'In this neck of the woods every buck worth his salt sports a genuine-fake Bangladesh-made Rolex selling for twenty-five dollars a pop in the nearest bazaar. Impossible to tell them from the original. As you have remarked, I conform to custom very nicely.'
When they set off for the town, Tariq took the lead and the other men came close behind him. Hector walked in the middle of the party so as not to draw undue attention to himself. He had used a stick of charcoal to darken his beard, but he still kept the lower half of his face covered. The three women followed them decorously. The outskirts of the village were almost deserted with just a few cur dogs lazing in the shade and naked brown toddlers playing in the rubbish heaps that choked the narrow lanes, but as they approached the centre the crowds coalesced around them until they were jostled and bumped at almost every step. Soon they found themselves being carried along with the throng, and Hector was worried that the women would be separated from him or from each other. He glanced back surreptitiously and was relieved to see that Hazel had made them hold hands to keep them together in a tight bunch. They reached the opening to a deserted side alley and Hector whispered to Tariq to take this route to get them out of the press. But when they tried to leave the stream of humanity their way was immediately blocked by rifle-wielding militia who shouted and pushed them back into the crowd.
'Public punishment in the square in front of the mosque. Everybody must be there to witness it.'
'I did not expect this.' Hector was appalled when he realized the effect this might have on Hazel and Cayla if they were forced to watch the horror of radical Sharia law in practice. 'I have to warn them.' He eased his way back through the throng until he was walking a few paces behind Hazel. He pitched his voice low, and hoped that the babble of Arabic all around them would cover the fact that he was speaking English.
'Don't look around at me, my love. Nod if you understand me.' She nodded. 'We are going to be forced to watch something so horrible that there are no words to describe it. You must be strong. Look after Cayla. She must try not to show any sign of distress. She must not cry out in protest, or in any other way draw attention to herself. Get her to close her eyes or cover her face with her veil, but she must remain still and silent. Do you understand?' Hazel nodded again but uncertainly. He wanted to hug her or at least squeeze her hand, but he left her and went back to join his men.
The crowd debouched onto a dusty square in front of a green-painted mosque, by far the grandest edifice in the town. As they entered the square the armed religious guardians separated the men from the women. The men squatted in the front ranks facing the sunbaked open ground in the centre. The women were directed to the very back rows where they knelt and carefully covered their faces. A big jihadist with a potbelly and a curling black beard strutted up and down in front of them and harangued them through a loudhailer. His voice boomed and echoed off the walls so that it was almost unintelligible. The red dust was stirred up by the shuffling sandalled feet, and the heat was trapped by the surrounding buildings. Large bluebottle flies swarmed over everything, crawling on the faces and trying to creep into the mouths and eyes of the crowd. A heavily pregnant woman who was waddling along just ahead of Hector staggered and collapsed in a dead faint. The guardians dragged her to the nearest wall and propped her against it amongst the women. They would not allow her distraught husband to enter the ranks of seated women to go to her succour.
Assembling the entire population of the town and the surrounding district in the segregated ranks took almost two hours; only then could the administering of punishment begin. At last, accompanied by four lesser clerics, the Mullah emerged from the mosque and took over the loudhailer from the chief jihadist, addressing the spectators in stentorian tones.
'In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful,' he declaimed, his amplified voice booming around the square. 'All praise and thanks are due to Allah, and peace and blessings be upon His Messenger. My brothers in Islam, we are gathered here to witness punishment carried out in the name of Allah and by the power of his holy Sharia laws. Let all the virtuous know of his mercy and justice, and let the wrongdoers beware.' The first criminal was dragged forward by two jihadists. He was a starveling about eight years of age wearing only a brief loincloth. His limbs were thin as dried maize stalks, and his ribs showed clearly through his dusty skin. He was sobbing and wriggling in the grip of his gaolers. Tears cut runnels through the dust and dirt that covered his face. The Mullah introduced him to the crowds.
'This miscreant stole a loaf of bread from a stall in the market place. The Koran has instructed us that the penalty for theft is the amputation of the arms.' The crowd showed their approval with cries of 'God is Great!' and 'There is no other God but God!'
