Chapter 8

Ethan slept on and off that night, trying to digest the events of the day before with little success. At the hidden basement the night before, he had overheard some sort of loud argument about whether or not he should be bound and returned to his impromptu cell. Instead Andy had won over and Ethan was then led by two armed men to the upper floor and confined to a small bedroom.

They were going with the soft approach. Ethan smiled at the thought that Andy was trying to get on his good side. Whether it was the easy way or the hard way, in essence it made no difference to Ethan. As he lay down on the comfortable bed all he could think of was that his brother had actually told him himself he was a bloody spy for the French.

His mind was filled with all the little things they did together when they were still only children. Andy's answers had left him wondering still. When did his brother turn into a man driven by greed and power lust? When did that shy kid he had drawn into harmless mischief so many times become such a cynical bastard?

Ethan thought it was perhaps all those years in between that grew them apart; when he had lost himself as well. Maybe these things just happened. But still that didn't mean he had to let them be.

He almost laughed aloud when he thought about it; there he was, imprisoned by his brother, probably about to be executed unless he cooperated in an assassination for the benefit of the French Intelligence Service. And instead of at least trying to think of a way to get out of there without having to become a lackey for the French, he was contemplating ending the war singlehandedly.

He wasn't sure if that was at all realistic, but he knew he had to try and escape. He had been keeping count of the days; James would be coming for him by nightfall, and all he knew was that he was someplace east of the River. No matter, he thought. With any luck, getting to the rendezvous point would be the least of his problems.

He felt galvanised into action all of a sudden and sprang out of bed. He took a careful look outside the window; he could still see sentries posted around the house. Late the night before they had been almost invisible. In the morning, Ethan could see they were carefully obscured behind brushes of reeds and thick mangroves.

They looked calm while keeping vigilant, their hands resting near their rifles' safeties. They were armed with a multitude of seemingly well-maintained weapons; no-one was slacking about, smoking or chatting. He counted at least four men; he estimated about ten around the mansion and perhaps double as many underground and in the surrounding hilly areas. On top of being well-equipped and numerous, they seemed to be quite disciplined, always a very unwelcome trait in an enemy.

Daylight wouldn't help and he couldn't wait out for the nighttime; he cursed under his breath for being so tied up with his thoughts the night before. If there had been any good chance of trying to slip away unnoticed it was by then long gone.

He had heard footsteps outside his door at some point and they seemed to be more than one man posted. He couldn't outrun them and he couldn't outgun them either; all he could hope to do was outsmart them.

He looked around the room then for a few minutes. There were some clean sheets in the closet drawers, an old oil lamp sitting around the bedside table and that was just about it. He went inside the bathroom and searched the tiny cupboard; planning ahead, someone had thought it prudent to keep a full medical kit even in the mansion, aside from the typical bottle of painkillers and medical alcohol. He noticed the painkillers were of the effervescent kind and had an idea that made him grin.

He sat down on the bed, his back towards the door. He laid it down in front of his feet and counted the items; four medical gauzes, two sticks of morphine, two sticks of atropine, a sterile stitching needle, salt tabs and a small, folding double-edge serrated knife which could also pose as a saw.

He nodded to himself reassuringly and emptied the bottle of alcohol down the washing basin's drain. He filled it with water from the faucet and went back into the room. He laid himself down on the bed, popped a mouthful of pills and then poured some water in his mouth. He felt the pills sizzle and froth. He threw the oil lamp on the floor and put the knife under his buttocks. He closed his eyes and started thrashing about, making sure he made as much noise as possible.

He then started counting silently, waiting for them to come rushing in. There was still a chance they'd alert someone else as well; he was counting on blind luck and a bit of panic to make this happen.

He had counted up to seven before he heard a key turn in the lock. They were a bit slow to make up their minds but they hadn't started shouting. Ethan heard them talking in a panicked, low voice. One of them rushed to the bedside. As he was thrashing about, Ethan fluttered his eyes while foam flowed down his cheeks. He saw the guard kneel down to his right side and set his rifle against the wall. As he bent forward to reach Ethan's mouth in fear of his tongue choking him, Ethan snapped into action with one fluid motion.

He pulled the knife from under his buttocks, sat suddenly upright and threw his best shot at the guard standing by the door: The knife pierced his temple right between the eyes and stuck there as he slumped down on the floor like a puppet with cut strings. Following the knife's throw, Ethan took advantage of the other guard's stunned surprise and knocked him, head to head. The guard lost his balance and fell flat on the floor with a muted thump.

Ethan was right on top of him in a flash, his hand against his mouth. He tried to shout, but the muffled noise was barely more than a tremor against Ethan's hand. He bit hard against a soft spot on Ethan's palm and punched him in the stomach. Ethan flinched and felt dizzy from the pain, but his other hand was already reaching for the rifle against the wall.

