in range—Bolitho easing carefully through the spongy mass of roots, decayed wood, mosses and fungi of the forest floor—he already knew exactly his pursuer’s direction, speed and distance.

Bolitho
’s painstaking approach work would have been good enough to surprise army buddies in field training. Good enough to steal up undetected by the Vietcong, or any of the other guerrillas he had faced in battle. But nothing like enough to evade the extraordinary instincts and senses of primitive man. He could have had no knowledge of a Stone Age warrior’s hearing range. No modern man could. Any more than Banto could understand the devastating killing power of Bolitho’s Remington Model 870 pump-action shotgun.

The
battle lines were becoming clear. The advantage of ambush against brute firepower. There was a progressive thinning of the forest where the ceiba’s hulk had created the small clearing. Banto had a hide in a sapodilla facing the hunter’s approach, and with his vine-mash smeared body he utterly disappeared, camouflaged from sight and scent. Occasionally his hand would reach out for the sweet brown fruit he had got a taste for. It had the flavour of chicle, the tree’s sap used in chewing gum. His bow and poison arrows were laid in firing position, and the guard’s knife was at his side. He knew precisely how long he must wait for the hunter, his sounds now audible to the ceiba tree’s catchment of wildlife, startling and exciting them on the ground and high in the canopy. It was all as deafening to Banto as it would have been unnoticed to an eco-tourist. But in turn he now needed to maintain complete silence himself. After a few minutes, he even abandoned the minuscule arm movements needed to reach out to graze. Besides, he chided himself, the aroma of the ripe fruit was attracting midges and flies to his mouth and sticky hands. A good warrior might hear, smell and see all of this. Worse still, a group of the inquisitive, fruit-eating black howler monkeys might swing down to investigate. His father would have been angry with him for such carelessness, and he resumed his motionless state again, invisible to all but the inevitable insects. Waiting patiently to kill the hunter.

*

It was Lydia’s first visit to Belize, and with the darkness blocking out any real sight of the country on her drive from the airport, she had woken that morning to the view from her hotel balcony overlooking the misty Macal valley. The forest-carpeted Maya mountains stretched to the blurred horizon to the south, and rolled on to the border with Guatemala. And, later in the taxi, she had soaked in more of the area, with its fast-flowing river and streams, its verdancy, its tumbling wild orchids, until at last they drove down the long approach road to her father’s imposing white ranch-house. She noticed from the sign at the entrance that he had called it Temple Ranch, as if it were some kind of colonial outpost to his manor and estate in the Cotswolds.

A
houseman-cum-guard swaggered over to find out, a little aggressively, who had arrived unannounced. Showing up in the battered taxi, wearing denims and a white T-shirt, hair stuffed in a baseball cap, she realised that she did not cut an authoritative figure. For a young woman to command immediate respect anywhere in this chauvinistic region, she had to dress like a powerful man’s tart. As soon as she explained who she was, however, she saw fear in the young man’s eyes and the belligerence turned at once to sickening deference.

He
showed her in to a vast, wood-panelled room. A pool table was in one corner, a gleaming black concert grand piano casually filling another, with a vulgar-looking full bar in a third, to the left of an open fireplace big enough to roast an ox. Having gone out to tell her father she was here, the flustered man returned with the news that he was on a phone call and would be down directly.

It
was then that Tom had rushed in, face flushed. ‘Lydie. Out. Now! Don’t ask why, just leave with me now!’

She
was too shocked to be annoyed at being ordered around. His pleading face told her that whatever this was about, it was no prank. Without a word, she got up and left, following him to his cabana. Then once inside she glowered at him. ‘This had better be good.’

Tom
had decided to tell her everything. ‘We’ve got just minutes before James tracks you down here. So listen and don’t ask questions now. I’ll answer them all later when we have more time. OK?’

She
nodded, suddenly afraid. ‘Go on.’

‘
Point one. I do know something about what he’s doing in Portugal—but only because I’ve very recently been briefed on it. By your Secret Service. MI6. Point two. You must
not
tell him that you, Maddie or anybody knows about what he’s doing in Oeiras. If you do, it will put a very brave woman’s life at risk. That’s it. That’s really all you need to know for now. So think up some other reason for flying out here. Say you needed a break. Anything. Tell me you agree. That you’ll help.’

Sitting
down, head swimming she felt weak. ‘
Of
course
, I agree,’ she said with some indignance. There came the sound from the open window of someone running towards them. ‘Just what kind of trouble is Dad in?’

He
shook his head sadly. ‘Just about as bad as trouble can get.’

Then
the door burst open and the guard came in, followed seconds later by a sweating, flustered-looking James Barton. He took in the scene, the two of them talking, obviously for once in his life thrown by events.

‘
Dad!’ Lydia got up and gave him her normal greeting kiss. ‘I bet this has surprised you!’

Collecting
himself now, he gave her a bear hug before holding her in outstretched arms as he examined her minutely. Then, with a curious look over at Tom, he said, ‘It’s the kind of surprise I like. But, what—I mean, tell me, what are you doing out here? Why didn’t you
tell
me you were coming? I would have met you. Got things prepared.’

‘
Spur of the moment thing. I needed a short break. There’s no decent snow in the Alps. And then I saw Belize in a winter sun brochure and decided a spot of snorkelling in the Cays would fit the bill nicely. I knew that you two were out here, of course, and decided to give you a Lydia-style shock. And it’s a bull’s eye—if both your reactions are anything to go by! Look at the pair of you. Fly-catching!’

