Authors: William Boyd
‘They are comin’, sar,’ said the lance corporal who was manning the first of the mortars.
‘Wait,’ Bond said. He wanted most of the men across the causeway before there was any retaliation.
‘OK, fire!’ He waved up at Breed.
There was a dull
whump
as the first mortar bomb took off into the air. A split second later the other followed. The bombs exploded some way behind the advancing Zanzaris.
‘Keep firing,’ Bond said to the baffled mortar crew. ‘Don’t stop.’ He ran off and scrambled up through the undergrowth to where Breed was blasting away with the machine gun.
Bond could see that his ally ‘confusion’ was already contributing to this firefight. The advancing troops had already slowed, disoriented by this barrage of harmless explosions to their rear. Breed, on Bond’s instructions, was also firing at the rear of the troops’ advance, raking the causeway with his heavy-calibre bullets, chewing up great gouts of earth and dust. More bombs exploded as the mortars kept up their rate of fire.
‘OK. Turn the gun on the rear ranks.’
Breed swivelled the gun and worked the bullet impacts closer to the shifting static mass of Zanzari soldiers. One or two of them were cut down. Others flung themselves in the swamp. There was a collective race to get off the causeway as the troops desperately began to search for cover from this baffling assault from behind.
The irrigation ditch lay there invitingly. The perfect place to keep your head down. Men began to pour and slither into the security its depth provided.
Further up the track Bond could hear firing and explosions as the Saracen was engaged. The irrigation ditch was packed with cowering men as Breed kept up his fire, hosing bullets along the ditch’s edge. Now, Bond thought, all we need is ‘Adeka’s Answer’.
The first of the bucket bombs exploded and Bond felt the shockwave even up on the bluff. That detonation set off a chain reaction and the others exploded in a Chinese firecracker of eruptions along the irrigation ditch.
‘Breed – get your boys across the causeway and into the village.’
Bond didn’t want to think about what had happened in the ditch. He could hear the screams of wounded men and a great billowing pall of smoke and dust obscured the view.
On Breed’s signal – a green flare – the Dahumians in the forest began to stream across the causeway towards Kololo village. There was some sporadic firing as they advanced but the debacle on the far side of the causeway must have been very visible to whatever troops had remained behind.
Breed was on his feet with the binoculars.
‘Yes, they’re running away,’ he said. ‘True to form. Big bunch of girls.’
Bond looked down at the irrigation ditch as the smoke cleared. Stunned and wounded soldiers were staggering and crawling out of it, being rounded up by Breed’s men.
‘Don’t kill them,’ Bond said. ‘A nice large group of prisoners might be a useful bargaining chip, one day.’
‘Whatever you say, Mr Bond,’ Breed chuckled, wiping his eye on his cuff, and then looking at him with something that might just have been respect, Bond thought. Score one for the Agence Presse Libre.
‘Remember my condition,’ Bond said. ‘Remember your promise. I got you back into Kololo – so get me to Adeka.’
Bond sat in the bar of the Press Centre, drinking his second whisky and soda, his mind full of the battle that he’d directed and won. One hundred and eighty-two prisoners had been captured and the Dahum army was back in Kololo, dug in and secure in its fortified bunkers. Breed had been exultant and had promised him a face-to-face meeting with Adeka within twenty-four hours. If that were the outcome then a momentary reverse in the Zanza Force advance would have been well worth it. There was every chance that the larger objective might be achieved.
Reculer pour mieux sauter
, indeed.
To be honest, Bond had to admit that he hadn’t thought much about what he was doing once the urgency of the situation was apparent and the beautiful clarity of his plan had seized him. All that had concerned him was how best to execute it. And it had been incredibly exciting: the gratification of seeing mental concepts vindicated so completely in a small but classic wartime encounter between infantry units – one so skilfully turning defence into attack and eventual victory. The Battle of the Kololo Causeway could be usefully taught at military academies, he thought, with a little justified pride.
Digby Breadalbane came diffidently into the bar, saw Bond and strode over and sat down – looking for a free drink.
‘How was your day, James?’ he asked.
‘More intriguing than I expected, Digby,’ Bond said, circumspectly, and offered to buy him a beer.
Breadalbane seemed chirpier than usual as he sipped his beer, foregoing his usual litany of moans and complaints.
‘How long do you think this war will last?’ he asked.
‘Who knows?’ Bond shrugged.
