Chapter Twenty-one
But not yet. There would be time enough for Duncan to try to explain to Methos what was going on; right now he had the perfect opportunity to see what he could find out about the diamond smugglers.
"Later," he said quickly to Methos and Mpande, and slipped away through the bushes before they could stop him. He heard a muffled sound behind him as he climbed down the sloping riverbank that could only have been Methos biting off whatever he was going to say. No doubt, Duncan would be hearing all about it soon enough.
He could see more of the camp as he moved silently through the trees, holding branches aside carefully so as not to draw attention to his passing. A large, camouflage-colored tent of the kind he could never see without being reminded of Cambodia, was set well back from the riverbank in the center of a group of smaller tents and lean-to shacks, clearly a focal point for the small camp.
Groups of men were working all over the riverbank, dredging mud from the river, sifting it, sorting the stones that were left. Quite a busy little operation. As he watched, a young African man in ragged, cut-off khakis emerged and walked down to the river's edge, pausing there to speak with some others who were working at a sorting table. All their attention was on the stones in the grease on the table, no one looking in his direction at all -- so he took the chance and crept around to the back of the main tent.
The riverside mud was slippery beneath his feet as he made his way around the ragged canvas that waved gently in the breeze. He waited a moment before he went in, listening hard for any sounds from inside the tent while his heart beat fast against his ribs. All quiet. Carefully, he lifted the heavy canvas and peered in. But he couldn't see anything; there was some sort of metal cabinet right in front of him. He breathed out his frustration with a long, steady exhalation, moved along the tent and tried again.
This time it was better, he got down on his side and edged his head under the tent's side. It was much as he'd expected: set up as a crude office cum overseer's quarters -- desk, chair, bunk, the usual things. And it was unoccupied. Without wasting another second, Duncan slid under the canvas and into the tent. He stood and paused for a second to let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light, then, listening out for any sign of company, he began to search.
The cabinet that had stopped him from getting into the tent on his first attempt turned out to be a heavy, old-fashioned safe. He tried the door, giving it a hard yank on the worn metal handle, but of course it was locked tight. He gave the combination lock a cursory fiddle, but he knew he didn't have the time or the tools it would take to crack it. Damn it. With a frustrated snort, he moved on.
There was a ledger lying closed on the bare desk, a pen beside it as if the man who had just left had been working on it. Duncan flipped through it quickly, but it looked to just be pay details for the workers: carat weights, kwanzas paid -- they were doing all right out of this field too, but it still didn't help him much. He set it back where he'd found it and kept looking, hyper-alertness still prickling down his spine.
The desk drawers were a little more informative, after rifling through for half a minute he found some payment and transfer records, but nothing with any name he directly -- or even indirectly -- connect with the camp or the organization. Yet. And just because he didn't recognize them, didn't mean they weren't connected. Outside, a voice called in Portuguese, much closer than he'd expected. Sweat ran from his hair down his neck -- it was time to get out of there.
Duncan stuffed the papers into his pocket and glanced around one last time as he made his way to the spot where he'd come in. He wished he had more time to search, he was sure there was plenty here they could use. As he looked around, he spotted a pair of mud-splattered army boots slung on the floor by the bunk. Fuck it. It was worth the risk.
He dashed back over and grabbed them. Not the most romantic gift he'd ever given, but he was pretty sure Methos would appreciate them. Okay, he hoped Methos would appreciate them and not just hurl them at his head, he thought as he bundled them under his arm and made his way out of the tent. He stood up, making sure the coast was clear before he slipped back to where he'd left Methos and Mpande.
When he found them, Methos' face was cold and remote and Mpande wouldn't meet his eyes. So, Mpande had let the cat out of the bag while he'd been away, had he? Duncan glared at him, but he couldn't really blame the man. Methos could be bloody persistent when he wanted to be.
He knelt down behind the cover of the bushes where the others were waiting. "I found you some boots..." he began, holding them out. "Hope they fit."
