~ While Hyenas Laugh ~

by

Judith R. Parker

Richard signaled the waiter and ordered a dessert he didn’t want. While Joseph was writing the order, Richard whispered, "Tell Mr. Umbulu we want everyone followed when they leave the dining room. Also put all of the others under immediate surveillance. He will know what I mean."

Joseph grinned broadly. "Yes, sir." Raising his voice slightly, he said, "I assure you the trifle is very fresh and very good."

A half moon, assisted by discreet lighting, held the darkness at bay as Richard and David joined the other guests strolling towards the kraal. They stopped outside the gate and lit cigarettes, keeping up a dilatory conversation, watching the last arrivals. Only as the gates were closing, did they slip inside. They found seats on the top bench and Richard studied the enclosure. In the center was a dirt-packed arena with a fifty-foot pole in the center. The kraal was enclosed by a twelve-foot wooden wall. The bleachers extended around about one third of the wall. Richard could spot only three doors; the one through which they had entered, a smaller door to the right of the bleachers and a third directly across the arena.

Richard located Mr. Ho prominently seated in the second row immediately behind the two Egyptians. He frowned inwardly and began searching the crowd. He found it interesting that Whitehead had also taken a seat on the top row and seemed more interested in the audience than in the preparations taking place in the ring below.

Moments later he spotted the two Japanese gentlemen seated in the front row and Avram Adoni in the middle of the packed bleachers. The Greek couple were on the far side of the stands in the third row. Richard leaned back and withdrew the brochure he had picked up as they passed the desk and studied it while they waited for the show to start. He read that the Zambezi River was nearly a mile wide where it fell into the narrow crevasse created eons ago by some cataclysmic event and varied in height from two-hundred-fifty-six feet to three-hundred-forty-three feet. The grounds of the Victoria Falls Hotel ran down to the very edge of the rift and presented a spectacular view of the Falls pouring into the chasm only a few feet away. Across the river was Zambia.

He stuck the brochure back in his pocket, as the lights dimmed, and stared at the spectacle taking place in the dirt ring, his mind busy. Why was the transfer taking place in this out of the way spot? How much bacteria would it take to contaminate the reported cities? What kind of containers would be required? How big? How could it pass through customs without causing comment?

The chanting finally broke into his thoughts and he found himself intrigued by the aboriginal rhythm and melody. Without conscious thought, he began mentally composing.

Later, the only thing he was able to recall of the show was the man diving from the top of a tall pole and swinging by a foot, his head only inches from the dirt. That and the beginning of a piece of music.

The exit was through a small souvenir shop. Richard and David strolled leisurely about the shop, occasionally fingering a trinket or a carving. When the Japanese gentlemen left, Richard signaled David and moved to the door. He smothered a grin as a group of young blacks began scattering in the various directions taken by some members of the audience.

Richard strolled in the direction taken by the Japanese. David soon caught up with him and asked impatiently, "Shouldn’t one of us be following Mr. Ho?"

"I think Reginald has Mr. Ho covered. I’m more interested in our Japanese friends. Did you notice anything after the show?"

"Only that I think we can forget about Mr. Adoni. I overheard him asking about one of these animal skin rugs. He has a daughter in Johannesburg who collects small unusual rugs. He’s taking her a fine Muslim prayer rug. Did you see something I missed?"

"Mrs. Andopoulos dropped her program."

"So?"

"One of the fellows ahead picked it up and returned it to her."

"Well, the Japanese are known for their courtesy."

"Ummm. Any idea where this path leads?"

"To the Falls, I believe."

"I thought it might. Let’s step up the pace a little. Our friends have disappeared around those trees. Oh shit."

As they rounded the group of trees and bushes, the trail split. Their quarry had vanished.

Richard dropped his voice to a whisper. "Take the right. If you find them, stay with them, if not come back here."

Richard crushed down the urge to run. The sound of pounding footsteps would surely alert them and blow his cover. Instead, he assumed the posture and brisk stride of a man out for an evening constitutional. After several hundred yards the path swerved again and ran along the very lip of the gorge. Fifty feet ahead stood one of the men.

Richard didn’t break stride as his glance took in the man’s too relaxed posture, the feigned look of surprise as he turned to stare at Richard. Richard nodded briefly as he strode on by, heart racing. This was it. Somewhere in the bushes was at least one terrorist. He could feel him.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? There was no time to circle back and get David. He had to do something, but what? A rush of adrenaline flowed through his body.

The path swerved again around a clump of vegetation. Out of sight, Richard turned around and dropped to his knees. Carefully he began inching his way back, creeping along the edge of the path, staying in the shadows. He heard the murmur of voices and dropped flat. His Marine Corps training took over. He slithered through the undergrowth on his belly until he had them in view.

Three men stood at the edge of the gorge. Richard couldn’t distinguish words but the tone of their voices indicated they were arguing. He rubbed a handful of dirt over his face and hands then worked his way within a few yards of the trio.

The third man took a step toward the two Japanese, his hand raised in a threatening gesture. Richard sucked in his breath. It was one of the Egyptian students.

