The Leopard Hunts in Darkness (61 page)

Tungata helped him clamber out of the water onto the slab, for he was weak as a child and the equipment on his back weighed him down. Tungata pulled the set off over his head, while Sarah poured
a mug of black tea and ladled sticky brown sugar into it.

‘Sally-Anne?’ he asked.

‘Pendula is standing guard in the upper cavern,’ Tungata answered.

Craig cupped his hands around the mug, and edged closer to the smoky little fire, shaking with the cold.

‘I have started a small hole in the top of the wall and gone into it about three feet, but there is no way of guessing how thick it is or how many more dives it will need to get through
it.’ He sipped the tea. ‘One thing we have overlooked: I will need something to carry the goodies, if we find them.’ Craig crossed his fingers and Sarah made her own sign to ward
off misfortune. ‘The beer-pots are obviously brittle – old Insutsha broke one – and they will be awkward to carry. We will have to use the bags I made from the canvas seat covers.
When Sarah goes up to relieve Pendula, she must send them down.’

As the numbness of cold was dispelled by the fire and hot tea, so the pain in his head began. Craig knew that it was the effect of breathing high-pressure oxygen, the first symptom of poisoning.
It was like a high-grade migraine, crushing in on his brain so that he wanted to moan aloud. He fumbled three pain-killers from the first-aid kit and washed them down with hot tea.

Then he sat in a dejected huddle and waited for them to take effect. He was dreading his return to the wall so strongly that it sickened his stomach and corroded his will. He found that he was
looking for an excuse to postpone the next dive, anything to avoid that terrible cold and the suffocating press of dark waters upon him.

Tungata was watching him silently across the fire, and Craig slipped the fur cape off his shoulders and handed the empty mug back to Sarah. He stood up. The headache had degraded to a dull throb
behind his eyes.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, and Tungata laid a hand on his upper arm and squeezed it before he stooped to lift the oxygen set over Craig’s head.

Craig quailed at this new contact with the icy water, but he forced himself into it, and the stone he held weighted him swiftly into the depths. In his imagination the entrance to the tomb no
longer resembled an eyeless socket, but rather the toothless maw of some horrible creature from African mythology, gaping open to ingest him.

He entered it and swam up the inclined shaft, and anchored himself before the untidy hole he had burrowed into the wall. The sediment had settled, and in the glow of his lamp the shadows and
shapes of rock crowded in upon him, and he wrestled with another attack of claustrophobia, anticipating the clouds of filth which would soon render him blind. He reached out and the rock was
brutally rough on his torn hands. He prised a lump of limestone free, and a small slide of the surrounding stones sent sediment billowing around his head. He switched off his lamp and began the
cold blind work again.

The rope signals at his waist were his only contact with reality and finite time – somehow they helped him to control his mounting terror of the cold and darkness. Twenty minutes, and his
headache was breaking through the drugs with which he had subdued it. It felt as though a blunt nail was being driven with hammer blows into his temple, and as though the iron point was cutting in
behind his eyes.

‘I can’t last another ten minutes,’ he thought. ‘I’m going up now.’ He began to turn away from the wall and then just managed to prevent himself.

‘Five minutes,’ he promised himself. ‘Just five minutes more.’

He forced his upper body into the opening, and the steel oxygen cylinder struck a rock and rang like a bell. He groped around the edges of a triangular-shaped rock that had been frustrating his
efforts for the past few minutes. Once again he wished for a short jemmy bar to get into that crack and break it open. His fingers ached as he used them instead, getting them in under the rock, and
then he wedged himself against the sides of the hole and began to jerk at it, slowly exerting more strength with each heave, until his back was bunched with muscle and his belly ached with the
effort.

Something moved and he heard rock grate on rock. He heaved again and the crack closed on his fingers and he screamed with pain into his mask. But the pain of his crushed fingertips unlocked
reserves of strength he had not yet tapped. He flung all of this against the rock and it rolled, his fingers came free and there was a rumbling, clanking roar of falling sliding stone blocks.