The Mullah held up his hand to silence them, then continued with his diatribe. 'Allah, in his wisdom and compassion, has decreed that the punishment of amputation may be mitigated in certain circumstances. After learned debate with my fellows we have decided that in this case the arms shall not be severed entirely.' He shouted an order to the guardians of the mosque and after some delay one of them drove a four-ton dump-truck into the square. The vehicle was loaded high with quarried grey stones, each one about the size of a baseball. When he saw it the child wailed shrilly and with a loud spluttering sound he soiled his already grubby loincloth. The crowd roared with laughter when they saw the extent of his terror.
The guards laid the struggling child on his stomach, and two of them pinioned him while a third slipped a rawhide noose over his wrists and pulled both his arms straight out in front of him, stretching him along the ground. The Mullah gave a signal to the driver of the truck and he rolled the vehicle forward slowly towards the boy's prostrate form. Another jihadist guided the driver with hand signals until the offside front wheel was lined up with the elbows of the child's outstretched arms, then the driver inched forward.
The boy's entire body convulsed and he squealed like a piglet having its throat cut, but the sound of his agony could not blot out the sound of crackling bone as both his arms were crushed under the immense weight of the heavily laden truck's tyre. The guardians released him, but the child lay racked by convulsions that contorted his entire body. One of the men hoisted him to his feet and shoved him in the direction of a side alley. The child no longer had control of his mutilated arms and they swung loosely at his sides. As he tottered towards the alley the limbs elongated grotesquely as the muscles no longer held together by bone stretched, until the boy's fingers almost dragged upon the ground.
'Allah in his wisdom and mercy has spared the arms of the thief,' the Mullah intoned sonorously and the watchers shouted in chorus, 'Allah is merciful! Allah is great!'
The next criminals were led into the square with their arms bound behind them with rawhide ropes. They were two men, one of whom was middle-aged, but the second was a strikingly beautiful youth with a graceful and effeminate gait. An executioner walked behind each prisoner. They carried curved Arabian scimitars at the present position in front of them.
'These base creatures are guilty of the most perverse and unnatural crime against God, and against all devout believers,' bellowed the Mullah. 'They have committed the vile sin of Lot, coming upon each other as man does to woman, one with the other. Four sound and reliable witnesses have given evidence as to their guilt. The sentence of this Sharia Court is that they both be put to death by beheading.' The watching crowds shouted their approbation and praised Allah for his wisdom and protection from evil.
In the centre of the square the two prisoners were forced to kneel facing each other so that they could look into each other's face and see the guilt there. The crowd was still and tense with anticipation. Gazing into his lover's face, suddenly the youth cried aloud in a voice that rang around the square, 'My love for you surpasses my love for Allah!'
The Mullah bellowed like a wounded bull, 'Strike! Strike off the blasphemer's head!'
The executioner standing over him lifted the scimitar with both hands and swung it down in a glittering arc. The youth's head sprang from his shoulders and for a moment a scarlet fountain pumped from the stump of the neck. Then the headless body fell forward. The older man wailed with grief, and threw himself forward onto his lover's corpse. Two of the guardians seized him by the shoulders and lifted him back onto his knees.
'Strike!' howled the Mullah. The executioner swung the blade, and the headless man fell forward on top of the first corpse, united with his lover in death. The watchers screamed with excitement and exalted the name of Allah and his Messenger. Some of the women succumbed to the heat and the thrill of blood, and fainted away where they sat. They were left to recover without succour or interference from any of the other members of the crowd. Hector glanced around and saw that Cayla was one of those who seemed overcome. He suspected that Hazel had ordered her to feign unconsciousness to spare her further exposure to the horrors.
The last person to enter the punishment ground was a woman. Because of the long abaya and the full black veil it was difficult to judge her age; however, under her robe she moved like a young girl, supple and willowy. She knelt before the Mullah and hung her head with an air of total resignation.
'This married woman is accused by her husband and four reliable witnesses of the mortal sin of adultery. Her accomplice has admitted his guilt and has already received one hundred strokes with a heavy cane. This Sharia Court, in the infallible wisdom bestowed upon its members by Allah and his Messenger, has condemned the woman to death by stoning.'
