Chapter Five

Methos blinked and they stood there, appearing out of the bush as if they had been there all along and a curtain had simply been twitched away to reveal their presence. He was acutely conscious of the adrenaline pumping through his blood, the rapid beat of his heart, the fine sheen of sweat breaking out over his skin, but he forced himself to stand still and wait.

There were ten -- no, fifteen -- of them, the khaki of their haphazard uniforms blending into the dull green of the bush and their dark faces shadowed to anonymity by the peaks of their caps. Each of them held an automatic rifle at the ready, handling the weapons with the casual nonchalance of men who ate, slept and shat with a gun in their hands. UNITA...? FAA...? Methos had no way of knowing.

"Boa tarde," Methos called politely in Portuguese. Good afternoon. The soldiers wore no badges of rank that he could see and no one man stood out as the leader, so he addressed the greeting generally, pasting on the sort of idiotic smile that belonged to lost and bewildered travelers everywhere. The soldiers regarded him silently for a moment so lengthy that Methos was sure he could hear the pulse of sap in the trees.

At last, when Methos' nerves were beginning to fray, one man stepped forward and spoke, but not to him. "Yes. This is the one. Tembe, Josiah -- salvage what you can," the man ordered in what Methos recognized as the Umbundu language of Angola, telling him that these men were probably from one of the more northern provinces. "Medicines, fuel, weapons -- whatever you can find. Be quick!"

The one? The one what? Methos wondered, had they been looking for the chopper? Or something else? The crash was an accident, so how could this be the one? The only answer was to watch and wait.

That they would loot the crash site was not unexpected, however, and Methos stood, impassively watching as the soldiers followed their orders. They could take what they liked as far as he was concerned, as long as they left him and Djube alone. The pilot slept on unknowingly at Methos' feet and Methos was trying not to draw attention to that fact. He waited, feeling for all the world like a chess player awaiting his opponent's next move. The trick was to never show yours.

The soldiers picked expertly through the wreckage, gathering up small bits and pieces as they went, but Methos could tell there was little of interest to them, no weapons and whatever fuel they'd had was almost certainly seeping into the ground beneath the cracked fuel tanks. Then one man found the other retrieval pack. Standing it up and opening the zipper, he rifled through it and waved at the commander with a broad smile.

Yes...take it and go, Methos thought to himself, the stupid smile beginning to make his face ache. He watched as the commander strode over and knelt beside the other man, casting an appraising eye over the drugs and medical supplies tucked neatly within and nodding curtly. A slow, lupine grin spread over the African man's face as he reached deep into the pack and rummaged around. After a few moments, he drew out a long white envelope that bulged with whatever it contained. The commander's eyes took on an acquisitive gleam as he opened the envelope and pulled out what it contained. Cash. US dollars, from Methos could tell, and a lot of them -- several thousand dollars at least. He had to work hard to contain the extent of his shock.

How the hell had that got there? And how had the soldier known about it?

Then the commander buttoned the envelope into the breast pocket of his bush jacket and  canted his head in Methos' direction, narrowing his eyes. Methos felt himself as thoroughly assessed as the contents of the bag. Immediately, he began to re-evaluate his position. Not for the better.

But the soldiers didn't appear to have any firm plans for separating his body parts -- not yet anyway -- even though machetes hung from every waist and he was sure they would not hesitate to use them. Anything else...he could work with.

The commander's eyes flicked up and down over Methos once more and he stood, rising smoothly from the ground and walking towards him. Methos let the idiot grin fade into something that regarded the other man seriously and allowed him to see it.

The African man stopped several feet away. "Medico?" he asked bluntly, switching to Portuguese. Had he recognized the well-known logo on the chopper's side? Or was something else going on?

Methos took a deep breath and gambled. "Sim," he affirmed, hoping he hadn't just made a colossal tactical error.

"Good, pick up the bags. You will come with us," the man ordered.

Methos hesitated for a second, wondering if they would just shoot him and go away if he refused. But the commander had his hand on the hilt of his machete, and a cold, hard glint in his eyes. Refusal was clearly not going to be good for his continued health. Just then, at the worst possible moment, Djube woke and moaned softly. Shit.

"Matthew?" Djube groaned. "You there, man?"

Methos knew that the pilot could not see the soldiers, with his head turned in the opposite direction, but he had to have known that someone was there. Swallowing hard, with the small hairs on the back of his neck prickling uneasily, Methos turned away from the soldier, stepped across his friend's body and knelt down. "I'm here, Djub'," he murmured with what he hoped was reassurance, uneasily taking in the grayish cast of Djube's skin and the fine sheen of sweat covering his face. He wasn't doing well.

