Time of the Assassins (23 page)

Ngune's eyes narrowed fractionally as he waited for Graham to continue.
'Do you honestly believe that whatever machinery you've got waiting for me down in your interrogation room can possibly match the pain I went through when I lost my family?' Graham shook his head. 'Hell, you do what you want, Ngune. You can't hurt me, not any more.'
'We will see,' Ngune replied, but the intercom buzzed again before he could arrange to have Graham taken down to one of the interrogation rooms. He activated the switch. 'Yes?'
'It's the control room here again, sir.'
'Have you managed to re-establish contact with the outside yet?'
'No, sir.' There was a nervous pause. 'We've just picked up two aircraft on the radar scanner. They're headed this way. And judging by their speed, they have to be fighter jets.'
'That doesn't make any sense,' Ngune said suspiciously. 'I haven't authorized the scrambling of any of our jets from the airbase in Chad. And we'd have been told by one of our informers if the air force had scrambled any of their jets from Habane.'
'They don't originate from Habane, sir. They've come from one of the neighbouring states in the south.'
'Chad?'
'I can't say, sir.'
'Have you tried to establish radio contact with them?'
'Yes, sir, but so far they're both maintaining complete radio silence.'
'Range?'
'Forty miles, sir, and closing fast.'
'Put out an alert but tell the men to hold their fire until we know the identity of the planes. They could be ours. And keep trying to get them on the radio.'
'Yes, sir.'
Ngune switched off the intercom and sat back in the chair. What was going on? First they lose contact with the patrols, then they lose contact with the garrison, and now two unidentified fighter jets were closing in on them. It had already crossed his mind that the government forces could have already recaptured Kondese. But there had been no gunfire. Well, no more than usual. And if the city had been taken, surely at least one patrol would have contacted the base? Then there was the mystery of the garrison on the Chad-Zimbalan border. If they had come under attack from government troops, they too, would have radioed through to the base. But nothing. Absolute silence. It was as if they had been isolated. The thought lingered in his mind. But how?
He pushed the thought from his mind and ordered the guard to take Graham to one of the interrogation rooms. He would join them presently. The guard prodded Graham in the back with the AK-47 and indicated for him to walk to the door. Ngune waited until the two men had left the room then removed a pair of powerful night-vision binoculars from the desk and moved to the window. He raised the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon. Nothing. Then, a moment later, he saw the lights. At first they were hazy and distorted in the distance but as they grew nearer he
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could make out the silhouettes of two jets. He immediately recognized them as Dornier Alpha jets but he couldn't see the markings. Then the lead jet peeled away to the right and Ngune was able to see the markings of the Zimbalan Air Force on the underside of the wings. He lowered the binoculars and wiped his hand across his clammy forehead. It was impossible. How could two fighter planes have been smuggled off the airbase in Habane without at least one of his informers knowing about it? Dammit, they lived on the airbase. How could it have happened? He switched on the intercom and gave the order to open fire as soon as the jets came into range.
He returned to the window and instinctively ducked as one of the jets buzzed overhead. The first missile exploded several yards short of the fence but the men still had to take cover as a shower of rocks and stones rained down onto the yard. The second missile ripped through the fence and detonated underneath one of the watchtowers. Ngune stared, transfixed, as the watchtower buckled under the impact of the explosion before toppling over and crashing down onto the barracks where many of his men had taken cover seconds earlier. A handful of men tried to break cover from behind the barracks but were cut down by the concentrated gunfire that strafed across the yard. The third missile hit the main gate, ripping it off its hinges as though it were made of papier mache.
Then the first of the army's Challenger tanks rumbled into the compound, its barrel already trained on the barracks where a handful of his men were making one last, determined stand. Machine-pistols
against tanks, but he knew they would fight to the last man. It was a question of honour. Now suddenly it all made sense. They hadn't been able to get through to the garrison because it had already been destroyed by the jets. The garrison had no radar so the jets could have approached completely unnoticed. He had always anticipated an attack from Habane. And to get to the garrison from Habane, the air force would have had to bypass Kondese. But the whole plan had backfired. Badly. He had been outmanoeuvred by Jamel Mobuto, the man he had despised for so many years. And without men he couldn't mount a challenge on Habane. The dream was finally over. Now all that concerned him was staying alive, self-preservation. And the longer his men held out, the better his chances were of escaping. He opened the wall safe and stuffed his pockets full of bank notes. Then, unlocking the bottom drawer, he removed a miniature transmitter but the door burst open before he could use it to make good his escape. He put the transmitter down on the desk.
