Now it was Ben's turn. The mamba's head was a matter of inches from his right arm, and he felt that he had never moved so slowly or so quietly. Using his left arm, he pushed himself up from the ground, taking the utmost care not to lose his balance; if he fell on the snake, it would be the end of him. Once on his feet, he started to creep deftly away, choosing – unlike Halima – to keep his back to the creature.
He was almost side by side with her when she gasped.
Almost involuntarily, Ben spun round, just in time to see the mamba raising its body into the air. It must have been unbelievably strong, because by the time Ben had staggered back to Halima it was supporting almost its entire body weight so that its head was nearly a metre and a half above the ground. It wavered in the air, swishing delicately like a deadly pendulum. Ben felt himself being mesmerized by its stare; half of him wanted to turn and flee, the other half found itself rooted to the spot. The immobile half won the unseen battle, and both he and Halima remained locked by that venomous gaze.
Don't move, Ben told himself. If you move, it'll attack.
The snake began to hiss – not a single warning, but a sequence of repeated sibilance that sounded like it was working itself up to something. Hiss… hiss… hiss…
Stay where you are. If you turn and run, it will get you.
The hood around its neck started to flare up, its sleek head instantly becoming something much more sinister and aggressive.
And then it struck.
Ben saw it happen in slow motion. The snake's body coiled back, like a whip, before propelling itself through the air. He heard Halima scream and his own body went into a seizure of panic as the reptile flung itself towards them and downwards, finally coming to a stop on the ground half a metre in front of them.
There was a squeal. Ben felt his knees almost buckle as he saw the true object of the mamba's attention. A bush rat, furry and not much bigger than a fat hamster, convulsed in the mamba's jaws. The snake, firmly holding its prey, turned its head and slipped back to the far side of the clearing.
Ben and Halima turned to each other, nodded, and fled.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Abele was troubled.
The mine-worker standing outside the entrance to Russell and Ben's compound bore a look on his face that made it quite clear he would allow nobody to enter. Abele didn't like the look of him. He wasn't Congolese, that much he could tell. Probably Rwandan, one of the many who had fled west across the border after the genocide. Many thousands of people had escaped to the Democratic Republic of Congo when the Tutsi extremists started massacring their Hutu neighbours, and the extremists too had crossed the border in order to escape justice. Consequently it was not uncommon to see Rwandan refugees all across the country, and it was equally difficult to determine whether they had fled justice or persecution. As a result the Rwandans were viewed with a certain amount of suspicion, even resentment. While the rest of the world looked on at the genocide in aghast horror, many Congolese remained uninterested. After all, they had their own horrors to deal with. Abele himself was one of the few people who didn't begrudge these people sanctuary, nor did he form unconsidered opinions about people; but even he had to admit that there was an arrogance to this man's demeanour that made him difficult to like.
Abele hadn't seen Ben or his father for two days now. It made no sense. Much as he didn't think Ben should go wandering around the village by himself, he knew that he probably would. But Abele had searched for him without success, which left three options: either he was being forced to stay in the compound, or he was ill, or something more sinister was going on.
He was a simple man – not stupid, just straightforward. He had promised to protect these strange English people, and if there was a mine-worker stationed outside the compound, it meant Suliman had told him to be there. So he would ask Suliman. He would be able to explain what had happened.
Suliman's office was near the mine, just over a mile out of the village on the road heading east. Abele walked along the stony road, beads of perspiration forming on his face, until he reached the outskirts of the mine. Suliman's office was large by the standards of the village. It even had windows – not paned with glass, as this would cause the inside of the structure to become even more unbearably hot – but covered with a fine mosquito-proof mesh. The door was ajar, and Abele approached it purposefully, fully intending to barge in and demand what was going on.
But as he approached the door, he heard the sound of Suliman speaking in a raised voice.
The language was Lingala, the dialect more common further to the west of the country, near Kinshasa. Suliman was speaking hurriedly, as though he were trying to persuade somebody of something. 'Everything is under control,' he asserted.
Abele stopped by the door, something preventing him from entering. He stood with his back against the wall, listening carefully to what Suliman was saying.
'I already told you yesterday,' Suliman said in that characteristic half-whisper of his, 'that the scientist has confirmed the ore is good.' A pause while the person on the other end of the phone spoke. 'Well, if you need more confirmation, you will have to send somebody else. He has succumbed to the illness and he is raving. I expect him to be dead in less than a week.'
Abele's face hardened.
'No,' Suliman continued after a moment. 'They are still unaccounted for. My men are tracking them, so they won't get far. If my people do not overcome them, then the forest will – they have no food, or water, or weapons. I don't expect to see them again.'
Abele muttered a curse underneath his breath. What was this fool thinking of?
'The workforce is thin,' Suliman was saying. 'Have you made arrangements for others to come? You realize that those who succumb will not survive long?' A long silence. 'No, Mr Kruger,' Suliman continued with a humility that sounded strange coming from him, 'I am not trying to tell you what to do. I will wait for them to arrive. Goodbye, Mr Kruger.'
Abele heard the phone being replaced in its cradle. What were these people up to? Why did they seem so worried about Ben and his father? Before he did anything, he needed to speak to Russell, to find out what was going on. As silently as his heavy frame would allow, he crept away from the open door and the office and started running back down the road towards the village. Had there been any camouflage, he would have made use of it; but there was none. He cut a lonely figure as he hurried along the road, unaware that from behind the mosquito-net window of the office, a solitary, dead-eyed face was watching him disappear into the indistinct haze of the distance.
He was drenched with sweat and humidity by the time he reached the centre of the village. The Rwandan guard was still standing there, a look of bored insolence on his face, and he did not seem to have noticed Abele watching him from the other side of the square. Abele turned the situation over in his mind. He needed to get in there, to talk to Russell Tracey. There were two ways he could do it: overpower the guard, or create some sort of diversion. Abele was not a subtle man: for him, the best way was always the most direct.
He skirted round the edge of the square; he tried to look nonchalant, but it was not something that came naturally to him, so his thick-set features remained fixed in an unfriendly frown. The guard still did not seem to have noticed him, however, and remained oblivious to his presence as Abele approached him from the side. The Rwandan was not carrying a weapon – to do so would have been to cause consternation and gossip in the village, something Suliman was clearly keen to avoid – so it would be a fist-fight, man against man. Abele's fists clenched as he got nearer, and he prepared to make his first punch a good one. Get him down before he had a chance to realize what was happening: it was the only way to ensure you would come out on top.