Contract With God (40 page)

He needed to concentrate on something other than the pain, or he would go against his better judgement and start trying to crush the insects with his boots. Maybe he’d even manage to kill a few, but it was clear that they had the numerical advantage and in the end he would lose.

A new sting was the last straw. The pain ran up his legs and exploded in his genitals. He was on the verge of losing his mind.

Strangely, it was Torres who saved him.

‘Padre, your sins are attacking you. One by one, just like they eat away the soul.’

Fowler looked up. The Colombian was standing almost thirty feet away, watching him with an amused expression on his face.

‘I got tired of being up there, you know, so I came back to see you in your own private Hell. Look, this way we won’t be disturbed,’ he said, turning off the walkie-talkie with his left hand. In the right hand, he was holding a rock about the size of a tennis ball. ‘Now, where were we?’

The priest was grateful that Torres was there. It gave him someone to focus his hatred on. Which in turn would buy him a few more minutes of remaining still, a few more minutes of life.

‘Oh, yes,’ Torres went on. ‘We were trying to work out if you were going to make the first move or if I was going to make it for you.’

He threw the rock and hit Fowler on the shoulder. The stone tumbled over to where most of the ants were massing, once more the pulsating lethal swarm that was ready to attack whatever it was that threatened their home.

Fowler closed his eyes and attempted to control the pain. The rock had hit him in the same place a psychopathic killer had shot him sixteen months before. The whole area still hurt at night, and now he felt as if he were reliving the whole ordeal. He tried to concentrate on the pain in his shoulder to block out the ache in his legs, using a trick that an instructor had taught him what seemed a million years ago:
the brain can only handle one sharp pain at a time.

 

When Fowler opened his eyes again and saw what was happening behind Torres, he had to make an even bigger effort to control his emotions. If he betrayed himself for one moment, he was finished. Andrea Otero’s head had appeared from behind the dune that lay just past the exit to the canyon where he was being held prisoner by Torres. The reporter was very close, and without doubt in a few moments she would see them, if she hadn’t already done so.

Fowler understood that he had to make absolutely sure that Torres didn’t turn around to look for another rock. He decided to give the Colombian what the soldier least expected.

‘Please, Torres. Please, I beg you.’

The expression on the Colombian’s face changed completely. Like all killers, few things excited him more than the control he thought he had over his victims when they began to beg.

‘What are you begging for, Padre?’

The priest had to force himself to concentrate and find the right words. Everything depended on making sure that Torres didn’t turn around. Andrea had seen them, and Fowler was sure that she was close, although he’d lost sight of her because Torres’s body was blocking the way.

‘I’m begging for my life. My miserable life. You’re a soldier, a real man. Compared to you I’m nothing.’

The mercenary was smiling broadly, revealing his yellowish teeth. ‘Well said, Padre. And now—’

Torres never got a chance to finish his sentence. He didn’t even feel the blow.

 

Andrea, who had had a chance to take in the scene as she drew near, had decided not to use the pistol. Remembering what a bad shot she had been with Alryk, the most she could hope for was that a stray bullet wouldn’t find Fowler’s head the same way one had hit the tyre of the Hummer earlier. Instead, she pulled the windscreen wipers out of her makeshift umbrella. Holding the steel pipe like a baseball bat, she crept forward slowly.

The pipe wasn’t too heavy, so she had to choose her line of attack carefully. Only a few steps behind him, she decided to aim for the side of his head. She could feel the sweat on the palm of her hands, and prayed that she wouldn’t screw this up. If Torres turned around she was fucked.

He didn’t. Andrea planted her feet firmly on the ground, swung her weapon and hit Torres with all her strength on the side of his head near the temple.

‘Take that, you bastard!’

The Colombian dropped into the sand like a stone. The mass of red ants must have felt the vibration because immediately they turned and headed for his fallen body. Unaware of what had happened, he started to get up. Still semi-conscious from the blow to his temple, he staggered and fell again as the first ants reached his body. When he felt the first stings, Torres brought his hands to his eyes in absolute terror. He tried to get up on to his knees but this provoked the ants even more and they swarmed over him in greater numbers. It was as if they were passing on a message to each other through their pheromones.

‘Run, Andrea!’ Fowler yelled. ‘Get away from them.’

The young reporter took several steps back, but very few ants turned to follow the vibrations. They were more concerned with the Colombian, who was covered in them from head to toe, howling in agony, every fibre of his body under attack from the sharp jaws and needle-like stings. Torres managed to stand up again and take a few steps, the ants covering him like a strange skin.

He took one more step, then fell, and didn’t get up again.

 

Andrea, in the meantime, had retreated to the place where she had dropped the wipers and the shirt. She wrapped the wipers in the cloth. Then, making a wide detour around the ants, she approached Fowler and lit the shirt with her lighter. When the shirt was burning she traced a circle with it on the ground around the priest. The few ants that hadn’t joined the attack on Torres scurried away from the heat.

Using the steel pipe, she pried Fowler’s handcuffs and the spike that held them away from the rock.

‘Thank you,’ said the priest, his legs shaking.

 

When they had gone about a hundred feet away from the ants and Fowler considered they were safe, they collapsed on the ground, exhausted. The priest rolled up his trousers to check on his legs. Other than the small reddish sting marks, the swelling, and the continuous but dull pain, the twenty-odd bites hadn’t inflicted too much damage.

‘Now that I’ve saved your life, I suppose your duty to me has been repaid?’ Andrea said sarcastically.

‘Did Doc tell you about that?’

‘That, and a lot of other things I want to ask you about.’