The guard threw a punch with his other fist aiming for Ethan's face but it didn't connect, as Ethan slid sideways just a notch and grabbed the rifle. He thrust its stock against the man's ribs and made him try and fold in pain. Ethan then raised it above his head and brought it down with as much power as he could gather.

A cracking noise was heard and the man went suddenly limp, his eyes stuck in a deathly cold stare towards the ceiling. Blood started to ooze from his nose and ears.

Ethan took a moment for some much needed breath, not so from the exertion but because of the adrenaline rush. He needed to cool down before going into the next phase, which was creating a suitable diversion for his escape; blowing up the stores in the basement of the mansion.

He stood up and sat back on the bed, wiping the foam from his cheeks. He then heard a shallow but familiar voice:

"Fuck me, you've killed them both."

It was Andy. Ethan instinctively grabbed the rifle in front of him and aimed it at his brother who was standing at the door. He flicked the safety off, and said flatly:

"Don't make me shoot you."

Andy smiled heartily and replied:

"Bugger me, why would I ever want to do that?"

Ethan frowned and looked blatantly confused. He was still aiming Andy though when he said:

"Look, I'm leaving through that door. Andy, for the love of God, don't try to stop me."

"Stop you? I'd have you killed all along from the start if I needed to stop you. Jesus, Ethan. Put down that rifle and help me drag this one inside," said Andy as he proceeded to grab the slumped body from the armpits.

Ethan's confounded look was exaggerated by his dumbstruck tone of voice:

"What the fuck do you mean?"

Andy looked at him with a blank expression and replied in all seriousness:

"It's English for 'put down that rifle and help me drag this one inside'."

The attempt at humour went largely unnoticed by Ethan who lowered his weapon before asking incredulously:

"You're helping me escape?"

Andy dragged the body a few feet inside while Ethan watched as if mesmerized. He put it down on the floor and closed the door quietly before turning to reply with a grin:

"No, not yet; you're helping me blow this place up first."

Ethan asked with a hint of irony, still clutching the rifle in his hands:

"Change of plans?"

Andy shook his head and replied with a tone of pride:

"This was the plan pretty much from the start."

Ethan put down the rifle and looked at Andy with a blank expression. He sounded helpless when he said:

"I don't understand."

Andy looked behind him momentarily as if he had heard something and then said, looking almost smug:

"I hate to brag but you were never the brightest of the two of us."

Ethan got up and moved towards the body with the knife still sticking out of its head. He eyed his brother warily and asked:

"Care to explain? Did your deal break down?"

Andy knelt beside the other body and checked for vital signs. He looked at Ethan and replied as if trying to explain something very complicated to a schoolkid:

"Not exactly. I infiltrated the French Secret Service in '62 and placed myself in a position to select the assignment in Biafra. I set every part of this operation up in order to close it down when it would be most needed. I'd have waited for a few more weeks, but then you turned up. So now I've got to speed things up and improvise."

"What on Earth are you saying?", asked Ethan as he pulled out the knife, his expression a confused mix of wariness and curiosity.

Andy said flatly, "I'm MI6."

"You?" asked Ethan with a slight shake of his head, grinning thinly.

"Who did you expect, Sean Connery?" said Andy almost indignantly and smiled reassuringly.

Ethan smiled back with some effort and asked his brother:

"It was all a show then?"

Andy looked at Ethan in a stern fashion, as if he'd been hurt and told him:

"I told you to really try and think about Father Mulcahey."

"I thought you were being a bit remorseful," replied Ethan in a somewhat awkward manner. Andy came right next to him and grabbed him by one arm, looked him straight in the eyes and said:

"I thought you hadn't forgotten about what he made us promise."

Ethan felt a weight suddenly lift from his shoulders and replied with a shake of his head:

"I haven't, Andy. That's why I'm here."

Ethan nodded and said calmly:

"A blessing in disguise, because we've got work to do."

They dragged both bodies inside the bathroom before locking the bedroom door. Andy said to Ethan:

"We've got about half an hour before someone comes to check up on you. It might look like a lot of time but there's a lot to do. We'll be cutting it close," he said and produced a length of rope. He then told Ethan:

"Come on, give me your hands."

"You're going to tie my hands?" asked Ethan with wariness in his voice.

"You're supposed to be the prisoner, remember? Just because they're sentries it doesn't mean they're that thick."

Ethan nodded silently before he replied:

"Makes sense. What did you have in mind?" he said while Andy loosely tied his hands together, making sure Ethan could easily pull on some of the rope and untie it completely.

