The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (25 page)

T
he road from the airstrip to Kampala looped around emerald green hills ripe with unpicked coffee and tea. Women dressed in brightly colored sarongs worked the fields. Jesse stared out the window but saw nothing. His send-off had been cordial, but reserved. He couldn't get Danny Gillespie out of his mind. The police report stated that Danny had died from an accidental gunshot wound. Six months ago it all seemed plausible, but that was before he found out about Max Turner allegedly killing his wife. He reached over the seat and tapped his driver on the shoulder. “Take me to the American Embassy.”

The American ambassador kept him waiting. When he was shown into the ambassador's office, he was surprised to find another man standing next to the ambassador. After the introductions, they sat down. He's with the CIA, Jesse thought.

“Mr. Spooner, what can we do for you?”

“This is a courtesy visit. I'm not sure how much you know about my assignment.”

“We have a vague idea.”

“Mr. Ambassador, I wanted you to know there's an American citizen still in the Darfur.”

“It's wonderful news about Arthur Turner being alive, although he's become somewhat of an embarrassment for us. There's a State Department travel restriction on entering the Darfur. As you know, all of the relief organizations have left the region.I'd like the major to bring you up to speed on the current developments in the Sudan.”

The major started his dissertation with the 1973 assault on the Saudi Embassy in Khartoum. “Palestinian terrorists, members of the group, Black September, murdered the American ambassador, who had the misfortune of attending a party thrown by the Saudis. Ten years later,” he continued, “the Sudanese government declared a jihad against the country's Christian minority. Eight years after that, Osama Bin Laden, who was living in Khartoum, declared his infamous
fatwa
against the United States for desecrating the holy cities of Mecca and Medina. Al-Qaeda operatives have moved large amounts of gold into Sudan to finance all of the major terrorist organizations. Hamas, Hezbollah and Abu Nidal all have training camps in the Sudan. The 1995 attempt to assassinate Egyptian President Mubarak and the bombings of our embassies in Kenya and Tanzania were planned and financed in Sudan.”

When the major paused to collect his thinking, Jesse barged in. “Look, Major, I get it. The Sudan's a snake pit. We're letting the Sudanese reek havoc as long as they help us gather intelligence on the terrorist organizations you just mentioned.”

“I wouldn't put it that way,” noted the ambassador.

“Oh? I'm curious, what's our policy with regard to rescuing people in the Darfur?” Jesse asked.

“We haven't had a permanent diplomatic presence in the Sudan since Clinton's missile attack on the so-called pharmaceutical plant in 1998.”

Nice evasive answer, Jesse thought, staring at the ambassador. The ambassador retrieved a pipe from his desk and banged it on the edge of a wastepaper basket. He refilled it with tobacco, lit it and sucked until it made a low gurgling sound. He pointed the stem at Jesse before speaking. “I thought you'd like to know that Maxwell Turner is here in Uganda.” Jesse was so befuddled he didn't respond.

“Mr. Spooner, it's certainly been a pleasure meeting you. Both men stood up and shook Jesse's hand. “And for God's sake, stop worrying about your American friends. Let me worry about them. After all, that's what I'm here for.”

***

The drive to the hotel was slowed by heavy traffic. There's something unsettling about the ambassador and the major, Jesse thought. Maybe it was the beads of sweat on the ambassador's upper lip or his clammy handshake. The major was calm and collected, but that was to be expected. Spooner, you've seen too many spy movies. Well, one thing's for sure—Lynn was probably telling me the truth about Arthur not being involved in arms trafficking. How could you be so stupid? Spooner thought, reprimanding himself.

The hotel clerk at the front desk was a lightskinned African woman. She became overly attentive when she found out Jesse was an American. When he ignored her, she became sullen and slowed his check-in to a crawl.

In his room, Jesse handed the porter a tip and collapsed on the bed before the man could close the door. Seconds later, he was snoring.

A ceiling fan sliced the light into spinning shadows. Jesse glanced at his watch from different angles trying to calculate the time, but it was too dark to see it. A soft knock on the door startled him. He noticed an envelope on the floor. He opened the door and looked up and down the hallway, but the messenger had disappeared. The note read:

Dear Mr. Spooner:

You and Arthur Turner have been targeted by the Sudanese government.

Good luck,

A friend.

***

A
rthur and Agrippa camouflaged their vehicle as best they could. After they burrowed out a depression under the truck, they crawled underneath. The desert heat made it difficult to breathe. They lay motionless as another helicopter flew overhead. Arthur felt the rhythmic vibrations from the rotors beating against his ribcage. They had stopped near the refugee camp. Arthur's plan was to sneak into the camp under the cover of darkness. If the camp was occupied by an Arab militia, driving in would be a fatal mistake.

Arthur wet a rag with canteen water and draped it over his forehead. He closed his eyes and revisited the Ugandan massacre.
There was no escape plan—it just happened. Arthur tackled his wife and they rolled endoverend over a cliff and fell into the river. They surfaced gasping for air. The rebels fired shots, but the current pulled them out of range. In spite of the terror, an exhilarating release washed over him. For the first time in his life, Arthur had taken control of his own destiny. He watched a Ugandan military patrol rescue his wife. He heard her calling for him as she was led away. He wanted to yell out, but he couldn't. Arthur was saved that day in a different way.

