The Outlaw (6 page)

Untidy.
Jake shuddered. This was not the same Kas he had said goodbye to at Ouaga airport last Christmas. Was it Africa that had changed her, or was it this new obsession with all things emo?

He closed his eyes, and a succession of haunting images crowded into his mind. A walrus on a chair, a spider in its web, a pool attendant brandishing a leaf net, a delivery man silhouetted in the headlights of his van, Mungo Park escaping from the house of the wicked Moor and running, running, running, over the dunes...

 

"Crumbs!" shouted Kas.

Jake opened his eyes. He was lying on his side on the floor of the van, and his rib cage felt sore from the hard surface. The van was on the move again, but the ride was somehow smoother than before.
Sand,
thought Jake, and the words of the police commissioner came straight back to him. The desert is
beautiful, but dangerous.

Something else was different, too. A ribbon of gray light was shining in under the back doors of the van. Daybreak.

Kas sat bolt upright. "Crumbs," she said again. "Breadcrumbs!" She crawled toward the back doors of the van and ran her finger along the ribbon of light at the base. "There's a gap," she said.

"Glad to hear it," said Jake, "because we don't know when our next toilet break is."

Kas grabbed one of the Jumbo stock cubes that had fallen onto the floor and unwrapped it. The wrapper was a small piece of yellow paper, adorned with the word JUMBO and a cartoon chicken.

"What are you going to do with that?" Jake asked.

"Advertise." Kas slotted the Jumbo wrapper into the gap under the door and helped it on its way with a flick of her nail. "I was just dreaming about Hansel and Gretel," she said. "Do you remember what they did? They laid a trail of breadcrumbs so that they could find their way back out of the forest."

"They didn't have GPS in those days," said Jake.

"And right now neither do we. Anyway, the trail's not for us, it's for anyone out there who's heard the news of our kidnapping. If they are announcing it on the radio, then people are going to be looking out for the Jumbo van, but they're not going to recognize it now that it's been repainted. Unless..."

"Unless it leaves a trail of Jumbo wrappers behind it," said Jake. "Nice one, Kas!"

"Steady on—we don't know if it'll work or not. But at least we'll feel like we're actually doing something. Do you want to unwrap or make the trail?"

I'll unwrap.

There were thousands of stock cubes in the van. Jake unwrapped the tiny cubes as fast as he could and passed the wrappers to Kas, who flicked them through the narrow gap one at a time. They worked for more than an hour, and by the time they ran out of wrappers, their fingers were stiff and aching.

Jake sighed and leaned back against the mound of crumbly cubes. "Here's a question for you," he said. "If the van is traveling at thirty miles an hour, and you dropped an average of one Jumbo wrapper every five seconds, how far apart on the track are the wrappers?"

"Assuming that the wind speed remained constant," said Kas in a funny geeky voice, "I'd say, 'Just the right distance.'"

Jake chuckled. It was the first time he had laughed since they'd gotten kidnapped, and in that moment of forgetfulness he felt a spark of life returning to him.

The
sun rose over the corrugated roofs of Djibo, ancient seat of the Jelgooji kings. Outside a small shack on the outskirts of town, the Chameleon sat cross-legged on a straw mat with his cousin Badini. They were laughing so hard that tears ran down their faces.

"Behold," cried Badini. "The djinns are coming to bear me aloft!"

"On their warm, invisible hands!" chuckled the Chameleon.

"I would love to have seen Al Hajji Amadou's face when he saw you levitating."

"I'm telling you, cousin, he looked as if he'd swallowed an axe handle."

Badini guffawed and shook his head. "Seriously," he said. "Do you think it will work? Al Hajji Amadou and his friends are the most stiff-necked businessmen in town. They are sure to suspect a trick."

"The levitation was only half the story," said the Chameleon. "I also sprinkled deadly nightshade in their millet water."

"Deadly what?"

"It is a poison from beyond the Great Desert," said the Chameleon. "I purchased a small quantity from an Algerian merchant last market day. Don't look at me like that, cousin—the dose was not enough to kill them, only enough to make them pass a sleepless night of cold sweats and hallucinations."