He lay in the hole and hugged his injured fingers to his chest, whimpering into his mask, half-drowning in the water that flooded in when he screamed.

‘I’m going up now,’ he decided. ‘That’s it. I’ve had enough.’ He began to wriggle out of the aperture, gingerly putting out one hand to push himself
backwards. He felt nothing. In front of him, his hand was waving around in the open. He lay still, the water sloshing in his mask, trying to make a decision. Somehow he knew that if he pulled out
now and surfaced, he would not be able to force himself to enter the pool again.

Once again he groped ahead, and when he touched nothing, he inched forward and reached out again. His anchor-line held him and he slipped the knot, crept forward a little further and the pack on
his back jammed up under the stone roof. He rolled half onto his side, and was able to free it. Still he could touch nothing ahead of him. He was through the wall, and a sudden superstitious dread
seized him.

He pulled back and the pack hit the roof again, and this time it jammed solidly. He was stuck fast, and immediately he began to fight to be free. His breathing hunted, beating the mechanical
efficiency of the valves in his mask so that he could get no more oxygen and as he starved, his heart began to race and the pulse in his ears deafened him.

He could not go backwards, and he kicked with his one good leg, and with his stump got a purchase against smooth rock. He pushed forward with both legs – and, in a sudden rush similar to
the moment of childbirth, he slid forward through the hole in the wall of the tomb into the space beyond.

He groped wildly about him and one hand hit the smooth wall of the shaft at his side, but now he was free of his anchor and the buoyancy of the bag on his chest bore him helplessly upwards. He
threw up both hands to prevent his head striking the roof of the shaft, and to grab a handhold. Under his numb fingertips the rock was slippery as soaped glass, and as he ascended, so the oxygen in
the bag expanded with the release of pressure and he went up more swiftly, only the signal rope at his waist slowing his headlong upward rush. As he struggled to stabilize himself, the excess
oxygen poured out of the sides of the mask, and panic at last rode him completely. He was swirled aloft in total terrifying darkness.

Suddenly he burst out through the surface and lay on his back bobbing around like a cork. He tore the mask off his face and took a lungful of air. It was clean, but faintly tainted with the
smell of bat guano. He lay on the surface and sucked it down gratefully.

The rope tugged rapidly at his waist. Six tugs repeated. It was the code question from Tungata. ‘Are you all right?’ His uncontrolled ascent must have ripped rope off the coil that
lay between Tungata’s feet and thoroughly alarmed him. Craig signalled back to reassure him and fumbled with the switch of his lamp.

The dim glow of light was dazzling to his eyes that had been blinded so long and they smarted from the irritation of the muddied waters. He blinked around him.

The passage had come up at a sharply increased angle from the masonry wall, until it was now a vertical shaft. The old witch-doctors had been forced to chip niches in the walls and build in a
ladder of rough-hewn timber to enable them to make the ascent. The poles of the ladder were secured with bark rope and were latticed up the open shaft above Craig’s head, but the light of his
lantern was too feeble to illuminate the top of the steep shaft. The ladder disappeared into the gloom.

Craig paddled to the side and steadied himself with a handhold on the primitive wooden ladder while he assembled his thoughts and figured out the lay of the shaft and its probable shape. He
realized that by returning to water level, he must have ascended forty feet after his access through the wall. He must have travelled an approximately U-shaped journey – the first leg was
down the grand gallery, the bottom of the U was along the shaft to the wall, and the last leg was up the steeper branch of the shaft to return to water level again.

He tested the timber ladderwork, and though it creaked and sagged a little, it bore his weight. He would have to jettison the diving-gear and leave it floating in the shaft while he climbed up
the rickety ladder, but first he must rest and regain full control of himself. He put both hands to his head and squeezed his temples, the pain was scarcely bearable.

At that moment, the rope at his waist jerked taut – three tugs, repeated. The urgent recall – the signal for mortal danger – something was desperately wrong, and Tungata was
sending a warning and a plea for help.

Craig crammed the mask back onto his face and signalled, ‘Pull me up!’

The rope came taut and he was drawn swiftly below the surface.

