BAMAKO, Aribert Raphael [read out loud books .TXT] 📗

at her reflection in the mirror. You not only need clothes, but a complete makeover wouldn’t be a bad idea.
84
Samir had been staring at the ceiling for a while when he said, “I tell you, something is wrong. You can feel it, can’t you?”
“Yes, I feel very uneasy right now,” Johan replied. “I feel like the pawn in a child’s game. You know the way kids play? Throwing the ball from one to another and I’m in the middle trying to catch it. I see the ball, I run from one player to the other, hoping to discover in advance where he intends to throw the ball next. But, each time he deceives me by throwing it in the opposite direction. It’s hopeless.” Perhaps The Dutchman’s age had something to do with his often rambling recollections of his youth.
“I haven’t played that game or being the pawn as you call it,” Samir said, “but I agree with you we’re being deceived. What we see and what we hear are not truths.”
“So, what do we do?” They looked at each other.
“Let’s analyze the facts and see where they lead us,” Samir suggested.
“Well, we know Savoi and his niece are not here….”
“No. We do not know that, Johan. We’ve been told they’re not here. That’s different.”
“You’re right!” Johan lifted his head from the pillow. “We haven’t visited the camp or the mine to see for ourselves if they’re here or not.” He turned on his side to face Samir on the other bed. “Come to think of it, do you remember how Rasheed reacted when he was told these two were gone?”
“How could I forget? My elbow is still sore.”
“I’d say Rasheed is a good actor, but his reaction wasn’t faked, it was too darn real.”
“And after dinner, when Rasheed said he didn’t make the call, the old man became very uncommunicative, his face was troubled. As if he knew something and he couldn’t bring himself to tell anybody.”
For a moment, they stared at one another.
“Do you realize what we’re saying?” Samir was sitting now, looking down at Johan who still lay on his bed.
“Yes, I do. We’re implying that Ashan, and the villagers are hiding Savoi and Rheza somewhere here on site. That’s incredible”—Johan chuckled—“but not as incredible as your story of them being taken to Kenieba.”
“You think what ever you want, incredible or not, we’d agreed to look at the facts. And the facts tell us that Savoi and Madame McLean are still here—in this compound. Ashan wouldn’t do a thing like that unless he’d a lot to gain by doing it. He could’ve been bought or blackmailed. That’s probably why he was saying silent prayers at the end of the meeting, did you notice that? Only menaces would lead him on the path of dishonourable deeds.”
Instinctively, Samir wanted to protect the Elder’s good name. He only met him a few hours earlier but already a sense of respect for the man’s age and presence prevailed upon him.
“Let’s be practical, let’s make a plan of action for tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning!” Disbelief was written across the Touareg’s face. “You can’t mean that. We need to act tonight. When morning will be upon us, it will be too late. If those two are still alive and hidden somewhere in the camp, we’ve got to find them tonight,” he insisted. “Otherwise they’ll be dead by sunrise.”
Johan wasn’t sure. Let’s say he was hoping the Touareg could be wrong. “You really think so?”
“How can you even doubt it? After all we’ve heard; it stands to reason. There are too many people involved, implicated and afraid of the consequences to let them live through the night.”
“Oh well, there goes another sleepless night.” Johan was obviously trying to ease the tension he could sense was growing between them. “Did you bring torches?”
“Yes, I did. But before we go searching the grounds aimlessly, perhaps we should try to think of where would be the most likely place for them to hide two people.”
“There are the huts, but we can’t very well go and knock on everyone’s door and ask to search the place, can we?” Johan chuckled again.
“Don’t be so flippant about this, please. This isn’t your child’s game.”
“Let me tell you something, Samir, I take this whole affair very seriously. I just wanted to make it easier for us to face what ever we’ll have to do tonight.”
Samir ignored the comment and kept on foraging through his bag in search of the torches.
“Perhaps we should look in places where no one would dare go during the night. Or, better yet, we should ‘follow the prospector to his claim’.”
Samir was still crouched over his unpacked bag, sorting through his belongings. “What do you mean?” He lifted his head in Johan’s direction.
“If what you say is true, our lascars are going to kill our two friends during the night. So, instead of looking at every possible hiding place, we should just wait for them to make a move and let them guide us to it.”
“Excellent, excellent—if we’re not too late.” Samir got up.
“You’re a pessimist, you know that?”
The Touareg couldn’t help but smile at the remark.
Having made up their minds and planned their sortie very carefully, Johan and Samir got dressed in dark clothing; their hands gloved—working gloves that Johan always carried in his bag—and heads well covered, so they’d be one with the shadows of darkness, and the mosquitoes wouldn’t have a feast on any bare skin while they lay in wait for their prey.
