Deadly Diamonds (29 page)

The tone was steady and commanding. The other two jumped out of fear of a similar punishment. They grabbed the boy by the arms, pushed open the gate, and dragged his struggling body to the edge of the pit.

Bantu signaled Jimbo to drive through. Bantu walked to the edge of the pit and barked out the order, “Wait. Hold him right there.”

The attention of every guard and slave in the pit was on the boy soldier to see whether he would be broken from master to slave for one mistake.

When Jimbo had driven through the gate, Bantu signaled him to turn the truck to face out. Jimbo wheeled the truck to a position twenty feet from the pit, facing out toward the jungle.

Bantu walked slowly, deliberately to the back of the truck. He whispered back in the direction of Jimbo in the cab, “Keep the engine running.”

Bantu threw off the canvas covering the rear end of the truck. He climbed onto the truck's back platform and barked an order to the two soldiers who were still holding the third soldier by the arms. “Drop him. Stand over here.” Bantu pointed to a spot fifteen feet from the back of the truck.

He turned and yelled a command at the two armed soldiers who were stationed at the rim of the pit, standing guard over the six slaves who were sifting gravel in the slimy mud. He ordered the two soldiers to come up to the line of the first two soldiers.

Bantu slowly scanned the four guards with a cold expression that gave no clue as to whether they'd be shot or rewarded. He held them in that posture for what seemed to Jimbo like an eternal minute.

Bantu let his eyes roam from the guards to the pathetic faces of the barely living scraps of enslaved humanity in the pit. He fought to keep the pain from showing in his face when his eyes fell on one slave in particular. The seminaked body showed the welts and scars of the familiar beatings enjoyed by the drugged-out guards. The protruding ribs and the arched backbone brought back in painful consciousness the ceaseless hours of back-bending labor far beyond the bounds of exhaustion.

Bantu's heart nearly cracked when he saw the familiar look of total despair in the eyes of his brother, Sinda.

Bantu struggled to control his bursting emotions. His face remained etched in stone. He reached into the back of the truck and took out one of the gleaming new AK-47 rifles he had bought in Freetown the previous evening.

He barked an order to the four guards who stood rigidly waiting in line for a clue to their fate. “Throw down those rifles! Throw them into the pit!”

One of the guards began to plead. Another fell on his knees. They had Bantu outnumbered, but they knew from experience what happened to any soldier who resisted an officer.

Bantu barked again. “Now! If you want to live, throw those rifles into the pit! I won't say it again.”

The one on his knees was first to obey. The one pleading was the second. Bantu screamed, “Get on your feet! Stop sniveling. What do you look like in front of the slaves?”

The one guard struggled to his feet, while the other muzzled his whimpering. The other two guards followed. They obeyed the command by throwing their rifles into the pit.

Bantu ordered the line of now unarmed guards to approach the truck. They moved slowly forward. They were completely sobered with fear of what he intended to do to them.

When the line was ten feet from the edge of the truck, Bantu barked, “Halt!”

They froze in position. The slightest smile began to cross Bantu's face. He looked each man in the eye as he spoke.

“Your work has been recognized. Production is up. You have done your jobs well. You are to be rewarded.”

With a suddenness that shocked all four, Bantu thrust the gleaming, new rifle he was holding forward in an arc into the hands of the guard on the left. The guard caught it and held it fast. His face was alive with relief for his life and, when he recovered enough to think of it, the pleasure of the new weapon.

Bantu reached into the back of the truck three more times. Each time, he produced a new rifle that he threw to one of the waiting guards. He gave them five seconds to inspect with delight their new toys. They first checked to see that each rifle was fully loaded with ammunition. They were.

Bantu caught their attention again with his next command. “There are cases of ammunition to be unloaded. Get me three of those slaves. I want that one, and that one, and that one. Get them up here. Now!”

The guards were quick to hustle the three indicated out of the pit to the back of the truck. They moved as fast as their cadaverous bodies could be made to step.

When the first one approached, Bantu took a wooden box from
the back of the truck and laid it on his shoulders. He called to the four guards. “You four. Stack this ammunition in the shed over there.”

It broke Bantu's heart to place an extra ounce of labor on what, but for the grace of God, could have been his own back. For the moment it was necessary. He told himself,
Not forever. Just for now
.

When the second slave approached the truck, he laid another box on his shoulders. The slave moved off slowly in the direction of the first.

Bantu softly pounded the roof of the truck to get Jimbo's attention. “Be ready,” he hissed.

When the third slave came up to the back of the truck, Bantu looked over to see the four soldiers gathered around the first two ammunition boxes. One of them was prying the first box open. Just as he got the lid open enough to see that what the box held, the guard shouted to the others, “They're rocks! They're just rocks!”

The four spun back in Bantu's direction. Bantu knew it was now life or death. He reached down and grabbed the third slave by a fistful of his pants and swung him up into the back of the truck. He screamed, “Go!”

Jimbo hit the gas pedal with a thrust that almost put his foot through the firewall of the truck. The tires spun gravel and mud in the direction of the four soldiers as it picked up speed.

Each of the four soldiers brought a bright new AK-47 to his shoulder. They all aimed at the moving, sweat-soaked back of Bantu and squeezed the trigger. They squeezed again and again, and what filled the air was silence. Bantu thanked God that he had remembered to remove the firing mechanism from the rifles the night before.