‘I mean, it’s not going to end next week.’
‘You never can tell.’
‘No, it’s just that I’ve decided to stay on, no matter what, and see things out to the bitter end. I expect you and the others will fly out on a Constellation when the end is nigh. I can’t afford the fare, so I thought if I witness the fall of Port Dunbar then that’ll be my scoop. You know – the sole eyewitness.’
‘It would make your reputation, Digby,’ Bond said, his face straight. ‘You’d be famous.’
‘I suppose I would, wouldn’t I?’ Breadalbane said, liking the idea.
‘And if you could get slightly wounded, even better.’
Bond saw Sunday poke his head around the door and beckon to him.
Bond stood and dropped a few notes on the table.
‘I bet you’d get a salaried job out of it as well,’ he said. ‘Have another on me.’
He crossed the room to Sunday leaving Breadalbane to his dreams of journalistic glory.
‘Please to come with me, sir,’ Sunday said. ‘We have to leave now.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘I’m not permitted to say.’
Sunday drove Bond out of Port Dunbar, heading south towards the harbour. Then they turned off into a high-walled compound containing three private houses all linked by covered walkways. As they parked, Bond noticed that Sunday seemed cowed and oddly apprehensive.
‘I wait here for you, Mr Bond.’
Bond stepped out of the car and, at the door to the main building, was met by a young bespectacled man in a white coat.
‘Mr Bond? I am Dr Masind. Please follow me.’
He sounded Indian or Pakistani to Bond, who obediently followed him through the house – that had clearly been converted into some kind of clinic: clean, brightly lit, nurses hurrying to and fro – and out on to a walkway, leading to a separate house, guarded by two armed soldiers and with, Bond noticed, a tall thin radio mast towering above it.
They went upstairs and Bond was asked to wait in a corridor. After about five minutes, a young officer, a colonel, emerged and introduced himself. He was smart, slim and dapper, his dark green fatigues neatly pressed. He had a small pencil moustache, like a matinee idol.
‘I’m Colonel Denga,’ he said, speaking with the slightest accent. ‘I want to thank you for what you did for us today.’
‘It was very spur-of-the-moment. As you know I’m just an APL journalist – but the situation did call for fairly drastic action,’ Bond said. He was aware that his self-effacingness could be counterproductive and he was conscious of Denga looking at him shrewdly.
‘Not every journalist can dictate and control a battle on the spur of the moment . . .’
Bond smiled. ‘I didn’t say I was inexperienced. I’m older than you, Colonel. I served with British commandos in World War Two. You learn a lot, and fast.’
‘Well, wherever your expertise originates – we’re very grateful. Please – go in.’
He opened a door and Bond stepped through into a dark room, with only one light burning. A man was lying on a hospital bed with a saline drip attached to his neck. He was terribly gaunt and thin, his hair patchy and grey. He gestured to Bond to come closer and spoke in a weak, semi-whispering voice.
‘Mr Bond – I am Brigadier Solomon Adeka. I wanted to thank you personally for what you achieved at the Kololo Causeway.’
Bond stared, astonished, taking in every detail. Adeka was obviously gravely, terminally ill – that fact apparent from his drawn face and his dead eyes. Some kind of aggressive cancer, Bond supposed. Adeka reached out a quivering hand, all bones, and Bond shook it briefly. There was no grip at all.
Adeka signalled to Colonel Denga – who had slipped into the room behind Bond – and the colonel stepped forward, reached into his pocket and drew out a slim leather case.
‘You’ll probably laugh,’ Adeka said, ‘but I wanted you to have some symbolic evidence of our gratitude. The Republic of Dahum salutes you.’
Bond took the case from Denga and opened it. Inside, on a bed of moulded black velvet, was an eight-pointed gold star hanging from a red, white and black silk ribbon.
‘The Gold Star of Dahum – our highest military honour.’
Bond was both surprised and oddly touched. ‘Well . . . I’m very grateful,’ he said slowly. ‘Very flattered. But I don’t feel I’m really—’
But then Adeka began to cough, drily, and Bond saw how his frail body was wracked with the effort as it quivered and shook beneath the blankets.
‘We should go,’ Denga said, quietly.
‘Goodbye, Brigadier,’ Bond said, not wanting his farewell to sound final but knowing he would never see the man again – and knowing also that his mission was now effectively over. He turned and left the room.