The Mullah signalled to one of the mosque guardians and again the big dump-truck came forward. Slowly it drove along the perimeter of the square, halting four times to lift the cargo bed and deposit a pile of the quarry stones in front of the crowd. The stones had been carefully selected to conform to the dictates of the Sharia law. They must not be pebbles that could not inflict a serious injury, nor should they be so large that they would kill the guilty woman with a single throw to the head. From the front row of the crowd the men scrambled forward excitedly to select their missiles, juggling them in their hands to judge their weight and balance. By custom Hector was forced to join in but he tasted vomit at the back of his throat as he stooped to pick up a pair of stones. In the centre of the square a hole had already been dug that was wide enough to admit the woman's hips and deep enough to accommodate her body as far as her waist. The earth that had been removed from the hole was piled beside it. When all the preparations for the execution were completed the guardians forced the accused woman to lie face down on the earth. Then they brought a large bolt of white cotton cloth from the truck and, starting at her feet, they wrapped her in the cloth like a corpse in a winding sheet. When they had finished she was covered from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. Two of the guardians lifted her and carried her to the hole, then between them they lowered her feet-first into it. She was now standing upright with the upper half of her body exposed. The guardians seized the spades which were stuck blade-first into the pile of loose earth, and they shovelled earth into the hole around the lower half of her body, then stamped it down firmly. The woman was now almost completely immobilized. She could twist her upper body from side to side and bow her bandaged head forward but that was the limit of her movement.
While they waited for the signal from the Mullah the men fondled their quarry stones, laughing and chattering with their companions, wagering amongst themselves as to who would be first to hit the head of the condemned woman. The Mullah recited a short prayer asking Allah for his blessing on their enterprise, and again citing the proven guilt of the woman.
The woman's husband came forward to claim the honour of hurling the first rock at his helpless wife. The Mullah gave the man his blessing and commended him to the approval of Allah, and then he shouted through the loudhailer, 'Do your duty under the law.'
The husband set himself up and took deliberate aim with the rock in his right hand, then he hurled it with a full sweep of his arm and his whole body behind it. It struck the woman on her shoulder and she shrieked with anguish. The men behind him hooted and ululated with delight, and then each of them launched the stone he was holding ready and even before it struck or missed the target they had stooped to pick up the next stone from the pile. The air was filled with flying stones, and at first most of them missed the target. One or two struck the woman's body and she cried out at the shock and the pain and made blind and fruitless movements as though trying to dodge the sharp-edged missiles. Finally one struck her head. It hit her squarely in her forehead and the force of it whipped her head backwards. Almost immediately the bright blood welled up through the white cotton. The woman's head drooped forward on her neck like a wilting flower on its stalk. She was struck again in the temple and her head flopped over to the other side. Soon there was no further sign of life but the flying rocks continued to thud and slog into the woman's quiescent body.
At last the Mullah gave his thanks to Allah for guiding them in their holy duties, and he and the other clerics retired into the green mosque. The men threw the last stones they were still carrying and the crowd began to break up, and singly or in small groups drifted away still chattering animatedly. A few mischievous urchins gathered around the woman's half-buried corpse and at point-blank range threw more rocks at the shattered head, screaming with laughter whenever one of them managed a hit.
'We can go,' Hector told Tariq quietly and they stood up and joined the spectators who were straggling out of the square. Hector glanced back only once to make sure that Hazel and the other two women were following them. Tariq led them through the bazaar where the stall keepers were once more spreading out their wares upon the dusty earth. After the distraction of the punishment the town was returning to normal life as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. On the far side of the bazaar was the large open space which served as a depot for the passenger buses and transport lorries, as well as a caravanserai for the passengers and travellers. They were camped out in the open, gathered around dozens of smoky cooking fires or around the wells dug at its centre.
Tariq bought a bundle of firewood from one of the vendors, and a sheep's head and a few bloody shanks from another. Daliyah stood in line with other women waiting to draw water at the well. As soon as the fire was burning they gathered around it in a circle and watched the mutton bones grilling. As this was not a public but a family gathering, Hazel and Cayla could sit close behind Hector still wearing their burqas. They were silent and subdued by the gruesome performance they had been forced to witness. Hazel was the first to speak.