Methos snatched them from him and snapped, "You mean you stole me some boots, don't you, MacLeod? After all, we wouldn't want any misunderstandings, now would we?" He sat down and began to tug them on.
Duncan suppressed the spark of anger Methos' words ignited. They really didn't have time for that now. "We should get moving. Do the boots fit?"
Methos glared at him and knotted the laces with short sharp pulls.
Gratitude was such a rare commodity.
Mpande put his back to Methos and asked Duncan, "You find anything, Mac?"
"I'll tell you later." Duncan began to walk and Mpande went with him. He could feel Methos behind them as they walked; he didn't need to turn around to know that he was still there, following in their tracks. Duncan looked back over his shoulder at him. "Are you going to listen to my side of the story before you lose your temper again?"
"I thought we were in a hurry," Methos muttered darkly. "Let's pick up the pace."
Duncan didn't answer him, but he did lengthen his stride. Mpande must have picked up on his unspoken cue; he stepped out and around him, taking point once more.
***
"Sorry, man," Mpande said as they paused to drink from the river.
The day so far had been silent and uncomfortable, but they had made good time all the same -- getting out was going to be faster than going in, now that they were traveling largely downhill. Methos hadn't spoken a word to him; he had simply followed Mpande's tracks with his unyielding back presented squarely to Duncan the whole time.
Duncan didn't have to ask what for. "It's not your fault."
"The doc's pretty mad, eh?"
Duncan glanced across to where Methos was kneeling at the water's edge, radiating displeasure as clearly as if it was written in neon lights above his head. "You could say that. How much did you tell him?"
"'bout Grant sending you, the diamonds coming through the camp, shit like that. I'm sorry, Mac," he said again as he stood up.
Duncan clasped his shoulder briefly. "Don't worry about it." He was doing enough of that on his own. And it wasn't bloody fair at all. Methos knew that Duncan hadn't known he was in Africa, he knew their meeting was a coincidence, they'd been through all that already. Before all this had come up, he'd thought that Methos was at least starting to forgive him for that. What the hell difference could it really make why Duncan was in Africa at all?
There had to be more to it.
And there was no time like the present to find out. "Give us a minute," he asked Mpande under his breath. The tracker nodded and moved far enough away to give them some semblance of privacy.
"Methos?" he called quietly. "Can we talk?"
Methos stood and turned to look at him for a moment, his lips thinned to a hard line. "We already are."
Duncan ignored the smart-ass response. "About today."
The angle of that stubborn chin should have been a warning of what was to come. "Djube Hussuf."
What the hell? "Who?" The name rang a faint bell, but he couldn't place it straight away.
"The chopper pilot," Methos said, not bending an inch. "If you'd bothered to tell me what you were doing before you hared off playing your James Bond games, I could have told you your connection in the camp was Djube Hussuf."
Duncan blinked at him. "What? How do you know?"
Methos sighed and looked away, shoving his hands in his pockets and gazing out at the river. "He set us up. We were...expected."
"But how did you find out?" Duncan was still trying to get his mind around it.
"After the crash, when the soldiers came, they were looking for something in the retrieval packs. I thought they had to be after the drugs, but Allessandro just reached in and pulled out a wad of cash. He wasn't surprised."
"But the pilot died...."
"They killed him, I know. I was there. Dead men tell no tales." Methos folded his arms tightly around himself.
"Do you think he crashed the chopper on purpose?" Duncan asked incredulously, still trying to make sense of it.
Methos shook his head. "No...the crash was an accident. I'm sure of that. The only scenario that makes any sense is that they were supposed to hold us up at the other crash site -- where we were headed when we went down. They must have picked up the mayday and followed us there."
"But how do you know that it was Hussuf that was involved?"
"I was trying to escape the camp -- I don't know...days ago -- his name and the chopper's call sign were on some papers I found in Allessandro's desk. It was quite unmistakeable." Methos looked at him for a second, the pain in his eyes there and gone in a heartbeat. "He was my friend, you know. At least, I thought he was." He gave a snort of mirthless laughter. "You forget, don't you, if you aren't careful, that even though they're just mortals, they can still hurt you."