"I thought that one was dead already," the commander snapped impatiently. "Come, you! Pick up the bags. We must go."

Methos' hand was in the retrieval pack, searching for the vials of morphine. "Just let me make him comfortable first," he asked. "Please," he added, with what he hoped was the correct amount of respect in his tone and his body language. The soldiers sure as hell weren't going to bring Djube with them, but he was damned if he was going to leave his friend here, paralyzed and defenseless, aware of every desolate minute ticking by, every creeping bush noise that might be a predator.… His fingertips found the package of morphine and he closed his hand around it, dropping his gaze for a second to locate the syringes.

He had just grasped them when pain exploded in his hand. He'd been hit with something, (the machete handle?) a finely judged blow designed to cause agony to ricochet from his hand all the way up his arm. With a smothered cry, Methos fell backwards from his protective crouch over Djube's body, tumbling back awkwardly to sprawl on the battered grass. In the seconds that it took him to scramble to his feet, he watched as, in what seemed slow motion, the commander grasped a handful of Djube's short hair, wrenched his head from the ground and slit his throat with a single, graceful swipe of his machete.

Djube made one last noise, almost a sound of disbelief -- gurgling and shrill -- before his limp body hit the ground with a dull, sickly thud. Blood pumped, thick and bright from the wound and a soft rattle, like wind moving through trees, signaled the last breath leaving his friend's butchered body. Methos gasped once in shock, frozen by the sudden brutality. Unable to look away, he stared as the soldier wiped his blade clean on the dead man's bush jacket and straightened, shooting a sharp look in Methos' direction. "Batida! Now!"

Pulling himself quickly under control, Methos complied. The sudden, unprovoked violence had shaken him, more than he would have admitted to anyone else, more than he liked to admit to himself. He was going to have to play this one very carefully. Another few inches deeper and the bastard would have taken Djube's head right off. Casting his eye one last time around the crash site, Methos picked up the retrieval pack and slipped the straps over his shoulders.

"No! Two packs!" the commander ordered sharply.

Methos sighed and slid the first pack from his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. This was just getting worse and worse. He walked over to the other pack, still at the feet of one of the soldiers -- Josiah or Tembe, he supposed, and picked it up. Before he put it on, he lengthened the sliding straps a few inches, then he bent down and thrust his hands through the straps and lifted the pack so he wore it on his front. It was awkward and unbalancing, but he hoped the weight of the other pack, once it was on his back, would even it out.

Once he maneuvered the second pack into place, Methos waited for the order to move out. He watched as the other soldiers broke formation at last and gathered up their spoils: blankets, clothes, water bottles, the money from Tin's pocket, the tiny silver cross from Paulina's throat. Everything that could be of value to them was picked up and stashed away in pockets and packs.

Everything of value to him was left further and further behind.

***

Methos listened as he trudged along the narrow game trail through the thick forest, uncomfortably aware of the fifteen men with blades surrounding him and the Uzi within firing distance of his neck -- it being the only part of his back not covered by the damned heavy pack he still carried there. It wasn't as if he was going to chance escape so openly anyway. Under cover of darkness...now that was another story entirely. He would have to wait.

The soldiers talked in low voices amongst themselves as they walked, still using Umbundu, apparently certain that they could not be understood. He had done nothing to dispel the misconception, even when one of the soldiers had yelled into his face using the language, standing so close that Methos could smell the sour reek of his breath.

"Hey! You son-of-a-jackal," the man had yelled. "Ready to die today? You one dead American, that's for sure. You understand me, jimbandaa?"

Methos had just smiled, raising his eyebrows questioningly as if the man had asked directions to a place Methos was not familiar with. He gave not the slightest flicker of understanding, not the smallest reaction to anything that the soldier said, though the last insult really wasn't much of one -- not to someone who'd loved men as long and well as he had. That they thought he was an American was possibly not a good thing, given the unpopularity of America on this side of the border, but at this stage he wasn't willing to give up the small advantage that their uncensored chatter lent him. His Umbundu was a recent acquisition and far from perfect, but he was mostly able to follow what they said.

He learned much about them from watching and listening. The commander, whose volatility made Methos wary, to say the least, was Captain Allessandro -- at least that was what his rank roughly translated to. The men treated him with respect, but it was the same sort of respect Methos had seen three thousand years ago, in the eyes and faces of the men who'd served Kronos. It was based on fear and uncertainty, the experience of living in an environment where the only certainty was unpredictability. They walked on eggshells around him, were careful what they said and did. Someone as uncannily perceptive and unflinchingly manipulative as Kronos could make it work for him, Methos didn't plan on sticking around long enough to find out if Allessandro could.