'I told Cayla not to watch. Thank God that some of the other women succumbed so she did not draw undue attention. I wish I hadn't watched it. It is something that I will never forget. These people are not human. Even in my worst nightmares I could never conjure up such terrible things as they have done to Cayla and those other poor wretches today. I thought Islam was a religion of peace and kindness, of love and forgiveness. Never this monstrous orgy of bigotry and brutality we witnessed today.'
'Medieval Christianity was every bit as savage and barbaric,' Hector pointed out. 'You have only to look to the Spanish Inquisition and to the Crusades, or to the scores of other wars and persecutions waged in the name of Jesus Christ.'
'But it's not like that any more,' Hazel protested.
'Some Christian sects are still pretty raw in their thinking, but on the whole you're right. Modern Christianity in general has evolved into something far more gentle and humane, closer to Judaism, Buddhism and Shinto. Likewise most thinking Muslims have adapted and moderated their philosophy. As they stand now both Christianity and Islam are fine and noble religions.'
'Then how can such abominations as we witnessed today still be perpetrated?' Hector could see her eyes flooding and she blinked at the tears.
'If a handful of Roman Catholic priests use their power to sodomize small children, does that make Christianity evil?' he asked her. 'If a few blindly fanatical oafs like the Mullah who orchestrated today's butchery remain trapped in the brutal philosophy and teaching of the sixth century, does it make Islam evil? Of course not.'
'No, I have to agree with you. But those few extremists are able to influence the unsophisticated masses and create such a climate of hatred and brutality that the kind of horrors we saw today, and the kind of treatment that Cayla was subjected to, become commonplace.' Hazel's voice shook, and Hector cut in.
'Darling, not all Muslims are terrorists.'
'I know that. But I will oppose this extreme Sharia law with all my might and to the last drop of my blood.'
'As will I and all enlightened men and women of whatever race or religion, including Islam. But you do realize, my love, that you might have to revise part of the code and doctrine that you expressed during our first meeting?'
'You mean the part where I called you a blood-thirsty racist?' she asked, and he could tell by her tone that behind the veil and through her tears she was smiling, probably for the first time since they had entered the village.
'That would do for a start.' He smiled back at her.
'You are too late, Cross. That opinion was revised some time ago.'
At that moment Tariq returned and squatted beside Hector.
'The man we discussed has brought the bus and the guns for you to see.'
The bus was parked among a dozen others at the far end of the campground. It was a sturdy TATA, built in India many years before. At a glance it was obvious that it had lived a hard life. It was almost indistinguishable from any of the other buses parked around it, except only in that it was not heaped high with passenger goods and chattels. Tariq introduced Hector to the owner. After they had gone through the elaborate ritual of greeting, Hector walked around the bus. Three of the windows were cracked and one was missing completely. Hector knelt down to look under the engine. Black oil dripped from the sump, but not in copious amounts. The engine bonnet was held in place with baling wire. Hector opened it and checked the oil level with the dipstick. It was almost full, as was the water in the radiator - clearly recently replenished for his benefit. He climbed up into the driver's seat and disengaged the fuel cut-off plunger. Next he turned the starter key to heat and waited for the light to show on the panel, then he turned the key to ignition. The engine turned over sluggishly but did not fire. The owner had followed him into the cab.
'If you will permit me, Effendi?' Hector relinquished the seat to him. The owner began a practised routine with the throttle and starter key. At last the engine fired, backfired and farted before dying again. Unperturbed the owner repeated the procedure and at last the engine fired more convincingly, almost died, backfired again and then caught and ran up strongly. The owner beamed triumphantly. Hector congratulated him then walked around the vehicle again. Blue smoke blew from the exhaust and water dripped from the same pipe.
Cracked block, Hector thought, and when he opened the bonnet again there was loud knocking from one of the cylinders. For an African bus it's in almost pristine condition. Should still be good for a few hundred miles, which is all I ask from it. For an African bus it's in almost pristine condition. Should still be good for a few hundred miles, which is all I ask from it.
Then he looked the owner in the eye and said, 'How much?'
'Five hundred Americani,' replied the man delicately.
'Two hundred and fifty,' Hector countered, and the man wailed and clutched his brow as though Hector had insulted both his mother and his father.