Duncan gentled his voice as he answered, "I'm sure he thought he had his reasons, Methos."
Methos turned his head and looked at him for an attenuated moment. "Like you did."
Christ, they weren't back on that again. "I've told you I'm sorry about the note--"
"Not the bloody note, MacLeod. Will you get over the bloody note?" Methos rolled his eyes. "This undercover nonsense you've gotten yourself embroiled in."
That brought his hackles up. "It's not 'nonsense'! Those same people who held you prisoner -- who tortured you -- they're financing their war with those diamonds. How can you think it's 'nonsense' to want to try to stop them?"
"I know very well who and what they are, thank you very much," Methos snapped. "What I want to know is what you think you're doing getting involved."
"I told you -- trying to put an end to the killing." Frustration was making his temper simmer again.
"By taking sides."
"No...not taking sides," Duncan struggled to put the idea into words, "by forcing them to negotiate rather than fight."
"And when one side can no longer fight?"
"Then the killing will stop and they'll have to talk instead." That much had to be obvious.
Methos shook his head and gestured out at the bush all around them. "This is Africa, MacLeod. Look at the history...the winners don't leave their enemies around to rise again."
"So what's your answer? Let the killing go on? Let the strong rule with no compassion for the weak?"
"I don't have any answers, MacLeod. I don't think you do, either...." Methos began to walk away, towards where Mpande had gone. "But thanks for the boots."
Thanks for the boots. Duncan threw his hands up. Methos: master of the non-sequitur. And he was wrong -- dead wrong. The war had to stop, and if he could help stop it, he would.
***
Methos stalked away from Duncan, still shaking his head. Darius had a lot to answer for with that one. Idealism was all very well -- as long as it didn't get you killed -- but it had to be tempered with a healthy dose of realism, something Duncan had clearly forgotten. It really was time he learned.
Mpande was waiting just up ahead, not actually looking all that great, Methos noticed out of the blue. He was sweating, far more than usual, and his eyes had a faint yellowish cast.
"Mac comin'?" Mpande asked as Methos drew level with him and paused on the track.
"Yeah, right behind me. Are you all right?"
"'s nothing, Doc, just a touch of the fever."
"How long have you been feeling sick?"
"Yesterday, day before, something like that."
Tension crept up the back of Methos' neck. "And you didn't say anything?"
Mpande shrugged. "Wouldn't do any good. I'll be all right."
"Do you need to rest?"
"Nah, man, I'll be okay." Methos had yet to be convinced of that.
Duncan arrived next to him. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," Mpande said quickly. "C'mon. We got to kick the dust."
Duncan raised an eyebrow at Methos behind Mpande's back as the tracker walked off ahead of them. Methos shook his head in reply. Duncan frowned, but said nothing, merely gesturing Methos to walk in front of him as he had done all day. Methos didn't feel like arguing anyway. He quickened his stride and caught up to Mpande, walking close behind him so he could speak to him quietly.
"Make sure you drink plenty of water, and you have to tell us if you need to rest."
"Sies, Doc, it's just a fever."
"All the same...."
"Yeah, yeah." Mpande shrugged him off.
Methos hoped it was 'only' a fever and not anything more serious. Still, Mpande was a grown man; if he said he was all right to go on, then Methos was going to take his word for it. Until proven otherwise, anyway. He pushed his disquiet aside and fell back into the familiar rhythm of the walk, still placing his feet carefully in Mpande's tracks.
***
The afternoon was stretching out in a long, humid haze, the sky a dull gunmetal blue with the promise of rain. No clouds yet, but they would be along soon enough. Methos dragged in a lungful of the damp air as he paused at the top of the slope Mpande was negotiating in front of him. The man clearly wasn't well, Methos could see that, but he was soldiering on regardless. And they'd been making good time, despite it all, pushing further and further towards Zambia as they followed the river.
