Zambezi (14 page)

‘The only thing Moses Nyati will guide you to is a hangover, sah!’ she cackled. ‘This man is no good. He is a bad man. Ask any woman in Kariba.’

‘Sounds like quite a guy,’ Chris said from behind him.

‘Sounds like my kind of guy,’ Jed muttered. He asked the woman how to find Nyati and she gave him directions to a shebeen in another township, called Nyamhunga.

‘I take it a shebeen is a bar,’ Jed said to Chris after he had thanked the African woman for her help.

‘You got it. And if you don’t mind some advice, be careful if you’re going to track him down in one of those places. We’re not exactly talking cocktails at the Ritz.’

‘I’ve been in some pretty basic joints in my time.’

‘In South Africa they put battery acid in the local beer to give it a kick.’

‘Well, maybe not that basic. I’ll stick to the bottled stuff.’

‘Good idea. Want me to lead?’ Chris asked as she opened the door to her Land Rover.

Jed shrugged, resigned to the fact that she seemed intent on chaperoning him around Zimbabwe.

He climbed into his Land Rover and started the engine. He swigged from a bottle of warm water as he followed Chris Wallis’s vehicle out of Mahombekombe and back onto the main road that led up away from the lake. She seemed to know Kariba well and he wondered how much time she had spent in the town.

He knew very little of her background, her experience, her qualifications or her relationship with his daughter. In short, Chris was a mystery, except for being stubborn, and with a fiery temper he’d already been on the receiving end of. She hadn’t wanted him to go to the vet or to the national park to collect Miranda’s things but, when it became clear he would anyway, she seemed determined to be by his side at all times. He wondered again what she was trying to hide.

They reached a plateau, leaving the lake behind them. The bush stretched off to the horizon on either side, a tan and dull-green expanse of wilderness. He wished Miranda, and not her guarded mentor, was there to show him around. With Miranda, this would have been an exciting, fun-filled journey of discovery. Without her, it was like a mission in any other Third World country he had ever visited. Chris drove fast, too fast for his liking, but he kept pace with her on the narrow, winding black-top. He wondered what would happen if they hit an elephant or some other large animal at speed. It seemed every kilometre or so there were ribbons of burned rubber where some speedster had had a near miss.

There was a beeping from the daypack on the passenger seat next to him. Steering with one hand, he reached over and fished out his mobile phone. He looked at the screen and saw he had a message.

It was from Patti, asking him to call. He would, but not right now. On impulse, he decided to make a different call, to the States. He knew the number by heart.

‘Fort Bragg, how may I help you?’ the reassuringly southern female voice said.

‘Can you put me through to the C1 shop, headquarters 82nd Airborne Division, please?’

‘Anyone in particular, sir?’

‘Major Hank Klein.’

‘One moment, sir, connecting you now.’

A man with a gravelly voice answered. ‘Major Klein.’

‘Fritz, you Kraut bastard, how they hanging?’

‘Jed? Is that you, Banks, you pussy?’

‘The very same.’

They had been privates together in the 75th Ranger Battalion many years before, but a partial parachute malfunction and the resulting hard landing had left Klein with a couple of compressed vertebrae and no chance of staying at the fighting end of the Army. Reluctant to leave, he had transferred to a desk job, in C1 – personnel – and eventually earned a commission. His latest promotion had come with a new posting to the 82nd Airborne Division in North Carolina.

‘OK, out with it, Banks, what do you want?’ Klein asked after Jed had enquired about his family.

‘You were never one for social calls.’

‘I’m overseas, Hank. Can’t say where.’ Of course he could, but Jed didn’t want to go into the details of Miranda’s disappearance all over again. ‘I need some background on a player working in my AO. She’s ex-eighty-deuce so I thought you might be able to pull up some info from her jacket.’

‘She? You dog.’

‘It’s not what you think.’

‘Wouldn’t blame you if it was. You know it’s highly illegal to delve into someone’s personnel file without authorisation?’

‘And you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

‘You owe me, Banks. Big time. Name?’

‘Wallis, Christine. Served in your pogue area – C1 – with the Div from eighty-nine to ninety-four.’

‘OK. Might take a while, buddy. It’s Miller time over here right now.’