Graham entered and levelled the A K-47 at Ngune's chest. 'You should have trained your men to expect the unexpected. It wasn't very difficult to disarm him.'
Ngune swallowed nervously. 'We can make a deal, Graham. Take the money from the safe. Take it.'
'In return for letting you go?'
'Yes.' Ngune gestured towards the safe. 'It's all in pounds and dollars. Take it, all of it.'
'Oh, I intend to-all of it-and I'll hand it over to the authorities when I hand you over.' Graham moved forward and peered into the safe. He whistled softly.
'Christ, there's enough in there to wipe out the trade , deficit back home. You'll be crucified when you go on trial, Ngune. I only wish I could stay around to watch it.'
Ngune's eyes flickered towards the Walther on the desk. Could he reach it before Graham shot him? He doubted it. But what other option did he have? He would be crucified at his trial. He had to take the chance and go for the gun. Then the moment was gone. Graham stepped forward and picked up the Walther. He ejected the clip and tossed the gun back onto the table.
'Empty your pockets,' Graham snapped.
Ngune pulled the bundles of bank notes from his pockets and tossed them reluctantly onto the desk.
'All of it!' Graham said, pointing to the breast pocket on Ngune's tracksuit top.
Ngune pulled another bundle of notes from his breast pocket and dropped them onto the table.
'Let's go,' Graham said, indicating the door.
Ngune had already moved round from behind the
desk when the shell hit the side of the building. The
window shattered and plaster showered the room.
I Ngune lashed out with his fist, catching Graham on
. the side of the head. Graham fell back heavily against
the wall and the AK-47 slipped from his hands.
Ngune kicked Graham viciously in the stomach then grabbed the transmitter and used it to activate the door behind the desk. A panel, hidden in the wall, slid back, revealing a set of concrete steps leading down to a tunnel. Ngune darted through the opening and immediately activated the panel behind him. Graham
hauled himself to his feet and lunged at the door, hooking his fingers around it when it was only inches away from resealing itself. He gritted his teeth as he began to slowly, painfully ease it open again. After what seemed an age he managed to open it enough to be able to slip through. The panel immediately closed behind him.
The tunnel was over three hundred yards in length, and Ngune had already covered half the distance. Graham bounded down the stairs and sprinted after him. He was surprised by Ngune's pace. He was certainly fit for a man of his age. Although Graham was able to close the gap considerably he still couldn't catch up with Ngune before he reached another flight of steps at the other end of the tunnel. Ngune paused at the foot of the steps, his face now bathed in sweat, and ripped the chain off from around his neck. From it hung a key. He scrambled to the top of the steps and unlocked the door. He pulled it open but made no attempt to retrieve the key from the lock. That would just waste valuable time - and yardage. He disappeared through the doorway. ®
Graham reached the foot of the steps a few seconds later. He took them two at a time but paused at the door and peered cautiously into the room which was lit by a single naked bulb hanging from a frayed length of flex in the centre of the roof. It was a lock-up garage. Ngune had ignored the battered green Ford station wagon and continued instead on foot. The side door was ajar. Graham pulled open the door and cursed angrily to himself. It led out onto a street where a group of locals were dancing and singing to celebrate
the liberation of their city. If Ngune could blend in with the locals Graham knew he would never find him. He looked the length of the street but couldn't see any sign of him. He couldn't have gone far, Graham said to himself, not after that run. Even he felt exhausted.
Then he noticed a movement in a doorway on the opposite side of the street. He waited until the locals had passed then ran across the road and moved slowly towards the doorway. A stray light swept across the street and for a split second Ngune's face was illuminated in the darkness. Graham broke into a run. Then Ngune saw him. He darted out of the doorway but his legs wouldn't carry him any further and Graham was quick to grab him from behind and slam him up against the wall. Ngune's body sagged and Graham made the mistake of loosening his grip on the front of the tracksuit. Ngune caught Graham with a hammering punch to the side of the face then hit him again as he stumbled off balance. The second punch dropped Graham to the pavement. Ngune ran towards the end of the street. Graham scrambled to his feet and sprinted after him. He was quick to close the gap and felled Ngune with a bruising football tackle. Both men landed heavily on the pavement but Graham was the first to react and brought his elbow up sharply into Ngune's midriff. Ngune slumped back against the wall, temporarily winded. Graham stood up then hauled Ngune to his feet and shoved him face first against the wall.