This section in front of them was going to take a little time to get through, though. The river tumbled down a series of falls over the next mile or so, through a shallow gorge and the rocky ground dipped accordingly. This was going to slow them down a little, Methos thought. At least on the rocks there was little chance of encountering a landmine. With that cheery thought in his head, Methos started after Mpande, Duncan's presence close behind.
Methos had his hand on a sunwarmed boulder, steadying himself as he stepped down, when Duncan's voice close behind startled him.
"Methos?"
And Methos tripped over the toes of his too-large boots and fell, sprawling on hands and knees onto the rocks below. Fuck!
"Jesus, Methos, are you all right?" Warm, callused hands closed over his arms and turned him over while his head was still spinning.
Methos shook the hands away as he sat up and winced at the healing burning over his scraped knees and elbows. "I'm fine," he snapped irritably. "Give me a minute."
Mpande's face appeared above him. "Hey, Doc. If you wanted a rest, you just had to say, you know."
Funny man. Methos glared at him and Mpande shut up. Wisely. And he still looked like shit.
Duncan reached down and held out a hand to help him stand. Still glaring, Methos took it nonetheless and pulled himself up. He dusted himself off. "Thanks," he muttered, not feeling terribly thankful. "Well? What are we waiting for?"
"Nothing at all, man," Mpande said.
Just then, Methos saw the tracker curl in on himself, his shoulders rounding almost imperceptibly. Methos looked at him more closely. Sweat was pouring off him in sheets and it was clear he was trying to breathe his way through some considerable pain. This really wasn't looking good. "Wait a minute, Mpande. Uya buzwa Ubuhlungu?" Have you got pain? Fever was one thing, but fever with pain was lot more sinister.
Duncan wasn't happy about being shut out of the conversation by his use of Zulu -- that was all too clear by the frown creasing his heavy brows -- but for the moment he was just going to have to deal. Methos had more important things than Duncan's happiness to deal with at that moment.
Mpande nodded reluctantly and Methos stepped closer, laying a hand on the man's forehead. Shit, that was more than a 'touch' of fever, he was really hot; the heat was practically radiating off him. "Kubuhlungu kuphi?" Where is the pain? Methos asked, taking in the yellow cast of his eyes and the clear signs of strain on his face.
Mpande passed a hand over the upper right side of his stomach.
Shit. "Have you had malaria before?" Methos asked, still in Zulu.
"I been taking the uMuthi!" Mpande shot back defensively.
Methos let the tone go by without comment. "Which one?"
Mpande fished in the pockets of his bush jacket, finally producing a battered pharmacy packet.
Methos took it from him. Chloroquinine. A reasonably good -- if outdated -- anti-malarial. The problem was that there were too many resistant strains around these days, especially in Africa. That didn't stop it being sold in every little general dealers shop.
It was just as well that he held no expectation that his week could get no worse. Because it always could.
"This one doesn't work against all the types of malaria anymore," he told Mpande.
Mpande's eyebrows rose. "Fuck."
Methos' thoughts exactly.
"Someone want to tell me what's going on?" Duncan put in.
"Mpande?" The tracker nodded, shrugged and went to sit down on a nearby boulder. Methos took a deep breath and switched gratefully to English, it might be a stupid language in many ways, but it was easier on the throat than Zulu's clicks and glottals. "I think it's malaria."
"Shit."
"Succinctly put."
"So, what now?"
Methos glanced across to where Mpande sat resting his head in his hands. "We don't have a lot of choices -- we have to go on. If he gets worse we'll have to find medication for him, though."
Duncan nodded and slipped the strap of his rifle off his shoulder. "But we'll let him rest a while first."
Methos could only agree.
***
They set off again when the heat of the day had lessened a fraction, having spent the better part of an hour resting in the shade of a young fig-tree that clung precariously to the rocks by the river. Methos spent the time pushing Mpande to drink, re-filling the gourds time and again. The extra fluids might do a little for the fever -- but that pain in the area that Mpande described was nothing to play around with. Malaria with liver involvement could be damn serious.
