SS Glasgow Castle 36 Chapter Thirty Six

My head swam and I nearly vomited on the poster. Luckily, the feeling trans.m.u.ted itself into a water-logged belch as I pushed the poster back at the superintendent. I said:

"Whoops. Could I have some more of that excellent iced water, superintendent?"

He gave me a half-full gla.s.s this time, maybe because he was pouring it while looking at me. I nodded thanks and took a sip. I said:

"I don't see myself or my name there. So, would you be kind enough to explain what I'm doing here? I'll help you if I can. And then I think it would be best if you drove me back to my vehicle. I'm responsible for it."

"It's well looked after," he said. "Do you recognize any of the faces in those photographs?"

"No," I said.

There was a silence punctuated by several soft drumrolls his fingers played on the desk. Eventually he said:

"I am formally and officially requesting that you produce your identification. Right now."

I cleared my throat. I said:

"I'm formally and officially telling you that you have no authority whatsoever to ask for my identification, and I request to be returned at once to my vehicle."

He jerked as if I'd slapped him. He said:

"You white racist dog. Sergeant." I heard a chair sc.r.a.pe in the other room and hurried footsteps. The sergeant appeared. He was shorter from the constable who'd driven us earlier by maybe an inch: a mountain of efficient, deadly flesh. More importantly, he held a submachine gun which was aimed vaguely in my direction. It had a fat perforated barrel and a curved magazine jutting from its side. I found all my attention focusing on that barrel. It had s.h.i.+ny patches where the dark finish had worn off, and a fine web of scratches. It had been used for quite a while, and I hoped fervently it wouldn't be used on me.

"You still think you're G.o.ds," said the superintendent, and I was a second late in catching on that he was addressing me. "You still think we aren't any better than children. Nothing's changed. That's what you think. I'll give you a new thought or two. There haven't been any white mercenaries here for half a year now. Rawlings has thrown them all out. And I can see you haven't been here for longer than just a few days. Your superior white skin just gave you away. Sergeant."

The sergeant motioned me to stand up with the muzzle of his gun - international language, instantly understood wherever people congregate. I stood up. He approached me, plucking up the pair of handcuffs the superintendent had placed on the desk. He stuck the muzzle in my neck, and tapped my right arm.

It was no contest. I let him cuff me; he made them tight, but not cruelly tight. In the meantime, the superintendent fished out a flat automatic pistol from his desk and worked its slide: I heard the cartridge snap into the firing chamber. It was happening so fast I didn't have the time to get really scared. I was just watching things happen, one after another, totally out of my control. I had no idea what would happen next.

What happened next was that a phone rang. Not the one on the desk; the muted trill came from the superintendent's trouser pocket. He put down the pistol, took out his cellular phone and said:

"Yes."

He listened, frowning. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then listened some more. And more. His frown deepened and he said:

"h.e.l.lo?" He listened again. All that listening was having a bad effect on him: it made him worried. Eventually he disconnected and put away the phone without saying anything. He glanced at his watch and looked at the window, at the fort; his fingers rippled in another drumroll. He got up and I spotted a tiny reluctance in the way he moved. He said:

"You're coming with us. Sergeant."

The sergeant encouraged me to move with a prod of the barrel. I led the way out, but still managed to notice that the superintendent slipped the pistol into his phone-free pocket.

Encouraged by frequent prods from the barrel of the sergeant's submachine gun, I exited the station and climbed into the back of the single remaining Land Rover. We didn't excite any attention; a group of women clad in bright-patterned swathes of fabric were talking by one of the non-functioning market stalls across the street; one of them threw a glance and then, it seemed to me, they all purposefully avoided looking in our direction. This implied that I was in a country where people could get arrested - shot? - for seeing the wrong things; the thought made me stumble while getting into the car.

The Land Rover wasn't the one I'd rode in earlier; there was a coa.r.s.ely st.i.tched tear in the right rear seat. The superintendent got in the back with me. Once seated, he took out his pistol and held it in his lap, while the sergeant carefully placed his shooter on the front pa.s.senger seat prior to starting the motor. This Land Rover did have a radio mounted in the centre of the dashboard, and its right front fender featured a long whip-like antenna that trembled and swayed as we drove. But the radio's dial didn't come alight when the sergeant switched the ignition on; it appeared communications were restricted to the superintendent's cell phone. I finally twigged that the call he'd taken, that he'd listened to so intently must have been from one of the constables guarding the Toyota.

Was Kross caught? What would be the sense in taking me along - in a flash, I totally convinced myself they were taking me to identify his body. Then they'd shoot me. No, that was impossible. I was a f.u.c.king art director! No, it was possible. The gun in the lap of the man beside me made everything possible.

I didn't exactly follow the countryside on the drive to the Toyota; I was too busy thinking various thoughts, all depressing. I only regained situational awareness when we began to slow down. Through the front window I saw the other Land Rover, parked on the other side of the road with its snout almost touching the Toyota's. There was no one around.

The sergeant stopped a good twenty paces from the abandoned vehicles. He left the engine running. Far ahead, a winds.h.i.+eld twinkled, and we sat motionless until a taxi with bright yellow fender panels whooshed by.

The superintendent said something exotic to the sergeant, who ya.s.saed softly. He picked up the submachine gun and got out of the car, and all three of us listened intently - all I could hear was the lazy throbbing of the idling engine. The sergeant walked up to the abandoned cars holding the gun as if it was a two-handed sword, barrel sticking upward. He disappeared behind the Land Rover; after a while, he emerged, looked at us, and shook his head.
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The superintendent raised his free hand and pointed at the jungle. I followed his finger with my eyes and saw a broken branch drooping towards the ground, raw wood gleaming whitely in the tear in the trunk. The sergeant crossed the road, negotiated the ditch - it appeared to be quite shallow - and made his way towards the wounded tree in a purposeful crouch, gun pointed forward. He stopped by the tree and appeared to examine it; then he slid into the vegetation.

We sat still. I watched the dashboard clock for a while before realizing it wasn't working; its white hands were stuck at five to three. Unfortunately, I couldn't check my watch or read the superintendent's. The handcuffs were beginning to bite and I thought oh mother, what have I done. Time shuddered by, urged on by the uneven rumblings of the engine; the winds.h.i.+eld vibrated in unison; the road blurred, became sharp and clear, blurred again. There was no other traffic. Why wasn't there any other traffic?

Beside me, the superintendent stirred and let out a soft sigh. Kross's voice said:

"Freeze or I blow your f.u.c.king head off. Good. Now hand that pistol to me very, very slowly."