A soldier from the Lord's Resistance Army found him wandering in the jungle. His body was racked with malaria and dysentery. The women who traveled with the army nursed him back to health. Arthur opened his eyes on the day his fever broke and knew his father was a murderer.

***

Abel and Tabitha walked at night. As they marched, members of the Asholi, Bari and Dinka tribes joined them. The refugees were old men and women. Spotted hyenas followed their exodus. As they moved across the desert, some people died. They buried them in shallow graves. The hyenas dug up the bodies. Jackals ate what the hyenas left.

They stopped at a dried up
wadi
, or riverbed. Abel re-excavated a borehole in the river bottom. He found percolating water, but the precious moisture seeped into the tiny hole very slowly. Abel handed up one muddy cupful at a time to Tabitha, who passed it to an old woman. The woman carefully carried it to the people hiding in the shadows. Each person sipped the water, savoring the last drop. All waited patiently for their turn to drink. Finally, it was Tabitha's turn. She started to drink but handed the cup back to Abel and ran into the bushes where she vomited. Two women ran to help her. When they reemerged, the women were smiling, but Tabitha looked heartbroken.

Abel felt her forehead. One of the women grabbed his hand and led him away. When he glanced back, he saw the other women gathered around Tabitha. “It's a gift from God. The girl is carrying your child,” the woman said, smiling.

He found Tabitha squatting in the sand with her face buried in her hands. She was sobbing softly. He shooed the women away and sat down next to her. When he put his hand on her shoulder, she looked up at him. “You should have poisoned me when I asked you to. Now I have dishonored you. Abel, you're the best man I've ever known. You deserve a good wife. I wish the baby in me was yours.”

“I'm the father and that's all anyone needs to know,” he whispered, smiling at the others.

“But Abel, it can't—.”

“Quiet woman, you're embarrassing me,” he said, pulling her closer. He kissed her on the cheek and brushed away her tears. The old women showed their approval by making their traditional trilling sounds. A new life in the Sudan was a reason for celebration.

***

When Ali Osman staggered into the Janjaweed camp on the eastern edge of the Sudd, the men who had abandoned him on the battlefield were taken aback. They had witnessed his wound and the blood. No man could have survived such a horrible injury. The fact that he was spared, meant Allah must be protecting him. Ali didn't tell his fellow soldiers that Abel Deng had saved his life.

Abel used cow urine mixed with iodine to sterilize Ali's head wound, which bleached his hair orange. Having red hair is seen as mystical to the True Believers. Ali wore a
hijab
around his neck for good luck. It was a necklace composed of small leather pouches containing Quranic verses. For those soldiers who didn't wear
hijabs,
there was a mad scramble to buy them.

Ali Osman basked in his celebrity. When word of his miraculous survival reached Khartoum, General Nur ordered that he be flown by private helicopter to the new Sudanese bivouacked staging area for a meeting.

Three days later, Osman stood at attention in front of the general. Perspiration dripped from the tip of his nose, but he was afraid to wipe it away. It should have been a time of celebration, but Ali was worried. He was told that he was to receive his own command. This meant a percentage of the looted booty he could pilfer. The cattle and goats they stole were always reserved for the Janjaweed commanders. Now he could start his own herd, which he needed desperately as his wife was pregnant again.

Ali's wife was the only decent thing in his life. Taking an additional wife was encouraged under Sunni Islamic law, but the concept repulsed him. Ali had a problem. His wife was a black African and a member of the Nuer tribe. The Arabs were encouraged to rape African women, but marrying an infidel, especially a
Zurga,
or black African, was contrary to the president's strict Islamic teachings. The punishment was death by stoning.

There were rumors about the general. It was said he sometimes allowed African parents to choose between having their children shot or burned alive. Ali felt weak and dizzy from fear. He glanced indirectly at the general, who was sitting behind a desk. “So, you're Osman?”

Ali cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.” His voice sounded squeaky.

“I see the savages have scarred you like they scarred me,” the general said, turning his face to show him his disfigurement. “I'm looking for a special officer. The man who held the position deceived me, and that I cannot tolerate. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Sir, I'll do my best,” Ali replied, stiffening to attention.

“Are you married?”

“No, sir.” Ali felt his heart pounding.

“Good. There's no room for a family in a warrior's life. In the name of Allah, we must purify this country.” He unfolded a map of the Darfur on his desk. “There's an American living with the Dinka in this area,” he said, pointing at a spot on the map. “There may be another American with him.” The general handed Osman two photographs. “I want you to eliminate these men. There can be no connection to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, General,” Ali answered, studying the pictures of Arthur Turner and Jesse Spooner.

“I'm providing you with two assault helicopters. One helicopter is carrying two drums of paraffin. I want the bodies burned. Go now— your men are waiting for you. That will be all, Osman.”

“Yes, sir.” Ali saluted.