Duncan had looked about as worried as Methos felt, watching every move they made with his emotions all too clear on his face. Now, as they walked, Methos could see him sparing the tracker, making him go slower, offering to take point for him. That went down not at all well and Methos saw Mpande brush aside the offer with a quick, angry gesture and stalk away.
"Nice try," Methos offered as Duncan fell back to walk beside him.
"How far do you think we are from the nearest town?" Duncan asked in reply.
"Far." Methos thought hard about what he knew of Angola. "There might be relief camps closer." Of course that would pose its own set of problems.
"We'll have to keep it in mind." Duncan was quiet for a while and Methos concentrated on walking and not falling over in his new boots. Then, apropos of nothing, Duncan said, "I still think you're wrong."
How unsurprising. "What about this time?"
"About why I came to Africa -- UNITA, the diamonds...."
Why was he dredging all this up again now? "And?" Methos asked impatiently.
"And I want you to understand my side of it!" Duncan growled, lowering his voice halfway through.
"You mean you want me to tell you you're doing the right thing," Methos shot back.
Duncan made an exasperated noise. "No, that's not it at all."
"Yes -- yes it is. You want me to tell you that this bloody Boy's Own adventure you've got into is a good idea and I can't do that. It's not."
"How can you say that? How can you spend any time at all in this country and not see that everyone here would be better off if this war ended?"
"I'm not disputing that."
"Then what is your problem?"
"It's not your intentions that I have a problem with, MacLeod, it's your methods." They were out of the gorge now and Methos looked ahead to where the river wound around in a lazy, serpentine bend to the right. "You want the killing to stop, well that's all well and good, but when you disable one side, what makes you think the other side will allow them a 'noble defeat'?" He didn't wait for an answer but merely plowed on, ignoring the fact that Duncan had his mouth open to reply. "They won't -- there'll be a bloody orgy of killing until the losers are ground into the dirt. I know you know what that's like." Probably a low blow to invoke Culloden's aftermath, but this was no game and there were no points for fair play.
Duncan had his jaw set at that stubborn angle Methos always found so irritating and there was no mistaking the anger in his eyes. "But--"
The rest of Duncan's answer was lost as, with a soft cry, Mpande stumbled to the ground in front of them. Methos forgot all about the argument and ran to him with Duncan close at his heels. They knelt at his side and Duncan grasped the man's shoulder. "Mpande?"
Methos looked him over quickly and carefully. Mpande was shaking, rigors making his whole body tremble as he moaned in pain, curling in on himself. Shit, this was all they needed. Methos took a deep breath and looked up for a second. Great, and the weather was closing in too. Methos laid a hand on Mpande's hot, dry forehead. "We have to get him to a hospital, Mac. There's nothing I can do for him without the proper drugs."
Methos didn't miss the small flash of fear in Duncan's eyes before he answered, "We're a long way from any hospital."
Methos nodded. "I know." They didn't need to say it out loud, Mpande's chances of making it through this were pretty damn slim. "Come on, we need to find somewhere to shelter for the night, we're going to have rain soon."
Duncan flicked a glance up into the sky and agreed. Then he looked back at Methos, searching his face for...something for a moment before he reached down and heaved Mpande into his arms, struggling to his feet as he balanced the tracker's weight.
Methos looked out in front of them, out into the endless forest with nothing in front of him but the unknown and had to force down a sudden surge of fear. It wasn't like before, with Mpande's footprints in which to place his own. Now, there could be anything underfoot -- anything at all. He had to reach deep inside himself to quash the rising fear, while a small voice in his mind that sounded suspiciously like his late and unlamented brother taunted him for his weakness, for feeling like a child afraid to leave the shallows for the deeper water. Shut the fuck up, Kronos.
"Methos?" a deeper, warmer voice asked, close by his side. "Come on, we have to go."
Methos nodded again and began to walk, but he kept his eyes glued to the ground beneath his feet, unable to shake the feeling that it could betray him at any moment.
