SS Glasgow Castle 34 Chapter Thirty Four

There were no more checkpoints all the way to the coast. It was much cooler in the hills, even though it was noon; here and there, wisps of steam rose from the ground and dissolved before they could band together into a mist. I saw everything with extraordinary sharpness because I was scared.

We hit the T-junction with the coastal highway at exactly one o'clock - I checked my watch as Kross turned right and accelerated, changing gears with extra gusto. When he'd settled into cruising speed he shouted:

"Keep your eye out for the white markers by the side of the road. They give distance to the nearest town - Dixcove - in miles. We need to stop five miles from town."

The first tombstone-like marker I saw featured a black 31. So: another half hour there, and an hour or two on the spot, another seven hours for the drive back; we wouldn't make it back across the border before dark. I found myself hoping Captain Sankey was very fond of beer.

We pa.s.sed through a couple of villages, each time forced to slow down to a crawl, but before very long the numbers on the milestones were down to single digits. Advertising billboards - to me personally, a comforting sign that civilization exists nearby - began appearing with regularity. It seemed Nido was a big hit with Ghanaian soccer players. I was looking at a fast-approaching billboard advertising the Busua Beach Hotel - it displayed the obligatory beautiful beach/beautiful b.i.t.c.h combo - when Kross swore and braked sharply, prompting a long blare from the horn of a minibus that we'd just overtaken.

There was nowhere to pull over and park properly; the road shoulder consisted of a strip of red laterite that terminated raggedly at an overgrown ditch, just a step from the road. When Kross halted the Toyota, it blocked half the lane. He pulled on the front bonnet release, producing a final-sounding clunk, and said:

"I thought you were watching the milestones."

"I was."

"Really." He shook his head and pulled the dirty tool bag from behind the seats and waited for another minibus to pa.s.s, its horn shrieking in outrage as it flew by. Then he jumped out of the cab and went round to the Toyota's front and raised the bonnet.

It took me a while to get out, on the pa.s.senger side. I didn't fancy jumping into the ditch; it was so densely overgrown there was no way of telling how deep it might be. I edged around the side of the truck, getting the front of my nice new military-style T-shirt fairly dirty, and joined Kross just as he was lifting out the distributor - a plastic cap with wires feeding into spindly nipples.

"You afraid I'll make myself scarce?" I said. Kross laughed and slammed the bonnet down.

"This is where you get to earn your money, partner," he said. "You'll make sure no one takes or runs our wheels off the road. Stand some distance at the back and wave off any approaching traffic to the other lane. Anyone stops to offer help or ask questions, tell them to move on and that help's already on the way, thanks."

"That's why you're taking the distributor?" He grinned and said:

"If anyone checks, it really won't start. I'll be back in an hour and a half, two hours tops."

I took a deep breath. Then I said:

"You're going to get the stuff?"

"I'm going to get the stuff. See, it exists." He went back into the cab. I stood still, slightly stunned, for a little while, and everything else stood still with me. There was no other traffic. There was no wind to move the branches and the leaves, no cloud in the rusty sky from which a voice could boom: congratulations, boy. You've hit the jackpot after all.

When Kross returned, strapping on a flaccid backpack, I said:

"What if some cops happen to come by? Or soldiers?"

"Act the part. Tell them to f.u.c.k off. You don't have to talk to them. You don't have to talk to anyone under the rank of captain, and there won't be any captains coming along in the next couple of hours. Trust me."

"That's how they say f.u.c.k you nowadays."
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Kross laughed again. He was in a jolly mood. He said:

"See you soon."

He turned round without any more ado, half-ran across the road, and plunged into jungle. It was spa.r.s.er here by the coast than up in the hills - I could actually see gaps in the vegetation - but all the same it swallowed him up instantly. Only a swaying branch confirmed that he'd really been here and said what he'd said. Then it stopped swaying, and I was truly alone.