“Remember, no survivors. I'll be observing your assault from my helicopter. I pray Allah protects you.”

***

Ali Osman was so excited, his body tingled. He wondered how the general would reward him. He never shared his military experiences with his wife. This time I can tell her, he thought. He tucked his black robe between his legs with one hand and held on to his Kalashnikov with the other. A soldier helped him up into the backseat of the general's private helicopter. There was a snarling lion painted on the gunship's nosecone. Blood dripped from the lion's fangs. Within minutes, he was flying back into the Darfur.

***

Abel was chosen by the refugees to lead them out of the desert. He knew they were close to the displaced persons' camp where he had last seen Arthur Turner. He could see the distant hills that marked the border. He decided the group needed to rest before making the final push. Abel had something new to fret about: Tabitha and the unborn baby she was carrying.

At dusk, he sent out small search parties to scrounge the
wadi
for anything edible. Some of the women picked through the cannonball lumps of elephant dung for undigested seeds. Others picked grasses and turned over rocks searching for insects. When a man captured a small crocodile hibernating in a sand cave the group erupted in prayer.

Abel divvied up the watery crocodile stew. The group demanded that Tabitha be given the largest portion. She accepted their generosity and then inconspicuously dumped the contents of her bowl back into the community pot. The group settled in for the night without the comfort afforded by a campfire. Abel was afraid the light might serve as a beacon for marauders.

***

Ali Osman didn't know any of the militiamen now under his command. The story of his miraculous recovery from the gunshot wound had preceded him. The Arabs believed Osman was protected by the Prophet. If they fought next to him, they should also be protected.

Ali decided to rest the camels and horses. Some of his men gathered around the campfires cleaning their weapons. Others smoked strong Turkish tobacco. A few of them knelt on rugs reciting the
Tahajjud
, or night prayers.

Osman rested his head on his saddle and looked up at the stars. The crackling campfire spawned the only light. He thought about what they might plunder from the refugees in the upcoming assault. The guttural braying of a camel alerted him. He jumped to his feet and ran to the corral where his men had tethered the animals. One of his sentries walked out of the night towards him.

“Praise Allah, I thought a lion had taken one of our camels. Why have you left your post?” Ali demanded.

“I came upon a group of
Zurgas
. They're camped along this same
wadi.
”

“Did they have any weapons or livestock?”

“They're only starving beggars. They have nothing but the rags they wear. Not one of them is worthy of a bullet.”

“Come, show me.” The two men rode their camels into the darkness. The broad-footed animals moved quietly in the thick sand. At a short distance from the camp, the sentry indicated they should dismount. They swung down out of their saddles and walked into the middle of the sleeping Africans.

“Wake up! Get up, you filthy
abids,
” the sentry shouted, kicking a man who was slow to budge. “Get up, you worthless niggers. As Allah is my witness, I'll kill all of you.”

The women screamed and the men cried out for mercy. They surrounded Abel and Tabitha knowing the Janjaweed seldom kill old people. It was better to let them starve than waste precious ammunition.

“What are you hiding there?” the sentry demanded. He waded into the crowd, pushing people aside. When he reemerged, he was dragging Tabitha by her wrist. Ali focused his flashlight on the girl as the man ripped her ragged dress off. She cried out and tried to cover her nakedness with her hands.

“This one's a fine
Zurga
. She has a plump ass for fucking,” the sentry yelled, grabbing a handful of Tabitha's buttocks.

“Don't take too long. I haven't been with a woman in weeks,” the sentry said to Ali, assuming Ali would take her first. The light illuminated the sentry's eyes. His decaying teeth were reduced to blackened stumps.

The Arabic name for the Dinka is
Tagbondo
, or stick people. Dinka boys are trained to fight with parrying sticks. The sticks are cut from the rockhard ebony trees. Like all Dinkas, Abel was never without his fighting stick.

The sentry's last conscious thought was, “What's that swishing sound?” He turned his head to investigate the noise, giving Abel a perfect target. The boy swung his long stick with the velocity of a bolt of lighting. It crashed into the Arab's face, driving his nasal bones deep into his brain. The sentry would have fallen no faster had he suffered a fatal rifle shot to the head. The refugees gasped as Osman cocked his AK-47 and stuck the barrel into Abel's belly.

“Get down on your knees, Dinka.” Abel fell to his knees, waiting for the bullet to end his life. Tabitha knelt in the sand next to him and put her arms around him. They waited, but nothing happened. Abel looked into the light, but was night blinded. His eyes were transfixed by the nearness of his own death.

“On your feet, Dinka. I want to see your face before I kill you. Is the black whore your sister?”

“She's my wife.”

Osman shined the light in Abel's face. He stared at him, and scratched his chin. “Dinka, tonight Allah will spare your life. Surely, you haven't forgotten me?” he asked, shining the flashlight on his own face and pointing to the scar on his forehead.

Both Tabitha and Abel nodded affirmatively, but were unable to utter a word. Osman led them back to where he had tied the camels. He handed them a goat-skinned water bag and sat down in the sand. He placed his gun across his knees and motioned for them to sit down in front of him.