‘At least you’re not making up some bullshit excuse. Enjoy your beer, but see if you can get back to me first thing tomorrow, pal. I may not be in phone range for long.’

‘You got it. Stay safe, bro.’

‘All the way,
sir,’
said Jed, giving the catchcry that enlisted men used when saluting an officer in the 82nd Airborne.

‘Airborne,’ said Klein, giving the customary reply, ‘you wise-ass sonofabitch.’

Ahead of him, Chris Wallis was taking a right turn off the main road into a township of prefabricated houses. The dwellings here were modest by world standards, but a world away from the tin shanties of Mahombekombe. This, according to the road sign, was Nyamhunga.

Jed soon saw that the appearance of comparative prosperity was just that. He drove past barefoot children and women so thin their knee and elbow joints were thicker than the rest of their limbs. He wondered whether it was AIDS or malnutrition – or possibly both – which seemed to afflict so many of the people who thronged the busy but crumbling sidewalks of the township. He drove past halfstacked market stalls selling bruised fruit and wilting vegetables, roadside tailors, a metalwork shop and a car repair garage where mechanics worked on the pavement, in the sun. He guessed from the stares of the inhabitants that not too many Europeans visited Nyamhunga.

Chris took a left up a side street and Jed instinctively scanned left and right and his rear-view mirror, looking for signs of trouble. He’d been on close personal protection duty before – bodyguarding, in civilian parlance – but everything here looked quiet. Chris parked in front of a Corolla sedan with a smashed-in driver’s window. A small boy stopped kicking a beer can and stared at him as he got out of his vehicle. Jed waved and the boy smiled and waved back.

‘This is the place,’ Chris said as she closed the door of her truck.

Jed looked at the stark, bunker-like concrete building. The bar had no name, but a price list painted on the wall advertised
Scuds
and
Bombers
at four-figure prices. ‘Scuds?’ Jed said to Chris.

‘Slang for the big plastic containers of local beer. A bomber is a seven-fifty-mil bottle of lager.’

‘Sounds like the lunchtime crowd is already in full swing.’ Muted peals of laughter could be heard over the blare of music.

‘Be careful in there, Jed,’ Chris said, placing a hand on his arm.

He was surprised by her touch, and her concern. ‘I take it you won’t be accompanying me?’

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll sit this round out. Most of the ladies in these places tend to be there on business.’

‘I’ll bring you back a scud. You gonna be OK out here alone?’

‘I’ll be fine. You watch your back.’

‘Call in an air strike if I’m not out in twenty minutes.’

‘I’m serious. Don’t spend all day in there.’

Jed walked through the rusted security gates. The front yard was littered with beer cans and brown plastic containers about the size of large coffee jars – disarmed scuds, he presumed.

Inside it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The floor was bare concrete. The place smelled strongly of cigarettes and yeasty beer, and faintly of vomit, or urine, or maybe both. So far, nothing he hadn’t encountered in a thousand other bars around the world. The place was about half full, with people mostly sitting on bare wooden benches along the walls. He felt a couple of dozen pairs of eyes on him as he strode to the bar. In the far corner of the room a man sat on the floor with his back against the wall. He was asleep, or unconscious. An upturned scud lay next to him on its side. A pool of dark beer was slowly drying around him.

‘Beer, please,’ he said to the middle-aged barmaid. She wore a low-cut white blouse which her ample breasts fought hard to escape.

‘What type?’

‘I’ll have what he had.’ Jed motioned to the comatose patron on the floor.

‘
Chibuku?’
she asked, wide-eyed.

‘What?’

‘African beer. Most of … most visitors don’t really like it. We serve it warm.’

‘Something cold will be just fine.’

The barmaid reached into an old-fashioned top-loading chest fridge and pulled out a bottle of Castle Lager. She deftly took the top off.

‘Planning on staying with us long?’ she asked, looking past him with a wary eye at the crowd of mostly male drinkers.

Jed noticed the boisterous conversation had dropped to murmurs and whispers. ‘Long as it takes.’

‘For what?’

‘To finish this beer, and maybe another, and to find someone.’

‘You’re American.’

‘Does it show?’

She chuckled. ‘Are you a hunter?’

He thought about the question for a second. ‘Yes. A friend of mine recommended a guide. Moses Nyati.’

The woman shrieked. She covered her mouth with her hand and doubled over as her whole body shook with laughter.