I went back to the cab and had a drink of water. I cleaned my sungla.s.ses and the front of my military T-shirt – an officer takes care of his appearance - and went to stand ten paces behind the Toyota. The nearest curve was about half a mile away, and a truck appeared almost the moment I focused my eyes. I didn't have to wave or anything. It began edging into the other lane almost right away and went past at a tightly controlled pace, the driver stiff-backed and looking right ahead.

My military costume worked, and I couldn't help feeling somewhat gratified. Some time later an aggressive little Datsun didn't show proper deference by switching lanes quickly, and I held up my left hand while pointing with the right, just like a traffic cop. The Datsun complied so swiftly its tires squealed as it switched lanes. It was very pleasant to be obeyed like that. But it also got very hot quickly; I had to raise my gla.s.ses to wipe the sweat off my face every couple of minutes, and by three o'clock I was casting increasingly frequent glances at my watch.

I took little notice of the spa.r.s.e traffic in the other direction, traffic coming from Dixcove. It took me a while to register that a vehicle I'd heard approaching hadn't pa.s.sed me by. When I looked over my shoulder, the dark blue Land Rover had already stopped and a very big man was in the process of climbing out. He wore a dark blue tunic with shorts and a high, peaked cap with plenty of metal at the front. He obviously was a policeman. He was joined by a bald guy in civvies - white short-sleeved shirt and tan slacks.

They crossed the road together and I saw that guy in the civilian clothes was pretty old, with a disarming saint-like semi-circle of white hair running around the back of his head. But when he got closer, touching the Toyota with a hand in pa.s.sing, I saw that he was p.i.s.sed off in a very unsaintly manner. His eyes were sharp and suspicious and I was glad he couldn't see mine. The uniformed copper deferentially hung in the back; I was dealing with someone fairly senior here.

This wasn't good. The old guy in civilian clothes came to a stop uncomfortably close, and for a while we looked at each other in silence. Then he said:

"I'm Superintendent George Boswell. And who are you?"

"Nice to meet you, Superintendent," I said. I sounded scratchy. I cleared my throat and said:

"It's very kind of you to trouble yourself, but a mechanic is on his way."

It was the wrong thing to say. It got him more p.i.s.sed. He said:

"I asked who you were, not what you're doing here."

"Major Peter Haslam." It just came out, just like that. I would've thought this would make it sound natural, but it didn't. It sounded false in my own ears. His ears were no worse than mine, because he said:

"I'd like to see some identification, Major."

I felt very glad, somehow, that my pa.s.sport and wallet were hidden in the car. I cleared my throat again and said:

"How about you show me yours first, Superintendent." He looked as if he had just bitten into something very bitter. He said:

"I have to ask you to come with me... Major. Since you refuse to identify yourself, we'll have to clear things up back at the police station."

He moved back a couple of steps, and the huge policeman accompanying him took a step forward. I didn't budge. I said:

"You have no jurisdiction over me, Superintendent. And I'm busy here. You want me to go with you, you'll have to come back with a military police officer. But I wouldn't advise that. It would mean trouble."

"You're threatening me."

"I'm advising you."

"Well let me advise you of this. Major. If you don't come along, the constable here will make you."

I looked at the indicated constable. He'd struck me as a big guy when he climbed out of the Land Rover. Up close, he was even bigger. He probably pa.s.sed the time uprooting trees and breaking them into matchwood. He'd have no trouble at all making me come along. I sighed and said:

"He seems like a nice lad. I wouldn't want him to get hurt. But you're making a very bad mistake."

I walked up to the Toyota and rolled up the windows and locked the doors. I dragged it out in the silly hope that Kross would pop out of the trees and straighten this out. But of course he didn't, and Superintendent George Boswell noticed the glances I threw at the jungle on the other side of the road, and there was a new weight to the silence when I finally followed him to the Land Rover.

My sungla.s.ses were close to sliding off my sweaty nose, and I pushed them into place with my thumb. I couldn't afford to lose my sungla.s.ses.

He needed just one glimpse of my panicked peepers to pull out the handcuffs.