The soldiers squeezed harder, with no greater effect. They ran to catch the back of the truck, but it was hopeless. Within five seconds, Jimbo had wheeled the truck through the open gate and onto the jungle path. Another five seconds, and the jungle had swallowed the truck completely.

Bantu could now bend over the prone body of his brother, Sinda.
He studied the glazed, disbelieving eyes that looked sunken and distant. It brought back to Bantu's mind what a week in the pit could do to both body and soul. Again, he marveled and thanked God that he had survived nine years of that inhumanity.

The flash of an idea had flooded his mind for a brief instant barely minutes previously when he was looking at the shriveled bodies of the slaves in that pit. With the immediate crisis passed, it surged again in his mind. And he made a vow.

The drive back to Freetown took longer because darkness had set in. On the other hand, the darkness was an ally against being waylaid by RUF on the lookout for the truck.

On the way, Bantu just held the exhausted body of his brother in his arms. There would be time later for talk. Sinda had fallen almost instantly into a sleep that had been denied him since the day he was taken to the pit.

When they reached the Mammy Yoko Hotel, Bantu had Jimbo drive around back to the servants' entrance. Freetown was crawling with RUF, and Bantu had no idea how soon the word of the rescue of Sinda would reach the west coast.

When the way was clear, Bantu half carried his brother up to his room and laid him on the bed. He filled the bathtub with warm water.

Bantu stripped off the shredded bit of muddy clothing that had survived the week in the pit and lifted Sinda into the warm, clean, soothing water. He helped Sinda wash away the scum and slime encrusting every inch of his body. He drained the fouled water and ran a completely fresh tubful to let his brother just soak the crippling pain out of his limbs.

While Sinda was resting in the water, Bantu stripped off of his own body the detested RUF officer's uniform. He took it to the alley below and burned it.

An hour later, he helped Sinda dress in some of his own clothing, which hung loosely on Sinda's diminished body, but nevertheless served the purpose.

Bantu went down to the bar where he could order mild food to begin nourishing his brother's body. Sinda was barely through taking in what his shrunken stomach could hold, when he fell back on the bed into a deep fitful sleep.

It took three days of rest and increasingly solid nourishment to bring Sinda back to a functioning state. The demons at night now plagued his sleep with the pain of conscience for what he had done to the victims of the lust for blood diamonds when he was an officer in the RUF.

During those three days, Bantu had long conversations with Sinda in which loose plans were woven around the vow Bantu had made back at the pit. As often as not, Jimbo joined in the talks.

When Bantu felt confident that his brother was able to fend for himself, he left him with enough money to pay for the room and buy food and clothing until Bantu returned. They agreed that it was absolutely necessary that Sinda stay out of sight of the eyes of any roving RUF or their snitches.

Bantu said his good-byes and met that afternoon with Morty Bunce as agreed. By that evening, Bantu was on a boat bound for the west coast of Ireland with a bag in his inside belt that carried Bunce's next cache of the bloodied stones.

Once again Bantu put on the suit of the business class of Ireland. Once more “Bantu” was left on the shore, and once more “Johnny Walker” entered another world.

PART FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY

Dublin, Ireland

It was a soft Irish morning when Seamus and I landed on his native turf. Since his apartment was somewhere in the boondocks outside of Dublin, we both checked into the Gresham Hotel on O'Connell Street.

One shower and shave later, we were in a taxi heading directly to the office of the man whose name had surfaced when diamonds were mentioned, Declan O'Connor.

Seamus and Declan greeted each other with a warmth that I attributed to comradeship in arms during times and circumstances that neither of those warriors would be likely to open to me.

Seamus introduced me to Declan in a way that indicated more respect for this out-of-the-loop Yankee than I would have anticipated. It apparently served as all the credentials I'd need to gain the initial trust, perhaps confidence, of Declan.

That tentative bond being formed, and with a great deal of information to exchange, we adjourned to Declan's preferred place of business, the Brazen Head Pub on Bridge Street Lower—a hefty walk to me, but to the Irish, a mere stretch of the legs.

I asked Declan why the name of the pub was ringing bells.

“And well it should, Michael. Have you read James Joyce's
Ulysses
, or has your education been neglected altogether?”

“I have.” I didn't add that it was under compulsion for a college course at an age when Lee Child was more to my taste.

“Then you'll know that Joyce said ‘You got a decent enough do
in the Brazen Head.' And you will. It's only been pouring the good stuff since 1198.”

That quashed any thought of bragging to a Dubliner on the fine historical elegance of my 1855 Parker House in Boston.

The hour of the morning was early enough to get us a secluded table in a private room, particularly since we were in the company of Declan O'Connor. The proprietor apparently had a penchant for those inclined to “talk a little treason with their friends.” The time of day was not, however, premature for the drawing of three fine draughts of creamy Guinness dark, and three more after that.

I sipped and listened while Seamus brought Declan through the events from my engagement as counsel by the O'Byrnes to our recent unpleasantness in New Hampshire. Declan took in every word with equanimity and without interruption. But I saw something flash in his eyes when Seamus mentioned the murder of Salvatore Barone and the disappearance of the diamonds he had bought on credit, as it were, from someone in Ireland.