Tom Cain - Dictator

‘You’ve got some non-lethal stuff, too?’

‘Yeah, yeah… I can’t believe you’re so pussy. What’s wrong with just blowing the bastards away?’

‘Nothing, when they’re the right bastards. But I don’t want to kill innocent people. I leave that kind of thing to people like Mabeki.’

‘That’s a very noble principle. I just hope it doesn’t kill you.’

‘Hasn’t yet. How about transport?’

‘A minibus to meet us at the airport; one three-ton truck; some anonymous Japanese four-by-fours to get us in and out of the target area; and three drivers who know their way through every rat-run in Buweku. Yeah, we’ve got transport all right.’

‘Outstanding,’ said Carver. ‘Right, let’s go over that plan.’

Justus Iluko dragged the back of his hand across his brow to wipe away the sweat. His lawyer had bought clean shirts for him and Canaan and a floral cotton dress for Farayi so that they would all look respectable in court. But the back of the prison van was like an airless steel oven and its twelve passengers, crammed on to the benches down either side, were roasting in the heat. Outside, they could hear the sound of engines idling, horns tooting and angry drivers shouting at the crowded street as if their righteous indignation could somehow ease the congestion.

Justus smiled at his daughter as the van jerked forward and started moving down the road. ‘Not much longer now, then we will get some fresh air.’

He waited for her reply, or even the faintest signal of acknowledgement, but none came. Farayi was sunk in depression so deep as to be almost catatonic.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Justus said. ‘We are innocent. Even if the police will not admit it, the judge will know and he will set us free. I am sure of it.’

He wished he could reach over to stroke Farayi’s head, the way he had when she was a little girl, but the chains that shackled his hands and feet made it impossible.

‘You know that is not true,’ said Canaan, bitterly. ‘The judges are as bad as the rest. Even if they know what is right, they are too afraid to do it. They do not dare make Gushungo angry.’

‘But Gushungo is dead.’

The words came from the only other woman in the truck. Her name was Winifred Moyo. She was a farmer’s widow and she was facing trial for attempting to silence her crying grandson by cooking him in a pan over an open fire.

There were gasps of amazement around the van, then a voice called out, ‘Do not listen to her! She is a madwoman!’

‘He is dead, I promise it,’ Moyo insisted. ‘The guard told me this morning.’

‘She is right, I heard this, too,’ another man said.

‘So who is in charge now?’ asked Justus. ‘Is Tshonga taking over? If he is, maybe we will get justice.’

‘Not from Patrick Tshonga!’ cackled Moyo. ‘They are saying he is on the run from justice. He is a criminal, just like us!’

‘Mr Tshonga is a good man,’ Justus insisted. ‘I am sure that-’

The van had come to a grinding halt again and the rest of his words were lost in another angry blast of horns. People were shouting up at the front of the van. Their voices were suddenly cut short, and then came the deafening percussive blast of an automatic weapon fired just a few feet away.

Farayi looked up, her eyes wide in terror. Winifred Moyo screamed, while male voices shouted for help and demanded to be let out. A second later, their wish was granted. There was another shot, and the inside of the door lock flew into the van and clattered against the bare metal floor. Then the doors were flung wide.

Two men were standing there. One of them carried a strange-looking black gun. The other clasped a vicious-looking pair of bolt-cutters. They were wearing facemasks and gloves but their eyes – one set blue, the other an eerie, clear green – made it obvious that they were whites.

‘Please remain calm,’ the man with the bolt-cutters shouted.

Justus frowned. That voice was familiar.

‘You are quite safe. We are not, repeat not, going to hurt you. Just stay where you are and let us into the truck.’

The man with the bolt-cutters stepped up into the van while the other man covered him with the gun. Winifred Moyo was thrashing on the bench, desperately trying to wriggle free from her shackles. The man ignored her and went straight to Justus.

‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘I’m getting you out of here.’

‘Car-’

Carver put a hand over Justus’s mouth. ‘Shh, no names.’ He pointed at the two youngsters. ‘Those your two?’

Justus nodded.

‘OK,’ Carver said.

He got to work with the bolt-cutters, snapping chains and setting the Iluko family free. They rushed to the end of the van and were helped out by the second man.

‘Thirty seconds!’ the second man called out, as Justus scrambled down on to the road. His voice sounded South African.

‘Coming,’ said Carver.

He looked around for the least panic-stricken face he could find: a middle-aged man with flecks of grey at his temples. Carver cut the chain that linked his leather-cuffed wrists then handed him the bolt-cutters. ‘Free yourself, then pass it on,’ he said. Then he too raced from the van.

As he blinked his eyes, adjusting to the dazzling sunshine after the darkness of the van, Justus took in a scene of total pandemonium. All around him, drivers had abandoned their vehicles. Cars were slewed across the road. Not far away, passengers were fighting to get off a bus. Pedestrians were running for the shelter of shops and offices, or huddling for cover behind parked cars. The reason for their fear was apparent: the four men positioned around the prison van.

Justus felt a hand grabbing his wrist and pulling it hard.

‘This way,’ said Carver, leading him round the side of the van.

In the front seats, the driver and guard were slumped forward, unconscious. A dart was sticking out of the driver’s neck, exactly like the ones Justus had seen being used to sedate wild game when he worked at the Stratten Reserve. Up ahead, a truck had blocked the van’s way, stopping just before a crossroads.

‘Get in,’ said Carver, gesturing at the passenger door of a large white four-wheel-drive.

‘Where are my children?’ asked Justus, fear in his voice as he looked around the interior of the car.

‘Don’t worry, they’re safe,’ Carver replied, getting in the front passenger seat.

Two of the gunmen got in the back, squeezing Justus between them. Up ahead, the truck began rumbling over the crossroads, oblivious to the traffic coming from either side, forcing its way through. Another vehicle pulled in behind it, a four-by-four like the one Justus was in, but with an extra row of seats. Justus could see Canaan and Farayi sitting in the middle row. He wanted to cry out to them but bit his tongue. They would not be able to hear and he did not want to seem ridiculous in the eyes of the men around him.

‘Let’s go,’ Carver told the driver, and they set off, taking the third place in line, the speed picking up as they followed the truck.

Now they were racing through the middle of Buweko, passing modern office blocks and grand old redbrick colonial buildings, faster and faster, amid the roar of engines and the almost continuous blare of the truck’s own klaxon up ahead as it urged everyone else on the road to make way.

They crossed two full city blocks, then five… ten… and then came the wail of a police siren. Justus twisted his head to see a police car come speeding out of a side street, almost losing control as it skidded round the corner, then gathering itself and chasing after them. A few seconds later, a second police car joined the chase.