'Five hundred,' he insisted, and then allowed himself to be beaten down slowly to the figure of three hundred that both of them had fixed in their own minds from the outset. They spat on their palms and slapped hands to seal the contract. Then they climbed into the bus and went down the aisle between the seats to the wooden case in the rear. The owner threw back the lid, and with a flourish presented the contents: six AK-47 assault rifles and five hundred rounds of ammunition. The wooden butts of the rifles were chipped and scratched, the blueing had rubbed off on any high-spots on the metal and when Hector looked down the bore of one of the barrels he saw it was worn so badly that they would be inaccurate at any range over fifty yards. Hector and the man settled for twenty-five dollars each. Before they parted with sincere expressions of deepest respect the vendor handed over the papers of the bus and mentioned almost as an afterthought that the local jihadist militia were on the lookout for a gang of criminal infidels who had murdered the old Sheikh and stolen one of his vehicles. He gave the impression that he did not mourn the passing of the old Sheikh to any great extent. He went on to add that a few hours earlier the stolen vehicle had been found abandoned not far from the town. The new Sheikh, may Allah grant him long life and great wisdom, had declared a curfew and issued a warning that any traffic moving on the roads between sunset and sunrise or failing to halt at a roadblock would be fired upon.
'I thought I should warn you.' The man shrugged indifferently.
'Thank you, brother,' Hector said, and added a hundred-dollar bill to the wad of cash that changed hands. As soon as he was gone Hector turned back to Tariq.
'Now we need some passengers to fill her. If there is no luggage piled on the roof and just the nine of us sitting like first-class passengers inside her, nobody would believe for a moment that we are pilgrims on our way to Mecca.' By this time the sun had set and Tariq wandered off into the campground to tempt a full load of passengers on board the bus with offers of heavily discounted fares as far as Berbera on the coast. The three women and all the men of Hector's party climbed aboard to reserve their seats by sleeping in them. The other seats filled up rapidly, and an hour before dawn there was standing room only in the interior, with half a dozen late arrivals clinging precariously to the mountain of luggage strapped to the roof racks. The bus was well down on its suspension with the weight of the load. Hazel, Cayla and Daliyah were squeezed into the bench seat at the rear. Cayla had managed to claim her place nearest to the window from which the glass was missing. Daliyah sat between them to field any questions that might be fired at them when they reached the roadblocks.
Cayla leaned across Daliyah to whisper to her mother, 'At least I will get a little fresh air. The stink in here is eye-watering.'
Hazel was half-submerged under the spreading bulk of an extremely large lady who occupied the seat beside her, balancing on her abundant lap a basket of dried fish. The fish were only half-cured and their smell competed strongly with the body odour of the lady herself. Hector sat on the floor cross-legged in the middle of the aisle with a heap of luggage piled in front of him and his ancient AK rifle across his lap. Anyone attempting to get back to where the women sat would be forced to climb over both the luggage and Hector. Tariq was the driver. If questioned at one of the roadblocks his accent was authentically Puntlandian. The remaining four Cross Bow operatives had been strategically placed by Hector so that in an emergency they could cover and defend the whole interior of the vehicle.
As the new day dawned and the sun showed its red dome above the hills, the fourteen buses that had been forced by the curfew to pass the night in the campground started their engines and beeped their horns to assemble their passengers. They formed up in a long convoy, and with the occupants shouting prayers and supplications to Allah for a safe journey, they drove out onto the main highway heading northwards. Tariq had managed to push their bus into the middle of the line.
'We don't want to be the first or the last,' he suggested to Hector. 'Those are the ones who will receive the closest attention.' Within a mile of leaving the town they ran into the first roadblock, manned by ten jihadists. The convoy ground to a halt while the driver and passengers of the first bus were forced at gunpoint to dismount and unload all their luggage into the road. Hector went forward and crouched down behind Tariq's driving seat to watch the search procedure. It was almost half an hour before they allowed the first truck to pass. The second took half that time. Some of the men were made to dismount and one of them was, for no apparent reason, beaten unconscious with a rifle butt, and thrown into the rear of the lorry parked at the side of the road. By the time the fifth bus reached the roadblock the militia had very obviously lost real interest in the business. Three of the militia climbed aboard and the rest of them walked around the bus peering at the cowering passengers through the windows.