"They will know you poisoned them."

"No, they won't. Nightshade powder does not make the lips or throat tingle as our local poisons do. Besides, cousin, you should never underestimate the power of suggestion. After my performance last night, every single merchant will think that desert djinns are tormenting him and will price his millet accordingly. The people of Djibo will be pleasantly surprised when they go to market today."

Badini got up, went into the house, and came back with a small radio. He set it down on the mat between him and his cousin. "Let us listen to the news," he said. "If all the grain merchants of Djibo have died mysteriously during the night, then you will have done a very bad thing and God will be your judge."

He switched on the radio and swiveled the antenna for best reception. On Radio Burkina a female presenter was speaking. "This crime has shocked the entire country.
Haut Commissaire
Beogo is here in the studio to tell us more. Commissioner, what progress are you making in your investigation?"

"
Bonjour,
Valérie. This is a heinous crime. It has prompted a nationwide investigation with unprecedented mobilization of police and
gendarmes.
We know that Yakuuba Sor is taking the hostages back to his camp somewhere in the north of the country, and we know that he is driving an orange and yellow Jumbo van. We are doing the best we can with very limited resources."

"How sure are you that Yakuuba Sor is behind this crime?"

"He was positively identified at the Jumbo depot yesterday morning when he stole the van and again at the Hotel Libya, the scene of the abduction. This would not be the first time that Sor has kidnapped high-ranking personages and held them hostage at his camp."

"He has never been known to kidnap a child, has he?"

"These are not children, Valérie. They are teenagers, and Sor would not think twice about targeting them. Our police psychologist tells us that Sor exhibits chronic psychotic tendencies. He is full of compassion one minute and utterly heartless the next. I cannot exaggerate the urgency of finding these unfortunate young people before it's too late."

"What has been the reaction of the British government?"

"Naturally, the British are extremely concerned, particularly by the link between Yakuuba Sor and a well-known international terrorist network. They have offered to assist our investigation in any way possible. We have applied to them for an injection of emergency antiterrorist funds and access to relevant surveillance technologies. Such equipment is vital if we are to effectively search that vast southern region of the Sahara Desert."

"Do you have a message for Yakuuba Sor?"

"We will find you, Sor. This time there is no ruse that can protect you, no disguise that can hide you, no desert hole that can conceal you. Make no mistake about it: shoulder to shoulder with our allies we will locate your camp, surround you, and crush you."

The Chameleon stood up, and his mouth was a thin, hard line. "Cousin Badini," he said, "I need you to go to the telecen-ter in Djibo and call our cells in Kongoussi, Namsigia, Woursé, Gaskindé, and Burizanga. Tell them to put the word out far and wide. If any man, woman, or child has seen that van, I want to know about it."

Do
you think anyone is going to notice our trail?" asked Kas for the third time in an hour.

"Definitely." Jake tried to sound more confident than he felt. "You know how observant African people are, especially in the bush. Anything even slightly out of the ordinary, they'll pick up on it. Tire tracks plus Jumbo wrappers plus radio broadcasts about the kidnapping. Pretty obvious, if you ask me. Hang on a second—are we slowing down again?"

The van stopped, the doors of the driver's cab clicked open, and slow footsteps came around the side of the van. Jake fingered the bruise on his cheek and wished that he were somewhere else.

The back doors of the van swung wide open. Jake and Kas blinked and winced, shielding their faces from the sudden brightness. One of their captors stood before them, silhouetted against the rising sun.

"
Salaam aleykum,
" he said.

"
Aleykum asalaam,
"replied Jake.
Don't make them angry,
he said to himself.
Don't whine. Don't be sarcastic. And whatever you do, don't look them in the eye.

"
Descendez
" said the man. It was Yakuuba Sor. He had wrapped a turban around his upper and lower face, leaving only a slit for his eyes. The waiter's bow tie hung loose around his neck, and on his left forearm the tattooed spider leered at Jake from its web.

Jake scrambled out of the van and dropped down onto the cool sand. He had never been in a desert before, and it was breathtaking. The lone undulating sands stretched far away in every direction. The sun hung low over the horizon and cast long, shifting shadows across the dunes.