Andy checked the finished knot around Ethan's hands, raised his brow and said in a professional, neutral manner:

"Blow everything up, basically. I'm not sure how much you've seen but there's about a mile of underground corridors and rooms filled with a couple millions of rounds of ammunition."

"Time detonators?" asked Ethan.

"Slow fuses. Then we really need to get going. With any luck we'll be a mile out when everything lights up."

"Guards, patrols? From what I've seen these guys mean business."

"There are sentries at the entry and exit points of the underground complex. There won't be much of a problem as long as we keep ahead of the two patrols. They're doing runs across the perimeter and checks on the inside as well. They meet up at the entry point. If all goes well, we should have about fifteen minutes once we go inside."

"Let's make it count then. You've got everything figured out, haven't you?"

"Well, not everything," said Andy with a hint of worry and beckoned Ethan to follow him downstairs.

"You mean Nicole?" whispered Ethan instinctively as he followed him.

"Yes, I mean Nicole," replied Andy with some irritation and added:

"You don't have to whisper, the house is empty. No-one uses it but me and Nicole; the Biafrans live in the huts."

"Where is she?"

"That's what I'm worried about," replied Andy and added with a feeling of anxiety, "I'm not sure."

Ethan said then:

"She's keeping secrets as well?"

"It's just that she roams about when she's back here; checking up on the people, the ammo, everything. Like some sort of pesky General. The Biafrans got a nickname for her too."

"Let me guess. They call her bitch?"

"Something like that, but it also means she's doing her job right."

"She might be trouble then, won't she?"

"Look, I'll handle Nicole. Now come on, let's go. Try and look a bit crestfallen, glum, ashamed. That sort of thing."

"You could ask me to play it natural then," said Ethan and grinned before continuing:

"No, seriously. I need my stuff."

"Your stuff is in the basement."

Ethan nodded and asked Andy then:

"What's our exit strategy?"

"I was thinking of a legged route till the borders, then I could contact the office to get some tickets or something."

"Tickets? Really?" asked Ethan incredulously.

"At the end of the day, we're still public servants," replied Andy with a feeling of justified indignation.

"Good thing I've got a friend waiting to pick me up by nightfall."

"How's he going to do that? Fly?" said Andy with an ironic grin.

"Actually, yes. With a helicopter. About three miles north of Omuku."

Andy nodded and filled in:

"That's some hours of walk alongside the river. It's now almost ten past ten. We should be there before nightfall."

"Alright. With any luck we'll be having drinks in Lagos before the night's over."

"I hope so, Ethan. Now off you go, get your stuff. I'll keep watch up here, but make it fast," he said as he led Ethan to the hidden door, pulled the small lever and opened the door for him, while his expression remained one of worried deliberation. Ethan noticed and told him reassuringly:

"It'll be alright in the end, Andy. I know it will."

"God willing," said Andy with an uneasy smile as Ethan nodded and went down the stairs.

They walked casually out the front door of the mansion, Ethan in front and Andy in the back with a pistol in hand. The guards saw them but paid little attention, their heads spending most of the time looking above to the overcast sky.

"It'll rain. That might put a dent in the flight plan," said Ethan in a low key. Andy replied almost under his breath:

"Don't talk. Prisoners are never allowed to talk and you, especially you can't be an exception." He shoved Ethan, trying to look authoritative and bossy for the benefit of the guards. Ethan stopped, turned his head around and looked at Andy angrily for a moment, on which Andy commented:

"That's the spirit. Properly pissed off," he said with a grin and made a gesture with the pistol for Ethan to move on.

Ethan did not reply, but still walked onwards. Andy checked around them for any sign of one of the patrols going inside the house. They were walking casually but briskly, trying not to appear too hasty without good reason. Around them the sound of the river rushing by dominated the rest of the voice of the jungle. The animals had felt the rain coming as well.

They approached the guard at the entry point, who asked Andy something in Igbo. The guard wore an unusually wide grin and made shooting gestures with his rifle. Andy replied tersely and the guard stopped his little act, replying curtly. Andy nodded, the guard opened the metal panel and grabbed Ethan by the arm, forcing him to step on the ladder and get below. Ethan used his fingers to grab onto the small metal bars of the ladder. Another man was posted below, silently watching Andy and Ethan.

The foot of the ladder was well lit, near an intersection of the complex. Ethan remembered how he had been led here when released from the machinery room where he had been kept for a while. He could confidently find his way over there, even though the corridors looked almost identical. The lights were on, powered from a generator somewhere but there were blind spots from burnt out bulbs. The dank, cool air had an oily feeling about it; it smelled of cordite and gasoline.