'That one is the leader.' Hector nodded in the direction of a tall man with a huge beard descending from the bus tucking something into his waist sash and then turning to wave the driver forward. 'How much, do you think?'
'Ten dollars?' Tariq guessed.
'That should be enough. Try him with it.' Tariq nodded and Hector returned to his seat on the floor behind the barrier of luggage. At last they were summoned forward by the jihadists with masterful brandishing of firearms and fearsome shouts. The chief of the search party was once again first on board and he leaned over Tariq. From where he sat Hector could smell the arak on his breath. The passing over of the ten-dollar bill by Tariq was done as neatly as a stage illusion, and the jihadist straightened up and came down to where Hector was blocking the aisle. He pointed his rifle at Hector's face.
'Who are you and where are you going?' he demanded 'I am Suleiman Baghdadi. I am going to Berbera to catch the ferry to Jeddah to make the pilgrimage to Mecca.'
'You speak like a Saudi pig.' The man insulted him gratuitously but without rancour, then he looked beyond him at the fat lady on the back seat. He shook his head and laughed at her for no good reason. Then he turned and marched back along the aisle to the door and jumped down into the road. He shouted at Tariq, who drove on. They were stopped twice more before they covered the fifteen miles to reach a tiny scattering of huts beside the road. On the road verge were a few old women squatting under a thatched lean-to and selling groundnuts and bunches of yams and plantains to the passing travellers. Tariq stopped the bus and most of the passengers climbed down to buy from the old women. Tariq bought a dish of roasted groundnuts and tipped the seller a dollar, which earned him her immediate affection. The two of them chatted animatedly for five minutes before Tariq returned to his seat and Hector made his way forward again and crouched behind him. Tariq proffered the bowl of nuts and Hector took a handful.
'Yes? What did you find out?' he asked as he chewed.
'The old road to the mountains is only a short way ahead, just beyond the first dry wadi we have to cross. The woman said that very few people know that it exists, only the old ones like herself. Nobody uses it any more. She does not even know if it is still passable.'
'Does she know if there are any more roadblocks ahead?'
'She does not think so.' Hector thought about this for only a few minutes and then reached his decision.
'All right, Tariq. This is where we say farewell to our passengers. You know what to tell them.' Tariq climbed down onto the road and ordered all his passengers to do the same. Then he gave them the bad news.
'There is a fuel leak in the engine and a great risk of fire which will burn you to death or at the least will destroy all your possessions. We cannot safely take you further.' There were cries of alarm and anger from his passengers, then the voice of the fat lady with the fish basket rose above the hubbub.
'What about the money that we paid you?' she demanded.
'I will give you back all the money you paid, and another ten dollars each to buy a seat on another bus.' The cries of indignation subsided instantly; they chatted delightedly amongst themselves until the fat lady spoke up again.
'Promises are easy to make. Show us your money or you will not need your fuel leak. We will burn your bus for you.' She drew back the niqab that covered her face to make her threat more convincing and she glared at him.
'You shall be the first to be paid, old mother,' Tariq assured her and counted out the cash into her chubby paw. All the fire went out of her. She cooed like a chubby baby being offered her mother's teat. The others crowded forward and as soon as they were paid they offloaded all their luggage onto the dusty ground. Then they cheerfully waved goodbye to the much lighter bus as it drove on. The remaining passengers were also in celebratory mood.
'I don't think I could have survived that stench much longer,' said Cayla, removing the hood of her burqa and thrusting her head out of the empty window. She inhaled deeply and fluffed out her sweaty hair to dry in the wind.
'We call it L'Eau d'Afrique,' said Hector sympathetically. 'If you bottled it and sold it in the Rue Faubourg Saint-Honore it is unlikely you would make your fortune.' Cayla wrinkled her nose at the thought.
'I think that is the wadi we are looking for just ahead,' Tariq said, pointing through the dusty windscreen.
'Watch out, everybody!' Hector called out urgently. 'There are two more militia lorries parked on this side. Get your head in, Cayla, and cover it.' She obeyed at once and Hazel put her arm around her and they both hunkered down on the seat. The men lifted their headscarves to cover the lower halves of their faces. Tariq drove on at a steady speed.