It
was true. Each was open-mouthed. Barton in shock, Tom in awe at her ability to sound so plausible at literally a minute’s notice. ‘Correction,’ Tom said, trying to match her performance. ‘Mosquito-catching.’

She
laughed. ‘So can either of you drag yourselves away from butchering baboons for a couple of days to join me on the coast?’

‘
When do you go back?’ Barton asked.

‘
Wednesday. There’s a non-stop charter flight. I’m on that.’

Barton
shook his head. ‘We can’t. There’s an important City analyst we’ve flown out here specially. We’re trying to convince him I’m to be the new Bill Gates. Why not stay here with us instead? There’s lots to do around here. Treks into the forests. Mayan ruins. And we can at least spend some time together in the evenings, over dinner. Say yes. Eh, Tom?’

Tom
looked at her, trying not too obviously to discourage her from agreeing to this. It would only increase the risks of something being said, of something going dangerously wrong. ‘We’d love to have you, of course. But if you’ve set your heart on a few days in the beautiful Cays islands, then we’d understand. After all, you can look at old ruins like us two anytime at home! And frankly, James,’ he said, turning to him, ‘if she got to meet our City VIP over dinner, and treated him to one of her polemic little lectures on animal testing...Think about it. It might confuse our message, don’t you think?’

She
recognised the signal Tom was sending, but was not about to turn tail and head meekly for home without a lot more answers. ‘Oh, I can be quite a house-trained guest when I try,’ she smiled, sweetly. ‘I’d love to stay here a few days, Dad. Thanks. I’ll cancel the rest of my package and move in here. I imagine there’s the odd spare bedroom in this modest little place of yours?’

Barton
grinned widely. ‘Oh, I think we might squeeze you in somewhere. But I need to hold you to your promise. You can be your normal obnoxious self to the rest of us, but
behave
in front of our Mr Elkins. Deal, young Barton?’

‘
Deal, old Barton,’ she replied, their familiar, affectionate banter making what she now knew about him even harder to accept. Risking a look at Tom, she saw he had resigned himself to her staying around. In fact, if her intuition was not mistaken, he seemed pleased despite his better judgement.

*

Banto watched impassively as the hunter edged his way out of the deep primary forest and on to the perimeter of the small clearing. It was only when the light struck the man that his heart leapt with joy, recognising him as his tormentor Bolitho. Payback. Payback! It was going to be sweet...

The
American had the shotgun in his hands, ready for use. Guns were nothing new to the native, having seen and heard from the missionary all those years ago the way a rifle worked. It had then been a Lee Enfield .303, however. Not the kind of pump-action modern weaponry that had the firepower of a small army. Staying in the half-light, Bolitho froze motionless while his senses searched for any sign to confirm that Banto had indeed been there or whether he was still near by, also listening and watching. After a few minutes, satisfied, he paced forward painstakingly, placing one rubber boot-sole after the other carefully on the undergrowth, not putting his weight down fully until confident there was no avoidably noisy material under there. As he did, he was unknowingly inching closer to Banto’s chosen killing ground—the triangular area into which he could fire his poisoned arrows at the man without repositioning himself and risking noise. All he now needed to do was silently draw his right arm and bow-string back to his face, before launching his own deadly biological missile at its target.

Bolitho
had by now got the strong scent of the fire he had detected back in the forest, and risked walking more quickly over to the charred remains. He was now just feet from the killing zone. Prodding the ashes he found that they were cold, but the forest and insects had yet to take them over, suggesting its use less than a day earlier. There was animal fat in globules around one edge, and five partly charred hardwood sticks that had clearly been used as some kind of spit. There were no bones, entrails, fur or feathers nearby, nor human defecation, suggesting that the native had intended using the ceiba tree camp for more than one meal, more than one night. Creating a latrine and rubbish tip away from the fire, and hence sleeping area, told him that much, and made him stiffen up again and look around carefully. If he was right, the warrior was somewhere very close. Watching. Realising now that he would already have been detected, he decided that there was nothing to gain by his stealth any longer, and potentially much to lose. Picking his way slowly about like a chameleon was simply presenting an easy target.

His mission was to bring back the native unharmed. But he knew that he himself would be a target, and so above all needed to defend himself.
Pulling back the pump load noisily, he stepped out and began to move quickly and low across the clearing to begin a concentric search pattern. The first arrow slammed into his left arm, throwing him around. The shotgun boomed, sending birds and monkeys screaming up towards the canopy, which exploded into life above them. Then the second arrow thudded into his heart. Curiously, Bolitho barely noticed it until he lifted the gun to aim at Banto, who had now begun moving away from the hide to avoid return fire. The long bamboo shaft deep in his chest stopped him taking a proper firing position, and he loosed off three rounds from the hip rapidly in Banto’s general direction. The edge of the shot scatter shot peppered Banto in the head and chest and his green body began bleeding extensively. He threw himself behind a fallen log, before crawling rapidly on, snake-like, into the dense forest undergrowth. He felt no pain, but a pellet had missed his left eye by millimetres, and blood from the deep wound was pouring down, partially blinding him.

Both
men remained still, as they took stock of their injuries and position. Bolitho was still exposed, and having heard the native’s general direction, lurched suddenly behind the great ceiba tree. He recognised from the numbness spreading from the wounds that the arrows had to be poisoned. Either toxic poison, or one of the native anti-coagulants. The arrow in his heart was also already making him weak and breathless. The pain was masked by the numbing poison, but Bolitho was an experienced-enough bush warrior himself to know that he was dying. And he was damned if he was going to die alone.