The smaller Japanese shrugged his shoulders and opened the camera case hanging at his side. He removed a small box and opened it. Richard caught the refection of moonlight on glass.

The terrorist lifted something from the box and Richard saw it was a glass ampoule. Before Richard could move, the terrorist snapped the top and threw the ampoule into the river below. He was reaching for a second one when Richard exploded off the ground in a running tackle. He slammed into the Japanese holding the box, knocking him into the Egyptian.

Richard rolled away, grasping for the box that had tumbled to the ground, when the second Japanese leaped on his back. He twisted away, jamming the box inside his shirt and scrambled to his feet.

From somewhere behind him, Richard heard voices and a woman’s soft laugh. He swung around but before he could move, the man was on him again, grappling for the box. Richard slammed a heavy fist into the man’s belly and stepped back. Dirt crumbled under his foot. He felt himself falling, tumbling through the dark toward the river below. A millisecond of incredulity was washed away in shocked horror. Three-hundred and forty-three feet. The words from the brochure flashed before his eyes. His scream of pure terror echoed over the roar of the falls. Then his head struck an outcropping of rock. As he pitched into even greater darkness, he heard the macabre laughter of a hyena.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eleven

London

Rachel was aware of the two people following her after she left the restaurant. She had time. Losing them would be no problem. She strolled towards Marks and Spencer, window-shopping as she went, pausing now and then, checking, until she was sure there were only the two tails.

Inside the store she wandered through the various departments, stopping to purchase a pair of sunglasses, a brown wig, and a pair of inexpensive brown shoes. In the dress department, she took her time in selecting a cheap lime green nylon dress.

She retired to the changing room and shrugged out of the black suit and into the dress and shoes. She was adjusting the wig when the privacy curtain was suddenly jerked back. The little gray-haired lady from the restaurant looked at her in flustered surprise. "Oh dear. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize this room was occupied. I’m sure the girl told me ... oh, I am sorry." She backed out, letting the curtain fall.

Rachel smiled. Dani had lost none of his cunning, his agents were well-trained, but perhaps not well enough. She’d soon know. Within seconds, Rachel had ripped off the green dress, pulled a tightly rolled yellow skirt and matching sweater from her purse and slipped them on. She jammed her feet back into her black pumps, stuffed the brown shoes out of sight on the shelf. The green dress was hung back on its hanger with the black skirt and jacket underneath. She pulled the blond wig from her purse and quickly adjusted it. The brown wig and sunglasses disappeared into the bag.

Moments later she sauntered casually out of the dressing area and headed towards the door. From the corner of her eye, she saw the woman idly browsing through a rack of dresses, her gaze fixed on the dressing room door. Rachel paused a moment at a table of brassieres and surreptitiously surveyed the aisles until she located the man. He looked more than a little uncomfortable as he perused a table of women’s purses while he watched the other woman.

Rachel walked through the door and up the street. After a series of moves designed to allow her to spot any tail, she knew she was clear and returned to her hotel. In her room, she picked up the phone and requested a wake-up call, stripped and crawled into bed for her first real sleep in over twenty-four hours.

When the phone awakened her several hours later, she showered and dressed in the yellow outfit. She checked out of the hotel and took the underground to Green Park. Moments later she found the package cached by the Israelis. Without bothering to check the contents, she moved rapidly out of the park, flagged a cruising taxi and was driven to Charing Cross Station.

She assumed she was being followed. If they weren’t any sharper than the two this afternoon, she would soon be home free. She collected the package she had left in the locker and headed for the ladies lounge. No one followed her in. She hoped the agent she had fooled at Marks and Spencer hadn’t gotten too bad a chewing out.

Fifteen minutes later an elderly, gray-haired woman clad in cotton stockings, rundown shoes and a cotton wash dress covered with a ragged sweater and carrying a shopping bag emerged from the lounge, stretching and yawning. She peered around myopically through a pair of wire spectacles and then limped slowly out of the station and up the street to a bus stop. She changed busses several times, stopped in two coffee bars, and walked a number of deserted residential streets before deciding she had lost any tail, and headed for Victoria Station.

In the ladies room, she changed back into her own clothes, donned the blond wig, added blue contact lens and repaired her makeup. Discarding all of her Portabello purchases except for the gray wig, she caught the shuttle to Heathrow.

Two hours later, Rachel was seated in the first class section of the South African Airways flight to Johannesburg, munching caviar and sipping champagne as she tried to tune out the boring conversation of the Capetown banker seated next to her.

Where was Richard? Would she find him in time? Each beat of her heart seemed like the tick of a clock counting away the seconds, the minutes, the hours. How long could Richard survive without dialysis? Anger began to build again in her gut.

Why was this happening to her, to Richard? Why couldn’t they have been left in peace? They had been so happy. They were even considering having a child. Richard wanted to wait until a kidney had been found but she wanted a child now. Her biological clock was ticking away, too. She wanted a child. Not just a child, Richard’s child.

Glancing out the window into the darkness it seemed they were suspended in the sky like a toy plane hanging from a wire. She closed her eyes, willing the plane to fly faster...faster.