Kas jumped down onto the sand behind him. Her hair, so black and sleek the night before, was a frizzy mess. Her face was pale, her eyes bloodshot. A trail of black eyeliner bisected each cheek. She was staring at something over Jake's shoulder.

Jake turned and saw the "delivery man," Sor's partner in crime. He was still wearing his sunglasses, and in his arms he cradled a bolt-action hunting rifle with brass swirls on the stock. Jake turned away quickly.
So they do have a gun after all.

Yakuuba Sor was peering into the back of the van, gazing at the mountains of crumbled-up stock cubes. "
C'est quoi, ça?
"

"We wanted something soft to sleep on," said Kas in French, her eyes fixed on the ground.

Sor scowled and walked up to her. "How old are you?" he asked.

"Thirteen." Her voice sounded tiny in that vast expanse.

"Can you read French?"

"Yes."

The outlaw took a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. "Go and stand over there," he said, waving at a spot a few meters away.

Kas went, walking stiff legged like a sleepwalker. She kept glancing out of the corner of her eye at the man with the rifle.

Sor held up the phone he had taken from Jake. "Does this take video?"

"Yes," said Jake.

"Good. You will film your sister while she reads."

Jake took the phone and noticed that it was now receiving a two-bar signal.
There must be a tower not very far away.

"Start filming," said Sor.

Jake switched to video mode and framed his sister in the viewfinder. She was shaking like mad.

"Read," said the outlaw.

Kas began to read in a small, quavering voice. "
Je m'appelle Kirsty Knight—
"

"Louder!" shouted Sor. "Read it properly. And you, boy, are you filming?"

"Yes." Jake could feel the outlaw's breath on his neck.

Kas started again. "My name is Kirsty Knight, daughter of British ambassador Quentin Knight," she read in French. "My brother and I are guests of Yakuuba Sor and the Friends of the Poor. We are being treated kindly. Yakuuba Sor has only one demand, the release from British jails of the following men: Jamil al Rahabi, Ismail al Matari, Saad Salahuddin, Faruq Elgaz-zar, Tariq Dergoul, Ali al Nasir, and Sarfaraz Zaman. If the prisoners are released unharmed, my brother and I will also be released unharmed. There will be no negotiation. You have twenty-four hours to comply."

The video was forty-seven seconds long, and by the time he pressed stop, Jake had lost all hope. He knew full well that the British government did not release prisoners in exchange for hostages. They were as good as dead.

Even Kas knew it. She started shaking again, and her breathing went funny. She looked like she was going to throw up.

"Play it back," said Sor.

Jake played the video, and the outlaws craned their necks to watch. The camera shake was terrible, but the speech was clearly audible.

"Post it online," said Sor.

"Whereabouts?"

"Facebook."

Jake logged onto his Facebook account and clicked new video.
Odd,
he thought,
that an outlaw in the Sahara Desert should know about social networking.

There were loads of videos already on Jake's profile. There were clips of him geothimbling, skateboarding, pillow fighting, moshing, arm wrestling, conjuring, and (for some reason he had long forgotten) singing "Poker Face" through a mouthful of marshmallows. And in about three minutes' time, connection permitting, there would be a new one—a video of Kas on a bad hair day, reading out the demands of a madman.
If the prisoners are released unharmed, my brother and I will also be released unharmed. There will be no negotiation. You have twenty-four hours to comply.

"Is it done yet?" said Sor. "Have you done what I asked?" He kept looking up at the horizon, and the brow line of his turban was damp with perspiration.

"It's a large file," said Jake. "It will take a little while."

The delivery man seemed nervous too. He gripped the rifle tight and shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"Is it done yet?" snapped Sor again. "Can we go?"

"Not yet." The blue progress bar was edging forward, but the battery level was critical. The phone was about to die on them.

"
Allons-y!
" said the delivery man. "We have to leave right now."

"Not yet," said Sor. "Tell me, boy, is the upload finished?"

"It's finished."

"Good." Sor snatched the phone and pocketed it. "Go and stand next to your sister."

Jake went.

"Kneel down, both of you," said Sor.

"What?"