‘Where is she?’ the priest asked, but he already knew the answer.

The young woman shook her head and began to sob. Fowler held her gently.

‘I’m so sorry, Ms Otero.’

‘I loved her,’ she said, burying her face in the priest’s chest. As she sobbed, Andrea realised that Fowler had suddenly gone tense and was holding his breath.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

In answer to her question, Fowler pointed at the horizon, where Andrea saw a deadly wall of sand heading towards them as inevitably as night.

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

 

 

Those were the words that caused, albeit indirectly, the demise of Dekker’s remaining crew. When the attack came, the eyes of the two soldiers were looking everywhere but the place from which the danger came.

Tewi Waaka, the huge Sudanese, only glimpsed the intruders dressed in brown when they were already in the camp. There were seven of them, armed with Kalashnikov rifles. He alerted Jackson on the radio and the two opened fire. One of the intruders fell under the hail of bullets. The others hid behind the tents.

Waaka was surprised that they didn’t return fire. In reality that was his last thought, because a few seconds later two terrorists who had climbed the cliff ambushed him from behind. Two bursts from the Kalashnikov and Tewi Waaka joined his ancestors.

 

On the other side of the canyon in Nest 2, Marla Jackson saw Waaka being shot through the scope of her M4 and understood that she was heading for the same fate. Marla knew the cliffs well. She had spent so many hours there with nothing to do other than look around and touch herself through her trousers when no one was watching, counting the hours until Dekker would come and take her off on a private reconnaissance mission.

During the hours of sentry duty she had imagined hundreds of times how hypothetical enemies might climb up and surround her. Now, peering over the edge of the cliff, she saw two very real enemies only a foot and a half away. She immediately plugged them with fourteen bullets.

They made no sound as they died.

 

There were now four of the enemy left that she knew of, but she could do nothing from her position without cover. The only thing she could think of was to join Dekker down at the excavation so they could decide on a plan together. It was a shitty option, because she’d lose the advantage of height and an easier escape route. But she had no choice, because she now heard three words on her walkie-talkie:

‘Marla . . . help me.’

‘Dekker, where are you?’

‘Down below. At the base of the platform.’

Unconcerned for her own safety, Marla climbed down the rope ladder, and ran towards the excavation. Dekker was lying next to the platform with a very ugly wound to the right side of his chest and with his left leg twisted under him. He must have fallen from the top of the scaffolding. Marla examined the wound. The South African had managed to stop the bleeding but his breathing was . . .

. . . worrying. He had a punctured lung, and that was bad news unless they got to a doctor straight away.

‘What happened to you?’

‘It was Russell. That son of a bitch . . . he caught me by surprise as I came in.’

‘Russell?’ Marla said, surprised. She tried to think. ‘You’ll be all right. I’ll get you out of here, Colonel. I swear.’

‘No way. You have to get yourself out of here. I’m finished. The master said it best: “Life to the great majority is a constant struggle for mere existence, with the certainty of being overcome at last.” ’

‘Could you please leave fucking Schopenhauer out for once, Dekker?’

The South African smiled sadly at his lover’s outburst and made a slight gesture with his head.

‘Behind you, soldier. Don’t forget what I told you.’

Marla turned and saw the four terrorists converging on her. They had fanned out, and were using the rocks as cover, while her only protection would be the heavy tarpaulins protecting the hydraulic system and steel bearings of the platform.

‘Colonel, I think we’re both finished.’

Strapping the M4 on her shoulder she tried to drag Dekker under the scaffolding, but could only move him a few inches. The South African’s weight was too much, even for a strong woman like her.

‘Listen to me, Marla.’

‘What the hell do you want?’ Marla said, trying to think as she squatted next to the scaffolding’s steel supports. While she wasn’t sure if she should open fire before she had a clear shot, she
was
sure they’d have one much sooner that she would.

‘Give yourself up. I don’t want them to kill you,’ Dekker said, his voice growing weaker.

Marla was about to swear at her commander again when a quick glance towards the canyon entrance told her that giving herself up might be the only way out of this absurd situation.

‘I give up!’ she screamed. ‘Are you listening, you pricks? I give up. Yankee she go home.’

She threw her rifle several feet in front of her, followed by her automatic pistol. Then she stood and put up her hands.

Slowly the terrorists approached, their rifles aimed at her head, each Kalashnikov muzzle ready to spit out lead and end her precious life.

‘I give up,’ Marla repeated, watching them advance. They formed a semi-circle, their knees bent, faces covered by black scarves, about twenty feet apart from each other so they wouldn’t be an easy target.

‘I give up,’ she yelled one last time, hoping to drown out the growing noise of the wind that turned into an explosion when the wall of sand swept over the tents, swallowing up the plane then hurtling towards the terrorists.

Two of them turned in shock. The others never knew what hit them.

All of them died instantly.

Marla threw herself next to Dekker and pulled the tarpaulin over them as an improvised kind of tent.

You have to get down. Cover yourself with something. Don’t fight the heat and the wind or you’ll dry up like a raisin
.

Those had been Torres’s words, always the braggart, when he had talked to his companions about the myth of the simoon while they played poker. Maybe it would work. Marla grabbed hold of Dekker and he tried to do the same, although his grip was weak.

‘Hang in there, Colonel. In half an hour we’ll be far away from here.’

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

 

 

The hole was no more than a crack at the base of the canyon, but it was large enough for two people pressed together. They had just managed to squeeze themselves in before the simoon hit the canyon. A small outcrop of rock protected them from the first wave of heat. They had to yell in order to be heard above the roar of the sandstorm.