Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Congo

“A kilt and a new semmit,” Wiggins said as he pulled the shirt over his head. “It’s like Christmas. You got a fag, Cap?”

“Nope. They were in the jacket. We’re going cold turkey for a while.”

“Bugger. If I get the shakes, just kill me now and get it over with.”

“Eyes open, lad,” Banks replied. “We need to find a way out of here.”

“A test in the morning, that’s what he said. I fucking hate exams.”

“I doubt we’ll be getting multiple-choice questions. As I said, eyes open. You ken the drill—look for weaknesses, exit points, anything that’ll help us get the fuck out of here. We’ll have a confab and share notes when we get a chance.”

“When. I like the sound of that.”

“Aye, well if you need any more motivation, the sarge and the younger lads are still out there somewhere. If we don’t save them, maybe they’ll be the ones saving us.”

“The sarge would never let me live that down.”

“There you go then. Find us a way out of here, Wiggo, or the sarge will have your balls in a basket for ever more.”

Their conversation was interrupted as soon as Banks pulled his wool vest over his head. Two of the local men arrived and by hand gestures and menacing sounds managed to convey to Banks and Wiggins that it was time to get moving again.

“Where the fuck are we going now?” Wiggins said.

“An audience with the king, remember?”

“I remember he mentioned grub. I’m bloody starving.”

They were led along a series of corridors. The walls were gaudily painted in red ochre frescos and Banks was immediately reminded again of old ruins, Knossos in particular. His growing hunch appeared to be confirmed by one painting in particular which depicted an intricate labyrinth.

Banks was almost amused at the look on Wiggins’ face when they were shown to a long table to serve themselves from the local idea of a buffet. They couldn’t recognize any of the fruit or vegetables, the bread was dry and hard as stone, and the meat simmering in a cauldron of stew didn’t smell like anything they’d ever encountered.

“I’m no’ eating any of yon raptor meat, I’ll tell you that for nowt,” Wiggins said.

“Fear not,” the cultured voice they’d heard before said at their back. “This is a local pig. A bit gamier than pork, less so than boar. I assure you, it is quite delicious. And as for eating raptor—that is one of the things we must talk about, for it is the reason you are in your current predicament.”

They were left in silence to each fill a wooden platter with food, Wiggins less eagerly than Banks, and then were directed to an antechamber where the king sat in a large chair at the head of an otherwise empty table. Two men armed with short swords stood behind him. The leader saw Banks looking and laughed softly.

“No doubt the pair of you could take down the three of us here,” he said. “But I assure you there are four riders outside the main door and no other exit. You may as well enjoy your food, for you are not going anywhere until dawn.”

Wiggins, once he got started, took to the food with gusto, but Banks only picked at his.

“Ask questions if you have them. I will try to answer,” the king said.

Banks got the one at the front of his mind out of the way first.

“You’re Minoan, aren’t you?”

The king clapped his hands as if in glee.

“Give that man a cigar,” he said and much to Wiggins’ delight produced the captain’s cigarettes and lighter and passed them each a smoke. The king lit one for himself and sucked at it greedily. “A nasty habit and one I broke soon after leaving your country but one won’t hurt.”

“Aye, that’s what I said when I was sixteen,” Wiggins said. “Now I’m a walking chimney.”

The king ignored Wiggins and kept his attention on Banks.

“Yes, we are, or rather were, Minoan in some distant past. A seafaring people finding a great river and following it to a place of wonder where they stayed and were lost to history.”

The next question was the obvious one.

“So, if your people are lost to history, where did you learn English?”

That got them a laugh again.

“Marlborough, then London University,” he replied. “As I said, we are not savages. Several of my people have been to your places of learning, courtesy of a missionary outpost that first took an interest in us over a century ago. Of course, we have never let your culture contaminate ours.”

“Of course,” Wiggins replied, showing the king his cigarette.

“Minor things, quickly forgotten when put against the majesty of Mokele-Mbembe.”

And just like that the conversation had turned from the mundane to the unknown. Banks decided he was on a roll and pushed another question.

“The raptors that your people ride? They are Mokele-Mbembe?”

That got them fits of laughter that turned to coughing as the king tried to inhale smoke and laugh at the same time. He laughed so hard it was impossible for Banks not to see what he’d suspected since their first encounter; the king of these people was not quite sane.

When the man had recovered, he stubbed out the cigarette forcibly before continuing.

“No, sir, Mokele-Mbembe is, was and always will be. He is in the jungle and in the river and here…” he thumped at his chest.

“Ah,” Wiggins said. “Just another sky fairy, then?”

“Be careful, sir,” the king said, deathly still and serious. “You have already offended him and he is at his most vicious when offended.”

“I have already gathered that we have given some offence,” Banks said, aiming for diplomacy. “If that is the case, I can only apologize. We were not aware…”

“‘Ignorance of the law is no excuse,’ isn’t that the phrase you use back home?” the king said. “You allied yourself with the people who ate of the flesh of the chosen. You have indeed offended. And for that you will face the test with the coming of the sun. Eat well, gentlemen. Consider it the last meal of condemned men.”

Banks’ mind was racing, making connections where he hadn’t seen them before.

“The flesh of the chosen? You mean the thing we found in the pot in the village.”

“Careful, sir,” the king said. “You are close to blasphemy again.”

“So, raptors are not Mokele-Mbembe, but they are the chosen, and eating them is taboo? Have I got that right?”

The king nodded.

“That is why the villagers were sacrificed last night, why the WHO people were sent over the gate… and why you will face the test.”

“And this wee test,” Wiggins said. “Will we ken if we pass or fail?”

The king laughed again, a bellow that echoed around them.

“Oh, I assure you, gentlemen, you will know.”

Hynd couldn’t wait any longer. It was still almost an hour before dawn would break but the night had been deathly quiet and he’d expected some noise if the cap and Wiggo were still free men. He was going to have to find them but his first priority was to get these people up and out of the crater and away onto the river as soon as possible.

“Wilko,” he said, turning to the young private who was sitting in the cave mouth nursing a mug of coffee. “Are you up for another spot of climbing? I need a path out of here and I need it yesterday.”

“Nae bother, sarge. Can I take the civilian with me? He helped no end yesterday.”

The WHO worker was already at Wilkins’ side.

“I’m game,” he said. “As long as your man takes the lead; he’s a better climber than I am.”

“Make it so,” Hynd said and stood aside as the two men left the cave. Once he heard them scrambling above him, he went back down the slope to the ledge above the clearing. Looking down, he had about enough light to make out the corpse of the raptor below him. There was movement down there in the dark. He chanced putting on his gun light and aimed down. Four pairs of eyes reflected back at him; a hyena pack taking advantage of the remains. Beyond that in a ring around the carcass as if waiting their turn danced a whole flock of vultures, heads bobbing, legs stomping in anticipation.