‘The part I’m not clear on is just how long you intend to keep us here,’ Ben said. ‘One month? Six? We don’t make for the easiest hostages to handle.’
‘Right,’ Jeff said tersely.
‘Six months,’ Khosa said, with a nonchalant shrug. ‘One year. Two. As long as it takes, soldier. But I advise you, I am not a patient man. I expect results quickly.’
Ben stared at him. ‘You haven’t thought this through, have you, Khosa? You’re too lost in your own little fantasy world. People will be looking for us. The kind of people you don’t want to deal with.’
‘There is nothing I cannot deal with,’ Khosa said. ‘You will learn this, if you have not learned it already. I have the power to do whatever I choose. If I am satisfied that you are doing a good job, perhaps I will choose to extend our deal for another ten years. It is, how do you say? An open-ended contract.’ Khosa chuckled at his own joke.
In Ben’s mind, he stepped up to the desk. Snatched the model cannon from under Khosa’s hand and weighed it in his own. A solid cast-iron lump, plenty of heft to it. Plenty of damage when he smashed it down with all his might on the top of Khosa’s head, cracking open the man’s skull. And plenty more when he kept on hammering until the African’s brains were pulped all over the polished mahogany.
And then all it would take would be one brief phone call from Dizolele or any of the rest, and somewhere out there a gun would be pressing at Jude’s temple and the order would be given.
‘He dies, you die,’ was all Ben could say.
Khosa gave him the demon smile.
‘Rest well tonight, soldier. My men will show you to your accommodation, which I trust you will find satisfactory. Eat and drink all you want. Tomorrow you begin your duties.’ He stood. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I have a diamond to sell.’
While Ben and the others were en route with Khosa’s convoy, Jude Arundel had been heading towards his own unknown destination.
The conversation in the back of the Mercedes limousine had been every bit as uncomfortable as the ride over endless miles of potholes and ruts. Jude was sandwiched between the tall, dapper César Masango, the man who called himself General Khosa’s political attaché, and another well-dressed though somewhat less elegant African who went by the name of Promise. If Masango looked like a rich lawyer, Promise looked like an enforcer for a gangster operation. The muscles, dark glasses and Uzi submachine gun contributed significantly to the effect.
Jude kept stealing glances at the gun. A pressed-steel box with a stubby barrel. Very compact. Ideal for close-up and personal killing. The kind of killing that could be done in the back seat of a car with no danger of hurting anyone but the intended victim. Just perfect.
‘This is your new companion Promise Okereke,’ was how Masango had introduced him. ‘You will be seeing a lot of him, my young friend. From now on, he will never be far away from you. Like your guardian angel, there to keep you from getting into trouble.’
‘That’s very considerate of you,’ Jude said. He was determined not to show the slightest weakness or emotion to his captors. The deaths of his friends Condor and Hercules had shaken him badly and his own predicament was terrifying. But outwardly he remained cool, almost flippant in his defiance.
Masango pointed at Promise. ‘Do not try to speak to him, because he will not reply. Promise, show him why you will not reply.’
Promise opened his mouth. Jude didn’t really want to see, but it was hard to miss. The space between Promise’s lower teeth was a big purple-red hole of flesh and veins where his tongue used to be. If Jude’s stomach hadn’t been empty already, he might well have distributed its contents over his lap, making the rest of the journey even more pleasurable.
‘I don’t suppose he was born like that,’ Jude said when he’d collected himself.
Masango shook his head. ‘The man who did this to him is called Louis Khosa,’ he explained. ‘The brother of my friend and associate Jean-Pierre Khosa. If you are afraid of Jean-Pierre, you would be much more afraid of his brother. Louis is a very terrible man.’
‘What a charming family,’ Jude said. ‘Are there any more of them? Just so I know.’
‘One day soon, Louis Khosa will be dead. Only one man can kill him.’
‘Let me guess. His dear brother.’
‘That is right. And that is why Promise is so loyal to Jean-Pierre, and to me. He is not called Promise because he keeps his promises. He cannot make any. But he always keeps mine. And I promise you, my young friend, if you try to escape or resist us in any way, there will be no second chance for you. You will die a death that you cannot imagine.’
‘Thanks for the tip,’ Jude said. ‘So am I allowed to ask where you arseholes are taking me, or would that constitute resistance?’
Masango’s face was stony. ‘To a place where you will be safe and well looked after, as long as you behave yourself. I hope for your sake that you will not forget that advice.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of giving you any trouble,’ Jude said. And while the Uzi was only a couple of feet away, he wasn’t being entirely sarcastic. He thought about his father. In this situation, he was certain, Ben wouldn’t waste any time getting the gun out of Promise’s hand. Probably breaking a few fingers in the process, but Promise wouldn’t have a chance to feel much pain or even cry out, because he’d be dead a second later, quickly followed by César Masango. Or maybe Ben would just break Masango’s arms and keep him alive to extract information from him. However he played it, Ben would have got out of this. He wouldn’t have sat here like an idiot, letting himself be taken off somewhere nobody would ever find him.
But then, as Jude reflected bitterly, he was not his father.
The Mercedes drove through the night, pausing for the silent driver to refuel the tank from a couple of jerrycans stored in the boot. Jude was allowed a bathroom break behind a roadside bush, with his guardian angel hovering watchfully nearby. Before they set off again, Masango offered a floppy sandwich from a plastic wrapper, a half-melted chocolate bar and a bottle of warm Pepsi. The kind of stuff you’d give a twelve-year-old. Jude wanted to throw them angrily into the bushes, but then recalled Ben’s advice: eat when you can, drink when you can, sleep when you can. If he couldn’t fight like his father, then at least he could manage those.
He polished the food off in resentful silence, then got back in the car, folded his arms, sank down low in the soft plush seat, and pretended to fall asleep just as a ‘fuck you’ signal of defiance to Masango.
As he lay there with his eyes closed, he kept wondering what was happening to him. One thing was clear enough – he was a hostage. They were planning on isolating him as far away as possible from Ben, Jeff and the others, so that his friends had no way to find him. He would be imprisoned in some totally inaccessible shithole, a cellar maybe, or a dug-out pit in the ground with a truck parked over the top of it. He’d seen that in a movie and the idea appalled him.
If he was a hostage, it meant there was a deal going on. Jude had already figured that much out, from the moment Khosa had started keeping him under separate guard back in Somalia. Hostages were leverage, either for money or some other kind of trade. Nobody was going to pay money for Jude, at least not while Ben and Jeff were Khosa’s prisoners too. Even if they hadn’t been, Jude didn’t think he was worth much for ransom. No, it wasn’t about money. It had to mean that Khosa wanted something else from Ben. But what?
Genuine sleep came eventually, and when Jude awoke it was daylight outside. He expected them to arrive soon. But the drive went on, and on. Another fuel stop. Another floppy sandwich. More interminable miles along empty dirt roads, nothing but trees and