There was another man in the troop who interested Methos. The men called him Ruyz, a tall, quiet man with wide, intelligent eyes that did not seem to miss much. The men deferred to him, used him as a buffer between themselves and Allessandro. That was interesting. Methos caught Ruyz watching him carefully several times during the march so far, a question in his eyes. Methos watched him back, careful not to show him anything.

After they had marched for several hours through the thick forest, the light grew dim with the setting sun and the trail blurred into shadows. Allessandro called a halt and they stopped by a small creek, clearly intending to overnight there. They’d been heading roughly due west the whole time, as far as Methos could tell, which meant they had to be in Moxico province, and the creek was probably a tributary of the Cuardo river. Which, even if he was right, didn't help him a great deal. He still had no idea of his destination, why they wanted a doctor, or even who the hell they were. Judging by the varying ages and makes of their weapons, and their ragged uniforms, he was fairly certain that they were UNITA, but other than that...nothing.

The soldiers were opening water canteens and drinking greedily. Some walked down to the creek, which was running full and fast as was normal in the rainy season, and refilled their canteens. Methos was thirsty, too, and he knew that if he was going to be able to get away tonight, then being dehydrated would not be helpful. He was debating the wisdom of asking for water, when a canvas-covered canteen was extended in his direction.

"Beber," Ruyz ordered firmly in Portuguese, pushing the water almost under Methos' nose. "Drink."

Methos took it and nodded gratefully. "Obrigado," he said, taking a long pull at the bottle. He passed it back and thanked the man again, catching his eye once more.

The sun had set completely, the short African twilight drawing swiftly to an end with the sky purpling to black and the night sounds beginning. Around him the soldiers settled themselves down on the damp ground, drawing rations from their packs, long sticks of leathery game-meat biltong, tinned goods with bilingual labels. But always, someone was watching him and their weapons were never out of reach. It was not time yet. He could wait.

The soldiers built no fire and each man kept his belongings close at hand where they might be retrieved in an instant. Methos knew that Moxico had been hotly contested territory for the last few years and the troops did not want to attract any unnecessary attention. Well, that was fine with him; he could do without being the middle of a firefight, this or any other day.

The soldiers talked amongst themselves as they finished their meals. They boasted and lied and exaggerated in a way Methos recognized only too well. What had someone once said to him about meeting himself in the road? One day you will look up and you will see a man coming towards you on the road, and you will see yourself in his eyes. Who had told him that? Whoever it had been, they were right.

He had only to close his eyes and pretend that the language they spoke was not Umbundu but a long lost Middle Eastern language instead, and he could have been back there, back with his brothers again, listening to their men arguing and exaggerating their conquests and victories. The more things change, Methos thought, the more they stay the same.…

A fragment of a side conversation caught his ear and Methos strained to hear it. Josiah had sidled over to sit next to Ruyz, a few meters away from where Methos sat, and the tall man had turned to the younger soldier and regarded him seriously.

"We were lucky today," Josiah said.

"God smiles on a righteous cause," Ruyz answered and Methos could see the faintest flicker of irony lurking around the man's mouth.

Josiah didn't appear to catch it. "And yet he made the helicopter fall from the sky instead of coming to the plane as we expected."

Ruyz's reply was lost in a sudden sharp burst of laughter from the rest of the men and Methos was left to ponder the meaning of the little he'd heard. They had expected the chopper at the site of the downed cargo plane? Someone had shot it down, was it these men?

Had it all been a set-up from the start? Or had the retrieval simply been a convenient coincidence? Methos knew that it was no great leap of logic for anyone to assume that if a plane went down in that location, then a retrieval of the casualties would be attempted by Lafabo camp -- it was the closest, after all. And what was his own part in all this?

Methos wracked his brain for answers as the men continued to talk and laugh amongst themselves. Someone, almost definitely someone in the camp, perhaps someone that he knew and worked with, was sending cash to UNITA troops. That much was clear. He just could not imagine whom. He ran through the faces and names of the people he knew and worked with, trying to match a face or name with the action.

It was hopeless; he could not pinpoint anyone who would be involved in this. It was a major breach of ethics for anyone working for the relief organization to involve themselves in internal politics. And, unlike him, Methos thought with a wry curl of his lip, most of the people he worked with took their ethics very seriously.