They had chosen a spot from where they could observe any one going in any direction from the campsite. As they were about to doze off beneath a tree, hushed voices, whispers and footfalls approaching rapidly, startled them. Two people passed them only a few meters away. They were heading in the direction of the plant. They watched them until they were a fair distance ahead. Then, they started following the two figures, stealthily making their way up the hillside, their footing sure, noiseless and cautious—like felines. As they climbed toward the lane-way Samir had observed earlier that day while circling over the hills, the brush cover became sparser. They had to be careful not to be seen or heard. The moon was out, shining like a globe over their quest, which made the use of torches redundant. Johan soon realized where they were heading. He came closer to Samir and whispered in his ear, “They’re going to the nitro-cache.”
The Touareg turned with a jerk toward his companion, his face deeply stroked with the marks of fear. “What do you mean the ‘nitro-cache’?”
“You know. That’s the container with the explosives.”
“That’s what I thought you said.”
“If they are keeping our friends there we can’t use any fire power.”
“You mean ... you’ve brought a gun?”
“Of course!”
Samir swore under his breath. “There was no need…”
“Samir—”
“Hush. I’ve brought what we’ll need. It can be used in silence. Not like your gun.” The Touareg smiled.
“I should’ve known. You’ve got a knife on you, haven’t you?”
Samir didn’t reply; he just lifted his pant-leg to reveal a shining blade fitted in a harness against his skin.
Johan grunted. “My God! Who do you intend to gouge with this baby?”
“Anyone or anything the devil would put across my path.”
“Well, now that we know each other’s weakness for a particular weapon…”
“Weakness? I don’t think you should call carrying a knife a ‘weakness’…”
Their impromptu conversation was cut short by the sound of voices. They didn’t understand what was said but they sensed the urgency in the words they heard.
The nitro-glycerine was stored in a shipping container, left as it stood at the end of the lane-way on the hillside. The nitro, Johan knew, was already ‘sweating’ and the least disturbance would send the whole lot sky high. Both men wondered if they were to see morning alive. They had wanted to save Savoi and Rheza but they had no desire to die trying. They remained lying on the ground, their thoughts filled with horror, hanging every hope on every breath; every sound, every move seemed impossible, forbidden.
“Do you think we should try reaching our two would-be assassins before they get to the container?” Samir whispered.
“If it isn’t too late ... I’m going ...” And, suddenly matching actions to words, Johan started running up, and then down the hill, yelling, dancing, singing—making an utter fool of himself.
Samir was stunned. For a moment, he couldn’t understand what Johan was doing, or why he was doing it. Of course, he wants to get them to change direction, to pay attention to him, to have them chase him down the hill, away from the container. Much against the impulse to follow Johan in his tracks, he stayed hidden and immobile. He watched The Dutchman carrying on with his drunken dance, slowly going down toward safety. As expected, the two figures chased after him. When they were almost out of sight, Samir got up and very quickly, reached the container where he found what they had been seeking.
Both bodies lay side-by-side, seemingly asleep. They were tied up with leather straps and ropes hooked on the side-door of the container. Their faces were blistered with dark patches. Amid the shadows of night, they looked like discarded dummies from the last horror show. Quietly and gently, Samir took each of their wrists in turn, feeling for a pulse. They were still alive. He shook his head. They’ve been drugged. He then pulled his knife out of its hiding place. The blade shone under the eerie rays of the moonlight slicing through bushes and trees across the lane. He went to Rheza first and slid the straps that tied her wrists above her head. He knelt beside her. He lowered her arms at her side and caressed her face. “How could anyone hurt such a beautiful woman?” he muttered. Since there was no water anywhere near, Samir took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the dirt off her cheeks and neck. Her red gown was torn and ripped at the side. Her left ankle was swollen out of proportion. Probably sprained or broken. Her gold-laced shawl was wrapped awkwardly around her shoulders and neck. Her hair was matted with red muddy patches. She looked as she’d been beaten as well. When Samir carefully pulled the shawl away he saw the dried blood on her upper arms. Anger and sheer disgust crept up Samir’s spine until he shuddered, rose slowly and spat in the direction of Rheza’s companion, Savoi.
Yes, that man who was ultimately responsible for his niece’s torture was lying beside her, inert and injured. He deserved every bit of the beating he had suffered and all of the bruising Samir noticed on his face. This man, with a podgy face, moustache, thick lips and bulky, fatty stomach protruding from his body as he lay on his back, was a nauseating sight. The Touareg still had the knife in his hand. He was looking at Savoi. His feelings toward the repulsive figure were full of rage and revenge. He wanted to cut Savoi’s throat from one ear to the other.
He turned away