T
he young Matabele mother was allowed to keep her infant strapped to her back, but she was manacled by her wrist to the wrist of the Third Brigade
sergeant.

Peter Fungabera was tempted to use the helicopter to speed the pursuit and recapture of the fugitives, but finally he made the decision to go in on foot, silently. He knew the quality of the men
he was hunting. The beat of a helicopter would alert them and give them a chance to slip away into the bush once again. For the same reasons of stealth, he kept the advance party small and
manageable – twenty picked men, and he briefed each of them individually.

‘We must take this Matabele alive. Even if your own life is the exchange, I want him alive!’

The helicopter would be called in by radio as soon as they had good contact, and another three hundred men could be rushed up to seal off the area.

The small force moved swiftly. The girl was dragged along by the big Shona sergeant, and, weeping with shame at her own treachery, she pointed out the twists and forks of the barely
distinguishable path.

‘The villagers have been feeding and supplying them,’ Peter murmured to the Russian. ‘This path has been used regularly.’

‘Bad place for an ambush.’ Bukharin glanced up at the slopes of the valley that overlooked the path. ‘They may have elements of the escapees with them.’

‘An ambush will mean a contact – I pray for it,’ Peter told him softly. And once again the Russian felt satisfaction at his choice of man. This one had the heart for the task.
Now it needed only a small change in the fortunes of war and his masters in Moscow would have their foothold in central Africa.

Once they had it, of course, this man Fungabera would need careful watching. He was not just another gorilla to be manipulated with a heavy pressure on the puppet strings. This one had depths
which had not yet been fathomed, and it would be Bukharin’s task to undertake this exploration. It would require subtlety and finesse. He looked forward to the work, he would enjoy it just as
he was enjoying the present chase.

He swung easily along the track behind Peter Fungabera, pacing him without having to exert himself fully, and there was that delicious tightness in his guts and the stretching of the nerves, the
heightening of all the senses – that special rapture of the manhunt.

Only he knew that the hunt would not end with the taking of the Matabele. After that there would be other quarry, as elusive and as prized. He studied the back of the man who strode ahead of
him, delighting in the way he moved, in the long elastic strides, in the way he held his head upon the corded neck, in the staining of sweat through the camouflage cloth – yes, even in the
odour of him, the feral smell of Africa.

Bukharin smiled. What a set of trophies to crown his long and distinguished career, the Matabele, the Shona and the land.

These mental preoccupations had in no way distracted Bukharin’s physical senses. He was fully aware that the valley was narrowing down upon them, of the increased steepness of the slopes
above and the peculiar stunted and deformed nature of the forest. He reached forward to touch Peter’s shoulder, to draw his attention to the change in the geological formation of the cliff
beside them, the contact of dolomite on country rock, when abruptly the Matabele woman began to shriek. Her voice echoed shrilly off the cliffs and repeated through the surrounding forest,
shattering the hot and brooding silences of this strangely haunted valley. Her screams were unintelligible, but the warning they carried was unmistakable.

Peter Fungabera took two swift strides up behind her, reached over her shoulder and cupped his hand under her chin; he placed his other forearm at the base of her neck and with a clean jerk
pulled her head back against it. The girl’s neck broke with an audible snap, and her screams were cut off as abruptly as they had begun.

As her lifeless body dropped, Peter spun and urgently signalled his troopers. They reacted instantly, diving off the path and circling swiftly out ahead in the hooking movement of
encirclement.

When they were in position, Peter glanced back at the Russian and nodded. Bukharin moved up silently beside him, and they went forward together, weapons held ready, quickly and warily.

The faint track led them to the base of the cliff, and then disappeared into a narrow vertical cleft in the rock. Peter and Bukharin darted forward and flattened themselves against the cliff on
each side of the opening.

‘The burrow of the Matabele fox,’ Peter gloated quietly. ‘I have him now!’

‘T
he Shona are here!’ The scream came from the entrance of the cavern, muted by the fold of the rock and the screening brush.
‘The Shona have come for you! Run! The Shona—’ a woman’s voice cut off suddenly.