***
The farmhouse appeared out of the sunset gloom like an apparition, the shadows almost hiding its ruined state. Methos looked at Duncan, still carrying Mpande, the strain of his long effort all too clear on his face. But there was relief there now too, they had found somewhere to shelter for the night, to get Mpande out of the rain that even now was beginning to sprinkle down over them.
Methos wiped the moisture from his face and headed for the house. The bush had encroached in the time since it had been abandoned; he could see the saplings taking over where once a small garden had been. The house itself was barely worthy of the name, even in its prime Methos could see that it had been hardly more than a shack, haphazard walls roofed with decrepit corrugated iron. But it was shelter and a step up from the cave, and he wasn't going to complain.
The door was more corrugated iron, wedged shut with something from behind. He had to put his shoulder to it and push hard to force it open. It shifted with a low, pained-sounding screech, not all the way open, but far enough for him to squeeze through with only a minor scrape to the back of his shoulder to show for it. Duncan wasn't going to fit though, not carrying Mpande, and once Methos was inside he cleared away the debris that blocked the door and pulled it the rest of the way open.
The house stank of damp, long disuse and some, indefinable animal odor that made Methos faintly uneasy. Not exactly the Ritz. Still, first things first. He turned to Duncan who was setting Mpande down on the packed earth floor. "I'm going to get some firewood before it all gets too wet."
"Good idea."
Methos went back outside into the steadily increasing rain. It was cold on his skin, making him shiver. The fear was still with him, though he'd forced it back as far as he could. But for the moment he was in control of it and not the other way around and that could only be a good thing. As long as it lasted.
He gathered up all the firewood he could carry, hacking branches from the trees as quickly as possible. They had problems enough without the wood being too soaked to light. He tucked the machete back into his belt and balanced his heavy armload carefully, then tried to follow his exact path back into the house. And if his heart beat a little fast on his way back, it was only the effort of his heavy load. Nothing else.
Dumping the wood in the middle of the floor, Methos pushed the iron door closed and shut out the rain. Duncan had Mpande settled by the wall on a malodorous straw mattress, left behind no doubt, by the original owners because it was too big and unwieldy to carry out. The tracker was quiet -- he looked to be asleep -- but Methos wasn't fooled into thinking it meant he wasn't a very sick man.
And there was little to nothing he could do about that. He'd treated malaria before -- too many times -- all over the world without benefit of modern medications, but here, he didn't even have the little he'd used then. All he -- they -- could do would be to keep his fever down and his fluids up and hope that Mpande was strong enough to fight this off on his own.
Duncan stood and came over to where Methos was arranging the fire in the center of the room. The house's original occupants had no doubt cooked over a three-legged pot outside, so there was no fireplace or cooking area inside. The floor would do fine, Methos thought as he built up the pile of wood.
From the pocket of his pants, Duncan produced a lighter that Methos recognized as Mpande's. His shoulder brushed by Methos, a shock of heat sparking through him at the contact. Methos eased away and tried not to make it look too deliberate. But Duncan must have noticed; he looked across at him, his dark eyes all too expressive, while still working at getting the damp wood to catch. Methos looked down at the smoking wood and avoided Duncan's gaze.
"Are we back to that then?" Duncan asked quietly.
"What?" Methos answered, more sharply than he'd intended.
"Avoiding each other...pretending we're strangers."
"I'm not--" Methos began to protest, all too aware of the man lying only a few feet away.
"Yes," Duncan said with a kind of sad patience that Methos always associated with him, "yes, you are. I'm sorry you don't agree with what I'm doing here, but that doesn't change the way I feel. I think you're wrong, but I still care about you. I still--"
There was a flicker of movement above them and Methos grabbed Duncan's arm to silence him mid-sentence. They stood and Methos stared up into the rafters beneath the rusted roof. Duncan saw it first, pointing up into one corner where something hung, leaf-colored and glossy. He shouldn't have been surprised; they loved places like this.
"Python," Duncan whispered.
Methos nodded and grinned. "Ever eat one?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~