There were several groups of men in jihadist uniform standing around the two parked trucks but they stopped chatting among themselves and turned their attention to the approaching bus. One of them stepped into the road, unslinging his rifle from his shoulder. He held up his hand and Tariq braked obediently. The man came around to the driver's window.
'Where are you going?'
'Berbera.'
'Why so few passengers?'
'We broke down in Lascanood. Most of them would not wait and left us,' Tariq explained and the man grunted.
'We are thirsty,' he said. Tariq reached under the seat and produced a bottle of arak which he had bought in Lascanood for just such a situation as this. The man pulled the cork with his teeth and sniffed the fiery contents of the bottle, then stepped back and waved them on. They all relaxed and Cayla removed the hood of her burqa and stuck her head out of the window again.
The bus ran down the near bank of the wadi, laboured through the loose sand in the dry riverbed and reluctantly climbed the far side. They came out unexpectedly on another vehicle parked on top of the bank. This one was an off-white Toyota Hilux. There was a man behind the wheel and two others standing in the back of the truck bed. They both had binoculars trained on the mountains of the Ethiopian border away to the west. One of the men lowered his binoculars and stared at the bus.
'Shit!' Hector said with a hiss. 'It's Uthmann Waddah. Keep your faces covered,' he warned his men. He glanced back at the women. Uthmann had never laid eyes on Daliyah or Cayla. Cayla had pulled her head in as soon as she saw the truck, but her hair and her face were uncovered. Quickly she pulled a fold of her robe over her hair and she turned away to hide her pale complexion. Hazel had not removed her burqa hood. The only ones Uthmann could possibly recognize were Hector or any other of his erstwhile companions in arms. As the bus drew level with the Hilux the second man in the back of it dropped his binoculars and let them dangle on the strap against his chest. He placed his hands on his hips and stared up at the faces in the windows of the bus. He was younger than Uthmann, and strikingly handsome. His features seemed to have been carved in polished ebony. He looked up into Hector's face. Suddenly Hector recognized him as the central character from the video of Cayla's violation. Before Hector could give the warning he saw the man's gaze switch towards the back windows of the bus. His aloof expression changed instantly, becoming wolfish and fierce. Cayla had not been able to resist the temptation to turn her head back for a quick peep. She looked straight into Adam's eyes.
'That's her! That's the infidel pig-sow whore!' Adam shouted in Arabic. At the same time Cayla screamed in wild terror.
'It's Adam!' She flung herself down on the floor of the bus, and covered her face with both hands. She was shivering as though with a violent attack of malaria. Hector slapped Tariq on the back.
'Drive! Go like hell. We have been blown wide open.' Tariq crashed the gears and pushed the bus to its top speed. Hector ran to the back window and with the butt of his AK smashed out the glass. 'Take care of Cayla,' he told Hazel without looking at her. 'Make her keep down. There is going to be some gun-play.'
Hector was staring out of the rear window. He saw that Uthmann remained standing in the back of the Hilux, but Adam had scrambled down into the cab and the truck pulled out into the road and roared in pursuit of the bus. With its flying start the bus had gained at least a hundred yards on the Hilux. But Hector knew the smaller vehicle was much faster than they were. Adam was leaning well out of the side window and levelling his rifle at them. The range was still too long. His first burst of fire flew so wide that Hector could not mark where the bullets had struck. Much more experienced, Uthmann was holding his fire. Even at this distance he and Hector were studying each other. They knew each other so well. Each of them knew that the other had no obvious weaknesses. They were both swift and deadly. With his right hand Uthmann was balancing himself with the grab-handle on the roof of the Toyota. He held his rifle easily in his left hand, but Hector knew that he was ambidextrous and could shoot fast and accurately off either shoulder. Hector saw that Uthmann was still carrying his new Bannock-issue Beretta, the finest infantry weapon ever made. Hector had the ancient and abused AK-47 that he had never fired before. Uthmann had wide-angle optical sights and off a steady platform he could shoot to within a half-inch of his point of aim at a range of two hundred yards. He was certainly one of the finest shots Hector had ever known.