Suddenly she straightened and stopped. Jed looked over his shoulder and saw two men had entered the bar. He knew from a first glance that they were bad news. He judged them to be in their early twenties. Knock-off designer T-shirts and black jeans, gold chains and dressy, but heavy, boots.

Both big, one with a scar running down his right cheek. Both had shaved heads.

The nearer of the two took off his black wraparound sunglasses and scanned the room. He nodded towards the sleeping man and his partner said, ‘That’s him.’

‘Go now, quickly,’ the barmaid whispered to him. ‘You’re not the only one after Moses.’

‘That’s him? The dead guy?’

The woman nodded. ‘He’s not dead. Not yet, anyway.’

Jed walked across the room to where the man was slumped. He dropped to one knee, feeling the eyes of the two thugs drilling into his back. He grabbed the man by the shoulder and shook him.

‘Moses? Moses Nyati?’

The man didn’t respond, so he shook harder. ‘Hey! Wake up. Moses?’

Slowly, painfully, Moses Nyati opened one bloodshot eye, and then the other. He burped, long and loud, and Jed recoiled involuntarily.

‘What? Who are you?’

‘I’m looking for a tracker. I was told you were the best.’ Jed wondered what he was getting himself into. The man’s head lolled to one side and he burped again. He was either completely wasted or sleeping off the mother of all hangovers.

Moses shook his head and winced at the resulting pain.

‘I think it might be better if we talked outside.’ Jed offered his hand. He looked over his shoulder and saw the two heavies were approaching.

‘We have business with this man,’ one of the men said to Jed.

‘So do I, friend.’

‘I suggest you leave this place now,’ the second man said.

‘We’re going,’ Jed said, hauling Moses to his feet. He was surprised by the man’s weight, not to mention his height, as he swayed unsteadily. Moses was easily six-five and had a heavyweight’s build, though he looked anything but ready for a fight right at this moment.

‘Not “we”. Just you. Leave now, man.’ The man switched to an African language and spoke rapidly to Moses.

‘Maybe you should leave, boss,’ Moses croaked.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Money.’

‘How much?’

‘Too much.’

The first man brushed past Jed and drove his fist into Moses’s stomach. Too groggy even to try to evade the blow, the big man doubled over and fell back against the wall.

‘It’s time to pay up, Moses,’ his assailant said as he stepped forwards and drew back his fist for a second strike.

Jed grabbed the man’s arm and he turned around, fast. But not fast enough. Jed warded off the man’s redirected punch and landed a sharp left hook on his jaw. The man’s bald head snapped back and he reeled, fighting for his balance. Jed knew the man’s partner would be behind him, so he stepped back and drove his right elbow rearwards, hard and fast, catching the second guy in the gut.

He snapped his forearm straight back up and smacked the back of his fist into the man’s nose. Jed spun on one foot and jabbed two more blows into the man’s solar plexus.

The first man was recovering and now closed on Jed. Any time, Moses, Jed said to himself. Feel free to join in.

Jed bunched both fists and rocked from one foot to the other, waiting for the man to make his move.

‘Maybe you should leave, friend,’ he said.

‘This is my country,
friend.’
The man reached into the pocket of his jacket and Jed heard a snap as the spring-loaded blade popped out of the flick-knife.

Jed sidestepped the first lunge and then stepped back, leading his attacker across the room. The bar’s other patrons had gravitated to the walls, but none of them was going to miss out on – or join in – this fight. The man lunged again and Jed jumped back, landing on both feet like a cat. The pool table was behind him and he reached around for the cue he had seen before.

‘Shit!’ he said as he ran his hand along the felt tabletop.

‘Lose something, white boy?’ a scar-faced man called from the far wall as he brandished the cue.

A few of the other patrons laughed.

The attacker slashed the blade in a wide arc, aiming for Jed’s stomach, but he was too slow. Jed jumped again, landing on the table on his butt, and then rolled into a backwards somersault down the length of the green felt. He swung himself off the other end and reached into one of the pockets.

His assailant bolted towards him, but Jed was already moving. He kept the table between them and they circled it, like kids playing tag.

‘Get up,’ the first man called to his comrade, who was groggily rising to his feet. ‘Come help me finish off this stupid tourist.’