He sat in silence as Sunday drove him back to Port Dunbar. He felt a human sadness, he had to admit, that Adeka’s life was ending so early, and at the same time a gnawing sense of unease that he had been sent here precisely to achieve that object – to make him ‘a less efficient soldier’. No need for that now.
‘Is everything OK, sir?’ Sunday said, cautiously, aware of his sombre mood.
‘Yes,’ Bond said. ‘I’ve just been given a medal.’
‘Congratulations,’ Sunday said, cheering up. ‘Do you want to go to Janjaville? There are five flights tonight. Two already come and go.’
‘No thanks,’ Bond said. ‘Take me back to the Press Centre. It’s been quite a day – I need another drink.’
Bond went straight to the bar and bought a bottle of whisky. He intended to sleep well and soundly tonight and he knew whisky to be an excellent soporific. There was no sign of his colleagues but he didn’t mind drinking alone. He sat down and poured himself a generous three fingers of Scotch. Then the door to the bar opened and Geoffrey Letham walked in.
All five members of the foreign press corps in Port Dunbar were invited to Brigadier Solomon Adeka’s state funeral, three days later. The journalists stood in a loose, uneasy group at the rear of the dusty, weed-strewn cemetery that adjoined Port Dunbar’s modest cathedral – St Jude’s – as a guard of honour carried Adeka’s coffin to the graveside. Through a crackling PA system Colonel Denga gave a short but passionate eulogy, outlining Adeka’s virtues as a man, a patriot and a soldier, describing him as the ‘first hero of Dahum’ and saying emphatically that the struggle for freedom would continue – this brought cheers and applause from the large crowd that had gathered beyond the cemetery walls – and that the people of Dahum should draw their inspiration, their courage, their endurance from the memory of this great man.
A firing party raised their rifles and delivered a ragged six-shot volley into the hazy blue sky as the coffin was lowered.
Bond looked on in an ambivalent state of mind and then became aware that Geoffrey Letham was sidling over in his direction. They had greeted each other curtly the other night, not shaking hands, and Bond had swiftly taken himself off to his room with his bottle of whisky. He had managed to avoid him subsequently, having Sunday fill his days with endless rounds of official sightseeing. However, there was no escaping him now, as Letham appeared at his shoulder, mopping his florid face with a damp ultramarine handkerchief.
‘I say, Bond,’ he whispered in his ear, ‘Breadalbane tells me you met Adeka just before he died. What was all that about?’
‘Nothing important.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Under the weather.’
‘Most amusing. Why did he want to meet you? I was told he refused to speak to the press. I’d come to Dahum expressly to interview him. The
Mail
was going to pay him serious money.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Bond said.
‘All very curious, I must say.’ Letham gave an unpleasant smile. ‘In fact, you’re a very curious man, Bond. For a journalist of your age and alleged experience, no one seems to have heard of you. You and I must have a little chat about it one day.’
‘I don’t speak to the press, Letham, hadn’t you heard?’
Bond wandered away, wondering if Letham was issuing some kind of covert threat. He had arrived on a Super Constellation flight, having left Sinsikrou after his encounter with Bond and travelled to Abidjan in Ivory Coast. There, he’d paid Hulbert Linck to be flown in, posing as a friend and supporter of ‘plucky little Dahum’. Initially Bond was more irritated than perturbed by Letham’s surprising presence – he could deal with dross like Letham effortlessly – but what was disturbing him now was that nothing in Dahum had changed with the death of Adeka. It had been announced in a black-bordered edition of the
Daily Graphic
– Dahum’s sole newspaper – but the expected collapse of morale in the army and population had not taken place. The junta had simply announced that Colonel Denga was the new commander-in-chief of the Dahumian armed forces. The king was dead – long live the king.
Bond saw Kobus Breed talking with a group of his fellow mercenaries. He wandered over and called his name and Breed turned to greet him.
‘Hail the conquering hero,’ he said, not smiling.
Bond ignored this and asked him how he and his fellows had taken the news of Adeka’s death.
‘Well, it was a bit of a kick in the crotch,’ Breed said with a shrug. ‘But, you know, Denga’s as smart as a whip. Learned everything at Adeka’s knee. And, hey,’ he grinned, ‘we’ve got an air force now. The Malmös are ready for their first mission. Everyone’s in good heart – and of course we still have our secret weapon.’