Except for yours truly, of course, and the back of a racing truck is not a steady platform even for Uthmann, Hector consoled himself. The steel of this old TATA should be able to turn the light 5.56mm NATO bullets. The steel of this old TATA should be able to turn the light 5.56mm NATO bullets. On the other hand Hector had crude and heavy iron sights. The bore of his AK was badly worn and the bullets would probably rattle through the barrel when it was fired. The Good Lord alone knew where they would strike. On the other hand Hector had crude and heavy iron sights. The bore of his AK was badly worn and the bullets would probably rattle through the barrel when it was fired. The Good Lord alone knew where they would strike.
Better try it, he decided and aimed out of the window at the front tyre of the Toyota, so that he had a background on which to mark the strike of his bullets. He fired a three-round burst and saw his bullets kick dust from the surface of the road six feet left of the tyre he was aiming at. He imagined the smirk on Uthmann's face at the quality of this shooting. He looked back quickly and shouted at Hazel, 'Get up to the front and lie flat on the floor. We are going to be under fire any moment now.' She obeyed at once, dragging Cayla with her, and Daliyah followed them. His other four men crawled back and crouched on each side of Hector with their weapons ready.
'Don't shoot for the men,' he commanded them, 'shoot for the front tyres. They are the easiest target. Are you ready? A quick burst and then down again. You all know Uthmann. Don't give him a clean shot. He does not miss.' They clutched their weapons, still crouching below the sill of the rear window.
'Up and fire!' Hector shouted. They all jumped up and opened up with automatic fire. Bullets sprayed all over the road but he saw none of them hit either of the front wheels. In the back of the Toyota Uthmann brought up his Beretta in a relaxed and easy motion. He fired two single shots in such swift succession that the reports blended in a single blast of sound. His first bullet hit the man standing beside Hector in the head, killing him instantly. He cartwheeled over the back of the seat. Uthmann's second bullet jerked at the fold of Hector's turban and he felt the sting of it as it nicked his right earlobe. He ducked down and clapped his hand to his ear. When he saw the blood on his palm it made him very, very angry.
'Bastard!' he exclaimed. 'Treacherous bastard!' However, even in his anger he acknowledged that it was magical marksmanship. Two head shots with two shots. He popped his head up again and saw that the Toyota was much closer. He ducked down instantly and Uthmann's bullet fluted over his head. He had only just been quick enough. He changed position and came up again fast, fired a burst of three shots and went down an instant before Uthmann answered with a shot that was only a fraction right. The Toyota was now so close that he could clearly hear the sound of its racing engine over that of the TATA. The Cross Bow man standing furthest from Hector jumped up with his AK poised but Uthmann killed him before he could loose a single shot.
Using the brief window of time that he knew it would take Uthmann to realign himself after the kill, Hector sprang up again. He found the Toyota had raced up to within forty yards of the rear of the bus, point-blank range even for the lousy old AK. Hector fired again at the front wheel, allowing for the left deflection in the AK's iron sights. He knew it was a lucky fluke when he saw the front tyre explode. Out of control, the Toyota swung wildly across the road and crashed into the drainage ditch beside it. Uthmann had fired an instant after Hector but he had been thrown off by the skidding truck under him, and his bullet flew wide. The Toyota cartwheeled in a cloud of dust and pebbles. Hector could not see what had happened to any of the occupants, and he thought for a moment this was his one chance to turn back and kill Uthmann while he was still dazed or incapacitated. Then he saw the dust from the other two jihadist trucks coming up the road at high speed behind the wreck of the Toyota. They must have heard the gunfire and were rushing to join the fray.
'Don't stop!' Hector yelled at Tariq. 'Drive on as fast as you can.' He started back down the length of the bus, but paused beside Hazel and Cayla. Cayla was in a desperate state. She was deadly pale, shaking, shivering and weeping. She looked up at him.
'Did you kill him, Heck?'
'I am sorry, darling. But I don't think I did. I'll get him for you next time.'
Cayla burst into heartbroken sobs and buried her face against her mother's shoulder. She had been so strong and so convincingly brave and cheerful up until this time that Hector had believed, or rather he wanted to believe, that she had come through her ordeal with little psychological damage. But now he knew it was an illusion. The damage was so deep that it had shattered the very foundations of Cayla's being. It was going to be a long hard fight back. He knew that she would need all the love and care that he and Hazel were capable of giving her.