He could not rule out the expatriate staff, anymore than he could the African nationals. Ties of family, friendship, politics or belief -- any one of them could be the basis for the connection. No one knew better than an Immortal how circuitous the ties of loyalty and alliance could be. Now his thoughts were turning circuitous as well. He shook his head, trying to clear the melange of facts and questions churning there.

A fragment of a rumor, half-heard and barely remembered, floated to the fore of Methos' mind. It had been a few months after he had arrived in Lafabo, a cool, dry winter's night spent sitting in the mess, around a table littered with empty bottles of Castle and an overflowing ashtray courtesy of Karen Vandermeer. He'd been deep in conversation with Tin, flirting gently with the shy young man as they spoke of the pre-takeover days in Hong Kong. But on the fringes of his consciousness, another conversation caught his ear.

"I'm surprised they hired him at all, you know," Karen said, more than a little waspishly.

"Why?" Anita, one of the senior expat nurses, asked skeptically.

"Well, his political connections don't really hold up to close scrutiny. You do know who his father was, don't you?" Karen shot back, her voice full of hidden meaning.

"No..." Anita answered, clearly still not buying it. "But I'm sure you're going to tell us."

Karen's Dutch accent thickened around the English words as she replied, "Darling, it's too African for words...his father was very high up in the PAC in South Africa back in the sixties. Trained in China with the communists and everything, just like the UNITA guys and all the rest of those terrorists. There's even a photo of little Danny, when he was about five years old, sitting on that UNITA general's knee, what's his name...? Chiwale? Hardly the squeaky clean background we're all supposed to have..." She trailed off and blew a large and excessively theatrical puff of cigarette smoke into the air.

At the time, Methos had put the story down to the malicious gossip of a former lover, as he knew Dr Vandermeer to be. But now, in the light of all that had happened, he had to reconsider that perhaps there was something in the story after all. Or perhaps not. Even if the story were true, the connection was so tenuous as to be almost non-existent and he could not condemn his friend without better evidence than that.

***

The humid night wore on and Methos could see the bright carpet of the Milky Way directly overhead through the canopy of trees. Moonlight slipped in through the gaps in the canopy overhead, silvering random patches of forest and throwing the rest into darker shadow in comparison. He leaned, pretending to doze, with his back against the trunk of a gnarled tree. All about him the soldiers slept, blankets drawn up over their heads -- all but one.

Tembe kept watch, sitting with his back against a mossy boulder and his Uzi in his hand, glancing at Methos from time to time with no particular interest or animosity showing on his face. He was very young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, and as far as Methos could see, the youngest soldier in the troop -- still uncertain of his place in the pecking order. It was something that could either work for or against him, Methos thought. But there was only one way to find out.

Methos stood up and he saw Tembe rise also. "I have to piss," Methos told him, still sticking to the fiction that he spoke no Umbundu.

Tembe grunted at him, gesturing with the business end of the automatic to get on with it. Methos turned and took a few steps around the trunk of the tree, away from the campsite. He stopped and unzipped, pissing noisily and gratefully against a bush. But, when he had finished and re-fastened his pants, he did not turn back but stood still, facing out into the darkness. And waited.

It didn't take long.

"Hey! You! Get moving," Tembe snarled.

Methos could hear the crunch of his footsteps on the dead leaves of the forest floor as the young man came nearer. Not long now. He remained silent and still.

"What's wrong with you, man? Turn around and come back!" Tembe said, the sound grinding out as if hissed between clenched teeth.

Methos felt the rifle's muzzle poke him in the center of his back and a hand closed around his upper arm. Tembe was as close as he was going to get. Now... Methos whirled and drove an elbow hard into the young soldier's gut, hearing the sharp whoof of breath forcibly expelled. Almost instantly, Methos snapped his hand up and backwards, his closed fist connecting with Tembe's nose with an audible crunch. He felt, rather than saw, the soldier stagger back and Methos took the chance, running into the bush, zigzagging between the trees. The ugly cough of the Uzi rang out and rounds smacked into the trees around him. He could hear the boy running behind him now, heard the shouts coming from the other soldiers woken by the noise.

He ran on, the noise was starting to fade behind him but he kept up the pace, needing to put as much distance as possible between himself and the government soldiers. He ran down a wooded slope, dodging through the thick stands of virgin forest. He could feel his feet grow light with the distance he was putting between himself and his captors. He was going to make it.

Methos began to slow down, dragging deep, ragged breaths into his heaving chest when a uniformed soldier rose from the bush and shot him -- point blank.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Continued in Chapter Six Back to Main Page Back to Contents