It was then he noticed the mob standing on the corner of the street. He counted about a dozen of them, mostly men. And they were armed with sticks
and chains. One had a machete. Ngune also saw them and started shouting to them in Swahili as he struggled to break free of Graham's vice-like grip.
The mob moved towards them. Graham was caught in a dilemma. He may need to defend himself, but that would mean releasing Ngune. One of the men suddenly broke free from the others and ran towards the two men. He caught Graham painfully on the shoulder with his stick. Graham stumbled back and Ngune began gesticulating wildly in his direction while continuing to incite the mob in Swahili. The men moved tdwards Graham. Ngune sensed his chance and began to move away from the mob. They had now surrounded Graham and were shouting at him in Swahili. Another blow was aimed at him but this time he was able to block it with his forearm. He couldn't hold out like this for long. But what could he do? He couldn't communicate with them. But you don't need to speak Swahili, he suddenly chided himself. Of course not.
'Tito Ngune!' Graham shouted and pointed an accusing finger towards the retreating figure. 'Tito Ngune. Tito Ngune.'
The name caused an immediate response. All heads turned towards Ngune who immediately tried to bluff his way out of trouble. A fat woman grabbed his arm and pulled him round to face her. She stared at his bowed head for several seconds then looked across at Graham and nodded in agreement. She pushed Ngune towards the men who shoved him roughly to the ground before beating him with their sticks.
Graham was about to try and intervene when an
army jeep appeared at the end of the street. It pulled up beside the men and two soldiers jumped out and forced their way through to where Ngune lay huddled against the wall, his arms wrapped over his head. An officer, wearing the rank of lieutenant, climbed out of the passenger seat and stopped in front of Graham who estimated him to be no more than twenty-five.
Graham asked him if he could speak English. The lieutenant said nothing then turned and walked over to where Ngune was slumped against the wall, his tracksuit now matted with blood. The fat woman pushed through the crowd and spoke to the lieutenant. Graham thought he heard Ngune's name mentioned. The lieutenant barked out an order and the two soldiers hauled Ngune to his feet. The lieutenant looked carefully at Ngune's bloodied face then took a pair of handcuffs from his belt and manacled Ngune's hands behind his back. The two soldiers pushed Ngune to his knees then stepped back to allow the lieutenant to approach him.
. Graham watched, unsure what was going to happen next. Ngune had been handcuffed. That implied arrest. But why hadn't he been taken to the jeep? Then the lieutenant took his RF83 revolver from the holster on his belt and pressed it against the back of Ngune's head. Graham stepped forward, horrified at what he was witnessing. It was barbaric. Ngune's guilt wasn't in doubt. But he still had the right of a fair trial. That was the law, a universal law.
The lieutenant looked across at Graham and said something to him in Swahili. Graham shrugged helplessly but when he tried to get closer his path was
blocked by the two soldiers, their Mi6 rifles aimed at his stomach. The lieutenant looked down at Ngune who was babbling incoherently as he pleaded pitifully for his life. Once the second-most powerful man in the country, Ngune was now nothing more than a sad, pathetic old man on the brink of death. The lieutenant pulled the trigger. Ngune's body jerked grotesquely as the back of his head disintegrated in a spray of blood and bone.
The mob cheered triumphantly when he slumped forward onto the pavement. The lieutenant bolstered his revolver then snapped an order at the two soldiers who quickly shouldered their rifles and returned to the jeep. This time the lieutenant ignored Graham as he walked back to the jeep. The driver started the engine and drove away. Graham stared at the body, still struggling to come to terms with the savage justice that had been meted out seconds earlier. But then this was Africa, a continent where mercy was so often regarded as a sign of weakness and where brutality and violent death had become just another acceptable everyday occurrence.