Ethan and the guard exchanged a few looks, the guard seemingly checking him up from head to toe. Ethan had the air of an angry animal about him, as if trapped in a cage: he sported a razor-sharp gaze, fidgeting and looking pumped-up. The guard glanced once or twice at the knots in his hands, but Andy stepped between them and asked the guard something in Igbo. His voice had an anxious, urgent quality. The guard seemed uneasy, shaking his head and answering in a monotone. Andy repeated the question with emphasis, while the guard on the surface closed the panel.

Once the panel had been sealed, Andy nodded to Ethan who instantly pulled on the rope and let loose his hands. The guard's eyes went wide with surprise, but even as he tried to shout and push Andy away, his mouth was already covered up and Andy's knee was connected powerfully with the guard's genitals.

The guard folded from the pain and let out a muffled groan. Ethan sprang up on him from one side and caught his head in his hands. With a quick, expert motion, he violently turned the man's head around and a snapping noise was heard. The guard went limp and they both quickly and quietly dragged him to the near end of the corridor, where a soft shadow kept the body somewhat hard to notice from a distance.

Andy checked his watch and nodded for Ethan to follow him. They picked up the pace and were soon jogging inside the complex, seemingly on a random route. They kept passing by locked and barred doors, when Andy suddenly stopped. He produced a small key-chain and quickly selected a key. Ethan kept looking back and forth for any sign or sound of a patrol.

Andy unlocked the door, quietly raised the bar and set it aside. He opened it and flicked a switch. A warm yellow lamplight filled the room and they both went inside. It was a large storage room, with crates of various sizes neatly stacked and arranged. Andy's eyes quickly scanned the room, searching for something in particular, his right index finger hovering in the air.

He then pointed to one corner and said to Ethan, "There's a crowbar lying around there somewhere."

Andy then showed him a particular crate and told him, "Open that one up."

Ethan found the crowbar, while Andy was rummaging about in another side of the room, as if sorting something by hand. Ethan opened up the crate to reveal a tightly packed array of small brown bricks. He carefully removed one and examined it with curiosity. He then asked Andy:

"A crate of Semtex?" he said as he casually checked the labels on the other crates.

"So that's the right one, eh? That was supposed to be used in wrecking the Onitsha bridge," answered Andy, lost behind a series of crates. "We'll have to move it to another room. And we'll need some oil barrels as well," continued Andy, his voice strained from the physical exertion.

"Alright, I can carry this. Have you got the fuses?" asked Ethan as he fumbled with another box.

Andy finally reappeared sporting a thin grin and a thick bundle of a white, waxy rope.

"We're done here," he said and checked his watch once more. "We've got about five minutes. We'll have to lay down the fuses and wait the patrol out. Then we jump them," he went on as he straightened his glasses, turned towards the door and stood frozen still.

Nicole had just entered the room with a knife in one hand and a gun in the other. She was aiming at Andy, her face impossibly torn between anger and sorrow. She trembled visibly when she spoke:

"So, what does your plan say about me Andy?"

Andy turned around and looked at her with a hint of guilt. He took a step closer instinctively before trying to reply. Nicole placed her sights squarely against him, a couple of feet away from his forehead, while Ethan turned slowly around, trying to edge himself closer to her. She swapped targets at blinding speed and told Ethan:

"I need answers. Hands were I can see them."

"Put the gun down, Nicole. I know I should've told you. It just wasn't the right time," said Andy with a sorrowful, earnest voice.

"Is there ever a right time?" asked Nicole, her eyes wet already from a film of tears.

"Put the gun down before we're vaporized," interjected Ethan. It made Nicole laugh bitterly before she answered, sniffing her nose lightly:

"I can put a bullet on a man's head a mile away. Don't worry, I won't hit anything else other than you."

Ethan took a side step and revealed his hand was holding a small metal box, with wires stretching away from it, set right into a block of Semtex.

"You want answers? That's fine, I'd like some answers myself," he said decisively.

Nicole's expression turned into one of anxiety. She gripped her gun with uncertainty, while she began to sweat. She kept her eyes fixed on Ethan without saying a word for a few moments. Andy told her then, with as much truth as he could muster in his voice:

"Come with me. We'll leave this life behind. I'll quit the Service. They'll debrief you, give you a new name, everything. We'll get lost somewhere in the world, start over. If I can't have anything, I must have you, Nicole."

"Why didn't you say so from the start, Andy? I'd hoped the source was wrong. But no. All my years of work, thrown out the window. For you, non?" she said trembling, her voice wavering like that of a scared child.

"I thought I could keep it professional. I thought I could just work you, like you were trying to work me. But I just couldn't, Nicole. Could you?" asked Andy passionately, looking as if he was lost into her eyes. She whispered almost inaudibly, "Non," and her brow furrowed as she seemed to soften up, giving in to a feeling she could not contain. But her gun was still aiming at Ethan, who cut in with a polite little laughter and said: